The Rooster Bar (18 page)

J
effrey Corbett's firm occupied the top two floors of a handsome glass building near Thomas Circle. In the plush lobby, a uniformed doorman escorted Mark and Todd to “Mr. Corbett's elevator,” an exclusive lift that serviced only floors seven and eight. When it opened, they walked into a stunning reception area filled with minimalist furniture and contemporary art. A comely young lady greeted them with handshakes and asked if they wanted coffee. Both watched her walk away. When she was back with the coffee, in fine china, they followed her around a corner to a conference room with a sweeping view of downtown. She left them there, and they watched her walk away for the second time.

The table was long and wide and covered with burgundy leather. Sixteen sleek leather chairs were around it. The walls held even more art. So far, the place had the seductive feel of serious success and wealth.

“Now, this is how you practice law,” Todd said, admiring the decor.

“Well, we'll never know.”

Mr. Corbett had his own way of doing things. At 3:00 p.m., Mark and Todd would meet with an associate named Peter and a paralegal named Aurelia. They would spend an hour or so reviewing Ramon's stack of medical records, along with the report from Dr. Koonce. The records and the report were still in Mark's briefcase. He had offered to send them over but that was not their protocol.

If the preliminary meeting went well enough, then Mr. Corbett would tear himself away from his schedule and close the deal.

Peter walked in and introduced himself. He was about thirty-five, still an associate according to the website. The firm had fifteen lawyers, about half of them partners, but it was clear, at least online, that there was only one boss. Peter was dressed casually in an expensive cashmere sweater and khaki pants. Aurelia, the paralegal, wore jeans. Everyone got themselves properly introduced.

Peter was curious about their firm, and within seconds both Mark and Todd were treading water. They gave their usual spiel—three friends who got fed up with the bigger firms and decided to make a go of it on their own. As soon as possible, Mark said, “So you guys do a lot of bad-birth cases, right?”

“That's all we do,” Peter said smugly as Todd passed across copies of the report from Dr. Koonce. Aurelia had yet to speak and it was already obvious she would say as little as possible.

“May I see the medical records?” Peter asked, staring at them on the table in front of Mark.

“Certainly.”

“You brought how many copies?”

“Just one.”

“Okay. Mind if we run another copy real quick? Aurelia and I will skim through these and make notes. It goes faster if we both have a copy.”

Mark and Todd shrugged. Whatever.

Aurelia left with the records. Peter left to tend to pressing matters in his office. Mark and Todd checked their phones and enjoyed the view of the city. Ramon had already left two voice mails.

Fifteen minutes later, Aurelia was back with two stacks of records. Peter returned and everyone took their seats. Peter said, “This might take an hour or so, for the first read-through. You're welcome to stay or you can go out for a walk.”

Todd wanted to ask if he could go sit with the secretary out front, but let it pass. Mark said, “We'll stay.”

Peter and Aurelia began plowing through the records and making dozens of notes. Todd stepped into the hallway to make a call. Mark sent e-mails from his phone. The minutes passed slowly. It was obvious to them that Peter and Aurelia knew a lot about medical records.

After half an hour, Peter left the conference room. He returned with Jeffrey Corbett, a slim gray-haired man of about fifty. Mark and Todd had read so much about him they felt as if they already knew him. He spoke in a rich, velvety voice, one that jurors supposedly found almost hypnotic. His smile was warm and charismatic. This was a man you could trust.

He took a seat at the head of the table and stopped smiling. He frowned at Mark and Todd and said, “You guys have really screwed up.”

Mark and Todd stopped smiling too.

Corbett said, “You signed a contract with Mr. Ramon Taper on February 10. You hired Dr. Koonce two days later, and on February 19 he gave you his report, dated on that day. Six days later, February 25, the statute of limitations expired. It's a Virginia case, and Virginia has a two-year statute of limitations. Three in Maryland, five here in the District. But only two in Virginia.”

Mark managed to say, “Sorry, but the delivery was last year, February 25, 2013. It's right there on the top page of the admissions log.”

Looking down his nose, Peter replied, “Yes, but that date is incorrect. It's the first date you see when you look at the records, and evidently it was the only date you noticed. You and Dr. Koonce, I presume. Someone wrote ‘2013' instead of ‘2012,' and off you went. The baby was born on February 25, 2012.”

For no apparent benefit, Corbett added, “Koonce is a quack, by the way, a professional testifier because he couldn't make it as a real doctor.”

Well, he gave us your name, Mark almost blurted, but was too stunned to say anything. With all of the wonder and ignorance of a first-year law student, Todd looked at Corbett and asked, “So, what are you saying?”

Corbett jabbed a finger in his direction. “I'm saying, son, that you and your little law firm sat on the case while the statute of limitations ran out, and there's no way to revive this lawsuit. You committed malpractice, and you can bet your sweet ass you'll get sued by your client. You have no defense, no way out. It's a lawyer's worst nightmare and it's inexcusable. Period. Yes, your client sat on his case for almost two years, but that's not all that unusual. You had plenty of time to prepare and file a quick lawsuit to stop the clock. That didn't happen.” Corbett rose to his feet and kept pointing. “Now, I want the two of you to take these medical records and get out of my office. I want no part of this. The record is clear that you contacted my office February 27, after the statute of limitations had expired. When the lawsuit lands, there can be no doubt that my firm did not see this case until it was too late.”

Peter and Aurelia stood too. Mark and Todd looked up at them, then slowly got to their feet. Mark managed to mumble, “But the admissions records say it was last year, 2013.”

Corbett was unsympathetic. “If you had studied the records, Mr. Upshaw, you would have realized it happened in 2012,
over
two years ago.”

With a bit of drama, Peter slid the original records across the table, as if surrendering the smoking gun. Mark looked at them, bewildered, and asked, “So what do we do now?”

Corbett said, “I have no advice, never been in this spot before. But I suppose you should notify your errors-and-omissions carrier, put them on notice. What's your coverage?”

Errors and what? Coverage? Mark looked at Todd, who was already looking at him; both were thoroughly stupefied. “I'll have to check,” Mark said, still mumbling.

Corbett said, “You do that. Now please leave and take your records with you.”

Peter walked to the door and opened it. Mark picked up the stack of records and followed Todd out of the room. Someone slammed the door behind them. The comely secretary was not at her desk on the way out. The oak-paneled elevator seemed stuffier on the ride down. The doorman wasn't as friendly as they left the building. Not a word passed between them until they were safely locked in Todd's car, with Ramon's medical records flung across the backseat.

Todd gripped the wheel and said, “Well, that's the last case we refer to that prick.”

From somewhere, Mark found humor and began laughing. To keep from crying, Todd laughed too, and they managed to keep it going until they parked behind The Rooster Bar.

ZOLA FOUND THEM
in their booth, empty mugs on the table. One look into their eyes and she knew they had been there for a spell. She slid into a spot next to Mark and looked across at Todd. Neither spoke. She finally asked, “Okay, how'd it go?”

Todd asked, “You ever heard of errors-and-omissions insurance? For lawyers?”

“Don't think so. Why?”

Mark said, “Well, it appears as though every lawyer with a license carries malpractice insurance that's commonly referred to as errors-and-omissions. And this insurance comes in handy when the lawyer screws up and does something really bad like sit on a case until the statute of limitations runs out and the case evaporates, forever. The client gets pissed off and sues the lawyer, and the lawyer's insurance company comes in to defend. It's really smart insurance.”

“Too bad we don't have any of it,” Todd said.

“We could sure use it. We missed the statute of limitations, Zola, in Ramon's case. It ran out on February 25, two years after the baby died. Two years in Virginia. Did you learn that in law school?”

“No.”

“That makes three of us. Six days after I met with Koonce and two days before I made the first call to Corbett, the statute ran out. There's no way around it, and there's no one to blame but me.”

“Us,” Todd said. “The firm. All for one and one for all, right?”

“Not so fast,” she said.

Mark added, “Actually, a couple of his flunkies saw it when they were going through the records. They fetched him; he said get out. I thought at one point he might call security to escort us from the building.”

“A real charmer, huh?”

“Can't blame him,” Todd said. “He's just making sure his firm is off the hook. It's not every day that a couple of bozos walk in with a big case that's already dead and they're too stupid to know it.”

She nodded and tried to absorb it all. Mark waved at a waiter and ordered another round.

Zola asked, “So how did Ramon take the news?”

Mark grunted, smiled. “I haven't called him yet. I think you should do it.”

“Me!? Why?”

“Because I'm a coward. And you could pull it off. Meet him for a drink. Turn on the charm. He'll be impressed and maybe he won't sue us for $5 million.”

“You are kidding,” she said.

“Yes, Zola,” Mark said. “I'm kidding. This one is on me. I'll eventually meet with Ramon and somehow get through it. The real problem, though, is Mossberg. He's sitting by the phone waiting to hear what our expert says. At some point, and soon, I have to tell him the truth. The lawsuit is gone for good. He'll sue us on behalf of Asia, and our cover will be blown. Simple as that.”

“Why would he sue if we have no insurance and no assets?” she asked.

“Because he's a lawyer. He sues everybody.”

Todd said, “Wait a minute. That's a very good question. What if we simply go to Mossberg and tell the guy the truth? He's way down in Charleston and couldn't care less about what we're doing up here. Tell him we dropped out of law school and we're trying to make a buck on the streets, without being properly admitted to the bar. Sure we screwed up his case, and we're very sorry about that. Just a bunch of idiots, right? But why sue us when we have nothing? Why waste the paper? Hell, he's got plenty of other cases.”

“Okay, you drive to Charleston,” Mark said. “My Bronco won't make it.”

“What do you tell Ramon?” she asked.

The waiter placed two beers and a soda on the table. Mark took a long drink and wiped his mouth. “Ramon? Well, I suppose telling him the truth might be disastrous, so let's stick with the lying for now. I'll tell him our expert didn't like the facts, couldn't see any liability, and so we're looking for another expert. We need some time here, so let's stall him. Let a few months pass. Keep in mind he's been sitting on the case for two years and he runs hot and cold.”

“He won't back off now,” Todd said. “You've managed to get him excited.”

“You got a better idea?”

“No, not at the moment. It's best to keep lying. With our practice, when in doubt—keep lying.”

O
n Friday, March 21, two days after the beginning of the end of UPL, Edwin Mossberg called twice before noon. Mark ignored both calls. He was hiding in the upstairs coffee bar of an old, cramped used-book store near Farragut Square, reading the complimentary daily newspapers and killing time. Todd was supposedly stalking the halls at the District Courthouse while Zola was supposedly camping out in a hospital prayer room where families huddled with ministers. However, Mark seriously doubted either of the other two was hard at work. Their dream of a big, easy score had eased the pressure and lulled them into a false sense of security.

Now that the dream had vanished so dramatically, they were reeling. They had agreed that it was imperative to double down and rake in as much cash as possible before the sky fell, but failure killed their motivation.

Mossberg's e-mail hit like a bomb.

Mr. Upshaw: I've called twice but no answer. Are you on top of the statute here?? My client is not sure of the delivery date but thinks it was around this time of the year, late February or early March 2012. Again, we don't have the medical records. Virginia has a two-year statute, courtesy of tort reform, and I'm sure you're aware of this. Please call as soon as possible.

INCLUDING THE EXPENSE
money so generously lent by the Department of Education, along with the fees they'd hustled in almost two months of unauthorized practice, minus outlays for a new desktop computer and printer, and new clothes, and old furniture, and food, the balance sheet of Upshaw, Parker & Lane showed net cash of almost $52,000. The three partners agreed that the firm could afford the round-trip airfare to Charleston.

Mark bought the ticket at Reagan National, flew the first leg to Atlanta and the second to Charleston. He took a cab from the airport to an old downtown warehouse that Mr. Mossberg and company had converted into a splendid office with views of the harbor. The lobby was a museum dedicated to the courtroom heroics of the firm's trial studs. Its walls were covered with framed newspaper stories detailing victories and massive settlements. In one corner a water heater was on display, one that had once blown up and killed some folks. Near a window a hunting rifle was mounted next to an X-ray of a firing pin in someone's head. A chain saw here, a lawn mower there. After ten minutes amid the carnage, Mark was convinced that no product was safe.

As with Corbett's operation, Mossberg's reeked of easy millions and phenomenal success. How had some lawyers managed to strike it so rich? Where did Mark's legal career take a left turn and fall off the rails?

An assistant fetched him and led him up the stairs to a massive office where Edwin Mossberg was standing in front of a tall window, looking at the harbor and listening on the phone. He frowned at Mark and motioned for him to sit on a thick leather sofa. The office was larger than the entire fourth floor where Mark and Todd were currently hiding.

Mossberg finally stuck his phone in his pocket, thrust forward a hand, and without a smile said, “Nice to meet you. Where are the medical records?”

Mark had arrived with nothing, not even a briefcase.

“Didn't bring them,” he said. “We need to talk.”

“You missed the statute, right?”

“Right.”

Mossberg sat on the other side of a coffee table and glared at him. “Figured as much. What did your expert say?”

“Said we had 'em by the balls. Gross negligence, the works. He missed the date too, Corbett said he was a quack, and the statute ran out six days later, two days before I made the first call to Corbett's office.”

“Jeffrey Corbett?”

“Yes. Know him?”

“Oh yes. He's a fine trial lawyer. So you just left two million on the table.”

“I suppose.”

“What are the limits of your liability?”

“I have no insurance.”

“You're practicing law with no errors-and-omissions coverage?”

“That's correct. I'm also practicing law without a license.”

Mossberg took a deep breath and exhaled loudly in a rasping, almost growling sound. He flopped his hands and said, “Just tell me the story.”

In ten minutes Mark covered it all. Three good friends in a bad law school. Heavy debts, soft job market, Gordy and the bridge; the horror of the bar exam; the insanity of repayment; the crazy idea to hustle the criminal courts; a fine romp with a cute assistant prosecutor that led to a great deal for Benson that led to the referral to Ramon. And here we are.

“And you thought you wouldn't get caught?” Mossberg asked.

“We haven't been caught. Only you know, and why should you care? You have enough cases to keep you busy. You have more money than you can spend. You're a long way from D.C. and we're not exactly taking fees out of your pocket.”

“Except for this little med mal case.”

“True. We screwed it up. But let's not forget the fact that your client and my client sat on the case until the very end.”

“What will you tell your client?”

“That there's no liability, and there's not. Maybe he'll go away; maybe he'll cause trouble. We'll wait and see. Looks like you have the same problem.”

“Not really. I don't have a signed contract with Asia. In med mal, son, you never sign a contract for representation until you've reviewed the medical records. Chalk that up to something else you haven't learned.”

“Thanks. What will you tell her?”

“I don't know. I haven't thought about it. She's not the most stable person in town.”

“You could tell the truth and sue me on her behalf, but why bother? I don't have a dime and I'll just bankrupt any judgment. Honestly, you couldn't even find me in D.C. if you wanted to. Others are looking.”

“Is Mark Upshaw your real name?”

“No.”

“And Parker and Lane?”

“Bogus.”

“No surprise. We couldn't find any record of you and your firm in the D.C. bar directory. You're leaving a pretty wide trail, son.”

“Did you call anyone there?”

“I don't think so. One of my paralegals dug a little.”

“I'd appreciate it if you wouldn't dig anymore. I've told you the truth.”

“So, allow me to summarize. You dropped out of law school, assumed another name, and you're practicing law without a license, which is a crime, and taking your fees in cash, without proper reporting, I assume, which is also a crime, and now you've ruined a beautiful med mal case that cost your client and my client more money than they'll ever see. Not to mention defaulting on your student loans. Have I missed anything?”

“Maybe a couple of items.”

“Of course. And so what am I supposed to do?”

“Nothing. Let it slide. Ignore me. What do you have to gain by reporting me to the D.C. Bar?”

“Well, for one, it would be a nice step in the direction of cleaning up our profession. We have enough problems without deadbeats like you scamming the system.”

“I could argue that we provide valuable services to our clients.”

“Ramon Taper?”

“No, not him. The other guys. Ramon was our first venture into the minefield of personal injury law, and, frankly, I think we've had enough. We'll stick to DUIs and leave the car wrecks to the guys on the billboards.”

“That's good to hear.”

“I'm begging for a favor, Mr. Mossberg. Just leave us alone. Things are tough enough anyway.”

“Get out of my office,” Mossberg said, standing.

Mark rolled his eyes as his shoulders sagged. Under his breath he mumbled, “I think I've heard that before.”

Mossberg walked to the door and yanked it open. “Out!”

Mark strolled through the opening, avoided eye contact, and found the stairs.

HIS RETURN FLIGHT
was delayed in Atlanta, and it was almost midnight when Mark arrived at his apartment. The delay possibly kept him from getting shot, or something close to it.

Around nine that night, Ramon found The Rooster Bar and parked himself at the long counter. Todd was behind the bar mixing drinks. The after-work crowd had cleared and half a dozen regulars were watching college basketball.

Ramon ordered a vodka tonic and Todd placed it before him with a small bowl of peanuts. “You know this dude?” Ramon asked, showing Todd the business card of one Mark Upshaw of the firm of Upshaw, Parker & Lane. Address right there, right where he was sitting: 1504 Florida Avenue.

Todd looked at it and shook his head. He and Mark had convinced the other bartenders and waiters to play completely dumb if anyone showed up asking questions about them, their firm, or their offices. So far, the little conspiracy was holding.

Ramon said, “Dude's my lawyer, and his card says his office is right here, but this is a bar, right?” His tongue was a bit thick, some of his words not so clear.

Todd was suddenly captivated by his customer and wanted to know more. “He might be upstairs. Don't know what all's up there, but you won't find a lawyer working at this time of night.”

“Dude's running from me, you know what I mean? Been calling him for three days now and he won't answer.”

“He must be busy. What kinda case you got?”

“Big one.” He closed his eyes and nodded, and Todd realized he was drunker than he'd thought.

Todd said, “Well, if I bump into him, what do I say? Who's looking for him?”

“Name's Ramon,” he said, barely lifting his head. He had yet to touch his drink.

Todd took a deep breath and eased away. He stepped into the kitchen and sent a text to Mark.
Our client Ramon is here, drunk. Stay away. Where r u?

Atlanta airport, delayed.

Call him and feed him a line. Something.

Will do.

Todd returned to the bar and stood a few feet from Ramon, who made no effort to pull out his phone. If Mark was calling, Ramon wasn't responding. Still holding the business card, he waved Todd over and said, “This say Florida Avenue, right? So where's the law office?”

“Don't know, sir.”

“I think you're lying,” Ramon said, louder.

“No, sir. You're right, this is Florida Avenue, but I don't know of any law office.”

Even louder, Ramon said, “Well, I got a gun in my car, you know that? And if I can't get justice one way, I might just get it another. Know what I mean?”

Todd nodded at another bartender as he stepped closer to Ramon. “Look, sir, if you're going to threaten folks we'll have no choice but to call the police.”

“I gotta find this dude, okay? Mr. Upshaw, Attorney-at-Law. He's got my case and I think he's running from me. And don't go calling no police, okay?”

“Why don't you finish your drink and I'll call you a cab?”

“Don't need a cab. Got a car out there with a gun under the seat.”

“That's the second time you've mentioned a gun. That makes us very nervous around here.”

“Just don't call no police.”

“They've already been called, sir.”

Ramon's back stiffened and his eyes popped wide open. “What? Why'd you do that? I ain't hurt nobody.”

“Sir, we take gun talk seriously in this city.”

“How much is the drink?”

“It's on the house if you want to hustle on out of here.”

Ramon slid off the stool and said as he headed for the door, “Don't know why you had to call the police.” Todd followed him outside and watched him disappear around the corner. If he had a car, Todd didn't see it.