“That’s over a thousand bucks in postage.”
“Ms. Gibson, the average Krayoxx case will generate something like $200,000 in attorneys’ fees, and that’s on the low side. Could be as high as $400,000 per case. If we can find ten cases, the math gets real easy.”
Rochelle did the math, and her reluctance began to fade. Her mind began to drift. With all the bar journals and newsletters that crossed her desk, she had seen a thousand stories about big verdicts and big settlements. Lawyers making millions in fees.
Surely, they would give her a fine bonus.
“All right,” she said, shoving her newspaper aside.
Oscar and Wally had their second Krayoxx fight not long afterward. When Oscar arrived at 9:00 a.m., he could not help but notice the flurry of activity around the front desk. Rochelle was working the computer. The printer was in high gear. Wally was signing his name to letters. Even AC was awake and watching.
“What’s all this?” Oscar demanded.
“The sounds of capitalism at work,” Wally answered cheerfully.
“What the hell does that mean?”
“Protecting the rights of the injured. Serving our clients. Purging the market of dangerous products. Bringing corporate wrongdoers to justice.”
“Chasing ambulances,” Rochelle said.
Oscar looked disgusted and continued to his office, where he slammed the door. Before he could remove his coat and park his umbrella, Wally was at his desk, nibbling on a muffin and waving one of the letters. “You gotta read this, Oscar,” he said. “This is brilliant.”
Oscar read it, the wrinkles in his forehead getting deeper and deeper with each paragraph. When he finished, he said, “Come on, Wally, not again. How many of these are you sending out?”
“Three thousand. Our entire client list.”
“What? Think of the postage. Think of the wasted time. Here we go again. You’ll spend the next month running around chirping about Krayoxx this and Krayoxx that, and you’ll waste a hundred hours looking for worthless cases, and on and on. We’ve been here before, Wally, come on. Do something productive.”
“Like what?”
“Like go hang out in an emergency room somewhere, wait for a real case to come in. I don’t have to tell you how to find good cases.”
“I’m tired of that crap, Oscar. I wanna make some money. Let’s hit it big for a change.”
“My wife’s been taking the drug for two years. Loves it.”
“Did you tell her to stop, that it’s killing people?”
“Of course not.”
As their voices grew louder, Rochelle eased over and quietly closed the door to Oscar’s office. She was returning to her desk when the front door suddenly opened. It was David Zinc, bright and sober with a big smile, sharp suit, cashmere overcoat, and two thick briefcases loaded to the max.
“Well, well, if it ain’t Mr. Harvard,” Rochelle said.
“I’m back.”
“I’m surprised you could find us.”
“It wasn’t easy. Where’s my office?”
“Well, uh, let’s see. I’m not sure we have one. Perhaps we should ask the two bosses about this.” She nodded to Oscar’s door, beyond which voices could be heard.
“So they’re here?” David asked.
“Yes, they usually start the day with a round of bickering.”
“I see.”
“Look, Harvard, are you sure you know what you’re doing? This is another world. You’re taking a plunge here, leaving the fancy life of corporate law for the bush leagues. You might get hurt out here, and you sure won’t make any money.”
“I’ve done the big-firm thing, Ms. Gibson, and I’ll jump off a bridge before I go back. Just give me a little room somewhere to park myself, and I’ll figure it out.”
The door opened, and Wally and Oscar emerged. They froze when they saw David standing in front of Rochelle’s desk. Wally smiled and said, “Well, good morning, David. You look surprisingly healthy.”
“Thank you, and I’d like to apologize for my appearance yesterday.” He nodded at all three as he spoke. “You caught me at the tail end of a rather unusual episode, but it was nonetheless a very important day in my life. I quit the big firm, and here I am, ready to go to work.”
“What type of work do you have in mind?” Oscar asked.
David gave a slight shrug as if he didn’t have a clue. “For the past five years, I’ve labored in the dungeon of bond underwriting, with emphasis on second- and third-tier aftermarket spreads, primarily for foreign multinational corporations that prefer to avoid paying taxes anywhere in the world. If you have no idea what that is, then don’t worry. No one else does either. What it means is that a small team of us idiots labored fifteen hours a day in a room with no windows creating paperwork, and more paperwork. I’ve never seen the inside of a courtroom, or a courthouse for that matter, never met a judge when he was wearing a robe, never offered a hand to help a person who needed a real lawyer. To answer your question, Mr. Finley, I’m here to do anything. Think of me as a rookie fresh out of law school who doesn’t know his ass from a hole in the ground. But I’m a quick study.”
Compensation should have been the next issue, but the partners were reluctant to talk money in front of Rochelle. She, of course, would take the position that anyone they hired, lawyer or otherwise, should be paid less than she was.
“There is some space upstairs,” Wally said.
“I’ll take it.”
“It’s a junk room,” Oscar said.
“I’ll take it,” David said, lifting his two briefcases, ready to move in.
“I haven’t been up there in years,” Rochelle said, rolling her eyes, obviously unhappy with the firm’s sudden expansion.
A narrow door next to the kitchen led to a stairway. David followed Wally, with Oscar bringing up the rear. Wally was excited about having someone to help hustle Krayoxx cases. Oscar was thinking only of how much this might cost in salary, withholding taxes, unemployment deductions, and, heaven forbid, health insurance. Finley & Figg offered little in the way of benefits—no 401(k), no IRA, no retirement of any kind, and certainly no health or dental plan. Rochelle had been griping for years because she was forced to buy her own private policy, as did the two partners. What if young David here expected health insurance?
As Oscar climbed the stairs, he felt the burden of a heavier overhead. More spent at the office meant less to take home. His retirement seemed even more elusive.
The junk room was exactly that, a dark, dusty landfill with spiderwebs and pieces of old furniture and boxes of files. “I like it,” David said when Wally switched on the light.
He must be crazy, Oscar thought.
But there was a small desk and a couple of chairs. David saw only the potential. And there were two windows. Sunlight would be a nice addition to his life. When it was dark outside, he would be at home with Helen, procreating.
Oscar swiped away a large spiderweb and said, “Look, David, we can offer a small salary, but you’re gonna have to generate your own fees. And this won’t be easy, at least initially.”
Initially? Oscar had been struggling to generate meager fees for over thirty years.
“What’s the deal?” David asked.
Oscar looked at Wally, and Wally looked at the wall. The two had not hired an associate in fifteen years, nor had they even considered doing so. David’s presence had caught them by surprise.