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    The Litigators
    The Litigators
    The Litigators
    Ebook469 pages7 hours

    The Litigators

    By John Grisham

    3.5/5

    ()

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    About this ebook

    #1 NEW YORK TIMES BESTSELLER • After leaving a fast-track legal career and going on a serious bender, David Zinc is sober, unemployed, and desperate enough to take a job at Finley & Figg, a self-described “boutique law firm” that is anything but.

    Oscar Finley and Wally Figg are in fact just two ambulance chasers who bicker like an old married couple. But now the firm is ready to tackle a case that could make the partners rich—without requiring them to actually practice much law. A class action suit has been brought against Varrick Labs, a pharmaceutical giant with annual sales of $25 billion, alleging that Krayoxx, its most popular drug, causes heart attacks. Wally smells money. All Finley & Figg has to do is find a handful of Krayoxx users to join the suit. It almost seems too good to be true ... and it is.

    Don’t miss John Grisham’s new book, THE EXCHANGE: AFTER THE FIRM!
    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherKnopf Doubleday Publishing Group
    Release dateOct 25, 2011
    ISBN9780385535250

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    Reviews for The Litigators

    3.5/5

    916 ratings74 reviews

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    • 5/5
      An absolutely fabulous read. A great storyline that features David Zinc who begins the book in a very high powered legal firm and very soon moves from them into a small partnership where we see them take on a big pharmaceutical company with disastrous results. However with David's tenacity the small legal partnership move on to a more appropriate legal route. A pleasure to read and I am surprise there isn't, as far as I am aware, a sequel.
    • 4/5
      Two street lawyers are joined by a disillusioned corporate lawyer as they pursue a drug company.
    • 5/5
      Typical John Grisham. Couldn't put it down.
    • 4/5
      An entertaining and at times humorous book.
    • 4/5
      Crazy story. Crazy characters. And, a perfectly decent ending.
    • 4/5
      This was not the greatest novel ever written or even Greshem's greatest novel but it was a really pleasant read. Two ambulance chasing lawyers are joined by a refugee from a soul sucking large firm to fight legal battles - some they win, some they lose.
    • 5/5
      The Litigators is a bit different in tone to the usual Grisham book, however that is in no way a bad thing, in fact I quite enjoyed the lighter moments within this book.

      It's the kind of book that once you begin, you have a hard time putting it down, whilst for a few moments I was worried there might be some rehashing of plot lines from King of Torts that thankfully was not the case beyond some vague similarities due to one of the topics at hand, tort litigation. However here it was more about the maneuverings of the small struggling law firm than the rampant greed we saw in King of Torts.

      Overall, it was a gripping read that had be glued to the book to the extent that I finished it in a day. Would recommend for those who enjoy legal thrillers.
    • 2/5
      Character cliches in stereotypical roles; corporate vs boutique firm; pharmaceutical greed; culminate in closing arguments and predictable ending.
    • 3/5
      Entertaining... Much more humorous than other Grisham novels I've read... A refreshing take on the 'legal thriller' genre, with some truly entertaining characters.
    • 4/5
      9.8.2018 A five year veteran of corporate giant law firm one day has an awakening, de-combusts, and then walks into the other side of . . .everything. Funny, sad, scary, compelling and oh so Grisham.
    • 3/5
      This hilarious law firm must be based on the circus nuts I worked for during law school! No wonder I walked away (ran) from practice! The boutique firm in Grisham's novel will crack you up, however, and engage you with federal courtroom procedure, as well as some personal drama on the side. Though the hero is one to root for, the hijinx of the partners is dry and cliche at times. The ending is satisfying, and I'd recommend it for a car ride or light beach reading.
    • 3/5
      From the very first pages, I knew I'd enjoy this Grisham novel and found myself routing for David Zinc from the moment that he climbed back on the elevator and decided there had to be a better way than the long, grueling, thankless, billable hours in a prestigious downtown Chicago megafirm. He was on the "fast track" but at age 31, there comes a morning when he decides he’s done with being a part of the corporate law firm way of life.

      I loved the character of Rochelle, the office secretary at Finley & Figg. Her morning routine at the office made me smile every time it was described.

      This is definitely one of the Grisham novels I've enjoyed the most - not as a legal thriller - just due to the characters of David and Rochelle.
    • 4/5
      I feel that it is only fair to admit upfront that I am a huge fan of Grisham's books and have read the vast majority of his books, legal or otherwise.

      Now I have got to admit that when I initially started this book I honestly felt that it was going to be a disappointment, it just seemed like a rehash from some of his earlier novels. Overworked but well paid, under-sexed lawyer= The Firm, chasing ambulances, personal injury and divorce cases = Street Lawyer, mass liability case = King of Torts. However right from the start there was a sense of humour that was missing from all the above and this became more and more apparant as the book progressed.

      The book showed the seedier side of the American legal profession as the little guy battled the giant corporation but I actually felt rather sorry for all the participants other than the Tort lawyers. Wally and Oscar had their problems but were basically pretty nice guys, the drugs company were protecting a safe product for seriously over-weight people, the toy company were trying to do the right thing and even Nadine Karros was only doing the job that she was handsomely paid to do but eventually stopped short of doing a real hatchet job.

      Now while the general plot was pretty unbelievable, not in your wildest dreams, and the ending was fairly predictable, if you are, like me, a fan of Grisham's work then this is one of his better ones. If you are a novice to his works, then this book is not a bad place to start
    • 3/5
      This my first Grisham Novel to read. It was a good book, but not a great one. It is a fairly straightforward legal tale following an attorney who leaves a large, prestigious legal firm because he is tired of the 80 hour work week. By chance he settles into boutique practice run by two street lawyers with questionable ethics. It all works out in the end. Pretty slow read for first half, mildly suspenceful in the second half.
    • 2/5
      I did not finish this book; it was just too boring.
    • 4/5
      Classic grisham, little more needs to be said really.

      Small town lawyer goes up against the big guns, wins some loses some. Family and human relationships remain important, and the effect of work pressures on the lives around them is always one of his key themes. The drama is all added from the court scenes, where lawyers remain scrupulously polite, but naturally seek the fullest advantage that their resources can give them.

      The same negatives that appear in his other work can also be found here of course. It remains a testament to old white men, and while Grisham tries hard to include a diverse range of characters they never come to life and never really feel believable.

      Enjoyable read, if you've never read any Grisham, this is as good a place to start as ever. It's not classic literature, and it's never pretended to be, but worht thinking about all the same.
    • 4/5
      Another highly entertaining legal thriller from John Grisholm.
    • 3/5
      Disappointed in the ending.
    • 3/5
      It took me a while to get into this book. Grisham's plots never go quite how I expect. I expected the trial about CrayOx, but even when all the big law firms pulled out and left Finley & Figg to try the case on their own because the drug wasn't causing the problems they'd thought, I still expected some big, last-minute revelation that would turn the case around and win it for them. Instead, the win came from David Zinc pursuing a product liability case he'd found on his own. Lead paint in a children's toy called Nasty Teeth that had poisoned a young boy who is the grandson of a housekeeper. David turns the experience he gets in federal court and the success of settling the Nasty teeth case into his new specialty. I sort of expected David to buy out Finley and stay on at the law firm--all 3 did form a partnership for a year, so it did happen as I expected in a way, just not in the exact way that I thought it would.
    • 4/5
      Writing and plot-wise, this probably only deserved three stars -- it was perfectly enjoyable, but nothing terribly impressive. However, the big case is a class action lawsuit against a big pharmaceutical company for a drug named Krayoxx that allegedly causes heart attacks. Since I just wrapped up a case where we represented a big pharmaceutical company in a lawsuit alleging that there were undisclosed cardiovascular risks to a drug that also ended in "oxx," I found myself unduly fascinated by the subject matter.

      It also helped that the opening chapter involves a lawyer at a Biglaw firm suddenly and dramatically deciding that enough is enough... his exit may play into my work-related fantasies for years to come.
    • 4/5
      Ein Buch mit Tempo und sympathischen Hauptcharakteren, die zwar im Kampf David gegen Goliath untergehen, im Endeffekt aber mit einem blauen Auge herauskommen.
    • 2/5


      A weak story, not even close to his other work
    • 3/5
      I'm not much of a fiction reader so don't place too much weight on this... but I wasn't all that crazy about this book. It was interesting to hear legalese in action but I guess I expected to have more plot twists and surprises. It seems to be a light hearted book so I thought there'd be more "fun"... now I will say that the opening chapters were great, as we meet David Zinc with great comedy, but then the book sort dragged as it got deeper into the cases and the ending was just a plain case ending. So... thumbs up for lots of comedy but then boo for the banal endings.
    • 3/5
      The start of this book didn't work well for me. It took too long. One lawyer quit his job in a rather exciting way. A couple of other lawyers day-to-day work was described in a comical way. Eventually things started to progress, and a couple unrelated cases were taken up by those three lawyers who were now working together. My favorite part of the book was the end, when one of the cases went to trial. Heart attacks, AWOL lawyers, and interesting court action scenes were well done.
    • 4/5
      I had spent an entire afternoon doing absolutely nothing, and I was absolutely bored. While trying to figure out what to read, my boyfriend called with the suggestion that I try a John Grisham. Upon entering our family kitchen, I noticed this novel on the kitchen table and picked it up. Afterwards, I just could not put it down. While the character development was rather lengthy and there was a lot of bad language, the book itself and its eccentric characters were astounding. I loved every minute of this wacked out tale. Rating - 4 star due to language
    • 3/5
      characters very black and white; surprising that a lawyer would write so venomously about his profession. good story, predictable ending, fast read.
    • 4/5
      I actually really liked this one; it was a nice, light, easy read. I've started getting tired of Grisham novels, more so since becoming an attorney, but this one was funny and I enjoyed the characters.
    • 4/5
      Grisham's books are always good. This wasn't one of his best, but still interesting.
    • 5/5
      Typically GREAT!
    • 4/5
      A nice blend...just enough ralism to make it credible, and a bit of humor thrown in to make it fun. I enjoyed this one!

    Book preview

    The Litigators - John Grisham

    CHAPTER 1

    The law firm of Finley & Figg referred to itself as a boutique firm. This misnomer was inserted as often as possible into routine conversations, and it even appeared in print in some of the various schemes hatched by the partners to solicit business. When used properly, it implied that Finley & Figg was something above your average two-bit operation. Boutique, as in small, gifted, and expert in one specialized area. Boutique, as in pretty cool and chic, right down to the Frenchness of the word itself. Boutique, as in thoroughly happy to be small, selective, and prosperous.

    Except for its size, it was none of these things. Finley & Figg’s scam was hustling injury cases, a daily grind that required little skill or creativity and would never be considered cool or sexy. Profits were as elusive as status. The firm was small because it couldn’t afford to grow. It was selective only because no one wanted to work there, including the two men who owned it. Even its location suggested a monotonous life out in the bush leagues. With a Vietnamese massage parlor to its left and a lawn mower repair shop to its right, it was clear at a casual glance that Finley & Figg was not prospering. There was another boutique firm directly across the street—hated rivals—and more lawyers around the corner. In fact, the neighborhood was teeming with lawyers, some working alone, others in small firms, others still in versions of their own little boutiques.

    F&F’s address was on Preston Avenue, a busy street filled with old bungalows now converted and used for all manner of commercial activity. There was retail (liquor, cleaners, massages) and professional (legal, dental, lawn mower repair) and culinary (enchiladas, baklava, and pizza to go). Oscar Finley had won the building in a lawsuit twenty years earlier. What the address lacked in prestige it sort of made up for in location. Two doors away was the intersection of Preston, Beech, and Thirty-eighth, a chaotic convergence of asphalt and traffic that guaranteed at least one good car wreck a week, and often more. F&F’s annual overhead was covered by collisions that happened less than one hundred yards away. Other law firms, boutique and otherwise, were often prowling the area in hopes of finding an available, cheap bungalow from which their hungry lawyers could hear the actual squeal of tires and crunching of metal.

    With only two attorneys/partners, it was of course mandatory that one be declared the senior and the other the junior. The senior partner was Oscar Finley, age sixty-two, a thirty-year survivor of the bare-knuckle brand of law found on the tough streets of southwest Chicago. Oscar had once been a beat cop but got himself terminated for cracking skulls. He almost went to jail but instead had an awakening and went to college, then law school. When no firms would hire him, he hung out his own little shingle and started suing anyone who came near. Thirty-two years later, he found it hard to believe that for thirty-two years he’d wasted his career suing for past-due accounts receivable, fender benders, slip-and-falls, and quickie divorces. He was still married to his first wife, a terrifying woman he wanted to sue every day for his own divorce. But he couldn’t afford it. After thirty-two years of lawyering, Oscar Finley couldn’t afford much of anything.

    His junior partner—and Oscar was prone to say things like, I’ll get my junior partner to handle it, when trying to impress judges and other lawyers and especially prospective clients—was Wally Figg, age forty-five. Wally fancied himself a hardball litigator, and his blustery ads promised all kinds of aggressive behavior. We Fight for Your Rights! and Insurance Companies Fear Us! and We Mean Business! Such ads could be seen on park benches, city transit buses, cabs, high school football programs, even telephone poles, though this violated several ordinances. The ads were not seen in two crucial markets—television and billboards. Wally and Oscar were still fighting over these. Oscar refused to spend the money—both types were horribly expensive—and Wally was still scheming. His dream was to see his smiling face and slick head on television saying dreadful things about insurance companies while promising huge settlements to injured folks wise enough to call his toll-free number.

    But Oscar wouldn’t even pay for a billboard. Wally had one picked out. Six blocks from the office, at the corner of Beech and Thirty-second, high above the swarming traffic, on top of a four-story tenement house, there was the most perfect billboard in all of metropolitan Chicago. Currently hawking cheap lingerie (with a comely ad, Wally had to admit), the billboard had his name and face written all over it. But Oscar still refused.

    Wally’s law degree came from the prestigious University of Chicago School of Law. Oscar picked his up at a now-defunct place that once offered courses at night. Both took the bar exam three times. Wally had four divorces under his belt; Oscar could only dream. Wally wanted the big case, the big score with millions of dollars in fees. Oscar wanted only two things—divorce and retirement.

    How the two men came to be partners in a converted house on Preston Avenue was another story. How they survived without choking each other was a daily mystery.

    Their referee was Rochelle Gibson, a robust black woman with attitude and savvy earned on the streets from which she came. Ms. Gibson handled the front—the phone, the reception, the prospective clients arriving with hope and the disgruntled ones leaving in anger, the occasional typing (though her bosses had learned if they needed something typed, it was far simpler to do it themselves), the firm dog, and, most important, the constant bickering between Oscar and Wally.

    Years earlier, Ms. Gibson had been injured in a car wreck that was not her fault. She then compounded her troubles by hiring the law firm of Finley & Figg, though not by choice. Twenty-four hours after the crash, bombed on Percocet and laden with splints and plaster casts, Ms. Gibson had awakened to the grinning, fleshy face of Attorney Wallis Figg hovering over her hospital bed. He was wearing a set of aquamarine scrubs, had a stethoscope around his neck, and was doing a good job of impersonating a physician. Wally tricked her into signing a contract for legal representation, promised her the moon, sneaked out of the room as quietly as he’d sneaked in, then proceeded to butcher her case. She netted $40,000, which her husband drank and gambled away in a matter of weeks, which led to a divorce action filed by Oscar Finley. He also handled her bankruptcy. Ms. Gibson was not impressed with either lawyer and threatened to sue both for malpractice. This got their attention—they had been hit with similar lawsuits—and they worked hard to placate her. As her troubles multiplied, she became a fixture at the office, and with time the three became comfortable with one another.

    Finley & Figg was a tough place for secretaries. The pay was low, the clients were generally unpleasant, the other lawyers on the phone were rude, the hours were long, but the worst part was dealing with the two partners. Oscar and Wally had tried the mature route, but the older gals couldn’t handle the pressure. They had tried youth but got themselves sued for sexual harassment when Wally couldn’t keep his paws off a busty young thing. (They settled out of court for $50,000 and got their names in the newspaper.) Rochelle Gibson happened to be at the office one morning when the then-current secretary quit and stormed out. With the phone ringing and partners yelling, Ms. Gibson moved over to the front desk and calmed things down. Then she made a pot of coffee. She was back the next day, and the next. Eight years later, she was still running the place.

    Her two sons were in prison. Wally had been their lawyer, though in all fairness no one could have saved them. As teenagers, both boys kept Wally busy with their string of arrests on various drug charges. Their dealing got more involved, and Wally warned them repeatedly they were headed for prison, or death. He said the same to Ms. Gibson, who had little control over the boys and often prayed for prison. When their crack ring got busted, they were sent away for ten years. Wally got it reduced from twenty and received no gratitude from the boys. Ms. Gibson offered a tearful thanks. Through all their troubles, Wally never charged her a fee for his representation.

    Over the years, there had been many tears in Ms. Gibson’s life, and they had often been shed in Wally’s office with the door locked. He gave advice and tried to help when possible, but his greatest role was that of a listener. And with Wally’s sloppy life, the tables could be turned quickly. When his last two marriages blew up, Ms. Gibson heard it all and offered encouragement. When his drinking picked up, she saw it clearly and was not afraid to confront him. Though they fought daily, their quarrels were always temporary and often contrived as a means of protecting turf.

    There were times at Finley & Figg when all three were snarling or sulking, and money was usually the cause. The market was simply overcrowded; there were too many lawyers loose on the streets.

    The last thing the firm needed was another one.

    CHAPTER 2

    David Zinc made it off the L train at the Quincy Station in downtown Chicago, and he managed to shuffle down the steps that led to Wells Street, but something was going wrong with his feet. They were getting heavier and heavier, his steps slower and slower. He stopped at the corner of Wells and Adams and actually looked at his shoes for a clue. Nothing, just the same standard black leather lace-ups worn by every male lawyer in the firm, and a couple of the females as well. His breathing was labored, and in spite of the chill he felt moisture in his armpits. He was thirty-one years old, certainly too young for a heart attack, and though he’d been exhausted for the past five years, he had learned to live with his fatigue. Or so he thought. He turned a corner and looked at the Trust Tower, a glistening phallic monument jutting one thousand feet upward into the clouds and fog. As he paused and looked up, his heart rate quickened and he felt nauseous. Bodies touched him as they jostled by. He crossed Adams in a pack and plodded on.

    The atrium of the Trust Tower was tall and open, with plenty of marble and glass and incomprehensible sculpture designed to inspire and provide warmth, when in reality it seemed cold and forbidding, at least to David. Six escalators crisscrossed each other and hauled hordes of weary warriors up to their cubicles and offices. David tried, but his feet would not carry him to an escalator. Instead, he sat on a leather bench beside a pile of large painted rocks and tried to understand what was happening to him. People rushed by, grim-faced, hollow-eyed, stressed-out already, and it was only 7:30 on this gloomy morning.

    A snap is certainly not a medical term. Experts use fancier language to describe the instant when a troubled person steps over the edge. Nonetheless, a snap is a real moment. It can happen in a split second, the result of a terribly traumatic event. Or it can be the final straw, the sad culmination of pressure that builds and builds until the mind and body must find a release. David Zinc’s snap was of the latter variety. After five years of savage labor with colleagues he loathed, something happened to David that morning as he sat by the painted rocks and watched the well-dressed zombies ride upward to yet another day of useless labor. He snapped.

    Hey Dave. You going up? someone was saying. It was Al, from antitrust.

    David managed to smile and nod and mumble, then he stood and followed Al for some reason. Al was a step ahead as they got onto an escalator, and he was talking about last night’s Blackhawks game. David kept nodding as they rose through the atrium. Below him and following behind were dozens of lonely figures in dark overcoats, other young lawyers rising, quiet and somber, much like pallbearers at a winter funeral. David and Al joined a group at a wall of elevators on the first level. As they waited, David listened to the hockey talk, but his head was spinning and he was nauseous again. They rushed onto an elevator and stood shoulder to shoulder with too many others. Silence. Al was quiet. No one spoke; no one made eye contact.

    David said to himself: This is it—my last ride in this elevator. I swear.

    The elevator rocked and hummed, then stopped at the eightieth floor, Rogan Rothberg territory. Three lawyers got off, three faces David had seen before but didn’t know by name, which was not unusual because the firm had six hundred lawyers on floors seventy through one hundred. Two more dark suits got off at eighty-four. As they continued to rise, David began to sweat, then to hyperventilate. His tiny office was on the ninety-third floor, and the closer he got, the more violently his heart pumped. More somber exits on ninety and ninety-one, and with each stop David felt weaker and weaker.

    Only three were left at ninety-three—David, Al, and a large woman who was called Lurch behind her back. The elevator stopped, a bell chimed pleasantly, the door opened silently, and Lurch stepped off. Al stepped off. David refused to move; in fact, he couldn’t move. Seconds passed. Al looked over his shoulder and said, Hey, David, this is us. Come on.

    No response from David, just the blank, hollow gaze of someone in another world. The door began to close, and Al jammed his briefcase in the opening. David, you okay? Al asked.

    Sure, David mumbled as he managed to move forward. The door slid open, the bell chimed again. He was out of the elevator, looking around nervously as if he’d never before seen the place. In fact, he’d left it only ten hours earlier.

    You look pale, Al said.

    David’s head was spinning. He heard Al’s voice but didn’t comprehend what he was saying. Lurch was a few feet away, staring, puzzled, as if watching a car wreck. The elevator pinged again, a different sound, and the door began to close. Al said something else, even reached out a hand as if to help. Suddenly David spun and his leaden feet came to life. He bolted for the elevator and made a diving reentry just as the door slammed shut. The last thing he heard from the outside was Al’s panicked voice.

    When the elevator began its descent, David Zinc started to laugh. The spinning and nausea were gone. The pressure on his chest vanished. He was doing it! He was leaving the sweatshop of Rogan Rothberg and saying farewell to a nightmare. He, David Zinc, of all the thousands of miserable associates and junior partners in the tall buildings of downtown Chicago, he and he alone had found the spine to walk away that gloomy morning. He sat on the floor in the empty elevator, watching with a wide grin as the floor numbers zipped downward in bright red digital numbers, and he fought to control his thoughts. The people: (1) his wife, a neglected woman who wanted to get pregnant but found it difficult because her husband was too tired for sex; (2) his father, a prominent judge who had basically forced him to go to law school, and not just anywhere but Harvard Law School because that’s where the judge had gone; (3) his grandfather, the family tyrant who’d built a mega firm from scratch in Kansas City and still put in ten hours a day at the age of eighty-two; and (4) Roy Barton, his supervising partner, his boss, a prickish crank who yelled and cursed throughout the day and was perhaps the most miserable person David Zinc had ever met. When he thought of Roy Barton, he laughed again.

    The elevator stopped at the eightieth floor, and two secretaries started to enter. They paused momentarily when confronted with David sitting in a corner, briefcase at his side. Carefully, they stepped over his legs and waited for the door to close. Are you okay? one asked. Fine, David answered. And you?

    There was no response. The secretaries stood rigid and quiet during the brief descent and hustled off at seventy-seven. When David was alone again, he was suddenly worried. What if they came after him? Al would no doubt go straight to Roy Barton and report that Zinc had cracked up. What would Barton do? There was a huge meeting at ten with an angry client, a big-shot CEO; in fact, as David would think about things later, the showdown was probably the tipping point that finally caused the Snap. Roy Barton was not only an abrasive prick but also a coward. He needed David Zinc and others to hide behind when the CEO marched in with a long list of valid complaints.

    Roy might send Security after him. Security was the usual contingent of aging uniformed door guards, but it was also an in-house spy ring that changed locks, videoed everything, moved in the shadows, and engaged in all manner of covert activities designed to keep the lawyers in line. David jumped to his feet, picked up his briefcase, and stared impatiently at the digital numbers blinking by. The elevator rocked gently as it fell through the center of the Trust Tower. When it stopped, David got off and darted to the escalators, which were still packed with sad folks moving silently upward. The descending escalators were unclogged, and David ran down one. Someone called out, Hey, Dave, where are you going? David smiled and waved in the general direction of the voice, as if everything was under control. He strode past the painted rocks and bizarre sculpture, and he eased his way through a glass door. He was outside, and the air that had seemed so wet and dreary moments earlier now held the promise of a new beginning.

    He took a deep breath and looked around. Gotta keep moving. He began walking down LaSalle Street, quickly, afraid to look over his shoulder. Don’t look suspicious. Be calm. This is now one of the most important days of your life, he told himself, so don’t blow it. He couldn’t go home because he was not ready for that confrontation. He couldn’t walk the streets because he would bump into someone he knew. Where could he hide for a while, think about things, clear his head, make a plan? He checked his watch, 7:51, the perfect time for breakfast. Down an alley he saw the red-and-green flashing neon sign of Abner’s, and as he grew closer, he couldn’t tell if it was a café or a bar. At the door he glanced over his shoulder, made sure Security was nowhere in sight, and entered the warm, dark world of Abner’s.

    It was a bar. The booths along the right were empty. The chairs were sitting upside down on the tables, waiting for someone to clean the floor. Abner was behind the long, well-polished wooden counter with a smirk on his face, as if to ask, What are you doing here?

    Are you open? David asked.

    Was the door locked? Abner shot back. He wore a white apron and was drying a beer mug. He had thick, hairy forearms, and in spite of his gruff manner he had the trusting face of a veteran bartender who’d heard it all before.

    I guess not. David walked slowly to the bar, glanced to his right, and at the far end saw a man who’d apparently passed out, still holding a drink.

    David removed his charcoal-gray overcoat and hung it on the back of a stool. He took a seat, looked at the rows of liquor bottles aligned in front of him, took in the mirrors and beer taps and dozens of glasses Abner had arranged perfectly, and when he was settled, he said, What do you recommend before eight o’clock? Abner looked at the man with his head on the counter and said, How about coffee?

    I’ve already had that. Do you serve breakfast?

    Yep, it’s called a Bloody Mary.

    I’ll take one.

    Rochelle Gibson lived in a subsidized apartment with her mother, one of her daughters, two of her grandchildren, varying combinations of nieces and nephews, and even an occasional cousin in need of shelter. To escape the chaos, she often fled to her workplace, though at times it was worse than home. She arrived at the office each day around 7:30, unlocked the place, fetched both newspapers from the porch, turned on the lights, adjusted the thermostat, made the coffee, and checked on AC, the firm dog. She hummed and sometimes sang softly as she went about her routine. Though she would never admit it to either of her bosses, she was quite proud to be a legal secretary, even in a place like Finley & Figg. When asked her job or profession, she was always quick to state legal secretary. Never just a garden-variety secretary, but a legal one. What she lacked in formal training she made up for in experience. Eight years in the middle of a busy street practice had taught her a lot of law and even more about lawyers.

    AC was a mutt who lived at the office because no one there was willing to take him home. He belonged to the three—Rochelle, Oscar, and Wally—in equal shares, though virtually all of the responsibilities of his care fell upon Rochelle. He was a runaway who’d chosen F&F as his home several years earlier. Throughout the day he slept on a small bed near Rochelle, and throughout the night he roamed the office, guarding the place. He was a passable watchdog whose bark had chased away burglars, vandals, and even several disgruntled clients.

    Rochelle fed him and filled his water bowl. From the small fridge in the kitchen, she removed a container of strawberry yogurt. When the coffee was ready, she poured herself a cup and arranged things just so on her desk, which she kept in immaculate order. It was glass and chrome, sturdy and impressive, the first thing clients saw when they walked through the front door. Oscar’s office was somewhat tidy. Wally’s was a landfill. They could hide their business behind closed doors, but Rochelle’s was in plain view.

    She opened the Sun-Times and started with the front page. She read slowly, sipping her coffee, eating her yogurt, humming softly while AC snored behind her. Rochelle treasured these few quiet moments of the early morning. Before long, the phone would start, the lawyers would appear, and then, if they were lucky, clients would arrive, some with appointments, others without.

    To get away from his wife, Oscar Finley left home each morning at seven, but he seldom got to the office before nine. For two hours he moved around the city, stopping by a police station where a cousin handled accident reports, dropping in to say hello to tow truck drivers and catch the latest gossip on the most recent car wrecks, drinking coffee with a man who owned two low-end funeral parlors, taking doughnuts to a fire station and chatting with the ambulance drivers, and occasionally making his rounds at his favorite hospitals, where he walked the busy halls casting a trained eye for those injured by the negligence of others.

    Oscar arrived at nine. With Wally, whose life was far less organized, one never knew. He could blow in at 7:30, fueled by caffeine and Red Bull and ready to sue anyone who crossed him, or he could drag in at 11:00, puffy eyed, hungover, and soon hiding in his office.

    On this momentous day, however, Wally arrived a few minutes before eight with a big smile and clear eyes. Good morning, Ms. Gibson, he said with conviction.

    Good morning, Mr. Figg, she responded in similar fashion. At Finley & Figg, the atmosphere was always tense, with a fight just one comment away. Words were chosen carefully and received with scrutiny. The mundane early morning salutes were cautiously handled because they could be a setup for an attack. Even the use of Mr. and Ms. was contrived and loaded with history. Back when Rochelle had been only a client, Wally had made the mistake of referring to her as a girl. It had been something like, Look, girl, I’m doing the best I can here. He certainly meant no harm by it, and her overreaction was uncalled for, but from that moment on she insisted on being addressed as Ms. Gibson.

    She was slightly irritated because her solitude was interrupted. Wally spoke to AC and rubbed his head, and as he headed for the coffee, he asked, Anything in the paper?

    No, she said, not wanting to discuss the news.

    No surprise there, he said, the first shot of the day. She read the Sun-Times. He read the Tribune. Each considered the other’s taste in news to be rather low.

    The second shot came moments later when Wally reappeared. Who made the coffee? he asked.

    She ignored this.

    It’s a bit weak, don’t you think?

    She slowly turned a page, then had some yogurt.

    Wally sipped loudly, smacked his lips, frowned as though swallowing vinegar, then picked up his newspaper and took a seat at the table. Before Oscar won the building in a lawsuit, someone had knocked out several of the walls downstairs near the front and created an open lobby area. Rochelle had her space on one side, near the door, and a few feet away there were chairs for waiting clients and a long table that was once used somewhere for dining purposes. Over the years, the table had become the place where newspapers were read, coffee consumed, even depositions taken. Wally liked to kill time there because his office was such a pigsty.

    He flung open his Tribune with as much noise as possible. Rochelle ignored him and hummed away.

    A few minutes passed, and the phone rang. Ms. Gibson seemed not to hear it. It rang again. After the third ring, Wally lowered his newspaper and said, You wanna get that, Ms. Gibson?

    No, she answered shortly.

    It rang a fourth time.

    And why not? he demanded.

    She ignored him. After the fifth ring, Wally threw down his newspaper, jumped to his feet, and headed for a phone on the wall near the copier. I wouldn’t get that if I were you, Ms. Gibson said.

    He stopped. And why not?

    It’s a bill collector.

    How do you know? Wally stared at the phone. Caller ID revealed NAME UNKNOWN.

    I just do. He calls this time every week.

    The phone went silent, and Wally returned to the table and his newspaper. He hid behind it, wondering which bill had not been paid, which supplier was irritated enough to call a law office and put the squeeze on lawyers. Rochelle knew, of course, because she kept the books and knew almost everything, but he preferred not to ask her. If he did, then they would soon be bickering over the bills and unpaid fees and lack of money in general, and this could easily spiral down into a heated discussion about overall strategies of the firm, its future, and the shortcomings of its partners.

    Neither wanted this.

    Abner took great pride in his Bloody Marys. He used precise amounts of tomato juice, vodka, horseradish, lemon, lime, Worcestershire sauce, pepper, Tabasco, and salt. He always added two green olives, then finished it with a stalk of celery.

    It had been a long time since David had enjoyed such a fine breakfast. After two of Abner’s creations, consumed rapidly, he was grinning goofily and proud of his decision to chuck it all. The drunk at the end of the bar was snoring. There were no other customers. Abner was a man about his business, washing and drying cocktail glasses, taking inventory of his booze, and fiddling with the beer taps while offering commentary on a wide variety of subjects.

    David’s phone finally rang. It was his secretary, Lana. Oh, boy, he said.

    Who is it? Abner asked.

    The office.

    A man’s entitled to breakfast, isn’t he?

    David grinned again and said, Hello.

    Lana said, David, where are you? It’s eight thirty.

    I have a watch, dear. I’m having breakfast.

    Are you okay? Word’s out that you were last seen diving back into an elevator.

    Just a rumor, dear, just a rumor.

    Good. What time will you be in? Roy Barton has already called.

    Let me finish breakfast, okay?

    Sure. Just keep in touch.

    David put down his phone, sucked hard on the straw, then announced, I’ll have another. Abner frowned and said, You might want to pace yourself.

    I am pacing myself.

    Okay. Abner pulled down a clean glass and started mixing. I take it you’re not going to the office today.

    I am not. I quit. I’m walking away.

    What type of office?

    Law. Rogan Rothberg. You know the outfit?

    Heard of it. Big firm, right?

    Six hundred lawyers here in the Chicago office. Couple of thousand around the world. Currently in third place when it comes to size, fifth place in hours billed per lawyer, fourth place when looking at net profits per partner, second place when comparing associates’ salaries, and, without question, first place when counting assholes per square foot.

    Sorry I asked.

    David picked up his phone and asked, You see this phone?

    You think I’m blind?

    This thing has ruled my life for the past five years. Can’t go anywhere without it. Firm policy. It stays with me at all times. It’s interrupted nice dinners in restaurants. It’s dragged me out of the shower. It’s woken me up at all hours of the night. On one occasion it’s interrupted sex with my poor neglected wife. I was at a Cubs game last summer, great seats, me and two buddies from college, top of the second inning, and this thing starts vibrating. It was Roy Barton. Have I told you about Roy Barton?

    Not yet.

    My supervising partner, a pernicious little bastard. Forty years old, warped ego, God’s gift to the legal profession. Makes a million bucks a year but he’ll never make enough. Works fifteen hours a day, seven days a week, because at Rogan Rothberg all Big Men work nonstop. And Roy fancies himself a really Big Man.

    Nice guy, huh?

    I hate him. I hope I never see his face again.

    Abner slid the third Bloody Mary across the counter and said, Looks like you’re on the right track, pal. Cheers.

    CHAPTER 3

    The phone rang again, and Rochelle decided to answer it. The law firm of Finley & Figg, she said professionally. Wally did not look up from his newspaper. She listened for a moment, then said, I’m sorry, but we do not handle real estate transactions.

    When Rochelle assumed her position eight years earlier, the firm did in fact handle real estate transactions. However, she soon realized this type of work paid little and relied heavily upon the secretary with almost no effort from the lawyers. A quick study, she decided she disliked real estate. Because she controlled the phone, she screened all calls, and the real estate section of Finley & Figg dried up. Oscar was outraged and threatened to fire her but backed down when she mentioned, again, that she might sue them for legal malpractice. Wally brokered a truce, but for weeks things were more tense than usual.

    Other specialties had been cast aside under her diligent screening. Criminal work was history; Rochelle didn’t like it, because she didn’t like the clients. DUIs were okay because there were so many of them, they paid well, and they required almost no involvement on her part. Bankruptcy bit the dust for the same reason that real estate had—paltry fees and too much work for the secretary. Over the years Rochelle had managed to streamline the firm’s practice, and this was still causing problems. Oscar’s theory, one that had kept him broke for over thirty years, was the firm should take everything that walked in the door, cast a wide net, then pick through the debris in the hope of finding a good injury case. Wally disagreed. He wanted the big kill. Though he was forced by the overhead to perform all sorts of mundane legal tasks, he was always dreaming of ways to strike gold.

    Nice work, he said when she hung up. I never liked real estate.

    She ignored this and returned to her newspaper. AC began a low growl. When they looked at him, he was standing on his small bed, nose tilted upward, tail straight and pointing, eyes narrow with concentration. His growl grew louder, then, on cue, the distant sound of an ambulance entered their solemn morning. Sirens never failed to excite Wally, and for a second or two he froze as he skillfully analyzed it. Police, fire, or ambulance? That was always the first issue, and Wally could distinguish the three in a heartbeat. Sirens from fire trucks and police cars meant nothing and were quickly ignored, but a siren from an ambulance always quickened his pulse.

    Ambulance, he said, then placed his newspaper on the table, stood, and casually walked to the front door. Rochelle also stood and walked to a window where she opened the blinds for a quick look. AC was still growling, and when Wally opened the door and stepped onto the front porch, the dog followed. Across the street, Vince Gholston exited his own little boutique and cast a hopeful look at the intersection of Beech and Thirty-eighth. When he saw Wally, he flipped him the bird, and Wally quickly returned the greeting.

    The ambulance came screaming down Beech, weaving and lurching its way through heavy traffic, honking angrily, causing more havoc and danger than whatever awaited it. Wally watched it until it was out of sight, then went inside.

    The newspaper reading continued with no further interruptions—no sirens, no phone calls from prospective clients or bill collectors. At 9:00 a.m., the door opened, and the senior partner entered. As usual, Oscar wore a long dark overcoat and carried a bulky black leather briefcase, as if he’d been laboring away throughout the night. He also carried his umbrella, as always, regardless of the weather or forecast. Oscar toiled far away from the big leagues, but he could at least look the part of a distinguished lawyer. Dark coats, dark suits, white shirts, and silk ties. His wife did the shopping and insisted that he look the part. Wally, on the other hand, wore whatever he could pull from the pile.

    Morning, Oscar said gruffly at Ms. Gibson’s desk.

    Good morning, she replied.

    Anything in the newspaper? Oscar was not interested in scores or floods or market reports or the latest from the Middle East.

    A forklift operator got crushed in a plant out in Palos Heights, Ms. Gibson responded promptly. It was part of their morning ritual. If she did not find an accident of some variety to brighten his morning, then his sour mood would only get worse.

    I like it, he said. Is he dead?

    Not yet.

    "Even better. Lots of pain and suffering. Make a note.

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