Gray Mountain (40 page)

“Here’s what I think is fair,” the judge said. In other words, here’s what my ruling will be. “Your client unlawfully garnished Ms. Booker’s paychecks, eleven of them, for a total of $1,300. She was kicked out of her trailer because of this. Your client was directly responsible for her getting fired, though I understand she was able to regain her job. Nevertheless, she went through desperate times and ended up homeless and living in her car with her two children. All because of your client. Ms. Booker is entitled to damages for this. She has demanded $5,000 in her lawsuit, but that seems a bit low. If I decided the case today, I would award the $1,300 in lost wages, plus another $10,000 for damages. If I decide the case next month, I assure you this will seem like a bargain. What do you say, Mr. Kipling?”

Kipling was huddled up with his client, a representative to Top Market, a red-faced little stump of a man in a cheap, tight suit. He was furious and sweating, but he could also grasp what was happening. It was obvious the lawyer and the client did not trust one another. Finally, Kipling said, “Could we have five minutes, Your Honor?”

“Sure, but only five.”

They stomped out of the courtroom.

Pamela leaned over and nervously whispered, “I can’t believe this.”

Samantha nodded smugly as if it were just another day in court. She pretended to be captivated by a document, frowning and underlining some terribly important words, while wanting to yell, “I can’t believe it either. This is my first trial!”

Of course, it really wasn’t a trial, but more of a hearing. But it
was her first lawsuit, and to win in such a slam-dunk fashion was thrilling.

The main door opened and they stomped back to their table. Kipling looked at the judge and said, “Your Honor, well, uh, well it looks like my client made some mistakes and is truly sorry for all the trouble it caused. What you suggested is a fair settlement. We’ll take it.”

S
amantha floated back to Brady. She thought of Donovan and Jeff after the Tate verdict, floating back to town with a $3 million verdict in their pocket. They could not have been more excited and overwhelmed than Samantha at that moment. She and her colleagues had rescued the Bookers from homelessness, even starvation, and returned them to a normal life. They had pursued justice with determination, and found it. The bad guys had been thoroughly routed.

As a lawyer, she had never felt so worthy. As a person, she had never felt so needed.

Monday’s brown-bag lunch was spent celebrating Samantha’s crushing victory in her first lawsuit. Annette advised her to savor the moment because victories were rare in their business. Mattie cautioned her about celebrating too soon; the check had not yet been received. Once they rehashed the Booker case, the conversation drifted to other matters. Mattie reported that Jeff was out of jail in Charleston. Did he post a bond or did he escape? Samantha asked. A prominent lawyer there, one of Donovan’s pals, secured his release. No, he did not elaborate on his alleged crime.

Annette received an off-the-record call that morning from a clerk in the courthouse, alerting her to the possibility that an unnamed lawyer for the Crump family planned to file a petition to probate the prior will of Francine Crump, one she had signed five years earlier, and presumably the one she had shown Samantha. The family was claiming the prior will was valid because Francine had destroyed the later will, the free one prepared by the clinic. It
was a looming mess that no one around the table wanted to jump into. Let the Crumps have their land and sell it to a coal company; they didn’t care. However, as Mattie explained, as lawyers they were officers of the court, and thereby duty-bound to prevent, if possible, a fraud. They had the original free will, mailed to them by some mysterious person after Francine was felled by a stroke. She had not destroyed it; indeed, she was hiding it from her children and wanted the clinic to protect it, and to probate it. Should they produce the will now, and start a war that would rage for several years? Or should they wait and see what the Crumps alleged? There was a good chance the family would continue with its lying about Francine’s destruction of the will. If these lies were told under oath, and then exposed, there could be serious implications for the family. In all likelihood, they were walking into a trap, one that the clinic could avoid by producing the will now.

It was a legal quagmire, a classic law school exam question, designed to drive students insane. They decided to wait another week, though all three lawyers, along with Claudelle and Barb, knew the will should be produced and the family alerted.

A heavy snowfall was expected to begin late in the afternoon, and they discussed the office contingencies. Mattie, Annette, and Samantha usually walked to work anyway, so the clinic would be open. Claudelle was eight months pregnant and would not be expected to show up. Barb lived deep in the countryside on a road that was seldom plowed.

By 3:00 p.m. the snow was already falling. Samantha was watching it from her desk, daydreaming and avoiding her files, when the prepaid phone buzzed in her purse. Jeff said he was still in the Charleston area. “How was jail?” she asked.

“Be careful what you say,” he said.

“Oh right, I forgot.” She stood and walked to the front porch.

He said he entered the ramp at the general aviation section of the airport by an unlocked gate in a chain-link fence. The small terminal was open but only a clerk was there, a young girl sitting at a desk flipping through tabloid magazines. From the shadows
he watched the area for half an hour and saw no movements. In the distance, at the main terminal, there were a few flights, but nothing involving small aircraft. There were thirteen airplanes tied down on the ramp, including four Skyhawks. Two were unlocked, and he crawled inside one and sat in the darkness for ten minutes.

In other words, there was virtually no security. He could have tampered with any of the airplanes on the ramp. Then he saw a guard and decided to get arrested. It was only trespassing, a misdemeanor. He’d had more serious charges, he reminded her. The guard was nice and Jeff turned on the charm. He said he was a pilot and had always dreamed of owning a Beech Bonanza; he just wanted to see one up close. No harm intended. The guard believed him and was sympathetic, but he had a job to do.

Jail was no big deal. The lawyer would take care of things.

But while he was chatting up the guard, he asked about other guards who had worked there, other guys on the ramp who may not be around now. He got one name, a man who quit before Christmas, and he was tracking him down now.

She closed her eyes and told him to be careful. She also knew he would spend the rest of his life trying to find the men who killed his brother.

T
he thrill of litigation was tempered somewhat two days later when Samantha accompanied Mattie to a black lung hearing before an administrative law judge (ALJ) in the federal courthouse in Charleston. The miner, Wally Landry, was fifty-eight years old and had not worked in seven years. He was hooked to oxygen and confined to a wheelchair. Fourteen years earlier, he had filed a claim for black lung benefits based on a doctor’s report that he was suffering from complicated black lung disease. The district director of the Department of Labor awarded him benefits. His employer, Braley Resources, appealed to the ALJ, who suggested to Mr. Landry that he find an attorney. Mattie eventually agreed to represent him. They prevailed before the ALJ, and Braley appealed to the Benefits Review Board (BRB) in Washington. The case
bounced back and forth between the ALJ and the BRB for five years before the BRB issued a final ruling in Landry’s favor.

The company appealed the ruling to the federal Court of Appeals where it sat for two years before being remanded back to the ALJ. The ALJ requested additional medical evidence and the experts went to war, again. Landry had started smoking at the age of fifteen, quit twenty years later, and as a smoker got hammered with the usual barrage of medical opinions stating that his lung problems were caused by tar and nicotine and not coal dust.

“Anything but coal dust,” Mattie said over and over. “That’s always their strategy.”

Mattie had worked on the case for thirteen years, had 550 hours invested, and if she ultimately prevailed would have to fight to get approved at $200 an hour. The fee would be paid by Braley Resources and its insurance company, whose lawyers charged far more than $200 an hour. On those rare occasions when the clinic collected a fee in a black lung case, the money went into a special account that helped cover the expenses of future black lung cases. As of now, that fund had about $20,000 in it.

The hearing took place in a small courtroom. Mattie said it was at least the third time they had all gathered there to rehash the contrasting medical opinions. She and Samantha sat at one table. Not far away, a fashionable gang of sharply dressed lawyers from Casper Slate busily unpacked their thick briefcases and went about their work. Behind Samantha was Wally Landry, shriveled and breathing through a tube in his nose, his wife at his side. When Wally first filed his claim fourteen years earlier, he’d been entitled to $641 a month. The legal fees paid by Braley at that time amounted to at least $600 an hour, according to Mattie’s off-the-cuff calculations, but don’t try and make sense of it, she said. The legal fees paid by coal companies and their insurers far exceed the benefits they’re fighting to avoid, but that’s beside the point. The hurdles and delays discourage other miners from filing claims, and they certainly scare off the lawyers. In the long run, the companies win, as always.

A slick-rick in a black suit sauntered over to their table and said,
“Well, hello, Mattie. Nice to see you again.” Mattie reluctantly got to her feet, offered a limp hand, and said, “Good morning, Trent. Always a pleasure.”

Trent was about fifty with graying hair and confident looks. His smile was drippy and fake, and when he said, “So sorry about your nephew. Donovan was a fine lawyer,” Mattie quickly withdrew her hand and snapped, “Let’s not talk about him.”

“Sorry, of course not. And who is this?” he asked, looking at Samantha. She was on her feet and said, “Samantha Kofer, an intern with the clinic.”

“Ah, yes, the brilliant investigator who dug through the Ryzer records. I’m Trent Fuller.” He extended a hand but Samantha ignored it.

“I’m a lawyer, not an investigator,” she said. “And I represent Mr. Ryzer in his claim for black lung benefits.”

“Yes, so I’ve heard.” The smile vanished as his eyes narrowed and flashed with hatred. He actually pointed a finger at her as he spoke. “We deeply resent the allegations made against our law firm by your client in his ill-fated lawsuit. Don’t make that mistake again, I’m warning you.” His voice increased in volume as he lectured her. The other three suits from Castrate froze and glared at her.

Samantha was stunned, but there was nowhere to hide. “But you know the allegations are true,” she said.

He took a step closer, jabbed his finger in her face, and said, “We’ll sue you and your client for libel, do you understand?”

Mattie reached forward and gently shoved his hand away. “That’s enough, Trent, go back to your box.”

He relaxed and offered the same drippy smile. He kept glaring, though, and with a lower voice said to Samantha, “Your client caused us great embarrassment, Ms. Kofer. Even though that lawsuit has been dismissed, it still stings. His black lung claim will get the full treatment in our firm.”

“Don’t they all?” Mattie snapped. “Hell, this one’s been on the docket for fourteen years and you’re still fighting it tooth and nail.”

“That’s what we do, Mattie. That’s what we do,” he said proudly, backing away and returning to his fan club.

“Take a breath,” Mattie said as they sat down.

“I’m not believing this,” Samantha said, stunned. “I got threatened in open court.”

“Oh, you haven’t seen anything yet. They’ll threaten you in court, out of court, in the hallways, on the phone, by e-mail, fax, or in court filings. Doesn’t matter. They’re bullies and brutes, just like their clients, and for the most part they get away with it.”

“Who is he?”

“One of their more talented assassins. A senior partner, one of six in their black lung division. About a hundred associates, dozens of paralegals, and all the support staff they need. Can you imagine Wally Landry sitting here without a lawyer?”

“No.” That visual seemed so far-fetched that it had to be illegal.

“Well, it happens all the time.”

For a split second Samantha longed for the strength and security of Scully & Pershing, a firm four times as big as Casper Slate and far wealthier. No one bullied the litigators at her old firm; indeed, they were often regarded as the bullies. In a dogfight, they could always send in another pack of wolves to protect their clients.

Trent Fuller would never consider such an altercation with lawyers from another big firm. He swaggered over because he saw two women at the table, two ill-paid legal aid lawyers representing, pro bono, a dying miner, and he felt unrestrained in throwing his weight around. The audacity was astonishing: his firm was guilty of fraud and conspiracy, and had been caught red-handed by Samantha and exposed when Donovan filed the Ryzer lawsuit. Now that the lawsuit was gone, Fuller and his firm were not at all concerned with their own wrongdoing. Of course not—they were worried only about their tarnished image.

Nor would Fuller have ventured over and caused trouble had Donovan been there. Indeed, none of the four pretty boys at the other table would risk getting punched because of a stray word or idle threat.

They were women, viewed by the boys as easily intimidated and physically vulnerable. They were fighting a losing cause and not getting paid for it; therefore, they were obviously inferior.

Samantha stewed as Mattie shuffled papers. The judge took his place and called things to order. Samantha glanced across the courtroom and again caught Fuller staring at her. He smiled as if to say, “This is my turf, and you don’t belong here.”

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