Gray Mountain: A Novel(75)

“Well Jeff certainly does.”

“He has a different perspective and I appreciate that. I sympathize with him. But what do they gain by knocking off Donovan? In the Krull Mining case, there are three other law firms at the plaintiff’s table, all, I might add, with far more experience with toxic torts than Donovan.”

“But he has the documents.”

Marshall pondered this for a moment. “Do the other three firms have the documents?”

“I don’t think so. I get the impression they’re buried somewhere.”

“Well, anyway, Krull doesn’t know that, not yet anyway. In fact, if I were counsel for Krull, I would assume all the lawyers on the plaintiff’s team have access to the documents. So, again, what do they gain by knocking off only one of the four lawyers?”

“So, if we follow your line of reasoning, then Lonerock Coal and Casper Slate would have enormous incentive to take him out. He’s the lone gunman, as you say. There’s no other name on the lawsuit. He dies one day and within forty-eight hours the litigation funds are gone. Lawsuit’s over. They win.”

Marshall was shaking his head. He glanced around again; no one had noticed they were there. “Look, Samantha, I loathe companies like Lonerock and law firms like Casper Slate. I made a career fighting goons like them. Hate them, okay? But they are reputable—hell, Lonerock is publicly traded. You’ll never convince me they’re capable of murdering a lawyer who’s sued them. Krull is another matter; it’s a rogue outfit owned by a rich thug who roams the world causing trouble. Krull is capable of anything, but, again, why? Knocking off Donovan will not help its case in the long run.”

“Let’s talk about something else.”

“I’m sorry. He was your friend and I liked him a lot. He reminded me of my younger days.”

“It’s pretty devastating, really. I have to go back, but I’m not sure I want to.”

“You have clients now. Real people with real problems.”

“I know, Dad. I’m a real lawyer, not some pencil pusher in a corporate firm. You win.”

“I didn’t say that, and this is not a contest.”

“You’ve said it for three years, and everything is a contest with you.”

“A bit edgy, are we?” Marshall said as he reached across the small table and touched her hand. “I’m sorry. I know it’s been an emotional week.”

Her eyes suddenly watered as her throat tightened. She said, “I’d like to go now.”





25


There were four of them, all large, angry, rough-looking people, two men and two women, ages forty-five to sixty, she guessed, with gray hair and rolls of fat and cheap clothes. They were in town for a rare Thanksgiving visit with their momma but were now forced to stay over, to miss work, to deal with a legal mess that was not of their making. As Samantha approached on foot, she saw them loitering around the front door, waiting impatiently for the legal clinic to open, and she instinctively knew who they were and what they wanted. She thought about ducking into Betty’s Quilts and hiding for an hour or so, but then what would she and Betty talk about? Instead, she walked around the block and entered the offices from the rear. She turned on lights, made coffee, and eventually drifted to the front, where she opened the door. They were still waiting, still angry; things had been simmering for some time.

“Good morning,” she said as happily as possible. A blind person could see that the next hour would be most unpleasant.

The leader, the oldest, growled, “We’re looking for Samantha Kofer.” He took a step forward, as did the other three.

Still smiling, she said, “That’s me. What can I do for you?”

A sister whipped out a folded document and asked, “Did you write this for Francine Crump?”

The other brother added, “It’s our mother’s will.” He seemed ready to spit in her face.

They followed her into the conference room and gathered around the table. Samantha politely offered them coffee, and when all four refused she went to the kitchen and slowly poured herself a cup. She was stalling, waiting for someone else to arrive. It was 8:30, and normally Mattie would be holed up in her office chatting with Donovan. Today, though, she doubted Mattie would arrive before noon. With a fresh cup, she sat at the end of the table. Jonah, age sixty-one, lived in Bristol. Irma, age sixty, lived in Louisville. Euna Faye, age fifty-seven, lived in Rome, Georgia. Lonnie, age fifty-one, lived in Knoxville. DeLoss, the “baby” at forty-five, was living in Durham, and at the moment he was home with Momma, who was very upset. It had been a rough Thanksgiving. Samantha took notes and tried to burn some clock so they might take a breath and settle down. After ten minutes of one-way chitchat, though, it was obvious they were itching for a fight.

“What the hell is the Mountain Trust?” Jonah asked.

Samantha described the trust in great detail.

Euna Faye said, “Momma said she ain’t never heard of no Mountain Trust. Said you’re the one who come up with it. That so?”

Samantha patiently explained that Mrs. Crump sought her advice on how to bequeath her property. She wanted to leave it to someone or some organization that would protect it and keep it from being strip-mined. Samantha did her research and found two nonprofits in Appalachia that were appropriate.