The Litigators (27 page)

Thuya was home now, alive but grievously wounded. The brain damage was severe. He could not walk without assistance, speak clearly, feed himself, or control his bodily functions. His vision was limited, and he could barely respond to basic commands. Ask him his name and he would open his mouth and emit a sound similar to “Tay.” He spent most of his time in a special bed with guardrails, and keeping it clean was a difficult task. Caring for the boy was a daily struggle that involved everyone in the family and many of the neighbors. The future was beyond contemplation. His condition was not likely to improve, according to the rather tactful statements of his doctors. Off the record and away from the family, they told David in confidence that Thuya’s body and mind would not grow normally, and there was nothing else they could do. And there was no place to put him—no facility for brain-damaged children.

Thuya was spoon-fed a special formula that was a mix of finely ground fruit and vegetables and loaded with daily nutrients. He wore diapers made especially for such children. The formula, diapers, and medications were running $600 a month, of which David and Helen had pledged half. The Khaings had no health insurance, and had it not been for the generosity of the Lakeshore Children’s Hospital he would not have received such high-quality care. He would probably be dead. In short, Thuya was now a burden that was almost inconceivable.

Soe and Lwin insisted that he sit at the table for dinner. He had a special chair, also donated by the hospital, and when properly belted and latched down, he sat straight and expected his food. While the family devoured the burgers and fries, Helen carefully fed Thuya with a baby spoon. She said she needed the practice. David sat on the other side with a paper towel, chatting with Soe about work and life in America. Thuya’s sisters, who chose to use the American names of Lynn and Erin, were eight and six, respectively. They said little during dinner, but it was obvious they were thrilled with real fast food. When they did speak, it was with perfect, unaccented English. According to Lwin, they were making straight A’s in school.

Perhaps it was the gloomy prospect of an uncertain future, or maybe it was just the meager existence being carved out by desperate immigrants, but the dinners were solemn and subdued. At various times, the parents, grandparents, and sisters looked at Thuya as if they wanted to cry. They remembered the noisy, hyper little boy with the quick smile and easy laugh, and they were struggling to accept the truth that he would never return. Soe blamed himself for buying the fake teeth. Lwin blamed herself for not being more diligent. Lynn and Erin blamed themselves for encouraging Thuya to play with the teeth and scare them. Even Zaw and Lu blamed themselves; they should have done something, though they had no idea what.

After dinner, David and Helen walked Thuya out of the apartment, down the short sidewalk, and, with the entire family watching, strapped him into the rear seat of their car and drove away. For emergencies,
they brought along a small bag with extra diapers and cleaning supplies.

They drove twenty minutes to the lakefront and parked near Navy Pier. David took his left hand, Helen his right, and they began a slow, plodding walk that was almost painful to watch. Thuya moved like a ten-month-old attempting his first steps, but there was no hurry and he wasn’t about to fall. They eased along the boardwalk, passing all kinds of boats. If Thuya wanted to stop and inspect a forty-foot ketch, they did so. If he wanted to look at a large fishing boat, they stopped and talked about it. David and Helen chattered nonstop, like two proud parents with a toddler. Thuya jabbered back, an incomprehensible stream of utterings and noises that they pretended to understand. When he grew tired, they pushed him to keep walking. It was important, according to the rehab specialist at the hospital. His muscles could not get soft.

They had taken him to parks, carnivals, malls, ball games, and street parties. The Wednesday night excursions were important to him, and the only break during the week for his family. After two hours, they returned to the apartment.

Three new faces were waiting. In the past months, David had handled several minor legal matters for the Burmese who lived in the complex. There were the usual immigration matters, and he was becoming adept in that growing specialty of the law. There had been a near divorce, but the spouses reconciled. There was an ongoing lawsuit over the purchase of a used car. His reputation was growing among the Burmese immigrants, and he was not convinced that was altogether a good thing. He needed clients who could pay.

They stepped outside and leaned on the cars. Soe explained that the three men were working for a drainage contractor. Because they were illegals, and the contractor knew this, he was paying them $200 a week in cash. They were working eighty hours a week. To make matters worse, their boss had not paid them a dime in three weeks. They spoke little English, and because David could not believe what he was hearing, he asked Soe to carefully go through it a second time.
This version was the same as the first. Two hundred dollars a week, straight pay for overtime, no pay in three weeks. And they were not the only ones. There were others from Burma and a whole truckload from Mexico. All illegals, all working like dogs, all getting screwed.

David took notes and promised to look into the situation.

Driving home, he described the case to Helen. “But does an illegal worker have the right to sue a crooked employer?” she asked.

“That’s the question. I’ll find out tomorrow.”

A
fter lunch, Oscar did not return to the office. To do so would have been fruitless. He had far too much on his mind to waste time puttering around his desk. He was half drunk, and he needed to sober up. He filled his tank at a convenience store, bought a tall cup of black coffee, then headed south on I-57 and was soon outside of Chicago and passing through farmland.

How many times had he advised his clients to file for divorce? Thousands. It was so easy to do, under the circumstances. “Look, there comes a time in some marriages when a spouse needs to get out. For you, that time is now.” He’d always felt so wise, even smug when dispensing such advice. Now he felt like a fraud. How could a person give such counsel unless he’d been through it himself?

He and Paula had been together for thirty unhappy years. Their only child was a twenty-six-year-old divorcée named Keely who was becoming more and more like her mother. Keely’s divorce was still fresh, primarily because she enjoyed reveling in her misery. She had a job that paid little, lots of contrived emotional problems that required pills, and her principal source of therapy was nonstop shopping with her mother at Oscar’s expense.

“I’m sick of both of them,” Oscar said loudly and boldly as he passed the exit signs at Kankakee. “I’m sixty-two years old, in good health, with a life expectancy now of twenty-three more years, and I have the right to pursue happiness. Right?”

Of course he did.

But how to break the news? That was the question. What should he say to drop the bomb? He thought of old clients, old divorces he’d handled over the years. At the extreme end of the spectrum, the bomb was dropped when the wife caught the husband in bed with another woman. Oscar could think of three, maybe four cases where this had happened. That was a bomb dropper all right. The marriage is over, honey, I’ve found someone else. At the other end, he’d once handled a divorce for a couple who never fought, never discussed separation or divorce, and had just celebrated their thirtieth wedding anniversary and purchased a retirement home on a lake. Then the husband came home from a business trip and the house was deserted. All of his wife’s clothes and half the furnishings were gone. She moved out, said she had never loved him. She soon remarried, and he killed himself.

It was never difficult provoking a fight with Paula; the woman loved to bicker and brawl. Perhaps he should drink some more, go home half drunk, get her started on his drinking, push back hard with her endless shopping, keep throwing gas on the fire until they were both screaming. He could then pack some clothes in a huff and storm out.

Oscar had never found the courage to walk out. He should have, dozens of times, but he always slunk down the hall, went to the guest bedroom, locked the door, and slept alone.

As he approached Champaign, he settled on his plan. Why go through the ruse of starting a fight so he could pin blame on her? He wanted out, so be a man and admit it. “I’m unhappy, Paula, and I’ve been unhappy for years. There’s no doubt you’re unhappy too; otherwise you wouldn’t bitch and quarrel all the time. I’m leaving. You can have the house and everything in it. I’m taking my clothes. Goodbye.” He turned around and headed north.

U
ltimately, it was quite simple, and Paula took it well enough. She cried a little, and called him a few names, but when Oscar refused to take the bait, she locked herself in the basement and refused to come
out. Oscar loaded his car with clothes and a few personal items, then sped away, smiling, relieved, growing happier with each passing street.

Sixty-two, about to be single for the first time in forever, about to be rich, if he could trust Wally, which he did at the moment. In fact, he was placing an enormous amount of trust in his junior partner.

Oscar wasn’t sure where he was going, but he wasn’t about to stop by Wally’s apartment and spend the night. He saw enough of the guy at the office; besides, the bimbo was apt to drop in, and Oscar couldn’t stand her. He drove around for an hour, then checked in to a hotel near O’Hare. He pulled a chair to the window and watched the takeoffs and landings in the distance. One day soon he would be jetting here and there—islands, Paris, New Zealand—with a pleasant lady at his side.

He felt twenty years younger already. He was going places.

A
t 7:30 the following morning, Rochelle arrived nice and early with plans to enjoy her yogurt and newspaper with no one but AC around, but AC was already playing with someone else. Mr. Finley was there and quite chipper. Rochelle could not remember the last time he had arrived before she did.

“Good morning, Ms. Gibson,” he said in a warm, hearty voice, his lined and craggy face full of joy.

“What are you doing here?” she asked suspiciously.

“I happen to own the building,” Oscar said.

“Why are you so happy?” she asked, dropping her purse on her desk.

“Because last night I slept in a hotel, alone.”

“Maybe you should do it more often.”

“Don’t you want to know why?”

“Sure. Why?”

“Because I left Paula last night, Ms. Gibson. I packed up, said good-bye, walked out, and I’m never going back.”

“Praise the Lord,” she said, wide-eyed and wonder-struck. “You didn’t?”

“Yes, I did. After thirty miserable years, I’m a free man. This is why I’m so happy, Ms. Gibson.”

“Well, I’m happy too. Congratulations.” In her eight and a half
years at Finley & Figg, Rochelle had never met Paula Finley in person, and she was delighted about this. According to Wally, Paula refused to set foot on the property because it was beneath her dignity. She was quick to tell folks her husband was a lawyer, with the requisite implications of money and power, but was also secretly humiliated by the low standing of his firm. She spent every dime he earned, and if not for some mysterious family money on her side, they would have gone broke years earlier. On at least three occasions, she had demanded that Oscar fire Rochelle, and he had tried twice. Twice he’d limped back to his office, locked the door, and licked his wounds. On one noted occasion, Ms. Finley called and wanted to talk to her husband. Rochelle politely informed her he was with a client. “I don’t care,” she said. “Put me through.” Rochelle declined again and instead put her on hold. When Rochelle picked up again, Paula was cursing, near cardiac arrest, and threatened to march right down there and straighten things out at the office. To which Rochelle responded: “Do so at your own risk. I live in the projects and I don’t scare too easy.” Paula Finley did not appear, but she did berate her husband.

Rochelle took a step over and gave Oscar a firm hug. Neither could remember the last time they had touched for any reason. “You’re gonna be a new man,” she said. “Congratulations.”

“Should be a simple divorce,” he said.

“You’re not using Figg, are you?”

“Well, yes. He works cheap. I saw his name on a bingo card.” They shared a laugh, then began swapping gossip at the table.

An hour later, during the third firm meeting, Oscar repeated the news for the benefit of David, who seemed a bit confused by the enthusiasm the news was generating. Not a trace of sadness anywhere. It was obvious that Paula Finley had made plenty of enemies. Oscar was almost giddy at the thought of shedding her.

Wally summed up his conversations with Jerry Alisandros and spun the news in such a way that it seemed as though big checks were practically in the mail. As he rambled on, David suddenly figured out the divorce. Unload the wife now, and quickly, before serious money
rolled in. Whatever the scheme was, David smelled trouble. Hiding assets, rerouting funds, setting up bogus bank accounts—he could almost hear the conversations between the two partners. Warning flags went up. David would be curious and vigilant.

Wally exhorted the firm to kick into high gear, to get the files in order, find new cases, set aside everything else, and so on. Alisandros promised to provide medical screeners, cardiologists, all manner of logistical support to prepare his clients for the settlement. Every current case was worth serious cash; every prospective case could be worth even more.

Oscar just sat there and grinned. Rochelle listened intently. David found the news exciting, but he was also cautious. So much of what Wally said was hyperbole, and David had learned to cut it in half. Still, half would be a wonderful payday.

The Zinc family balance sheet had dipped under $100,000 in buried cash, and while David refused to worry, he was thinking about it more and more. He’d paid Sandroni $7,500 for a case that was probably worthless. He and Helen had committed $300 a month to Thuya’s support, which would hopefully go on for years. They had not hesitated to do this, but reality was setting in. His monthly gross from the firm was rising steadily, though it was unlikely he would ever earn what he’d made at Rogan. That was not his benchmark. With a new child, he figured he needed $125,000 a year to live comfortably. Krayoxx just might shore up the balance sheet, though he and the two partners had not discussed his slice of the pie.