Gray Mountain (11 page)

As small as it was, her space in New York had not been much larger. Against her wishes, her thoughts stayed on New York, the big firm and all its promises and horrors. She smiled when she realized she was not on the clock; gone was the unrelenting pressure to bill more hours, to make more money for the big boys at the top, to impress them with the goal of one day becoming just like them. She glanced at her watch. It was 11:00 and she had not billed a single minute, nor would she. The ancient phone rattled and she had no choice but to pick it up. “There’s a call on line two,” Barb said.

“Who is it?” Samantha asked nervously, her first phone call.

“Guy named Joe Duncan. Doesn’t ring a bell.”

“Why does he want to speak with me?”

“He didn’t say that. Said he needs a lawyer and at the moment Mattie and Annette are tied up. He’s yours by default.”

“What kind of case?” Samantha asked, glancing at her six skyscrapers standing together on top of an army surplus file cabinet.

“Social Security. Be careful. Line two.”

Barb worked part-time and ran the front. Samantha had spoken to her for only a few seconds early that morning as she was being introduced. The clinic also had a part-time paralegal named Claudelle. An all-girls show.

She punched line two and said, “Samantha Kofer.”

Mr. Duncan said hello and quizzed her to make sure she was really a lawyer. She assured him she was but at that moment had doubts. Soon he was off and running. He was going through a rough spell and really wanted to chat about it. All manner of misfortune had hit him and his family, and based on the first ten minutes of his narrative he had enough problems to keep a small law firm busy for several months. He was unemployed—had been wrongfully terminated but that would be yet another story—but his real problem was his health. He had ruptured a lower disk and couldn’t work. He had applied for disability status under Social Security, and had been denied. Now he was losing everything.

Because Samantha had so little to offer, she was content to let him ramble. After half an hour, though, she got bored. Ending the conversation was a challenge—he was desperate and clinging—but she finally convinced him she would immediately review his case with their Social Security specialist and get back to him.

By noon, Samantha was famished and exhausted. It was not the fatigue brought on by hours of reading and poring over thick documents, or the relentless pressure to impress people, or the fear of not measuring up and being shoved off the track to partnership. It was not the exhaustion she had lived with for the past three years. She was drained from the shock and fear of looking at the emotional wreckage of real humans, desperate people with little hope and looking to her for help.

For the rest of the firm, though, it was a typical Monday morning. They met for a brown-bag lunch in the main conference room, a weekly ritual, to eat quickly while discussing cases, clients, or any
other business deemed necessary. But on this Monday the main topic was the new intern. They were keen to examine her. Finally, she was encouraged to speak.

“Well, I need some help,” Samantha said. “I just got off the phone with a man whose claim for Social Security disability was denied. Whatever that means.”

This was met with a mix of laughter and amusement. The word “disability” seemed to draw a reaction from the rest of the firm. “We no longer take Social Security cases,” Barb said from the front line. She met the clients first, as they came through the front door.

“What was his name?” Claudelle asked.

Samantha hesitated and looked at the eager faces. “Okay, first things first. I’m not sure where we are with confidentiality. Do you—do we—discuss each other’s cases openly, or are we each bound by rules of the attorney-client privilege?”

This drew even more laughter. All four talked at once, as they laughed and chuckled and nibbled on their sandwiches. It was immediately clear to Samantha that, within these walls, these four ladies talked about everyone and everything.

“Inside the firm, it’s all fair game,” Mattie said. “But outside, not a word.”

“Good enough.”

Barb said, “His name was Joe Duncan. Kinda rings a bell.”

Claudelle said, “I had him a few years ago, filed a claim, got denied. I think it was a bad shoulder.”

“Well, now it’s spread to his lower lumbar,” Samantha said. “Sounds like a mess.”

“He’s a serial claimant,” Claudelle said. “And that’s one reason we don’t take Social Security cases anymore. There is so much fraud in the system. It’s pretty rotten, especially around here.”

“So what do I tell Mr. Duncan?”

“There’s a law firm down in Abingdon that does nothing but disability cases.”

Annette chimed in, “Cockrell and Rhodes, better known as
Cock and Roach, or Cockroach for short. Really bad boys who have a racket with some doctors and Social Security judges. All of their clients get checks. They’re batting a thousand.”

Mattie added, “A triathlete could file a claim and the Cockroaches could get him disability benefits.”

“So we never—”

“Never.”

Samantha took a bite of her highly processed turkey sandwich and looked directly at Barb. She almost asked the obvious: “If we don’t take these cases, then why did you send the phone call back to me?” Instead, she made a mental note to keep the radar on high alert. Three years in Big Law had honed her survival skills razor sharp. Throat cutting and backstabbing were the norm, and she had learned to avoid both.

She would not discuss it now with Barb, but she would bring it up when the moment was right.

Claudelle seemed to be the clown of the group. She was only twenty-four, married for less than a year, pregnant, and having a rough time of it. She had spent the morning in the bathroom, fighting nausea and thinking vile thoughts about her unborn baby, a boy who had already been named after his father and was already causing as much trouble.

The tone was surprisingly raunchy. In forty-five minutes they not only covered the firm’s pressing business but managed to explore morning sickness, menstrual cramps, labor and childbirth, men, and sex—no one seemed to be getting enough.

Annette broke up the meeting when she looked at Samantha and said, “We’re in court in fifteen minutes.”

G
enerally speaking, her experience with courtrooms had not been pleasant. Some visits had been required, others voluntary. When she was in the ninth grade, the great Marshall Kofer was trying an airline crash case in federal court in downtown D.C., and he convinced Samantha’s civics teacher that her students’ learning experience would be greatly enriched by watching him in action. For two full days, the kids sat in stultifying boredom as expert witnesses argued over the aerodynamics of severe icing. Far from being proud of her father, Samantha had been mortified at the unwanted attention. Fortunately for him, the students were back in class when the jury returned a verdict in favor of the manufacturer, handing him a rare loss. Seven years later she returned to the same building, but a different courtroom, to watch her father plead guilty to his crimes. It was a fine day for her mother, who never considered showing up, and so Samantha sat with an uncle, one of Marshall’s brothers, and dabbed her eyes with tissues. A pre-law class at Georgetown had required her to watch a portion of a criminal trial, but a mild case of the flu kept her away. All law students do mock trials, and she had enjoyed them to a point, but wanted no part of the real thing. During her clerkship she seldom saw a courtroom. During her interviews, she had made it clear she wanted to stay far away from litigation.

And now she was walking into the Noland County Courthouse,
headed for the main courtroom. The building itself was a handsome old redbrick structure with a sagging, bright tin roof over the third floor. Inside, a dusty foyer displayed fading portraits of bearded heroes, and one wall was covered with legal notices stapled slapdash to bulletin boards. She followed Annette to the second floor where they passed an ancient bailiff napping in his chair. They eased through thick double doors and stepped into the rear of the courtroom. Ahead, a judge was working at his bench as a few lawyers shuffled paperwork and bantered back and forth. To the right was the empty jury box. The high walls were covered with even more fading portraits, all men, all bearded and apparently serious about legal matters. A couple of clerks chatted and flirted with the lawyers. Several spectators watched and waited for justice to prevail.

Annette cornered a prosecutor, a man she hurriedly introduced to her intern as Richard, and said they represented Phoebe Fanning, who would be filing for a divorce as soon as possible. “How much do you know?” she asked Richard.

The three moved to a corner near the jury box so no one could hear. Richard said, “According to the cops, they were both stoned and decided they ought to settle their differences with a good fight. He won, she lost. Somehow a gun was involved, unloaded, and he whacked her in the head with it.”

Annette recounted Phoebe’s version as Richard listened carefully. He said, “Hump’s his lawyer and all he wants now is a low bond. I’ll argue for a higher one and maybe we can keep this old boy in jail a few more days, let him cool off while she clears out.” Annette nodded, agreed, and said, “Thanks, Richard.”

Hump was Cal Humphrey, a fixture from down the street; they had just walked past his storefront office. Annette said hello and introduced Samantha, who was appalled at the size of his stomach. A pair of gaudy suspenders strained under the load and seemed ready to pop, with consequences that would be too gross to consider. Hump whispered that “his man” Randy (for a second he could not remember his last name) needed to get out of jail because he was missing work. Hump didn’t buy Phoebe’s version of events,
but instead suggested that the entire conflict had been started when she attacked his client with the unloaded pistol.

“That’s why we have trials,” Annette mumbled as they eased away from Hump. Randy Fanning and two other inmates were escorted into the courtroom and placed on the front row. Their handcuffs were removed and a deputy stood close. The three could have been members of the same gang—faded orange jail overalls, unshaven faces, messy hair, hard looks. Annette and Samantha sat in the audience, as far away as possible. Barb tiptoed into the courtroom, handed Annette a file, and said, “Here’s the divorce.”

When the judge called Randy Fanning to the bench, Annette sent a text message to Phoebe, who was sitting in her car outside the courthouse. Randy stood before the judge, with Hump to his right and Richard to his left, but farther away. Hump began a windy narrative about how much his client needed to be at work, how deep his roots were in Noland County, how he could be trusted to show up in court anytime he was needed, and so on. It was just a garden-variety marital dispute and things could be worked out without getting the judicial system further involved. As he rambled, Phoebe eased into the courtroom and sat beside Annette. Her hands were trembling, her eyes moist.

Richard, for the prosecution, dwelt on the gravity of the charges and the real possibility of a lengthy jail term for Fanning. Nonsense, said Hump. His man was innocent. His man had been attacked by his “unbalanced” wife. If she insisted on pushing matters, she just might be the one going to jail. Back and forth the lawyers argued.

The judge, a peaceful old gentleman with a slick head, asked calmly, “I understand the alleged victim is here in the courtroom. Is that correct, Ms. Brevard?” he asked, scanning the audience.

Annette jumped to her feet and said, “She’s right here, Your Honor.” She walked through the bar as if she owned the courtroom, Phoebe in tow. “We represent Phoebe Fanning, whose divorce we’ll be filing within the next ten minutes.”

Samantha, still safely in the audience, watched as Randy Fanning glared at his wife. Richard seized the moment and said, “Your
Honor, it might be helpful to notice the apparent wounds to the face of Ms. Fanning. This woman has had the hell beaten out of her.”

“I’m not blind,” replied the judge. “I don’t see any damage to
your
face, Mr. Fanning. The court also takes note of the fact that you’re over six feet tall and rather stout. Your wife is, let’s say, quite a bit smaller. Did you slap her around?”

Randy shuffled his considerable weight from foot to foot, obviously guilty, and managed to say, “We had a fight, Judge. She started it.”

“I’m sure she did. I think it’s best if you continue to settle down for a day or two. I’m sending you back to jail and we’ll meet again on Thursday. In the meantime, Ms. Brevard, you and your client tend to her pressing legal matters and keep me posted.”

Hump said, “But, Your Honor, my client will lose his job.”

Phoebe blurted, “He doesn’t have a job. He cuts timber part-time and sells meth full-time.”

Everyone seemed to swallow hard as her words rattled around the courtroom. Randy was ready to resume the fight and glared at his wife with murderous hatred. The judge finally said, “That’s enough. Bring him back Thursday.” A bailiff grabbed Randy and led him away and out of the courtroom.

Standing at the main door were two men, a couple of ruffians with matted hair and tattoos. They stared at Annette, Samantha, and Phoebe as they walked by. In the hallway, Phoebe whispered, “Those thugs are with Randy, all in the meth business. I gotta get out of this town.”

Samantha thought: I might be right behind you.

They walked into the office of the Circuit Court and filed the divorce. Annette was asking for an immediate hearing for a restraining order to keep Randy away from the family. “The earliest slot is Wednesday afternoon,” a clerk said.

“We’ll take it,” Annette said.

The two thugs were waiting just outside the front door of the courthouse, and they had been joined by a third angry young man.
He stepped in front of Phoebe and growled, “You better drop the charges, girl, or you’ll be sorry.”

Phoebe did not back away; instead, she looked at him in a way that conveyed years of familiarity and contempt. She said to Annette, “This is Randy’s brother Tony, fresh from prison.”