Sparring Partners(75)
She wanted to remind the unlicensed accountant that he was an employee of the firm and could be terminated at any moment for any reason, or no reason at all, but she decided to keep the big arrows in her quiver and fight another day. She would regroup with the partners and plan their next move. The first, at least in her opinion, had been a disaster.
She left Stu’s office on the seventh floor and rode the elevator alone all the way down. She told her secretary to hold all calls and locked herself in her office. She kicked off her heels and stretched out on the sofa. Napping was impossible. The stress was too great. She had failed miserably in her first attempt to convince Stu to join their secret raid on Bolton’s beloved tobacco money. Who would she call first, Kirk or Rusty?
The answer was obvious. Kirk was a buttoned-up office guy who never got his hands dirty. Rusty was a street brawler who knew how to charm and negotiate. If the sweet-talking didn’t work, then he was always ready to twist arms, or kneecap an enemy if necessary. If anyone could bully and threaten Old Stu, it was Rusty Malloy.
Early that morning, Stu had emailed to her, Kirk, and Rusty the previous month’s financials. Things were bleaker than she’d thought. The banks would be calling soon and there would be the usual tense meetings.
She walked to her desk, sat with her feet on it, and studied the financials. Each year, Kirk and Rusty paid themselves $480,000 in salaries, with year-end bonuses based on the firm’s performance. The bonuses, always equal, per Bolton, were hammered out in a closed-door session each year on December 30. It was by far the most dreadful day of the year. Both partners came loaded with endless numbers, and Diantha had to referee. For the past three years, Kirk had raised hell because his side of the firm, the “right side,” had grossed far more than Rusty’s. Rusty fought back with five-and ten-year trends clearly proving that his personal injury practice was far more lucrative than Kirk’s. Only four years ago, his “left side” had doubled the gross revenue from his rival.
That was before he began losing jury trials, and losing big.
Rivals? Why were they rivals and not partners paddling the same boat? Bolton said they had never pulled together. And now the boat was sinking.
If the business continued on course for two more months, there would be no year-end bonuses. Indeed, the gap between revenue and expenses was large enough to require Kirk and Rusty, again bound by a partnership agreement, to step up and cover the deficit, an ugly scene that had never happened before.
It was obvious to Diantha that the only smart moves were to drastically cut expenses, fire associates, get rid of staff, reduce the salaries of the two partners, and somehow convince Rusty to stop taking risky cases. None of which was remotely possible, and she was not about to make suggestions.
As she studied the financials, she asked herself again how a once prosperous firm could work its way into such a mess. She was about to leave for the day and go shopping when her secretary tapped on the door.
A process server was waiting in the lobby, a kid with a hoodie and oversized sneakers. “You Diana Bradshaw?” he asked rudely.
“The name’s Diantha Bradshaw.”
He looked at his paperwork and seemed to struggle with the words. “Right, and you’re the registered agent for Malloy & Malloy, right?”
“That’s correct.”
“I’m a process server for the law firm of Bonnie & Clyde. Here’s a lawsuit we filed two hours ago.”
He handed it over. She took it without saying thanks. The kid disappeared.
Bonnie & Clyde were nothing but trouble. They were perhaps the most famous lawyers in St. Louis and not because of their legal talents. Husband and wife, they had been small-time divorce sloggers out in the suburbs until Clyde settled a tractor-trailer case and netted some money. His wife had always gone by the name of Bonita. Their teenaged son watched too much television and particularly enjoyed the schlocky ads run by personal injury firms. He came up with the idea of renaming his mother and blasting the airwaves with “Bonnie and Clyde” ads that featured them dressed like Warren Beatty and Faye Dunaway and holding submachine guns as they shook down slimy insurance executives for mountains of cash that went to their clients. They changed the name of their law firm to Bonnie & Clyde.
At first the local bar was horrified by the ads and sent a letter, but by then lawyer advertising was out of control, and it was protected speech anyway.
The injured clients poured in and Bonnie and Clyde got rich. They expanded their firm, hired a bunch of associates, and became infatuated with billboard advertising.
They had been hired by the parents of Trey Brewster, and they were suing Rusty and the firm for legal malpractice. Ten million compensatory and ten million punitive.
Diantha read the poorly drafted lawsuit and mumbled to herself, “I’d rather have their case than ours.”
(27)
For the dirty work, and there was no small amount of it around any credible personal injury firm, Rusty had several contacts to choose from. The most experienced was an ex-cop named Walt Kemp, an investigator with his own firm of case runners, accident hounds, ambulance chasers, witness locators, and so on. Walt knew the streets and had feelers in many dark places, including prisons.
They met for egg-and-sprat sandwiches at a Russian deli in Dutchtown in the old part of the city. Walt’s nondescript office was around the corner where the rent was cheap.