“WOLFESON, White. Jesus,” said Joaquin. He hustled around the table in the conference room of the Juntos office in Boyle Heights and adjusted the spacing between the chairs. It was just before ten on Tuesday, the fourteenth of May. Ten days had passed since Mona had served Michael Marvin in front of three hundred people in evening wear. Eight had passed since Wolfeson, White had contacted Mona to say that the BSCA had appointed the firm to defend it against her suit.
“How many people did they say?” said Joaquin.
“They didn’t,” said Mona.
A cloud passed over Joaquin’s face. “Maybe we won’t have enough chairs.”
“I’ve got chairs in my office. So do you. We’ll bring them in if we need them.”
She knew why he was anxious. At first, she had been anxious, too. Neither Mona nor Joaquin had ever encountered Wolfeson, White in court before, but they both knew the firm by its reputation for producing some of the most fearsome litigators in the country. The moment Joaquin had learned who was representing the BSCA, he had tried to persuade Mona to drop the case. He’d stood in the hallway of the poky, cheaply fitted-out Juntos office and moved his hands nonstop, running them through his hair, even clenching them into fists to emphasize how outmatched he felt they were against Wolfeson, White.
“They’ll kill us in court. That’s if the case even makes it to court,” he said now in the conference room, speaking louder than Mona suspected he realized. “Because they’re going to do everything they can to keep it from going to court. You realize that, right?”
Mona said she realized that. She wanted to say more, but Joaquin kept rolling. He was verging on manic.
“Wolfeson, White. Jesus,” he said again. “Don’t they represent Exxon? They probably represent Exxon. And Halliburton. Or Monsanto. Or Big Tobacco. One of those. Maybe all of them. They’re gonna drown us, Mona. Like kittens in a sack. They’ll depose and delay. They’ll request endless documents. They’ll get teams of lawyers to do nothing but draft things that you’ll have to respond to. We’ll have to work insane hours to keep up, and even then it won’t be enough.”
Mona smiled. If there was one thing she knew how to do, it was how to work insane hours. She wasn’t worried about her ability to work.
“It’s not even billable,” said Joaquin. “Who would I bill? There’s no one to bill. So you’ll be costing us. Which means all those hours you put in will be paid for by our donors. Which means it’s a violation of our charter. We’re supposed to help living migrants deal with immigration law. Who’s going to tell our donors we’re spending all their money fighting a wrongful death suit? And what if you lose? What then? What if you lose and we’re ordered to pay costs?”
Mona let him carry on, let him vent, bleed the steam from his pipes. He was a lawyer like she was, and like she had, he had chosen to work for justice not profit; but he was a boss, in charge of running a small not-for-profit with limited resources, of which she was one. She couldn’t blame him for being worried.
Joaquin was now reciting some of the cases that Wolfeson, White had litigated—infamous cases, studied in law schools throughout the country. In one case, Wolfeson, White had successfully defended a billion-dollar building-material company from an asbestos-related class-action suit. In another, it had saved an oil company after one of its supertankers had hit a rock and coated the coastline of British Columbia in a million barrels of Alaskan crude.
Mona interrupted him.
“Can I tell you a story my father likes to tell?” she said. She didn’t wait for an answer. “My father came to LA in 1972. He was seventeen years old. He started working on building sites, first casually, then he got some more permanent gigs. He needed to get around, but he couldn’t afford a car, so he bought a little old Japanese motorcycle for a hundred dollars. After he bought it, he realized he didn’t know how to ride it. So he asked the guy who sold it to him to teach him. The guy said, ‘It’s pretty basic. Wherever you point your head, that’s where you’ll go. So look where you want to go.’ My dad asked the guy what he meant. The guy said, ‘If you see a pothole on the road ahead, don’t look at the pothole. Not unless you want to ride into it. Look at the path you want to follow around the pothole.’”
Joaquin stared at her. “Wolfeson, White makes pretty big potholes. Like, crater-sized,” he said.
Just then they both heard the sound of voices at the front desk.
“So we’ll go around them,” said Mona. “We’ll look for a way to get where we want to go.”
A moment later, Natalie brought in the “five people from BSCA”—they were all men. Hands were shaken, cards handed out. Three of the men were from Wolfeson, White. The fourth was the BSCA’s in-house counsel. The fifth was from the BSCA’s insurer, Chattel House.
The Wolfeson, White contingent was led by a trial lawyer named Morrison Scott. Like almost everyone in the legal profession, Mona had heard of Scott’s fearsome reputation. He was supposed to be a rottweiler, yet meeting him now, Mona thought he looked more like an overfed Labrador. He had the doughy midsection of a man who routinely ignored health warnings. His suit, though obviously expensive, was cut too large, and it billowed on him like a wedding tent untethered by strong wind. His tie had loosened, and Mona could see his top shirt button clamping shut his too-tight collar. His jowls were blotched. His thinning gray hair flared up in unruly wisps. When he smiled, he did so heartily, his neck puffing out of the collar like a cake out of its tin.
Scott introduced his assistants, naming them as Anderson Page and Marshall Wilson III. Mona wondered whether Wolfeson, White only employed white men with last names for first names. The BSCA’s in-house lawyer had a normal first name: Bill McCormack. The fifth man, from Chattel House, also had a normal first name: Lewis Anning. Strictly speaking, he didn’t need to be there, but Mona knew why he had come: he was there to look after Chattel House’s money. That meant preventing a payout if possible, and minimizing it if not. Chattel House, Mona later learned, had a market capitalization of $100 billion.
Everybody sat, except for Mona. In a strong voice, she said, “Thank you for coming. Our first task today is to establish deadlines for discovery. I think I’m speaking for all of us when I say that it’s in the interests of all parties to avoid any unnecessary delays. I know that the Vega family want this to be over as quickly as possible. They’ve suffered enough already.”
Scott looked at her apologetically, like he had something to say but didn’t dare interrupt her. He looked like an old man out of his depth. She almost felt sorry for him.
“Yes, Mr. Scott,” she said.
“I appreciate your sense of urgency, Ms. Jimenez. The death of Ms. Vega is, as you say, a great tribulation for her family. However, the matter that you have filed with the Paradise Superior Court is complicated. It has serious implications. I don’t think it will do to rush through discovery. I think we ought to allow for the full period of discovery permissible under Rule 26.”
Mona said, “Respectfully, three months is the best I will do.”
Bill McCormack gave a snort of disgust. “Yeah, right,” he said.
Morrison Scott silenced him with a look and said, in a voice soft as butter, “Ms. Jimenez, do you feel three months will allow you enough time to address the many complex issues I expect we will encounter in this matter?”
It was a challenge. He was saying, “You think you’ll be able to handle everything we’re going to throw at you in the next ninety days?”
Mona held his gaze. “I believe I will, Mr. Scott.”
“Very well,” said Scott. “Then let us look at the calendar.”
They set an end date for the discovery. They set an end date for amendments. They set an end date for expert-witness disclosures. The two sides agreed easily. Too easily, thought Mona. She began to wonder whether it had been Scott’s intention all along to set a short discovery period.
The meeting came to a close, and Joaquin and Mona walked Morrison Scott and his team to the elevator. While they were waiting for it to arrive, Scott sidled up to Mona and said, “When you have time, you don’t need people. When you have people, you don’t need time.” He stepped into the elevator, gave Mona a big smile, and said, “You, Ms. Jimenez, have neither.”
The doors closed.