Gray Mountain

  couldn’t pay her rent and buy food at the same time, but he was not sympathetic. Said the law was the law. The problem was an old credit card judgment she hadn’t thought about in ten years. Evidently, the credit card company sold her judgment to some bottom-feeding collection agency, and, without her knowledge, an order of garnishment was issued. When she couldn’t pay the rent on her trailer, her landlord, a real asshole, called the sheriff and kicked her out. She piled in with a cousin for a few days, but that blew up and she left to live with a friend. That didn’t work either, and for the past two weeks she and the kids had been living in their car, which was low on everything—oil, air, gas, and brake fluid, the dashboard lit up like a Christmas tree. Yesterday, she shoplifted some chocolate bars and gave them to the kids. She herself had not eaten in two days.

  Samantha absorbed it all and managed to hide her shock. How, exactly, do you live in a car? She began taking notes without the slightest idea of what to do on the legal front.

  Pamela pulled out paperwork from her fake designer bag and slid the pile across the table. Samantha scanned a court order while her new client explained she was down to her last two dollars, and she didn’t know whether to spend them on gas or food. She finally took a cookie and held it with shaking hands. Two things dawned on Samantha. The first was that she was the last line of defense for this little family. The second was that they were not leaving anytime soon. There was nowhere to go.

  When Barb finally arrived, Samantha gave her $20 and asked her to hurry and buy as many sausage biscuits as possible. Barb said, “We keep a few bucks around the office.”

  Samantha replied, “We’ll need it.”

  Phoebe Fanning was still hiding from her husband in a motel, courtesy of the clinic, and Samantha was aware that Mattie kept a few bucks on reserve for emergencies like this. After Barb left, Samantha looked through a back window at the parking lot. Pamela’s car, even filled with gas and all other necessary fluids, looked as though it wouldn’t make it back to Hopper County. It was a small import with a million miles on it, and now it was being used as a home.

  The cookies and saltines were gone when she returned to the conference room. She told Pamela she had sent out for some food, and this made her cry. The boy, Trevor, age seven, said, “Thank you, Miss Kofer.” The girl, Mandy, age eleven, asked, “Could I please use the bathroom?”

  “Certainly,” Samantha said. She showed her the way down the hall and sat down at the table to take more notes. They started at the beginning and went slowly through the story. The credit card judgment was dated July 1999 and had a balance of $3,398, which included all manner of court costs, obscure fees, even some interest thrown in for good measure. Pamela explained that her ex-husband had been ordered to satisfy the judgment in their divorce decree, a copy of which was in the paperwork. Nine years had passed without a word, at least nothing she was aware of. She had moved several times and perhaps the mail had not kept up. Who knew? At any rate, the collection agency had found her and started all this trouble.

  Samantha noted that Trevor, at seven, had been born after the divorce, but this was not worth mentioning. There were several court orders holding the ex-husband in contempt for failure to pay child support for Mandy. “Where is he?” she asked.

  “I have no idea,” Pamela said. “I haven’t heard from him in years.”

  Barb returned with a sack of sausage biscuits and spread the feast on the table. She rubbed Trevor’s head and told Mandy how happy she was they had come to visit. All three Bookers offered polite thanks, then ate like refugees. Samantha closed the door and huddled with Barb in the reception area. “What’s the deal?” Barb asked, and Samantha gave her the basics.

  Barb, who thought she’d seen it all, was puzzled, but never timid. “I’d start with the boss. Give him a load of hell, threaten to sue for triple damages, then go after the collection company.” The phone was ringing and she reached to answer it, leaving Samantha, the lawyer, alone in her confusion.

  A load of hell? Triple damages? For what, exactly? And this advice was from a nonlawyer. Samantha thought about stalling until either Mattie or Annette returned, but she had been there for a week and orientation was over. She went to her office, closed the door, and nervously punched the number at the lamp factory. A Mr. Simmons was pleasantly surprised to learn that Pamela Booker had herself a lawyer. He said she was a good worker, he hated to lose her and all that, but damned those garnishment orders. It just made his bookkeeping a nightmare. He had already filled her spot, and he’d made sure the new employee had no legal problems.

  Well, you might have some more legal problems, Samantha explained coolly. Bluffing, and not sure of the law, she explained that a company cannot fire an employee simply because his or her wages are being garnished. This irritated Mr. Simmons and he mumbled something about his lawyer. Great, Samantha said, give me her number and I’ll pursue the matter with her. Wasn’t a woman, he said, and the guy charged two hundred bucks an hour anyway. Give him some time to think about it. Samantha promised to call back that afternoon, and they eventually agreed that 3:00 p.m. would be convenient.

  When she returned to the conference room, Barb had found a box of crayons and some coloring books and was busy organizing fun and games for Trevor and Mandy. Pamela was still holding half a sausage biscuit and staring at the floor, as if in a trance. When Annette finally arrived, Samantha met her in the hallway and, whispering, unloaded the details. Annette was still a bit aloof and bothered by something, but business was business. “The judgment expired years ago,” was her first reaction. “Check the law on this. I’ll bet the credit card company sold the judgment to the collection company for pennies on the dollar, and now it’s enforcing an outdated court order.”

  “You’ve seen this before?”

  “Something similar, a long time ago. Can’t remember the case name. Do the research, then contact the collection agency. These are generally some nasty characters and they don’t scare easily.”

  “Can we sue them?”

  “We can certainly threaten. They are not accustomed to people like this suddenly showing up with a lawyer. Call the boss and burn his ass too.”

  “I’ve already done that.”

  Annette actually smiled. “What did he say?”

  “I explained that he cannot fire an employee simply because of a garnishment order. I have no idea if this is accurate, but I made it sound authentic. It worried him and we’re supposed to chat again this afternoon.”

  “It’s not accurate but it’s a nice bluff, which is often more important than whatever the law says. The lawsuit will be against the collection company, if in fact they are pinching her paychecks from an expired judgment.”

  “Thanks,” Samantha said, taking a deep breath. “But we have more pressing matters. They are in there and they have no place to go.”

  “I suggest you spend the next few hours taking care of the basics—food, laundry, a place to sleep. The kids are obviously not in school; worry about that tomorrow. We have a slush fund to cover some expenses.”

  “Did you say laundry?”

  “I did. Who said legal aid work was all glamour?”

  The morning’s second crisis erupted minutes later when Phoebe Fanning arrived unannounced with her husband, Randy, and informed Annette she was dropping her divorce. They had reconciled, so to speak, and she and the kids were back home, where things had settled down. Annette was furious and called Samantha into her office to witness the meeting.

  Randy Fanning had been out of jail for three days and was only slightly more presentable absent the orange county jumpsuit. He sat with a smirk and kept one hand on Phoebe’s arm as she tried her best to explain her change of plans. She loved him, plain and simple, couldn’t survive without him, and their three children were much happier with their parents together. She was tired of hiding in a motel and the kids were tired of hiding with relatives, and everyone had made peace.

  Annette reminded Phoebe that she had been b
eaten by her husband, who glared across the table as if he might erupt any moment. Annette seemed fearless while Samantha tried to hide in a corner. It had been a fight, Phoebe explained, not exactly a fair one but a fight nonetheless. They had been arguing too much, things got carried away; it’ll never happen again. Randy, who preferred to say nothing, chimed in and confirmed that, yes, they had promised to stop the fighting.

  Annette listened to him without believing a word. She reminded him that he was violating the terms of the temporary restraining order as he sat there. If the judge found out he’d go back to jail. He said, Hump, his lawyer, had promised to get the order dismissed without a hassle.

  There were traces of dark bluish color still visible on the side of Phoebe’s face from the last fight. Divorce was one matter; the criminal charges were another. Annette got to the serious part when she asked if they had spoken to the prosecutor about dropping the malicious wounding. Not yet, but they planned to do that as soon as the divorce was dismissed. Annette explained that it wouldn’t be automatic. The police had a statement from the victim; they had photographs, other witnesses. This seemed a bit confusing, and even Samantha wasn’t so sure. If the victim and star witness folds, how do you pursue the case?

  The two lawyers had the same thought: Did he beat her again to coerce her to drop everything?

  Annette was irritated and hammered away with tough questions, but neither backed down. They were determined to forget their troubles and move on to a happier life. When it was time for the meeting to end, Annette flipped through the file and estimated that she had spent twenty hours on the divorce. At no charge, of course.

  Next time, find another lawyer.

  After they left, Annette described them as a couple of meth addicts who were obviously unstable and probably needed each other. “Let’s just hope he doesn’t kill her,” she said.

  As the morning dragged on, it became clear that the Booker family had no plans to leave. Nor were they asked to; just the opposite. The staff embraced them and checked on them every few minutes. At one point Barb whispered to Samantha, “We’ve actually had clients sleep here for a couple of nights. Not ideal, but sometimes there’s no choice.”

  With a roll of quarters, Pamela left to find the Laundromat. Mandy and Trevor stayed in the conference room, coloring with crayons and reading, occasionally giggling at something between them. Samantha worked at the other end of the table, digging through statutes and cases.

  At 11:00 a.m. sharp, Mrs. Francine Crump arrived for what was scheduled to be a brief will signing. Samantha had prepared the document. Mattie had reviewed it. The little ceremony should take less than ten minutes, and Francine would leave with a proper last will and testament for which she would pay nothing. Instead, it became the third crisis of the morning.

  As instructed, Samantha had drafted a will that left Francine’s eighty acres to her neighbors, Hank and Jolene Mott. Francine’s five adult children would get nothing, and this would inevitably lead to trouble down the road. Doesn’t matter, Mattie had said. It’s her land, clear and unencumbered, and she can dispose of it any way she wants. We’ll deal with the trouble later. No, we are not required to notify the five children that they are being cut out. They’ll learn of this after the funeral.

  Or would they? As Samantha closed the door to her office and pulled out the file, Francine began crying. Dabbing her cheeks with a tissue, she unloaded her story. Three in a row, all crying, Samantha thought.

  Over the weekend, Hank and Jolene Mott had finally told her a horrible secret: they had decided to sell their hundred acres to a coal company and move to Florida where they had grandkids. They didn’t want to sell, of course, but they were getting old—hell, they were already old and being old was no excuse to sell and run, lots of old people hang on to their land around here—but anyway they needed the money for retirement and medical bills. Francine was furious with her longtime neighbors and still couldn’t believe it. Not only had she lost her friends, she’d also lost the two people she trusted to protect her own land. And the worst was yet to come: a strip mine was being planned for next door! Folks all up and down Jacob’s Holler were angry, but that’s what the coal companies do to you. They turn neighbor against neighbor, brother against sister.

  Rumor was the Motts were leaving as soon as possible. Running like chickens, according to Francine. Good riddance.

  Samantha was patient, in fact she had been patient all morning as the office tissue supply dwindled, but she slowly realized that her first last will and testament was headed for the wastebasket. She managed to bring Francine around to the obvious question: If not the Motts, then who gets the land? Francine didn’t know what to do. That’s why she was talking to a lawyer.

  The Monday brown-bag lunch in the main conference room was modified somewhat to include Mandy and Trevor Booker. Though the two children had been eating all morning, they were still hungry enough to split a sandwich with the staff. Their mother was doing laundry and they had no place to go. The conversation was light, church gossip and the weather, suitable topics for young ears and far from the raunchy topics Samantha had heard the week before. It was quite dull and the lunch was over in twenty minutes.

  Samantha needed some advice and didn’t want to bother with Annette. She asked Mattie for a moment or two, and closed the door to her office. She handed over some paperwork and said proudly, “This is my first lawsuit.”

  Mattie smiled and took it gingerly. “Well, well, congratulations. It’s about time. Sit down and I’ll read it.”

  The defendant was Top Market Solutions, a dodgy outfit out of Norfolk, Virginia, with offices in several southern states. Numerous phone calls had yielded little information about the company, but Samantha had all she needed to fire the first shot. The more she researched the clearer the issues became. Annette was right—the judgment expired seven years after it was entered, and had not been reenrolled. The credit card company sold the invalid judgment to Top Market at a deep discount. Top Market in turn took the judgment, reenrolled it in Hopper County, and began using the legal system to collect the money. One available tool was the garnishing of paychecks.

  “Short and sweet,” Mattie said when she finished. “And you’re sure of the facts?”

  “Yes, it’s not that complicated, really.”

  “You can always amend it later. I like it. You feel like a real lawyer now?”

  “I do. I’ve never thought about it before. I type up a lawsuit, alleging anything I choose, file it, serve notice on the defendant, who has no choice but to answer in court, and we either settle the dispute or go to trial.”

  “Welcome to America. You’ll get used to it.”

  “I’m thinking about filing it this afternoon. They are homeless, you know. The sooner the better.”

  “Fire away,” Mattie said, handing the lawsuit over. “I would also e-mail a copy to the defendant and put them on notice.”

  “Thanks. I’ll polish it up and head for the courthouse.”

  At 3:00 p.m., Mr. Simmons at the lamp factory was much less pleasant than he’d been during their first chat. He said he’d checked with his lawyer, who assured him that terminating an employee over a garnishment order was not illegal within the Commonwealth of Virginia, contrary to what Ms. Kofer had said that morning. “Don’t you know the law?” he asked.

  “I understand it very well,” she said, eager to get off the phone. “I guess we’ll just see you in court.” With one lawsuit prepped and ready to go, she couldn’t help but feel a bit trigger-happy.

  “I’ve been sued by better lawyers,” Mr. Simmons said and hung up.

  The Bookers finally left. They followed Samantha to a motel on the east side of town, one of two in Brady. The entire staff had weighed in on which was less offensive, and the Starlight won by a narrow margin. It was a throwback to the 1950s with tiny rooms and doors that opened onto the parking lot. Samantha had spoken with the owner twice, had been promised two adjoining rooms that were clean, with tel
evisions, and had negotiated a reduced rate of $25 a night per room. Mattie liked to describe it as a hot-sheets joint, but there was no evidence of illicit behavior, at least not at 3:30 on a Monday afternoon. The other eighteen rooms appeared to be empty. Pamela’s clean laundry was folded neatly into grocery bags. As they unloaded the car, Samantha realized that the little family was taking a big step back up the ladder. Mandy and Trevor were excited about staying in a motel, even had their own room. Pamela had a spring in her step and a big smile. She hugged Samantha fiercely and said thanks for the umpteenth time. As she drove away, all three were standing beside the car, waving.

  After an hour of twisting through the mountains and dodging a few coal trucks, Samantha arrived on Center Street in Colton a quarter before five. She filed the Booker lawsuit against Top Market Solutions, paid the filing fee with a check drawn on the clinic, and filled out the paperwork to execute service of process on the defendant, and when everything was tidied up she left the clerk’s office quite proud that her first lawsuit was now on the books.

  She hurried down to the courtroom, hoping the trial had not been recessed for the day. Far from it; the courtroom was half-filled and stuffy, with a layer of tension you could feel as scowling men in dark suits gazed upon the seven people sitting in the jury box. Jury selection was winding down; Donovan had hoped to complete it the first day.

  He sat next to Lisa Tate, mother of the two boys. They were alone at the plaintiff’s table, which was next to the jury box. On the other side of the courtroom, at the defense table, a small army of black suits swarmed around, all with hard, unpleasant looks, as if they had been outflanked in the initial phase of the trial.

  The judge was talking to his new jury, giving them instructions on what and what not to do throughout the trial. He almost scolded them into promising to immediately report any contact with persons trying to discuss the trial. Samantha looked at the jurors and tried to determine which ones Donovan had wanted and which ones were considered favorable to coal. It was impossible. All white, four women, three men, youngest around twenty-five and oldest at least seventy. How could anyone predict the group dynamics of the jury as it weighed the evidence?

  Perhaps Lenny Charlton, the consultant. Samantha saw him three rows up, watching the jurors as they listened to the judge’s instructions. Others were watching too, no doubt consultants hired by Strayhorn Coal and its insurance company. All eyes were on the jurors. Big money was on the line, and it was their task to award it, or not.

  Samantha smiled at the contrast. Here, in a tense courtroom, Donovan had dragged in another rich corporation to answer for its bad deeds. He would demand millions in damages. In the coming weeks, he would file a billion-dollar case against Krull Mining, a case that would devour several years and a small fortune in expenses. She, on the other hand, now had in her briefcase her first lawsuit, one seeking $5,000 in damages from a shady outfit that was probably one step away from bankruptcy.