After the call, Koane relayed the news to Reuben Massey.
“I doubt if he ever talked to the family,” Koane said. “I think he assured them of $5 million, said what the hell and rolled the dice with twenty, and is a happy boy going home with a settlement of $7 million. He’ll be a hero.”
“And we’ve dodged a bullet, the first one to miss in a long time,” Massey said.
CHAPTER 29
In federal court, David filed a lawsuit alleging all manner of fair labor violations by a shady drainage contractor called Cicero Pipe. The job was a large water-treatment plant on the South Side, of which the defendant had a $60 million piece. The plaintiffs were three undocumented workers from Burma and two from Mexico. The violations covered many more workers, but most refused to join the lawsuit. There was too much fear of coming forward.
According to David’s research, the Department of Labor (DOL) and the U.S. Immigration and Customs Enforcement (ICE) had reached an uneasy truce regarding the mistreatment of illegal immigrants. The steadfast principle of unhindered access to justice overrode (slightly) the country’s need to regulate immigration. Therefore, an undocumented worker courageous enough to fight a crooked employer would not be subjected to scrutiny by ICE, at least not while engaged in the labor dispute. David explained this repeatedly to the workers, and the Burmese, with Soe Khaing’s prodding, eventually found the nerve to file suit. Others, from Mexico and Guatemala, were too frightened by the idea of risking what little money they were being paid. One of the Burmese workers estimated there were at least thirty men, all of them thought to be undocumented, being paid $200 a week in cash for eighty hours or more of hard labor.
The potential damages were impressive. The minimum wage was $8.25, and federal law also required $12.38 for any hour over forty per week. For eighty hours, each worker was due $825.20 per week, or $625.20 more than he was being paid. Though exact dates were hard to pin down, David’s best guess was that the current scam by Cicero Pipe had been under way for at least thirty weeks. The law allowed liquidated damages of twice the unpaid wages, so each of his five clients was entitled to about $37,500. The law also allowed the judge to impose court costs and attorneys’ fees on a defendant found liable.
Oscar reluctantly agreed to allow David to file the lawsuit. Wally could not be found. He was burning up the streets looking for large people.
Three days after the lawsuit was filed, an anonymous caller threatened to cut David’s throat if the lawsuit was not dismissed immediately. David reported the call to the police. Oscar advised him to purchase a handgun and keep it in his briefcase. David refused. The following day, an anonymous letter threatened his life and named his pals—Oscar Finley, Wally Figg, even Rochelle Gibson.
The thug walked briskly along Preston as if hurrying home at such a late hour. It was just after 2:00 a.m., the late July air still thick and warm. Male, white, age thirty, an impressive rap sheet, and not much between the ears. Slung over his shoulder was a cheap gym bag, and inside was a two-liter plastic jug of gasoline, tightly sealed. He took a quick right and darted low onto the narrow porch of the law office. All lights were off, inside and out. Preston was asleep; even the massage parlor had finally wound down.
If AC had been awake, he might have heard the slight rattle of the doorknob as the thug gently checked to see if someone had forgotten to lock up. The lock had not been forgotten. AC was asleep in the kitchen. Oscar, though, was awake on the sofa, in his pajamas, under a quilt, thinking about how happy he’d become since moving out.
The thug eased along the front porch, stepped down, and scooted low around the building until he came to the back door. His strategy was to get inside and detonate his crude little bomb. Two liters of gasoline on a wooden floor with curtains and books nearby would gut the old house before a fire crew got there. He shook the door—it too was locked—then quickly jimmied it with a screwdriver. It swung open as he took one step inside. Everything was dark.
A dog growled, then two extremely loud shots rang out. The thug screamed and fell off the back steps into a small neglected flower bed. Oscar stood over him. A quick glance revealed a wound just above his right knee.
“Don’t! Please!” the thug begged.
Carefully, coldly, Oscar shot him in the other leg.
Two hours later, Oscar, partially dressed now, was chatting with two policemen at the table. All three were sipping coffee. The thug was at the hospital, in surgery—two damaged legs but no chance of dying. His name was Justin Bardall, and when he wasn’t playing with fire and getting shot, he operated a bulldozer for Cicero Pipe. “Idiots, idiots, idiots,” Oscar kept saying.
“But he wasn’t supposed to get caught,” said one of the cops, laughing.
At that moment, two detectives were in Evanston knocking on the door of the man who owned Cicero Pipe. It was the beginning of a long day for him.
Oscar explained that he was going through a divorce and looking for an apartment. When he wasn’t at a hotel, he slept on the office sofa. “I’ve owned this place for twenty-one years,” he said. He knew one of the cops and had seen the other one around. Neither had the slightest concern over the shooting. It was a clear-cut case of protecting one’s property, though Oscar’s narrative omitted the unnecessary wounding of the second leg. In addition to the two-liter bottle of gas, the gym bag contained a strip of cotton cloth doused with what appeared to be kerosene and several strips of cardboard. It was a modified Molotov cocktail, but not one to be tossed. The police guessed that the cardboard was to be used as kindling. It was a laughable effort at arson, but then it doesn’t take a genius to start a fire.
While they chatted, a television news van parked on the street in front of the office. Oscar put on his tie and got himself filmed.
A few hours later, during the fourth firm meeting, David took the news hard but still insisted he would not carry a gun. Rochelle kept a cheap pistol in her purse, so three of the four were armed. Reporters were calling. The story was growing by the moment.
“Remember,” Wally repeated to his colleagues, “we’re a boutique firm specializing in Krayoxx cases. Everybody got that?”
“Yeah, yeah,” Oscar chimed in. “And what about Burmese labor law violations?”
“That too.”
The meeting broke up when a reporter banged on the front door.
It was soon evident that no law would be practiced that day at Finley & Figg. David and Oscar talked to the Tribune and the Sun-Times. Details were being passed along. Mr. Bardall was out of surgery, locked in his room, and not talking to anyone but his lawyer. The owner of Cicero Pipe and two of his superintendents had been arrested and released on bail. The general contractor on the water-treatment project was a blue-chip firm out of Milwaukee, and it was promising to investigate matters quickly and thoroughly. The job site was shut down. No undocumented worker would go near it.
David finally left before noon, quietly informing Rochelle he was needed in court somewhere. He drove home, collected Helen, who was looking more pregnant by the day, and took her to lunch. He explained recent events—the death threats, the thug and his intentions, Oscar and his defense of the firm, and the growing interest from the press. He downplayed any danger and assured her the FBI was on top of things.
“Are you worried?” she asked.
“Not at all,” he said, unconvincingly. “But there could be something in the papers tomorrow.”