Gray Mountain (21 page)

By the end, Thomas was a shriveled skeleton, stuck in a wheelchair and gasping for breath as the final days passed and his family prayed for a merciful end. He could not speak and was fed baby food by his wife and daughters. Through the generosity of friends and neighbors, and the tireless efforts of his family, the supply of oxygen was never depleted. He weighed 104 pounds when he died in 1986, at the age of 61. An autopsy yielded incontrovertible proof of black lung.

Four months later the coal company dropped its appeal. Twelve years after he filed his claim, his widow received a lump sum settlement for back benefits.

Note:
Thomas Wilcox was my father. He was a proud war hero, though he never talked about his battles. He was a son of the mountains and loved their beauty, history, and way of life. He taught us all how to fish the clear streams, camp in the caves, and even hunt deer for food He was an active man who slept little and preferred to read late into the night. We watched him gradually slow down as the disease took its grip. Every miner fears black lung, but he never thinks it will happen to him. As reality set in, Thomas lost his energy and began to brood. The simple tasks around the farm became more difficult. When he was forced to quit the mines, he went into a prolonged period of deep depression. As his body grew weaker and smaller, talking became too strenuous. He needed all of his energy just for breathing. In his final days, we took turns sitting with him and reading his favorite books. Often, he had tears in his eyes.

MATTIE WYATT, JULY 1, 2008

It was in the last section of the thick binder of seminar materials, and had obviously been added later. Samantha had not noticed it before. She put away the binder, found her running shoes, and went for a long walk around Brady. It was after eleven on Sunday night, and she did not see another person outdoors.

M
attie was in court in Curry County, Annette was running late, part-time Barb had yet to show, and part-time Claudelle didn’t arrive until noon on Mondays, so Samantha was all alone when Pamela Booker made a noisy entrance with two dirty kids behind her. She was crying by the time she gave her name and started begging for help. Samantha herded them into a conference room and spent the first five minutes trying to assure Pamela things would be okay, though she had no idea what “things” were in play. The kids were mute, with wide eyes and the startled looks of those traumatized. And they were hungry, Pamela said when she settled down. “Do you have anything to eat?”

Samantha raced to the kitchen, found some stale cookies, a pack of saltines, a bag of chips, and two diet sodas from Barb’s stash, and placed it all on the table in front of the two children who grabbed the cookies and bit off huge chunks. Through more tears, Pamela said thanks, and began talking. The narrative spilled out so fast Samantha had no time to take notes. She watched the kids devour the food while their mother told their story.

They were living in a car. They were from a small town just over the line in Hopper County, and since they lost their home a month earlier Pamela had been looking for a lawyer to rescue them. No one would help, but one eventually mentioned the Mountain Legal Aid Clinic over in Brady. Here they were. She had a job
in a factory making lamps for a motel chain. It wasn’t a great job but one that paid the rent and bought groceries. There was no husband in the picture. Four months ago, a company she’d never heard of began garnishing her paycheck, took a third of it, and she couldn’t stop it. She complained to her boss, but he just waved a court order at her. Then he threatened to fire her, said he hated garnishment orders because of the hassle. When she argued with him, he followed through with his threat and she was now unemployed. She went to see the judge and explained everything, told him she couldn’t pay her rent and buy food at the same time, but he was not sympathetic. Said the law was the law. The problem was an old credit card judgment she hadn’t thought about in ten years. Evidently, the credit card company sold her judgment to some bottom-feeding collection agency, and, without her knowledge, an order of garnishment was issued. When she couldn’t pay the rent on her trailer, her landlord, a real asshole, called the sheriff and kicked her out. She piled in with a cousin for a few days, but that blew up and she left to live with a friend. That didn’t work either, and for the past two weeks she and the kids had been living in their car, which was low on everything—oil, air, gas, and brake fluid, the dashboard lit up like a Christmas tree. Yesterday, she shoplifted some chocolate bars and gave them to the kids. She herself had not eaten in two days.

Samantha absorbed it all and managed to hide her shock. How, exactly, do you live in a car? She began taking notes without the slightest idea of what to do on the legal front.

Pamela pulled out paperwork from her fake designer bag and slid the pile across the table. Samantha scanned a court order while her new client explained she was down to her last two dollars, and she didn’t know whether to spend them on gas or food. She finally took a cookie and held it with shaking hands. Two things dawned on Samantha. The first was that she was the last line of defense for this little family. The second was that they were not leaving anytime soon. There was nowhere to go.

When Barb finally arrived, Samantha gave her $20 and asked
her to hurry and buy as many sausage biscuits as possible. Barb said, “We keep a few bucks around the office.”

Samantha replied, “We’ll need it.”

Phoebe Fanning was still hiding from her husband in a motel, courtesy of the clinic, and Samantha was aware that Mattie kept a few bucks on reserve for emergencies like this. After Barb left, Samantha looked through a back window at the parking lot. Pamela’s car, even filled with gas and all other necessary fluids, looked as though it wouldn’t make it back to Hopper County. It was a small import with a million miles on it, and now it was being used as a home.

The cookies and saltines were gone when she returned to the conference room. She told Pamela she had sent out for some food, and this made her cry. The boy, Trevor, age seven, said, “Thank you, Miss Kofer.” The girl, Mandy, age eleven, asked, “Could I please use the bathroom?”

“Certainly,” Samantha said. She showed her the way down the hall and sat down at the table to take more notes. They started at the beginning and went slowly through the story. The credit card judgment was dated July 1999 and had a balance of $3,398, which included all manner of court costs, obscure fees, even some interest thrown in for good measure. Pamela explained that her ex-husband had been ordered to satisfy the judgment in their divorce decree, a copy of which was in the paperwork. Nine years had passed without a word, at least nothing she was aware of. She had moved several times and perhaps the mail had not kept up. Who knew? At any rate, the collection agency had found her and started all this trouble.

Samantha noted that Trevor, at seven, had been born after the divorce, but this was not worth mentioning. There were several court orders holding the ex-husband in contempt for failure to pay child support for Mandy. “Where is he?” she asked.

“I have no idea,” Pamela said. “I haven’t heard from him in years.”

Barb returned with a sack of sausage biscuits and spread the
feast on the table. She rubbed Trevor’s head and told Mandy how happy she was they had come to visit. All three Bookers offered polite thanks, then ate like refugees. Samantha closed the door and huddled with Barb in the reception area. “What’s the deal?” Barb asked, and Samantha gave her the basics.

Barb, who thought she’d seen it all, was puzzled, but never timid. “I’d start with the boss. Give him a load of hell, threaten to sue for triple damages, then go after the collection company.” The phone was ringing and she reached to answer it, leaving Samantha, the lawyer, alone in her confusion.

A load of hell? Triple damages? For what, exactly? And this advice was from a nonlawyer. Samantha thought about stalling until either Mattie or Annette returned, but she had been there for a week and orientation was over. She went to her office, closed the door, and nervously punched the number at the lamp factory. A Mr. Simmons was pleasantly surprised to learn that Pamela Booker had herself a lawyer. He said she was a good worker, he hated to lose her and all that, but damned those garnishment orders. It just made his bookkeeping a nightmare. He had already filled her spot, and he’d made sure the new employee had no legal problems.

Well, you might have some more legal problems, Samantha explained coolly. Bluffing, and not sure of the law, she explained that a company cannot fire an employee simply because his or her wages are being garnished. This irritated Mr. Simmons and he mumbled something about his lawyer. Great, Samantha said, give me her number and I’ll pursue the matter with her. Wasn’t a woman, he said, and the guy charged two hundred bucks an hour anyway. Give him some time to think about it. Samantha promised to call back that afternoon, and they eventually agreed that 3:00 p.m. would be convenient.

When she returned to the conference room, Barb had found a box of crayons and some coloring books and was busy organizing fun and games for Trevor and Mandy. Pamela was still holding half a sausage biscuit and staring at the floor, as if in a trance. When Annette finally arrived, Samantha met her in the hallway and, whispering, unloaded the details. Annette was still a bit aloof
and bothered by something, but business was business. “The judgment expired years ago,” was her first reaction. “Check the law on this. I’ll bet the credit card company sold the judgment to the collection company for pennies on the dollar, and now it’s enforcing an outdated court order.”

“You’ve seen this before?”

“Something similar, a long time ago. Can’t remember the case name. Do the research, then contact the collection agency. These are generally some nasty characters and they don’t scare easily.”

“Can we sue them?”

“We can certainly threaten. They are not accustomed to people like this suddenly showing up with a lawyer. Call the boss and burn his ass too.”

“I’ve already done that.”

Annette actually smiled. “What did he say?”

“I explained that he cannot fire an employee simply because of a garnishment order. I have no idea if this is accurate, but I made it sound authentic. It worried him and we’re supposed to chat again this afternoon.”

“It’s not accurate but it’s a nice bluff, which is often more important than whatever the law says. The lawsuit will be against the collection company, if in fact they are pinching her paychecks from an expired judgment.”

“Thanks,” Samantha said, taking a deep breath. “But we have more pressing matters. They are in there and they have no place to go.”

“I suggest you spend the next few hours taking care of the basics—food, laundry, a place to sleep. The kids are obviously not in school; worry about that tomorrow. We have a slush fund to cover some expenses.”

“Did you say laundry?”

“I did. Who said legal aid work was all glamour?”

T
he morning’s second crisis erupted minutes later when Phoebe Fanning arrived unannounced with her husband, Randy,
and informed Annette she was dropping her divorce. They had reconciled, so to speak, and she and the kids were back home, where things had settled down. Annette was furious and called Samantha into her office to witness the meeting.

Randy Fanning had been out of jail for three days and was only slightly more presentable absent the orange county jumpsuit. He sat with a smirk and kept one hand on Phoebe’s arm as she tried her best to explain her change of plans. She loved him, plain and simple, couldn’t survive without him, and their three children were much happier with their parents together. She was tired of hiding in a motel and the kids were tired of hiding with relatives, and everyone had made peace.

Annette reminded Phoebe that she had been beaten by her husband, who glared across the table as if he might erupt any moment. Annette seemed fearless while Samantha tried to hide in a corner. It had been a fight, Phoebe explained, not exactly a fair one but a fight nonetheless. They had been arguing too much, things got carried away; it’ll never happen again. Randy, who preferred to say nothing, chimed in and confirmed that, yes, they had promised to stop the fighting.

Annette listened to him without believing a word. She reminded him that he was violating the terms of the temporary restraining order as he sat there. If the judge found out he’d go back to jail. He said, Hump, his lawyer, had promised to get the order dismissed without a hassle.

There were traces of dark bluish color still visible on the side of Phoebe’s face from the last fight. Divorce was one matter; the criminal charges were another. Annette got to the serious part when she asked if they had spoken to the prosecutor about dropping the malicious wounding. Not yet, but they planned to do that as soon as the divorce was dismissed. Annette explained that it wouldn’t be automatic. The police had a statement from the victim; they had photographs, other witnesses. This seemed a bit confusing, and even Samantha wasn’t so sure. If the victim and star witness folds, how do you pursue the case?