The Judge's List (The Whistler #2)(68)

When you murder someone you make ten mistakes. If you can think of seven of them you’re a genius. Where had he read this? Or perhaps it was a line from a movie.

What had been his mistake?

How had it happened? He had to know.

He had lived with the certainty that he would never be forced to plan the Exit.



* * *



—

In 1993, when he was barely two years out of law school, the Pensacola law firm where he was employed blew up when the partners argued over a large fee, the usual source of discontent. He found himself on the street with no office. He borrowed $5,000 from his father, opened up his own shop, and declared himself ready to sue. A new gunslinger in town. He didn’t starve but business was slow. He stayed busy writing wills for people with few assets and hustling small-time criminals in city court. His big break came when a party boat loaded with bridesmaids sank in the Gulf and six young ladies drowned. The usual frenzied slugfest ensued as the local bar frothed and fought over the cases. One landed in his office, thanks in part to a $50 will he had prepared for a client.

A slick ambulance chaser named Mal Schnetzer roped in three of the families and filed the first lawsuit, practically before the funerals were over. Without the slightest reserve or concern about ethical niceties, he paid a visit to the home of Bannick’s client and tried to steal the case. Bannick threatened him; they cursed each other and feelings were raw until Bannick agreed to join the lawsuit. He had no experience with death cases and Schnetzer talked a good game about going to trial.

The pot of gold soon turned out to be much smaller than the plaintiffs’ lawyers were dreaming of. The company that owned the party barge had no other assets and filed for bankruptcy. Its insurance carrier at first denied any liability, but Schnetzer effectively threatened it and got some money on the table. He then went behind Bannick’s back again and told his client that he could deliver a check for $400,000 immediately if the client agreed to ditch his lawyer and claim he never wanted him in the first place. Before Bannick could figure out his next move, Schnetzer had settled the cases and disbursed the money to the clients, to himself, and to the other lawyers, except, of course, the rookie who had just been thoroughly outmaneuvered. Bannick had neglected to negotiate a joint agreement with the tort team, and his deal with his ex-client had been verbal. They had agreed that he would receive one-third of any settlement.

One-third of $400,000 was a gigantic fee for a hungry young lawyer, but the money had vanished. Bannick complained to the judge, who was not sympathetic. He thought about suing Schnetzer but decided against it for three reasons. The first was that he was afraid to tangle with the crook. The second was that he doubted he would ever see a dime. And the third, and most important, was that he didn’t want the embarrassment of a public lawsuit in which he played the role of a green lawyer who got duped by an ambulance chaser. There was enough humiliation already as the story made the rounds in the courthouses.

So he added Mal Schnetzer to his list.

To his delight, Mal eventually fleeced some more clients, got caught, indicted, convicted, disbarred, and sent to prison for two years. When he was released, he drifted to Jacksonville where he hustled cases for a gang of billboard lawyers. He made a few bucks and was brazen enough to set up a small law office at Jacksonville Beach, where he settled car wrecks without the benefit of any bar membership. When he was accused of practicing law without a license, he closed up shop and left the state.

Bannick watched him and tracked his movements.

Years passed and he surfaced in Atlanta where he worked in the back room as a paralegal for some divorce lawyers. In 2009, Bannick found him in Houston working as a “consultant” for a well-known tort firm.



* * *



—

Two months earlier, Bannick had rented a furnished eighty-foot unit in a high-end trailer park just outside Sugar Land, half an hour from downtown Houston. It was a massive place with eight hundred identical white trailers parked in long neat rows with wide streets. The rules were strict and enforced: only two vehicles per trailer, no boats or motorcycles, no laundry hanging from lines, no yard signs, no excessive noise. The small neat lawns were maintained by management. All lawn chairs, bikes, and barbecue grills were stored in identical sheds behind the trailers. He had been there twice and, though he had never dreamed of living in a trailer, found it relaxing. No one within a thousand miles knew who he was or what he was doing.

After a quick nap, he drove down the street to a big-box discount store and paid $58 in cash for a Nokia burner phone with a prepaid SIM card good for seventy-five minutes. Since no contract was involved, the clerk didn’t ask for personal information. If he had, there was an entire collection of fake driver’s licenses ready in the wallet. Sometimes they wanted ID, but usually they didn’t care. He had bought so many burners and tossed them all away.

Back at the trailer, he called the law firm late Friday afternoon and asked for Mal Schnetzer, who was gone for the day and the weekend. He explained to the secretary that it was urgent and he needed to speak with him. The secretary, obviously well trained by her bosses, pried a bit and was told that the case involved a young man who had been badly burned on an offshore oil rig, one owned by ExxonMobil. She offered to find another lawyer in the firm, but Mr. Butler said no, he had been referred by a friend and told that Mr. Schnetzer was the man to talk to.

Ten minutes later, his cheap phone buzzed and there was the voice he recognized. He raised his an octave and tried to sound somewhat squeakier. “My son is in the hospital in Lake Charles with burns over eighty percent of his body. It’s just awful, Mr. Snitcher.”