30

On a warm spring day in late April, with the cherry trees in full bloom and the air clear after a good rain, the partners gathered in the firm’s headquarters to launch their last Hail Mary at the practice of law. The firm’s headquarters also doubled as Zola’s den, and over the past three months she had managed to add some life and color to her hiding place. She had painted both rooms a soft beige and hung some contemporary art. In one corner there was a small refrigerator, the only sign of a kitchen. On an old metal table, there was a new desktop computer with a thirty-inch screen, and next to it was a high-speed laser printer. Sagging bookshelves were mounted on two walls and were filled with piles of paperwork, the fruits of their diligent tracking of all matters related to Swift Bank.

Each of the three had joined, as an aggrieved plaintiff, a separate class action against the bank. There were now six spread across the country, all led by lawyers who specialized in such massive lawsuits.

In the meantime, Swift Bank was on the ropes, cut and bloodied, and barely able to survive its daily thrashing. New allegations of wrongdoing poured forth. Whistle-blowers were singing at full volume. Upper managers were pointing fingers. Indictments were being promised. Stockholders were embarrassed, but they were also furious because the stock had fallen from $60 to $13 in less than four months. Rumors roared through the Internet and cable news. The most prominent was a recurring one that Swift would have no choice but to throw billions at its problems.

That prospect only incited the class action industry.

Comparing the responses from the three firms they had hired, it was clear that a Miami outfit called Cohen-Cutler was a few steps quicker than the other two, one in New York and one in D.C. Cohen-Cutler had a nice reputation in the rough-and-tumble world of mass torts. It was huge, with a hundred lawyers and plenty of muscle. Its paperwork was more efficient.

Thus, the fading law firm of Upshaw, Parker & Lane made the decision to join hands with the mighty Cohen-Cutler.

Zola sat at the table with a cup of tea and studied the desktop. Todd sat in the only chair with his laptop. Mark sprawled on the floor. Gone were their beards and fake eyeglasses, as well as their suits. The courtroom days were over; no need to hide behind disguises. They would spend the next few weeks hiding above The Rooster Bar. Beyond that, they had no plan.

Mark said, “There’s a Swift branch on Wisconsin Avenue in Bethesda. Let’s start there. Check out the white pages for Bethesda. We’re looking for generic names that can easily be misspelled.”

“Got one,” Todd said. “Mr. Joseph Hall, 662 Manning Drive, Bethesda. Change the last l to an e and he’s now Joe Hale. Our first fake client.”

Zola opened a document copied from the Cohen-Cutler materials. It was known internally as a PIS, Plaintiff Information Sheet. “Date of birth?” she asked.

Mark said, “Make him forty years old. Born March 3, 1974. Married, three kids. Swift Bank customer since 2001. Checking account and savings account. Debit card.”

She typed away, filling in the blanks. “Okay, account numbers?”

“Let’s leave them out for now. We’ll fabricate them later if we have to.”

“Next?”

Todd said, “Ethel Berry at 1210 Rugby Avenue. Change the e in Berry to an a and you still have the same Ethel Barry.”

Mark said, “That’s our girl. Ethel’s kind of an old-fashioned name so let’s give the gal some years. Born on December 5, 1941, two days before Pearl Harbor. Unmarried widow. No kids at home. Checking, savings, too old for a debit card. Doesn’t like credit.”

Zola filled in the blanks, and Ethel Barry became a class action plaintiff. “Next?”

Todd said, “Ted Radford, 798 Drummond Avenue, Apartment 4F. Change the a to an e and he’s now Ted Redford, like Robert, the actor.”

Mark said, “And when was Robert Redford born? Hang on.” He pecked and scrolled and said, “August 18, 1936. So give Ted the same birthday.”

Todd asked, “Is Robert Redford really seventy-seven years old?”

“Still looks good to me,” Zola said, typing.

Mark said, “The Sting and Butch Cassidy are two of my favorite movies. We can’t have a Redford without a Newman.”

Todd hunted and pecked. “Got one. Mike Newman at 418 Arlington Road, Bethesda. Change the w to a u and he’s now Mike Neuman.”

Zola typed and mumbled, “Aren’t we having fun?”

After rampaging through Bethesda, and collecting fifty plaintiffs, the firm turned its sights to the suburbs of Northern Virginia. There was a Swift branch on Broad Street in Falls Church. The area around it proved fertile as dozens of new fake clients were added to their lawsuit.

By noon, they were bored and decided to have lunch and move outdoors. They took a cab to Georgetown, to the Waterfront, where they found a table with a view of the Potomac. No one mentioned Gordy, but each remembered their last visit to the area. They were standing nearby on that awful night when they saw flashing lights on the Arlington Memorial Bridge in the distance.

They ordered sandwiches and iced tea, and all three opened laptops. The search continued for aggrieved Swift customers.

LONG AFTER THEY had eaten, the waiter politely asked them to leave; said he needed the table. They closed shop, walked around the corner to a coffee bar, found another table outside, and commenced operations. When they added their one hundredth new client, Mark placed the call to Miami. He asked to speak to a senior litigator with Cohen-Cutler, but of course the great man was away on business. Mark kept pushing and was finally routed to a lawyer named Martinez, who, according to the website, was fighting Swift on the front lines. After introducing himself and mentioning his little firm, Mark said, “So, we have about a hundred Swift customers and we’d like to join your class action.”

“A hundred?” Martinez repeated. “You’re kidding, right?”

“No, I’m dead serious.”

“Look, Mr. Upshaw, as of today our firm has almost 200,000 Swift plaintiffs. We’re not taking referrals for anything under 1,000. Find a thousand cases and we’ll talk business.”

“A thousand?” Mark repeated and looked wild-eyed at his partners. “Okay, we’ll get to work. Say, just curious, what’s the big picture look like?”

Martinez coughed and said, “Can’t say much. Swift is under enormous pressure to settle but I’m not sure their lawyers understand this. There are a lot of mixed messages. We think it will settle, though.”

“How soon?”

“We’re guessing early summer. The bank wants this mess behind it and has the cash to make it go away. The federal judge sitting on the case in New York is really pushing the litigation. You’re watching the headlines.”

“You bet. Thanks. We’ll be in touch.”

Mark placed his phone next to his laptop and said, “We’ve only just begun.”