Preferential Treatment, page 16
Darnell knew the battle lines would be drawn as soon as the doctor received notice that a claim would be filed against him. His malpractice liability insurance carrier would receive the frantic and outraged call from the doctor that he had been unjustly sued. The insurance company would assign lawyers to the case, and the process would begin with much hard work on both sides starting in earnest.
Darnell twirled his rolodex and stopped at the letter “F.” He thumbed through a dozen or so address/telephone number cards until he found the one he was looking for—Fabian, Jack. He was anxious to share the good news with Fabian about their expert from whom he had just received a thumbs up on the case. He placed the call.
“Fabian Law Firm.”
“Jack Fabian, please. Ben Darnell calling.”
“I’m sorry, Mr. Darnell. Mr. Fabian is out of the office, and we’re not sure when he’ll return,” said Fabian’s secretary, Maggie Cremeans.
“Are we talking hours, days, weeks, or what?”
“I’m not really sure I can tell you that,” said Cremeans, unfazed by Darnell’s sarcasm. “He left five days ago and said he’ll let us know when he’s coming back.”
“Did he leave a number where he can be reached?”
“He did, but I can’t give that out. I’m sorry.”
“I really need to talk to him. We’re working on a case together, and I need to speak with him about it. It’s rather important.”
Cremeans, Fabian’s secretary of fifteen years, was well schooled in handling pleas from clients and lawyers who tried to get to her boss when he didn’t want gotten to. She knew that when he wanted to be alone, he did not want anybody—not anybody—bothering him. It was a rule that was not to be broken by anyone on pain of the prospect of losing one’s job if it were violated.
“Sorry, Mr. Darnell, but I have my orders.”
“Well,” Darnell drawled, “if I still have his cell number, I’ll try to reach him on that. In the meantime, if he sees fit to show up or call in, please let him know I’m looking for him and that we’ve had an important development in the Gunther case.”
“Sometimes he calls in and sometimes he doesn’t, but I’ll pass along the message if I hear from him. Otherwise, I’ll leave a message on his desk.”
Darnell searched his desk drawer for the napkin on which he had previously scrawled Fabian’s cell number at their first meeting at the Stag’s Antler.
Jesus Christ! I’ve hooked up with a guy that leaves his office, tells no one where he is, tells no one when he’s coming back, and doesn’t even have the courtesy to tell me that he’s going to be out of pocket. I don’t know if I can live like this for the duration of this case. When I said I needed help, I wanted reliable help. Not somebody I have to chase all over God’s creation to find when I need him.
Fabian took a long swig from his pony bottle of Carib beer wishing he had bought the twelve-ounce variety instead. He finished the bottle, rose from his lounge chair, and walked to the refrigerator for his sixth of the day. It was just barely noon in St. Martin in the French West Indies where he was hiding out in his rented villa that sat high on a rugged mountain overlooking the Atlantic Ocean and adjacent Orient Bay. His goal of getting drunk by 5:00 p.m. was rapidly looking achievable.
The island was his favorite get-away spot. He would often retreat to its funky, warm shores when the daily grind of living in the “shit hole they call Jamestown, West Virginia,” in general, and the practice of law, in particular, became too much for him to stomach. More and more, he found himself spending time here. His intolerance for discourteous judges, demanding clients, temperamental employees, and contentious lawyers was progressing at an exponential pace.
Fabian opened another brew and sat down in his recliner once more in his quest for oblivion. The sun shone on the cobalt blue Atlantic. Fabian watched the surf crash against a tiny, volcanic rocky prominence that pierced the ocean surface and rose several feet above it. A sloop with its sails splayed out in a wing-on-wing configuration ran with the easterly trade winds. It navigated its way around the prominence, giving it wide berth, as it sailed toward Pinel Island, its probable anchorage for the evening.
Just above a small hill which partially obscured Fabian’s full view of the Ocean and the mouth of Orient Bay, a vacationer hung from a red and white striped parasail that reminded Fabian of a parachute in suspended animation. The parasail lingered over the scrub bush covered hill as a dozen colorful foil kites darted to and fro like mosquitoes frantically attempting to catch their prey.
The stately palm trees that dotted the property of Fabian’s villa swayed with each gust of the persistent Caribbean trade winds. Across the villa’s private pool, Fabian spied a Green-throated Carib humming bird feasting on the nectar of a yellow aloe flower. After its brief repast, the curious creature shot straight upwards, stopped in mid-air, and then disappeared behind one of the swaying palms. A dog from the villa next door barked. Fabian could hear in distance children laughing and splashing in their pool. A mule brayed as it feasted on scrub grass growing on the mountain adjacent to Fabian’s little slice of paradise.
Fabian’s attention was then diverted to the hum of a Twin Otter lumbering low through the sky as it departed nearby Grand Case’s L’Esperance Aeroporte en route, he assumed, to St. Barth’s, the craggy-peaked ghost of an island that laid on the horizon to the southeast. As he watched the plane grow smaller, he focused below on the sun-drenched expanse of Orient Beach and the colorful splotches which were the chairs and umbrellas of various beach bars, restaurants, and those of the famed resort au naturel, Club Orient.
Jack Fabian loved this place. He loved the French, not only for their fine cuisine that he feasted on every night he was in residence, but for their warmth—something that was lost on many Americans who visited French-speaking countries. More particularly, he loved this place because here he could hide—get away—totally away—from all who knew him, all who wanted from or demanded of him, and escape all the headaches of the practice of law and the assholes in the practice that often made his life miserable.
Best of all, in Fabian’s mind, was the fact that he could get away from Betty-Lou, his wife of twenty-six years. For virtually the entire duration of their union, the two had lived in a loveless marriage, devoid of meaningful conversation, social interaction, or passion, save for the occasional romp in the sack after four or five Scotches. Fabian often joked that if he would have killed her years ago, he’d be out by now.
The two had met at a drunken fraternity party at the Delta Tau Delta house near the West Virginia University campus shortly after Fabian had played in the Peach Bowl in 1981. Fabian and Betty-Lou, a cheerleader at the university, ended up in his apartment for a wild night of booze, marijuana, and sex. Nine months later, Betty-Lou presented Fabian with a 7 lb. 6 oz. baby girl. While Fabian had strongly suggested an abortion, Betty-Lou, who came from a devout Catholic family, vehemently resisted and insisted upon a big church wedding. Needless to say, this started the marriage off on rocky footing which only got worse with time.
Fabian, prior to graduation and after the wedding, speculated that there was little future as a graduate from West Virginia University with a degree in Sociology, especially in light of the fact that he now had two additional mouths to feed. He had chosen sociology as a major because he heard it was an easy way to get his degree while, in reality, majoring in football. Just prior to graduation, lacking any other real alternative and not having the talent the pro teams were looking for, he took the Law School Aptitude Test, did fairly well on it, and applied to the West Virginia University College of Law. He was accepted into the class of 1984.
Fabian stumbled his way through law school, all the while wondering whether he would ever actually practice. Upon graduation, he was without an offer from any of the many law firms who interviewed at the school and was rejected by or failed to get a response from all other firms to whom he sent a resume. Having no other options and needing to make a living, he opened his own one-man operation—Jack R. Fabian, Attorney-at-Law, in his home town of Jamestown, West Virginia.
To say the least, in the beginning, he found the practice to be difficult. The legal education he received left him egregiously unprepared for the real world. Like so many law schools, Fabian’s legal education was long on theory and incredibly short on exposure to what the actual practice was all about. Fortunately for Fabian, after graduating, he was exempted from taking a bar exam in order to practice due to what was called the “diploma privilege” bestowed upon all graduates from West Virginia University College of Law, the state’s only law school. He was confident that he would have never practiced if he had to surmount that hurdle. Fortunately for Fabian, it was not until 1988 that West Virginia eliminated the “diploma privilege” and required WVU law graduates, like all other law school graduates in the United States, to pass the bar exam as a prerequisite to being licensed to practice. For Fabian and all others who had graduated from law school by 1988, he was grandfathered into the practice by virtue of this benevolent quirk in West Virginia law.
Fabian floundered for the first couple of months in the practice. He found that tasks that should have been perfunctory, such as drafting a complaint or a motion, perplexing. The thought of being in a court room in front of a judge was terrifying to him. He spent many hours sitting in his office waiting for the phone to ring wondering just what he was doing trying to make a living in this profession.
After a period of time and plenty of hard knocks, especially at the hands of several not so understanding judges, Fabian started putting things together. He began to make some money representing indigent criminals to whom he was assigned by a particular judge who was an avid WVU football fan and who Fabian had helped entertain on Saturdays in the past. Also, through his acquaintances, family members, and a few attorneys who felt sorry for him, he was referred various folks who needed legal help, be it an injury in a minor fender bender, a divorce, or a person who needed a simple will.
Once he got rolling though, his practice began to grow. As he became better known for his legal prowess, he would land cases of higher quality. He could pick and choose those cases that appealed to him and from which he could extract larger fees. The cases that rendered the best return, he discovered, were cases involving injuries to people. The injury cases that proved the most lucrative, and therefore most appealing to him, were cases against doctors and hospitals—at least before the legislature passed the Medical Professional Liability Act.
As a result of his snowballing success, Fabian found himself spending most of his waking hours in the office. This served a two-fold purpose. First, he needed to put in the time to get all his work done and make a living. Second, and perhaps the most important one, was to get him out of the house and away from Betty-Lou.
As Fabian’s practice grew in quantity as well as quality, and, as a by-product, became more lucrative, Fabian’s taste for the good life grew proportionately—fancy cars, an airplane, expensive clothing, and exotic places to vacation. That was how he came to know and eventually love St. Martin, his haven for great French food, ample sun, and, when he got lucky, an evening of smoldering sex with someone other than Betty-Lou. He found that his still almost buff body, a judicious remnant from his football days, had served him well with the ladies, albeit not as frequently as he would have liked.
On the other hand, Betty-Lou hated Saint Martin. She especially hated the people who inhabited the French side of the island—“Frogs” as she pejoratively called them. As ridiculous as it sounded, she detested the French so much that she refused to eat French fries. Fabian often ridiculed her for her close-mindedness and accused her of being a “typical closed-minded hick” which always infuriated her.
So, for Fabian it was not only the love of the French and the beauty of the island that beckoned him, it was the fact that Betty-Lou detested it. He loved it because it pissed her off.
Fabian drained his Carib and headed to the refrigerator for another. As he reached for the handle, he was rocked back to reality by the ring tone of his cell phone. He stumbled to the wicker coffee table next to his recliner and cursed himself for leaving the phone on, but at the same time was curious as to who was trying to reach him. He only gave his number to a select few.
“Yeah,” Fabian slurred into the phone.
“You could have at least let me know you were going out of town.”
“Yeah, and who the fuck is this?”
“Ben Darnell. That’s who it is.”
“Jesus, Ben. How the hell are you? How’d you find me?”
“I’m good, and I haven’t found you. I don’t have any idea where you are. That ever-faithful assistant of yours wouldn’t give me a clue where you are, when you’re getting back, if at all, or how to reach you. Fortunately, I wrote down your cell number and was lucky enough to keep it. So, where are you?”
“Jesus. You’ll get nowhere with me by impersonating my goddamned wife.”
“Okay, okay,” Darnell retreated. “I just had some good news on the Gunther case. Since we’re handling it together, I wanted to share it with you as soon as possible.”
Fabian’s head began to clear from the alcohol fog. “Wait a minute. I’m not handling anything with you until we get a good report from that expert of yours—if that ever happens.”
“That’s why I’m calling you. Dr. Blakely came through like a champ. He’s in. In a nutshell, he thinks Montgomery screwed up big time and caused Gunther’s brain damage. He’s willing to sign a certificate of merit. We’re ready to rock and roll.”
“So, I guess you want me to cough up some cash to help start financing the case, huh?” spat a caustic Fabian.
“I’m sure that’ll be in the cards in the near future, but I just wanted to share the good news and talk to you about getting up our game plan. By the way, do you mind sharing the secret of where you are and when you may get back so we can get to work?”
“I’m in St. Martin—on the French side—spending some of the money I took off you in the Hanratty case, getting fucked up, looking at the ocean, contemplating my belly button, and trying to forget about this stinking world for a few days. You ought to try it sometime. It might loosen your tight ass up.”
“Maybe I’ll try that in due time, but first I’d like to try to make a little money… no make that a bunch of money, so I can afford a little time off, too. Right now I don’t have that luxury and have a lot of work to do to get this case ready to move. So, are you going to be ready to help me, or what?”
“Jesus Christ, Ben. You mean I have to work to make a living? That’s a foreign concept.” Fabian sensed that Darnell was not amused. “Okay. I’m coming back. I’ve been here for about a week anyway. It’s a beautiful place, but how can I stay away from beautiful Jamestown, the garden spot of the East. Give me another day to chill out. I’ll be back late the day after tomorrow. As soon as I get back to the office, read my mail, and see what other wonderful shit the world has bestowed on me, I’ll come down to Abbington, and I’ll be ready to roll up my sleeves and get to work. Deal?”
“Deal,” Darnell agreed. “And since I’ve talked with Blakely and took pretty good notes of his opinions, I’ll take a stab at drafting the certificate of merit and notice of claim. He’ll look over the certificate and make any additions or corrections that he wants and then sign it. I hope to get this thing served on the doctor as soon as possible.”
“Sounds like a plan,” Fabian said. He finished his beer with a loud slurp and belched. “How about I see you for lunch on Friday? I’ll just come to your office around noon.”
“Great! I’ll see you then. Take it easy,” said Darnell.
Fabian lit a Dominican Montecristo and inhaled deeply. “That’s what I excel at. See you Friday.”
On Friday, March 25, 2005, Fabian’s Bonanza entered the traffic pattern at the Abbington Municipal Airport. The weather, in pilot vernacular, was “shitty,” and Fabian wished that he had postponed his meeting with Darnell. As he turned to his final approach, he glanced at his outside air temperature gauge. It read a frigid 25 degrees, cold for this time of year, even for West Virginia.
Ah, ain’t it great to be back in sunny West ‘By God’ Virginia, Fabian thought. It was only yesterday he was basking in 82 degree weather in the Caribbean. He wished he had stayed through the weekend.
As he reached the approach end of Runway 32, he eased back on the yoke, flared just above the numbers, and executed a perfect greaser of a landing. He parked his airplane, followed his shut down checklist, and jumped down from its wing. The cold West Virginia air stung his suntanned face, and snow flurries clung to his black leather flight jacket. The grey sky looked unfriendly and foreboding. Snow was in the forecast, and from what Fabian could see, it looked like the forecast was going to be on the money. He hoped that he wouldn’t get stuck in Abbington for the night. He had plenty of work that had piled up during his retreat to the Caribbean that was screaming for attention.
Fabian entered the airport’s FBO and found no one at the counter—not an unusual occurrence at podunk airports like Abbington’s. He called a taxi from the warmth of the FBO, and within minutes a bright yellow cab pulled up to the front door. Fabian exited the building and hurried toward the cab.
“Where to?” the cabbie asked.
“Downtown. 1563 Main,” Fabian replied.
As the taxi sped toward Ben Darnell’s office, Fabian observed the dilapidated buildings in what was once a thriving town. Many of the storefronts had been boarded shut, and on the sidewalks, where a decade ago many shoppers flocked, there was an eerie ghost town aura. He recalled with fondness several pleasant nights in the bars and restaurants when he had come to Abbington on business. He remembered it as being a pretty nice town. Now the place looked like it was in hopeless decline.
