19

At midnight, Mark climbed the stairs to the fourth floor and entered his cramped apartment. Todd was waiting on the sofa with his laptop. There were two empty cans of beer on the flimsy coffee table they’d purchased for $10. Mark got a beer from the small fridge and fell into a chair across from the sofa. He was exhausted and needed sleep. “What are you working on?” he asked.

“The class action. There are now four of them filed against Swift Bank, and it looks like it’s a simple matter of calling one of the lawyers and signing on. I think it’s time to do it. These guys are advertising like crazy but only on the Internet. No TV ads yet, and I think the reason is that each claim is worth so little. These are not injury cases with big values. The damages are not much, just a few bucks for the bogus fees and such that Swift padded onto the monthly statements. The beauty is that there are so many of them, maybe as many as a million customers who got clipped by Swift.”

“I saw where the CEO appeared before Congress today.”

“Yes, and it was a bloodletting. The guy got hammered from both sides of the aisle. He was a terrible witness, I mean the guy was literally sweating, and the committee had a field day with him. Everyone is demanding his resignation. One blogger thinks Swift looks so bad it has no choice but to settle this mess quickly and move on. He thinks the bank will throw a billion or so at the class actions, then spend some real money with a new ad campaign to gloss over its sins.”

“The usual. No mention of Rackley?”

“Oh no. The guy is hiding behind his wall of shell companies. I’ve been looking for hours and there’s no mention of him or his fronts. I wonder if Gordy was right about his involvement with Swift.”

“I’ll bet he’s right, but we need to keep digging.”

They were quiet for a moment. Normally, a television would be on, but they had yet to call the cable company. They planned to piggyback on the line from the bar, but they were not ready for a lot of questions from an installer. Their two flat screens were in a corner.

Mark finally said, “Gordy, Gordy. How often do you think of him?”

“A lot,” Todd said. “All the time.”

“Do you ask yourself what we should’ve done different?”

“Truthfully, yes. We could have done this or that, but Gordy was not himself. I’m not sure we could have stopped him.”

“I tell myself that. I miss him, though. I miss him a lot. I wonder what he would think if he could see us now.”

“The Gordy we once knew would tell us we’re crazy. But that last guy would probably want to join our firm.”

“As the senior partner, no doubt.” They managed a quick laugh. Mark said, “I read a story once about a guy who killed himself. Some shrink was going on about the futility of trying to understand it. It’s impossible, makes no sense at all. Once a person reaches that point, he’s in another world, one that his survivors will never understand. And if you do figure it out, then you might be in trouble yourself.”

“Well, I’m not in trouble, because I’ll never understand it. Sure he had a lot of problems, but suicide wasn’t the answer. Gordy could have cleaned up, got his meds straight, worked things out with Brenda, or not. If he had said no to the wedding, he would have been much happier in the long run. You and I have the same problems with law school, the bar exam, unemployment, loan sharks, and we’re not suicidal. In fact, we’re fighting back.”

“And we’re not bipolar, so we’ll never understand.”

“Let’s talk about something else,” Todd said.

Mark chugged his beer. “Right. What about our hit list?”

Todd closed his laptop and placed it on the floor. “Nothing. I called eight of our prospective victims and no one wanted to talk. The phone is a great equalizer, and these folks are not nearly as nervous tonight as they were in court today.”

“Does it seem too easy? I mean, we signed up three thousand bucks in fees today, and we had no idea what we’re doing.”

“We had a good day and won’t always be so lucky. What’s amazing is the traffic, the sheer number of people who get chewed up by the system.”

“Thank God for them.”

“It’s an endless supply.”

“This is crazy, you know? And it’s not sustainable.”

“True, but we could run this racket for a long time. And it sure beats the alternative.”

Mark took a sip, exhaled mightily, and closed his eyes. “There’s no turning back. We’re violating too many laws. Unauthorized practice. Tax evasion. And I suppose some code section on labor laws. If we join the class action against Swift, we can add that to our list.”

“Are you having second thoughts?” Todd asked.

“No. You?”

“No, but I do worry about Zola. At times I feel like we’ve dragged her into it. She’s awfully fragile right now, and frightened.”

Mark opened his eyes and stretched his legs. “True, but at least she feels safe now. She has a good hiding spot and that’s of the utmost importance. She’s a tough girl, Todd, who’s survived more than we can imagine. Right now she’s where she wants to be. She needs us.”

“Poor girl. She met with Ronda tonight, had a drink somewhere, and told her that she was thinking about taking a semester off, said she couldn’t focus right now on law school and the bar exam. She thinks she sold the story. I talked to Wilson and told him that the two of us would eventually show up for classes. He’s concerned but I assured him we’re okay. Maybe these people will leave us alone.”

“If we ignore them they’ll forget about us. They have more pressing matters to worry about.”

Todd said, “Well, so do we, our new careers. Now that we have these clients, we have to deliver our services. I mean, we’re promising these people we can keep them out of jail and get their fines reduced. Any idea how we might go about that?”

“We’ll figure it out tomorrow. The key is chumming it up with the prosecutors, getting to know them and being persistent. And look, Todd, if we can’t always deliver we won’t be the first lawyers who promised too much. We’ll get our fees and move on.”

“You sound like a real street hustler.”

“That’s my gig. I’m going to bed.”

BELOW THEM, ZOLA was awake too. She was in her flimsy bed, propped up against the pillows with a quilt covering her legs. The room was dark, the only light coming from the screen of her laptop.

Her loan counselor was a woman named Tildy Carver, and she worked for a servicing company nearby in Chevy Chase called LoanAid. Ms. Carver had been pleasant enough through law school, but her tone was changing as the semesters progressed. That afternoon, when Zola was sitting in a courtroom taking notes, she had received Ms. Carver’s latest e-mail:

Dear Ms. Maal: When we last corresponded a month ago, you were getting ready for your final semester. At that time, you were not optimistic about your employment possibilities. I’m sure you’re busy with lots of interviews as graduation approaches. Could you please update me on your efforts to find a job? I look forward to hearing from you.

Sincerely, Tildy Carver, Senior Loan Adviser

Last installment, January 13, 2014: $32,500; total principal and interest: $191,000.

In the safety of her new hiding place, she stared at the “total” figure and shook her head. It was still difficult to believe that she had voluntarily waded into a system that allowed someone like her to borrow so much, with the thought of paying it back an absurd impossibility. Of course, now she wasn’t supposed to worry about repayment, but she found that plan troublesome too. It was wrong to simply run away and blame the system.

Her parents had no idea how much she owed. They knew she was borrowing legitimate sums provided by the government, and they had innocently believed that any program provided by Congress must be thoughtful and good. Now they would never know, which was slightly comforting.

She typed,

Dear Ms. Carver: Nice to hear from you. I interviewed last week with the Department of Justice and I’m waiting for a response. I’m seriously thinking about working in the public sector or for a nonprofit to ease the strain of repayment. I’ll keep you posted.

Sincerely, Zola Maal

She heard footsteps above her and knew her partners were moving about. She turned off her laptop and stretched out under the covers. She was thankful for her cozy little hiding place, thankful that there would be no sudden knock on the door. The first apartment she remembered as a child was not much larger than her new space. She and her two older brothers shared a tiny bedroom. The boys had bunk beds and next to them she slept on a cot. Her parents were close by in another cramped bedroom. She didn’t realize they were poor and frightened and not supposed to be there. In spite of this, though, the home was a happy place with lots of laughter and good times. Her parents worked odd jobs at all hours, but one was usually at home. If not, there was always a neighbor down the hall checking on the kids. Their front door was usually open and folks “from home” were in and out. Someone was always cooking and the aromas hung heavy in the hallways. Food was shared, as was clothing, even money.

And they worked. The Senegalese adults put in long hours with no complaints. Zola was twelve years old before she realized there was a dark cloud hanging over her world. A man they knew was arrested, detained, and eventually sent back. This had terrified the others, and her parents moved again.

She thought of her parents and brother every hour of every day, and usually fell asleep fighting tears. Her future was uncertain, but nothing compared with theirs.