The Rooster Bar, Page 23

  “Nothing will happen fast,” Mark said. “It’ll take Cromley a month or so to file a lawsuit. We’ll know when he does because we’ll be watching the dockets. Then he’ll realize he’s sued some people who don’t exist, and that’ll screw him up for even longer. The Bar Council will chase its tail looking for three phantom lawyers.”

  Todd said, “I guess we need to stay away from the criminal courts.”

  “Oh, yes. Those days are over. No more hustling the poor and oppressed.”

  “What about our pending cases? We can’t just drop these people.”

  Mark said, “That’s exactly what we’ll do. We can’t close these cases because we can’t risk going back to court. Again, those days are over. Starting now, don’t take any phone calls from a client or anyone else for that matter. Let’s use prepaid cell phones to keep in touch and ignore all other calls.”

  Zola said, “I’m already carrying two phones. Now a third?”

  “Yes, and we have to monitor all of them to see who’s looking for us,” Mark said.

  “And my days as a hospital vulture are over?” she asked and managed a smile.

  “Afraid so.”

  “You weren’t very good at it,” Todd said.

  “Thanks. I hated every minute of it.”

  A manager walked over and said, “Hey, Todd, you’re on tonight. We’re shorthanded and need you now.”

  “Be there in a sec,” Todd said and waved the guy off. When he was gone, Todd asked, “So, gang, what’s next?”

  “We go after Swift Bank,” Mark said.

  “And dig a deeper hole,” Zola replied, but it was not a question.

  —

  MORGANA NASH AT NowAssist sent Mark an e-mail that read,

  Dear Mark: I have just been informed by the administration at Foggy Bottom Law School that you have been placed on withdrawal status. I called the law school and was informed that you have not been to class this semester. This is very troubling. Please contact me immediately.

  Last installment Jan. 13, 2014: $32,500; total principal/interest: $266,000.

  Sincerely, Morgana Nash, Public Sector Representative

  Late that night, and after several more beers, Mark responded,

  Dear Ms. Nash: Last week my therapist had me admitted to a private psychiatric hospital in rural Maryland. I’m not supposed to use the Internet but these clowns around here are not too sharp. Would you please stop hounding me? According to one shrink here I’m borderline suicidal. A bit more abuse from you and I could go over the edge. Please, please, leave me alone!!

  Love, Mark Frazier

  Rex Wagner of Scholar Support Partners e-mailed Todd:

  Dear Mr. Lucero: I have been informed by your law school that you are now officially considered “Withdrawn.” I called the law school and was told that you have not attended a single class this semester, your last before graduation. Why would any sane student drop out of law school during his last semester? If you are not in school I can only assume you are working somewhere, probably in a bar. Employment of any nature while not enrolled in school triggers either the need for a repayment plan or, in the absence of one, default. Default, as I’m sure you know, means a lawsuit filed against you by the Department of Education. Please contact me immediately.

  Last installment: $32,500, Jan. 13, 2014; total due: $195,000

  Sincerely, Rex Wagner, Senior Loan Counselor

  While Mark was typing his response to Morgana Nash, Todd fired off one to his loan counselor.

  Dear SS Counselor Wagner: You hit the nail on the head with that sanity question. Nothing is sane about my world these days, most especially my insurmountable debts. Okay, the fix is in. Jig’s up. I dropped out because I hate the law school, hate the law, etc. I’m currently earning about $200 a week, cash, tending bar. So let’s say that’s $800 a month, tax-free because I haven’t filled out those forms yet. To maintain my impoverished lifestyle, I need about $500 a month for food, rent, things like that. And you should see where I’m living and what I’m eating. Analyzing these figures, I suppose I could agree to a repayment plan of something like $200 a month, beginning in six months. I know you’ll hit the “Interest” button as soon as possible and kick in the 5 percent per annum. Five percent of $195,000 is about $9,750 a year. Let’s just round it to $10,000 in interest. Under my proposed repayment scheme, I can swing about a fourth of that each year. You loan sharks will then add the interest in arrears to the ballooning principal, and hit that with another 5 percent per year. The math gets a bit bewildering, but my spreadsheet says that in ten years I will owe almost $400,000. And this does not include all the little secret fees and add-ons and other illegalities that SSP has been caught padding onto the student loans it handles. (I’ve read the lawsuits and, boy, would I love to file one myself. You and your company should be ashamed—piling hidden fees onto the backs of students already drowning in debt.)

  So, are you willing to accept my offer of $200 a month? Beginning in six months, of course.

  Your pal, Todd Lucero

  Evidently, Mr. Wagner was working late, or, as Todd imagined, was sitting in his recliner, in nothing but his boxers, watching porn and monitoring his e-mails. Within minutes he replied,

  Dear Todd: The answer is no. Your offer is ridiculous. I find it hard to believe that a person as clever as you will spend the next ten years mixing drinks. There are plenty of good jobs out there, law related and otherwise, and if you’ll get off your butt you can find one. Then we can have a serious conversation about repayment.

  Sincerely, Rex Wagner, Senior Loan Counselor

  To which Todd immediately replied,

  Dear SS: Great. I withdraw my offer. T.L.

  Zola’s correspondence was slightly more professional. Tildy Carver at LoanAid wrote,

  Dear Zola Maal: I have been informed that you have withdrawn from law school. Such a dramatic action presents several issues and we must discuss them at once. Please call or e-mail me as soon as possible.

  Tildy Carver, Senior Loan Adviser

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

  Zola was almost asleep. She responded,

  Dear Ms. Carver: After the suicide of my friend in January, I found it impossible to continue with my studies. So I decided to take a gap semester instead, with the possible plan of resuming law school in a year or so. I will contact you later.

  Sincerely, Zola Maal

  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.

&n
bsp; 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.”

  31

  The District Bar Council had almost 100,000 members, about half of whom worked in the city. The other half were scattered through all fifty states. Since membership, as well as the payment of dues, was mandatory, the administration of the bar’s activities was a challenge. A staff of forty worked diligently in its headquarters on Wisconsin Avenue, keeping up with the names and addresses of its members, planning educational courses and seminars, promulgating standards of professional responsibility, publishing a monthly magazine, and dealing with disciplinary matters. Complaints against judges and lawyers were directed to the Office of Disciplinary Counsel, where one Margaret Sanchez managed a staff of five lawyers, three investigators, and half a dozen secretaries and assistants. To receive a proper review, a complaint had to first be filed in writing. Often, though, the first hint of trouble came by phone, and usually from another lawyer who did not want to get too involved.

  After several efforts, Edwin Mossberg from down in Charleston managed to get Ms. Sanchez on the line. He told her of his encounter with one Mark Upshaw, a young man claiming to be a lawyer but apparently using an alias. Mossberg had checked and found no record of such a person in the bar’s directory. Or in the phone book, or online, or anywhere else for that matter. He described in general Upshaw’s negligence in allowing an important statute of limitations to expire, and his subsequent trip to Charleston to beg Mossberg to keep quiet.

  Ms. Sanchez was captivated by the story. Complaints of unauthorized practice were rare and almost all involved paralegals who either deliberately or inadvertently stepped out of bounds and