Gray Mountain: A Novel(59)

He stopped smiling and glanced at his watch. “Here’s what I’ll do. You get that damned garnishment order revoked so I don’t have to fool with it, and I’ll put her back on the payroll. How long will that take?”

Samantha had no idea but instinctively said, “Maybe a week.”

“We got a deal?”

“A deal.”

“Can I ask you a question?”

“Anything.”

“How much is your hourly rate? I mean, I got a guy over in Grundy, not that sharp, really, and slow to return calls, slow with everything, and he charges me two hundred bucks an hour. That might not be much in the big leagues, but you see where we are. I’d send him more work, but, hell, it’s not worth it. I’ve been looking around but there aren’t many reasonable lawyers in these parts. I figure you gotta be real reasonable if Pamela Booker can hire you. So, what’s your rate?”

“Nothing. Zero.”

He stared at her, mouth open. “I work for legal aid,” she said.

“What’s legal aid?”

“It’s free legal services for low-income people.”

It was a foreign concept. He smiled and asked, “Do you take on lamp factories?”

“Sorry. Just poor folks.”

“We’re losing money, I swear. I’ll show you the books.”

“Thank you, Mr. Simmons.”

As she raced back to Brady with the good news, she thought of the possible ways to quash the garnishment order. And the more she thought, the more she realized how little she knew about the basics of practicing everyday law.


In New York, she had seldom left the office late in the afternoon and gone straight home. There were too many bars for that, too many single professionals on the prowl, too much networking and socializing and hooking up and, well, drinking to be done. Every week someone discovered a new bar or a new club that had to be visited before it got discovered and the throngs ruined it.

The after hours were different in Brady. She had yet to see the inside of a bar; from the street they looked sketchy, both of them. She had yet to meet another young, unmarried professional. So, her choice boiled down to (1) hanging around the office so she wouldn’t have to (2) go to her apartment and stare at the walls. Mattie preferred to hang around too, and each afternoon by 5:30 she was roaming around, shoeless, looking for Samantha. Their ritual was evolving, but for now it included sipping a diet soda in the conference room and gossiping while watching the street. Samantha was eager to pry about the possible hanky-panky between Annette and Donovan, but she did not. Maybe later, maybe one day when she had more proof, or probably never. She was still too new to town to involve herself in such sensitive matters. Plus, she knew Mattie was rabidly protective of her nephew.

They had just settled into their chairs and were ready for half an hour or so of debriefing when the bells clanged on the front door. Mattie frowned and said, “Guess I forgot to lock it.”

“I’ll see,” Samantha said, as Mattie went to find her shoes.

It was the Ryzers, Buddy and Mavis, from deep in the woods, Samantha surmised after a quick introduction and once-over. Their paperwork filled two canvas shopping bags, with matching stains. Mavis said, “We got to have a lawyer.”

Buddy said, “Nobody’ll take my case.”

“What is it?” Samantha asked.

“Black lung,” he replied.

In the conference room, Samantha ignored the shopping bags as she took down the basics. Buddy was forty-one, and for the past twenty years had worked as a surface miner (not a strip miner) for Lonerock Coal, the third-largest producer in the U.S. He was currently earning $22 an hour operating a track shovel at the Murray Gap Mine in Mingo County, West Virginia. His breathing was labored as he spoke, and at times Mavis took over. Three children, all teenagers “still in school.” A house and a mortgage. He was suffering from black lung caused by the coal dust he inhaled during his twelve-hour shifts.

Mattie finally found her shoes and entered the room. She introduced herself to the Ryzers, took a hard look at the shopping bags, sat down next to Samantha, and began taking her own notes. At one point she said, “We’re seeing more and more surface miners with black lung, not sure why but one theory is that you guys are working longer shifts, thus you inhale more of the dust.”

“He’s had it for a long time,” Mavis said. “Just gets worse every month.”

“But I gotta keep working,” Buddy said. About twelve years earlier, somewhere around 1996, they weren’t sure, he began noticing a shortness of breath and a nagging cough. He’d never smoked and had always been healthy and active. He was playing T-ball with the kids one Sunday when his breathing became so labored he thought he was having a heart attack. That was the first time he mentioned anything to Mavis. The coughing continued and during one fit of wheezing he noticed black mucus on the tissues he was using. He was reluctant to seek benefits for his condition because he feared retaliation from Lonerock, so he kept working and said nothing. Finally, in 1999, he filed a claim under the federal black lung law. He was examined by a doctor certified by the Department of Labor. His condition was the most severe form of black lung disease, more formally known as “complicated coal workers’ pneumoconiosis.” The government ordered Lonerock to begin paying him monthly benefits of $939. He continued working and his condition continued to deteriorate.