25

On Monday, March 3, federal agents raided the corporate headquarters of Swift Bank in downtown Philadelphia. The press was tipped off and there was plenty of footage of a small army of men with “FBI” emblazoned on their parkas hauling boxes and computers to waiting trucks. The company issued a statement saying all was well, it was cooperating and all that, while its stock price plummeted.

A business commentator on cable recapped the bank’s troubles. Two congressional investigations were underway, along with the FBI’s. U.S. Attorneys in three states were preening for the cameras and promising to get to the bottom of things. At least five class action suits were on the books and the lawyers were in a frenzy. More litigation was a certainty. Swift’s CEO had just resigned—to spend more time with his family—and took with him about $100 million in stock options, loot that would undoubtedly make all that family time more enjoyable. The CFO was negotiating his exit package. Hundreds of former employees were surfacing, blowing whistles, and suing for wrongful terminations. Old lawsuits against Swift were reexamined and revealed that the bank’s bad behavior had been ongoing for at least a decade. Customers were howling and closing accounts. Consumer watchdogs were issuing statements condemning “the most fraudulent banking practices in U.S. history.”

Nine percent of Swift’s stock was owned by an investment firm in L.A. As its largest stockholder, it had nothing to say. The UPL partners monitored Swift’s mess on a daily basis and printed every word they could find about the bank. So far, Hinds Rackley had managed to escape attention.

They decided that with such chaos the time was right to join the fun. Mark contacted a law firm in Miami and signed on as a plaintiff in its class action. Todd called a toll-free number advertised by a law firm in New York and joined its class action. Zola stayed closer to home and joined forces with a D.C. firm well known in the mass tort business.

Within hours of becoming litigants, they were flooded with paperwork being churned out by the lawyers hounding Swift. It was an impressive collection.

According to the latest estimates, there were potentially one million Swift customers who had been subjected to the bank’s corrupt practices.

RAMON CALLED EVERY day, even on weekends. He wanted updates on his case, and Mark explained over and over that the initial review, from their “first expert,” was positive and they were proceeding as fast as possible. Mark had an appointment with the great Jeffrey Corbett on Wednesday, March 19, the earliest open date on his packed schedule. Evidently, his trial calendar was something to behold and he hardly had time to consider new cases.

When Ramon called on Tuesday, he dropped the bomb that Asia, his ex, had come to life down in Charleston and was curious about the lawsuit. Mark had little doubt that Ramon, probably under the influence, had tried to impress her with big talk about hiring lawyers to pursue a malpractice case. Mark was certain she would not be a factor.

Mark was wrong. On Wednesday, he received a call from a lawyer in Charleston, a Mr. Mossberg. Since the incoming phone number was unknown, Mark, as always, debated whether to take the call. After five rings he accepted it.

Mossberg began with “I represent Asia Taper, and I understand you represent her ex-husband. That right?”

“That’s correct. Ramon Taper is our client.”

“Well, you can’t sue without her. She was, after all, the mother of the child.” Mossberg’s tone was aggressive to the point of being confrontational.

Just great, Ramon. There goes a chunk of our fee. Just what we needed—another pushy trial lawyer getting in the way.

“Yes, I understand that,” Mark said as he quickly searched for Mossberg online.

“My client says your client has all the medical records. That true?”

“I have the records,” Mark said. Edwin Mossberg. Six-man firm specializing in personal injury, downtown Charleston. Forty-five years old. So twenty years in the trenches and far more experienced than anyone at UPL. A big guy, flabby cheeks, full head of gray hair, expensive suit and tie. Biggest victory to date an eleven-million verdict against a hospital in Atlanta. And lots of lesser, though still impressive, verdicts.

“Can you send me a copy of them?” Mossberg practically demanded.

“Sure, no problem.”

“So, tell me, Mr. Upshaw, what’s been done on the case?”

For the thousandth time Mark pinched the bridge of his nose and asked himself what the hell he was doing. He gritted his teeth and said, “Well, right now the medicals are being evaluated by our expert. Should have a report in a few days.”

“Who’s the expert?” Mossberg asked, as if he knew every expert in the field.

“We’ll talk about him later,” Mark said, finding his footing. One asshole to another.

“I’d like to see the report as soon as you have it. There are a lot of bad experts out there, and I happen to know the best. Guy lives at Hilton Head. I’ve used him several times, with great success I might add.”

Oh, please add; would love to hear more about your phenomenal successes. “That’s great,” Mark said. “Zip me your contract and I’ll be in touch.”

“Sure. And, Mr. Upshaw, there’s no lawsuit without my client, you understand? Asia has suffered greatly because of this, and I’m determined to get every dime of compensation she is entitled to.”

Go, Superman! “So am I, Mr. Mossberg,” Mark said. “Good day.” He ended the call and wanted to throw his phone out the window.

TODD AND ZOLA took the news well. Mark met them for a quick lunch at a restaurant near the District Courthouse, where Todd had just pulled the firm’s first double play by signing up two DUIs in one session of court. With $700 of fresh cash in his pocket, he insisted on paying for lunch and planned to take the afternoon off. Though none of the three would admit it, the idea of such a fat, easy fee from Ramon’s case was intoxicating. And, it made their lives less urgent. Why bother with hustling the criminal courts and hospitals when serious money was just around the corner? All three were putting in fewer hours and spending less time together. There was no friction; they just needed some space.

The early rush at the District Courthouse provided the richest opportunities. Mark and Todd were usually there at nine going through their routines. Some days were lucky; most were not. After a few weeks at the game, both knew they couldn’t last much longer. It was difficult to comprehend how Darrell Cromley and Preston Kline and the real hustlers could spend their careers roaming the hallways, ready to pounce on unsuspecting people. Perhaps they had no real choice; it was the only work for which they were suited. Perhaps it was made easier by the fact that they never feared getting caught without a license.

Zola had given up on chasing ambulances, though she had yet to inform her partners. She had changed and refined and polished her sales pitch a dozen different ways, but had yet to snare a decent client. And she was weary from the effort. It was so deceitful, and every time she zeroed in on some poor, injured soul she felt like a predator. Away from the boys, she was spending more time in federal courtrooms, watching real trials and appellate arguments. She found it fascinating, but also a bit depressing. Not too many years earlier she had started law school with the dream of becoming a real lawyer. Now she could only watch them and wonder what happened.

“Will this Mossberg guy get half the fee?” she asked over lunch.

“I don’t know,” Mark said. “Like most areas of our practice, this is something new. I suppose the fee split will be decided by him and Jeffrey Corbett.”

“Corbett hasn’t signed on yet,” Todd added.

“No, he hasn’t. We see him on the nineteenth.”

“We?” Todd asked.

“Yes. I want you to go with me and take notes.”

“So, you’ll be the trial lawyer and I’ll be the paralegal?”

“Junior associate.”

“Gee, thanks. What if Corbett says no?”

“We have an appointment two days later with Sully Perlman, the second-best med mal lawyer in town. If Corbett doesn’t work out, we go to Perlman. Otherwise, we cancel with Perlman.”

“You sound like you know what you’re doing,” Zola said.

“Have no idea but I’m getting real good at faking things,” Mark replied.

Todd asked, “Well, how are you going to fake it when someone in Corbett’s firm or Mossberg’s firm digs an inch or two just under the surface and realizes that we’re not exactly licensed to practice law in the District, or anywhere else for that matter? That’s what I don’t like about this. We’re fairly safe over in the criminal courts because no one seems to notice us anymore and our clients damned sure don’t care if we’re faking it. But this is something else. This is big-time litigation where a lot of smart people will be paying attention.”

“Agreed,” Zola said. “Here’s an idea. I have no clue whether it will work, because, hey, we have no clue about anything, right? We’re from Foggy Bottom. But let’s say that one day the case settles for two million, the max in Virginia. The lawyers get one-third off the top.”

Mark held up a hand and said, “Sorry to interrupt, but it’ll probably be 40 percent. I’ve read some cases where 40 percent was approved by the court because there were a lot of lawyers involved and the case was complicated. You can bet Corbett and Mossberg will go for 40 percent. Ramon will have no choice.”

She said, “Great, let’s say 40 percent. Corbett and Mossberg split evenly, so $400,000 to each firm. We get half of Corbett’s, so $200,000 in our direction. Here’s the crazy idea: What if we sit down with Corbett and offer to sell him our interest right now, up front, and get out of it before someone gets curious and starts digging?”

“How much?” Mark asked.

“Half. Discount it by half, and we walk off with a hundred thousand.” She snapped her fingers. “Just like that. We get our money now, don’t have to fool with the case, don’t worry about getting caught.”

“Brilliant,” Todd said. “I like it. Can you sell an interest in a lawsuit?”

“I’ve looked pretty hard and found no ethical prohibition against it,” she said.

Mark said, “Not a bad plan. We can discuss it with Corbett.”

MORGANA NASH WITH NowAssist wrote,

Dear Mark Frazier: It’s me again, just checking in. How are classes going this semester? Any plans for spring break? I hope you’re headed to Florida or a beach somewhere. When we last chatted you were down in the dumps and less than enthused about law school. I hope things are better now. We need to discuss a repayment plan in the very near future. Please drop me a line at your convenience.

Last installment: Jan. 13, 2014 = $32,500. Total due, principal and interest: $266,000.

Sincerely, Morgana Nash, Public Sector Representative

Mark eventually wrote back:

Dear Ms. Nash: In my last e-mail I politely asked you to leave me alone because I’m in therapy and my therapist really doesn’t like you. He says that because my loans are so enormous and my debt so suffocating I could be on the brink of a serious emotional breakdown. He says I’m fragile. Please, please go away or I’ll have no choice but to ask my therapist to contact your lawyer.

Sincerely, Mark Frazier

Todd heard from Rex Wagner at Scholar Support Partners:

Dear Mr. Lucero: I’ve had the privilege of helping hundreds of students with their loans, so I’ve seen it all. It’s not uncommon for someone like you—unemployed—to try and ignore me. Sorry, but I’m not going away, nor is your debt. We must talk about a repayment plan, if only to agree that one will be delayed until you find meaningful employment. Please contact me as soon as possible.

Last installment: $32,500, Jan. 13, 2014; total principal and interest: $195,000.

Sincerely, Rex Wagner, Senior Loan Counselor

To which Todd promptly responded,

Dear SS Senior Loan Counselor Wagner: When you feel the trapdoor closing, you think of ways to get out. Desperate ways, one of which is to quit school and go hide. Another is to face default head-on and get it over with. So I go into default? What’s the big deal? As I’m sure you know, over a million students defaulted last year. They all got sued but not a single one was executed. So, you can sue me but you can’t kill me, right? You can ruin my credit for the rest of my life, but here’s the deal: after dealing with you and your company and the law school, I’m done with debt. Finished, forever. I will live the rest of my life debt-free.

Your friend, Todd Lucero

TILDY CARVER AT LoanAid sent Zola an e-mail that read,

Hello, Zola. Only two months to go and I know you must be excited about graduation. You deserve it! Your hard work and perseverance have brought you to this point and you are to be commended. Congratulations! I know your family is proud. How about an update on the employment front? We need to talk and begin the process of putting together a rough outline of your repayment plan.

I’m here for you. Sincerely, Tildy Carver, Senior Loan Adviser.

Last installment, January 13, 2014: $32,500; total due: $191,000.

Zola waited a couple of days and finally replied:

Dear Ms. Carver: I’m afraid there’s nothing to report. I can’t buy a job. I’ll keep interviewing until I graduate, and then interview some more. If my bad luck continues, I’ll probably get a job with an accounting firm. If so, I’ll let you know immediately.

All best, Zola Maal