The Rooster Bar

27

On Friday, March 21, two days after the beginning of the end of UPL, Edwin Mossberg called twice before noon. Mark ignored both calls. He was hiding in the upstairs coffee bar of an old, cramped used-book store near Farragut Square, reading the complimentary daily newspapers and killing time. Todd was supposedly stalking the halls at the District Courthouse while Zola was supposedly camping out in a hospital prayer room where families huddled with ministers. However, Mark seriously doubted either of the other two was hard at work. Their dream of a big, easy score had eased the pressure and lulled them into a false sense of security.

Now that the dream had vanished so dramatically, they were reeling. They had agreed that it was imperative to double down and rake in as much cash as possible before the sky fell, but failure killed their motivation.

Mossberg’s e-mail hit like a bomb.

Including the expense money so generously lent by the Department of Education, along with the fees they’d hustled in almost two months of unauthorized practice, minus outlays for a new desktop computer and printer, and new clothes, and old furniture, and food, the balance sheet of Upshaw, Parker & Lane showed net cash of almost $52,000. The three partners agreed that the firm could afford the round-trip airfare to Charleston.

Mark bought the ticket at Reagan National, flew the first leg to Atlanta and the second to Charleston. He took a cab from the airport to an old downtown warehouse that Mr. Mossberg and company had converted into a splendid office with views of the harbor. The lobby was a museum dedicated to the courtroom heroics of the firm’s trial studs. Its walls were covered with framed newspaper stories detailing victories and massive settlements. In one corner a water heater was on display, one that had once blown up and killed some folks. Near a window a hunting rifle was mounted next to an X-ray of a firing pin in someone’s head. A chain saw here, a lawn mower there. After ten minutes amid the carnage, Mark was convinced that no product was safe.

As with Corbett’s operation, Mossberg’s reeked of easy millions and phenomenal success. How had some lawyers managed to strike it so rich? Where did Mark’s legal career take a left turn and fall off the rails?

An assistant fetched him and led him up the stairs to a massive office where Edwin Mossberg was standing in front of a tall window, looking at the harbor and listening on the phone. He frowned at Mark and motioned for him to sit on a thick leather sofa. The office was larger than the entire fourth floor where Mark and Todd were currently hiding.

Mossberg finally stuck his phone in his pocket, thrust forward a hand, and without a smile said, “Nice to meet you. Where are the medical records?”

Mark had arrived with nothing, not even a briefcase.

“Didn’t bring them,” he said. “We need to talk.”

“You missed the statute, right?”

“Right.”

Mossberg sat on the other side of a coffee table and glared at him. “Figured as much. What did your expert say?”

“Said we had ’em by the balls. Gross negligence, the works. He missed the date too, Corbett said he was a quack, and the statute ran out six days later, two days before I made the first call to Corbett’s office.”

“Jeffrey Corbett?”

“Yes. Know him?”

“Oh yes. He’s a fine trial lawyer. So you just left two million on the table.”

“I suppose.”

“What are the limits of your liability?”

“I have no insurance.”

“You’re practicing law with no errors-and-omissions coverage?”

“That’s correct. I’m also practicing law without a license.”

Mossberg took a deep breath and exhaled loudly in a rasping, almost growling sound. He flopped his hands and said, “Just tell me the story.”

In ten minutes Mark covered it all. Three good friends in a bad law school. Heavy debts, soft job market, Gordy and the bridge; the horror of the bar exam; the insanity of repayment; the crazy idea to hustle the criminal courts; a fine romp with a cute assistant prosecutor that led to a great deal for Benson that led to the referral to Ramon. And here we are.

“And you thought you wouldn’t get caught?” Mossberg asked.

“We haven’t been caught. Only you know, and why should you care? You have enough cases to keep you busy. You have more money than you can spend. You’re a long way from D.C. and we’re not exactly taking fees out of your pocket.”

“Except for this little med mal case.”

“True. We screwed it up. But let’s not forget the fact that your client and my client sat on the case until the very end.”

“What will you tell your client?”

“That there’s no liability, and there’s not. Maybe he’ll go away; maybe he’ll cause trouble. We’ll wait and see. Looks like you have the same problem.”

“Not really. I don’t have a signed contract with Asia. In med mal, son, you never sign a contract for representation until you’ve reviewed the medical records. Chalk that up to something else you haven’t learned.”

“Thanks. What will you tell her?”

“I don’t know. I haven’t thought about it. She’s not the most stable person in town.”

“You could tell the truth and sue me on her behalf, but why bother? I don’t have a dime and I’ll just bankrupt any judgment. Honestly, you couldn’t even find me in D.C. if you wanted to. Others are looking.”

“Is Mark Upshaw your real name?”

“No.”

“And Parker and Lane?”

“Bogus.”

“No surprise. We couldn’t find any record of you and your firm in the D.C. bar directory. You’re leaving a pretty wide trail, son.”

“Did you call anyone there?”

“I don’t think so. One of my paralegals dug a little.”

“I’d appreciate it if you wouldn’t dig anymore. I’ve told you the truth.”

“So, allow me to summarize. You dropped out of law school, assumed another name, and you’re practicing law without a license, which is a crime, and taking your fees in cash, without proper reporting, I assume, which is also a crime, and now you’ve ruined a beautiful med mal case that cost your client and my client more money than they’ll ever see. Not to mention defaulting on your student loans. Have I missed anything?”

“Maybe a couple of items.”

“Of course. And so what am I supposed to do?”

“Nothing. Let it slide. Ignore me. What do you have to gain by reporting me to the D.C. Bar?”

“Well, for one, it would be a nice step in the direction of cleaning up our profession. We have enough problems without deadbeats like you scamming the system.”

“I could argue that we provide valuable services to our clients.”

“Ramon Taper?”

“No, not him. The other guys. Ramon was our first venture into the minefield of personal injury law, and, frankly, I think we’ve had enough. We’ll stick to DUIs and leave the car wrecks to the guys on the billboards.”

“That’s good to hear.”

“I’m begging for a favor, Mr. Mossberg. Just leave us alone. Things are tough enough anyway.”

“Get out of my office,” Mossberg said, standing.

Mark rolled his eyes as his shoulders sagged. Under his breath he mumbled, “I think I’ve heard that before.”

Mossberg walked to the door and yanked it open. “Out!”

Mark strolled through the opening, avoided eye contact, and found the stairs.

His return flight was delayed in Atlanta, and it was almost midnight when Mark arrived at his apartment. The delay possibly kept him from getting shot, or something close to it.

Around nine that night, Ramon found The Rooster Bar and parked himself at the long counter. Todd was behind the bar mixing drinks. The after-work crowd had cleared and half a dozen regulars were watching college basketball.

Ramon ordered a vodka tonic and Todd placed it before him with a small bowl of peanuts. “You know this dude?” Ramon asked, showing Todd the business card of one Mark Upshaw of the firm of Upshaw, Parker & Lane. Address right there, right where he was sitting: 1504 Florida Avenue.

Todd looked at it and shook his head. He and Mark had convinced the other bartenders and waiters to play completely dumb if anyone showed up asking questions about them, their firm, or their offices. So far, the little conspiracy was holding.

Ramon said, “Dude’s my lawyer, and his card says his office is right here, but this is a bar, right?” His tongue was a bit thick, some of his words not so clear.

Todd was suddenly captivated by his customer and wanted to know more. “He might be upstairs. Don’t know what all’s up there, but you won’t find a lawyer working at this time of night.”

“Dude’s running from me, you know what I mean? Been calling him for three days now and he won’t answer.”

“He must be busy. What kinda case you got?”

“Big one.” He closed his eyes and nodded, and Todd realized he was drunker than he’d thought.

Todd said, “Well, if I bump into him, what do I say? Who’s looking for him?”

“Name’s Ramon,” he said, barely lifting his head. He had yet to touch his drink.

Todd took a deep breath and eased away. He stepped into the kitchen and sent a text to Mark. Our client Ramon is here, drunk. Stay away. Where r u?

Atlanta airport, delayed.

Call him and feed him a line. Something.

Will do.

Todd returned to the bar and stood a few feet from Ramon, who made no effort to pull out his phone. If Mark was calling, Ramon wasn’t responding. Still holding the business card, he waved Todd over and said, “This say Florida Avenue, right? So where’s the law office?”

“Don’t know, sir.”

“I think you’re lying,” Ramon said, louder.

“No, sir. You’re right, this is Florida Avenue, but I don’t know of any law office.”

Even louder, Ramon said, “Well, I got a gun in my car, you know that? And if I can’t get justice one way, I might just get it another. Know what I mean?”

Todd nodded at another bartender as he stepped closer to Ramon. “Look, sir, if you’re going to threaten folks we’ll have no choice but to call the police.”

“I gotta find this dude, okay? Mr. Upshaw, Attorney-at-Law. He’s got my case and I think he’s running from me. And don’t go calling no police, okay?”

“Why don’t you finish your drink and I’ll call you a cab?”

“Don’t need a cab. Got a car out there with a gun under the seat.”

“That’s the second time you’ve mentioned a gun. That makes us very nervous around here.”

“Just don’t call no police.”

“They’ve already been called, sir.”

Ramon’s back stiffened and his eyes popped wide open. “What? Why’d you do that? I ain’t hurt nobody.”

“Sir, we take gun talk seriously in this city.”

“How much is the drink?”

“It’s on the house if you want to hustle on out of here.”

Ramon slid off the stool and said as he headed for the door, “Don’t know why you had to call the police.” Todd followed him outside and watched him disappear around the corner. If he had a car, Todd didn’t see it.