The Rooster Bar (15 page)

B
enson was eating a sandwich in a coffee shop on Georgia Avenue in the Brightwood section of the District. He was on lunch break and looked sharp in his work uniform. He was glad to see Mark and asked about the good news. Mark pulled an order from his briefcase and said, “We've made some progress. You got the rest of the fee?”

Benson reached into a pocket and pulled out some cash. “Seven hundred,” he said as he handed it over.

Mark took it and said, “Everything is reduced to simple speeding. No reckless, no jail. Fine one-fifty, payable in two weeks.”

“You're kidding?”

Mark smiled and looked at the waitress who had suddenly appeared. “BLT and coffee,” he said. She left without saying a word.

“How'd you do that?” Benson asked.

Slept with the prosecutor, Mark wanted to report proudly, but let it go. “I haggled with the court, told the judge what a good guy you are, good job and all, and he cut you some slack. But no more tickets, Benson, you understand?”

“Wow. You're the man, Mark. This is awesome.”

“I caught the judge on a good day, Benson. Next time we won't be so lucky.”

“Ain't gonna be no next time, I promise. I can't believe this. I just knew I'd get fired and lose everything.”

Mark slid across a sheet of paper and gave him a pen. “This is the order. Sign there on the bottom and you don't have to go back to court.”

With a big smile, Benson signed his name. “I can't wait to tell my momma. She's been on my ass ever since I got caught. You know, Mark, she likes you. She said, ‘That young man knows his stuff. He's gonna be a great lawyer.' ”

“Well, she's obviously very intelligent.” Mark took the order and placed it in his briefcase.

Benson took a bite of his sandwich and washed it down with iced tea. He wiped his mouth with a napkin and said, “Say, Mark, do you take other kinds of cases? Big cases?”

“Sure. My firm handles a wide variety of cases. What's on your mind?”

Benson glanced around as if anyone cared. “Well, I got this cousin, he's from down in Virginia, in the Tidewater area, and he's in a mess. You got time for the story?”

“I'm waiting for my lunch,” Mark said. “Fire away.”

“Well, you see, my cousin and his wife had a baby, sometime back, and things got really messed up at the hospital. It was a bad delivery, everything went wrong, and the baby died two days later. It had gone smooth, the pregnancy, no signs of trouble, you know? Then, all of a sudden, a dead baby. He was their first one, a little boy, and this was after they had tried to get pregnant for a long time. The mother went off the deep end big-time, cracked up, and they started fighting. They were devastated and didn't handle it well. So they split and later divorced. A bad divorce. To this day they're still screwed up. My cousin is drinking too much and she's batshit crazy. A real tragedy, you know? They've tried to find out what happened during the delivery but the hospital won't say much. In fact, the hospital has given them the runaround at every turn. They hired a lawyer to look into it but he wasn't much. Said dead babies aren't worth a lot of money. Said it's tough to sue doctors and hospitals because they have all the records and on top of that they hire the best lawyers to keep you tied up in court forever. She, the mother, said she ain't about to go to court. My cousin still wants to find out what happened and maybe file a suit or something, but he's pretty screwed up too. Is that true, Mark, that dead babies ain't worth much?”

Mark had no idea but was intrigued with the story so far. He managed to demur like a real lawyer with “Depends on the facts of the case. I would need to see the records.”

“He's got 'em, a whole stack of paperwork that the hospital gave his lawyer, or I should say his ex-lawyer. He fired the guy and now he says he wants to talk to another lawyer. You think you might want to take a look?”

“Sure.”

The BLT arrived, with chips and a pickle but nothing to drink. Mark said to the waitress, “Thanks, but I also ordered a cup of coffee.”

“Oh yeah,” she said, irritated, and left.

Mark took a bite of the sandwich and Benson did the same. “What's the guy's name?”

Benson wiped his mouth and said, “Ramon Taper, same last name. My dad and his dad are brothers, but neither stayed around. Everybody calls him Digger.”

“Digger?”

“Yeah, when he was a kid he took a little spade and dug up a bunch of flowers from a neighbor's backyard. Stole 'em, tried to replant 'em down the street. The nickname stuck.”

The coffee finally arrived and Mark said thanks. “Is he trouble?” Mark asked.

Benson laughed and said, “You could say that. Digger's always been trouble. Spent some time in a juvenile facility but he's not a bad dude. No real record. He was doing okay, married a good girl, and they were holding things together all right until the baby died. After the divorce, the mother moved away, some place like Charleston. Digger drifted around and moved here a few months ago. He works part-time in a liquor store, which is the last place he needs to work. Got a thing for vodka. I'm really worried about him.”

“So he's here, in the District?”

“Yep, lives around the corner, with another crazy woman.”

As Mark crunched on the dill pickle something told him to just say no to Digger and his problems, but he was curious. “I'll take a look.”

TWO DAYS LATER,
Mark returned to the coffee shop. It was empty but for a skinny little black guy sitting at a table with a thick folder in front of him. Mark walked over and said, “You must be Digger.”

They shook hands and Mark sat down. Digger said, “I prefer Ramon. Digger is not the best nickname for a black guy. Obvious reasons.”

“Fair enough. I'm Mark Upshaw. Nice to meet you, Ramon.”

“Same.” He was wearing a driving cap pulled low in the front with the bill resting on a pair of oversized, round, black-framed reading glasses. The eyes behind them were puffy and red.

“Benson says you're a fine young lawyer,” Ramon said. “Said you saved his job.”

Mark smiled and tried to think of something appropriate when the same waitress appeared. “Black coffee. Ramon?”

“Nothing, just water.”

She left and Mark looked at the eyes. His diction was clear enough but he had obviously been drinking. Mark said, “Benson told me a little about the case. Sounds like a real tragedy.”

“You could call it that. Something bad happened in the delivery, not sure we'll ever know exactly. I wasn't there.”

Mark absorbed this, and when it was apparent nothing else was coming, he said, “Can I ask why you weren't there?”

“Let's just say I wasn't there and I should've been. Asia could never get over that and, of course, I got all the blame. She's always said that if I had been there I could've made sure the hospital was doing things right.”

“And Asia is your ex-wife?”

“That's right. You see, she went into labor two weeks early. It was just after midnight and the baby came quick. The hospital was real busy, there had been some shootings and a big car wreck, and, well, we've never really known what happened. But it looks like they neglected her and the baby got stuck coming out. Cut off his oxygen.” He tapped the folder. “It's supposed to be in here, but we figure the hospital has covered things up.”

“Who's ‘we'?”

“The first lawyer, the one I fired. You see, after it all happened, Asia went crazy, kicked me out, and filed for divorce. She had a lawyer, I had a lawyer, things were bad. I got a DUI, so I had another lawyer for that. Lots of lawyers in my life, and I just didn't have the stamina for a big lawsuit.” He tapped the folder again.

The coffee arrived and Mark took a sip. “Where is the first lawyer?”

“Norfolk. He wanted $5,000 to pay an expert to review the records. I didn't have $5,000 and I really didn't like the lawyer. He wouldn't return calls and seemed too busy. You gonna want $5,000 too?”

“No,” Mark said, but only to prolong the conversation. He had no idea how to proceed with a malpractice case but, as usual, he assumed he could learn on the fly. His plan, if he even had one, was to sign up the case, review the records, and try to determine if there was liability. If so, he would refer the case to a real lawyer who specialized in medical negligence. If the case proceeded, he and his partners would have as little involvement as possible and, hopefully, one day take a slice of a generous fee. Yes, that was the plan.

“And Asia is out of the picture?”

“Oh yes. She's long gone. No contact.”

“Will she join the lawsuit if we file one?”

“No, no way. She wants nothing to do with any of it. She's living down in Charleston with some family and I hope they're trying to help her. She's crazy, Mr. Upshaw. Hearing voices, that kind of crazy. It's pretty sad, but she can't stand the sight of me and has said many times that she'll never go to court.”

“Okay, but looking down the road, if there's a settlement, she'll be entitled to half the money.”

“Why is that? Hell, it's my lawsuit. Why should she get anything from the case if she wants no part of it?”

“That's the law,” Mark said, without a clue. However, something from law school was sticking and he vaguely remembered a case from first-year torts. “Let's worry about that later. Right now we need to proceed with the investigation. Any settlement is way down the road.”

“Don't seem right.”

“Do you want to proceed?”

“Sure, that's why I'm here. Do you want the case?”

“That's why I'm here.”

“Then we got a deal. Now tell me what's going to happen.”

“Well, first, you sign a contract for legal services with my firm, which will give me the authority to request all the records. I'll have them reviewed, and if there appears to be clear liability on the part of the doctors and hospital then you and I will have another conversation. We'll decide if we want to file a lawsuit.”

“How long will that take?”

Clueless again, Mark said, convincingly, “Not long. A matter of weeks. We don't sit on things, Ramon. We move fast.”

“And you don't want any money up front?”

“No. Some firms ask for a retainer or expense money, but not us. Our contract calls for a contingency of one-third if there's a settlement, 40 percent if we go to trial. These are complex cases that are vigorously defended by folks with plenty of money. So, our cut is a little higher than your average injury case. And, this type of litigation is expensive. We'll front the out-of-pocket money and get repaid at settlement. You okay with that?”

Ramon took a sip of water and gazed through the window. While he pondered things, Mark removed a contract from his briefcase and filled in the blanks. Eventually, Ramon removed his bulky glasses and wiped his eyes with a paper napkin. Softly, he said, “This is so bad, Mr. Upshaw.”

“Please, call me Mark.”

His lips trembled and he said, “Sure, Mark. We had things going good, me and Asia. Loved that woman, I guess I always will. She wasn't strong but she was a good girl, and a beauty. She didn't deserve this. I guess no one does. We were so ready for Jackie, we had tried for so long.”

“Jackie?”

“His name was Jackson Taper, and we were going to call him Jackie. After Jackie Robinson. I like baseball.”

“I'm sorry.”

“He lived for two days, never had a chance. They screwed him up, Mark. It should not have happened.”

“We'll get to the bottom of it, Ramon. I promise.”

Ramon smiled, bit his bottom lip, wiped his eyes again, and put on his glasses. He reached for a pen and signed the contract.

AS WAS THEIR
habit, the partners met in the late afternoon in the same booth in the rear of The Rooster Bar to recap the daily business. Mark and Todd had beers, Zola a soft drink. After three weeks of practicing law with no authority to do so, they had learned a lot and were somewhat comfortable with their routines; Zola less so than the other two. The fear of getting caught was almost gone, though it would always nag at some level. Mark and Todd were regularly appearing in the criminal courts, same as a thousand other lawyers, and answering the same questions from bored judges. They made quick deals with prosecutors, not a single one of whom seemed the least bit curious about their credentials. They signed their bogus names on orders and other paperwork. They roamed the halls in search of clients, often bumping into other lawyers, all too busy to suspect anything. Despite their fast start, they soon learned that business was not that easy to hustle. On a good day they would rake in $1,000 or so in fees from new clients. On a bad day they would net nothing, which was not unusual.

Zola had narrowed her search to the three busiest hospitals—Catholic, General, and George Washington. She had yet to sign up a single client, but was encouraged by a few near misses. She didn't like what she was doing, preying on the injured, but for the moment she had no choice. Mark and Todd were working hard to support the business. She felt compelled to contribute something.

They debated at length about how often they should be seen hustling potential clients and standing in front of judges. On the one hand, familiarity would give them credibility as they became everyday players in the assembly line. But on the other hand, the more lawyers, prosecutors, clerks, and judges they met, the larger the pool of people who might one day ask the wrong question. And what might that question be? A bored clerk might ask, “What's your bar number again? The one I'm showing is not in the system.” There were 100,000 lawyers in the D.C. Bar Council, and each one had a number that had to be added to every order and pleading. Mark and Todd were using fictitious numbers, of course. However, the sheer number of lawyers provided excellent cover, and so far the clerks had shown no interest.