Page 21 of The List
DAY FOUR
B RENT STOOD OUTSIDE THE DOUBLE DOORS AND STARED THROUGH the small glass window into the courtroom.
The Woods County courthouse was a familiar place.
Five years he’d practiced before the same oak dais.
Criminal cases, car wrecks, breaches of contract, divorces.
Battle after battle that grew his practice, made him a living, and forged a reputation.
“Good to see you again,” a voice said.
He turned to see a familiar face. Kelvin Williams. The old deputy had worked bailiff duty a long time.
“It’s good to see you too, Preacher.”
They shook hands.
Everybody referred to Kelvin as Preacher since he spent Sundays in the pulpit of Concord’s Church of God spreading the gospel.
Williams was an amicable man with a reputation for generosity.
Brent turned back and stared through the window, beyond the rows of empty seats, toward the front of the courtroom.
Inside the bar two lawyers were arguing to a judge.
“Is that S. Lou Greene in there?” he said, referring to the tall man who stood to the right of the judge’s bench.
His old friend approached the window in the other door. “Yep. That’s Cue Stick himself.”
Preacher had a name for everyone. “How’s he rate?”
He knew the scale. “Okay” meant Preacher had read a newspaper during most of the trial. “Good” was worth his attention about half the time. “Damn good,” he’d sit and listen to every word.
“Good. Don’t take no crap off nobody.”
He recognized the other lawyer, a man from Savannah who, in years past, had done a lot of insurance defense work. Neither of the two judges of the Ogeechee Judicial Circuit were present, just an administrative law judge today who appeared once a month to resolve workers’ compensation claims.
Greene seemed about mid-forties, ramrod-tall, like a pool cue, his noticeably square face made even squarer by tortoiseshell-framed glasses.
His thinning auburn hair hung long and was bundled into a ponytail that draped past the shoulders.
He sported a powder-blue seersucker suit, white pinpoint Oxford shirt, daffodil-yellow tie, and brown-and-white patent-leather shoes.
“Interesting outfit,” he said.
Preacher was still looking in through the window in the other door. “Calls it his Atticus Finch look. Swears when they colorize To Kill a Mockingbird , Peck’s seersucker’ll be blue.”
Brent wore the typical south Georgia lawyers’ work uniform.
Khaki trousers, button-down white shirt, miscellaneous tie, navy-blue blazer, and loafers.
After moving to Atlanta he quickly discovered suits and wing tips were the rule there, so his blue blazer and khaki pants had been relegated to the back of the closet, and penny loafers to the weekends.
He stepped away from the door. “What’s the scoop on Greene?”
“He came here about four years ago. Built up clients fast. All comp cases. Got offices all up and down the Carolina line. Word now between Savannah and Augusta is after an on-the-job-injury, see your doctor first and Greene second.”
“Amazing he could build a practice that fast.”
“You know the program. His clients don’t just walk through the door. He’s got a whole platoon of runners who stay on the lookout. Most of ’em ex-clients. And he spends a fortune on advertising.”
Scattered all along the Georgia–South Carolina border were a sugar-processing plant, a trailer manufacturer, a textile weaver, a carpet yarn plant, lumber companies, three paper mills, a bag plant, a meat-processing facility, a peanut producer, and a concrete plant.
Not to mention hundreds of retail businesses.
All with employees. Fertile grist for a workers’ compensation lawyer’s fee mill.
“What’s Greene pay on a referral?”
“Some of the runners get just $50 to $100. Got a cousin who made a couple thousand on a big one, though.”
“Surprised the state bar hasn’t gotten him. They’d pull his ticket for that.”
Preacher chuckled. “I’m sure Cue Stick’s got it covered. Real clever fellow.”
Greene seemed both comfortable and knowledgeable standing before the judge, the disheveled image not out of character with the specialty of workers’ compensation.
There were no juries to impress, only an administrative law judge who rode circuit hearing appeals in the morning then played golf or tennis in the afternoon with the same lawyers who’d appeared before him that morning.
The system was fueled entirely by greed—that of the insurers for high premiums, defense lawyers for billable hours, plaintiffs’ lawyers for settlements, and employers for convenience.
Skill was not nearly as important as knowledge of the fine print.
It was paper pushing at a highly profitable level.
And though short on physical appearance and courthouse image, careful managers like S. Lou Greene could make a lot of money.
“What you got there today?” Preacher asked.
He gestured to the files he held. “Comp cases for the company.”
Preacher shook his head. “Like watchin’ clothes dry.”
“It pays the bills.”
“You need to get back in front of a jury. You had a talent.”
He smiled. “And it’s good to see you, too, Preacher.”
He pushed through the doors and noticed that the hearing had ended. He walked to the front and introduced himself to Greene, who shook his hand.
“Welcome to the fray,” Greene said.
“It’s good to be back. I think we have four cases together today. Where would you like to start?”
“How about the quickest.”
Greene turned to the administrative judge, a stodgy, salt-and-pepper-haired man who looked half asleep behind the dais.
“Your Honor, Brandon Pabon v. Southern Republic Pulp and Paper was scheduled for hearing today, but Claimant Pabon died Tuesday night of a drug overdose. Which is unfortunate for both Mr. Pabon… and myself.”
12:48 P.M.
H ANK WANTED HIS RELATIONSHIP WITH S . L OU G REENE KEPT private.
Ten years ago, when Brent Walker left for Atlanta, he’d agonized through a couple of tough years, attempting to use some of the other local legal talent.
But none possessed the quickness of mind and innate skill he’d grown accustomed to with Brent.
Greene’s arrival brought an ally with both brains and flamboyance.
He met him one week and they teamed the next, both seemingly understanding the benefits to be derived from some mutual cooperation.
The main office of Greene’s legal network was once the old Concord National Bank.
The Depression claimed that institution a long time ago and another never took its place.
The building fronted First Street, a facade of carved granite that included fluted columns and a set of nasty gargoyles that glared down on everyone who entered.
It stood a full two stories and provided more than enough room for Greene, his two paralegals, three secretaries, and an array of computers used to process the hundreds of workers’ comp claims he regularly maintained.
Hank had checked out of the mill ten minutes ago, noting the usual union business on his time card.
As a local president he was allowed flexibility in dealing with union affairs on company time, federal law even mandated such, but one of the unwritten perks he’d acquired from years of cooperation and confrontation was the privilege to leave the plant virtually unchecked and unquestioned.
He parked behind the office in the rear lot and quickly stepped toward the back door.
Habit forced him to look up. Flying proudly, like every day, the flag gently rustled.
He knew the story. On a vacation through Germany, atop a castle on the Rhine, Greene had spotted a black eagle, talons extended, splashed before a yellow background.
The sight enchanted him, so Greene bought the banner, brought it back, and it soon became tradition to hoist it every time a claim was settled.
For the past five years few days had gone by when it had not flown all day.
Inside, he marched past the row of secretaries and heard a groan.
He knew his visits weren’t popular. Normally he needed some paperwork prepared immediately, which required them to stop what they were doing to accommodate him.
It was a nuisance, but he expected Greene to cater to his demands.
In return, he used contacts at plants all over the area to channel workers’ comp claims this way.
But unlike other runners who shared in the proceeds, he took nothing financially for the effort.
He trudged up the granite stairs and into Greene’s spacious second-floor office. The lawyer was perched behind an oak desk.
“Look what the cat dragged in,” Greene said.
“That any way to say hello to a buddy?”
“My buddy doesn’t come by unless he needs something.”
He sat down. “So nice to be appreciated. Have you had a chance to look those company memos over I brought the other day?”
Greene reached across the messy desk for a clutch of paper. “This is pretty confidential stuff, Hank. Where’d you get it?”
“Somebody with connections.”
On the flash drive Marlene had supplied him had been an array of sales and cost figures.
Most of it useless. Some, though, quite informative.
There were also emails and memos among various departments.
Anything from the three owners themselves was considered the Holy Grail, and Marlene had managed to snag a few.
Especially one.
An email from Hamilton Lee to Southern Republic’s industrial relations manager.