Page 70 of A Dead End Wedding

I jumped at the first screechy word and almost spilled coffee all over my skirt. I looked up at the culprit and tried not to growl. "Hello, Mr. Ellison. Is there a problem, or do you usually lurk in parking lots trying to scare people?" I swung my car door open and stepped out, which made me about half a foot taller than him.

Always take the position of power for the psychological advantage. Lawyer 101.

"I've been waiting for you since six o'clock this morning. Don't think that you don't have to pay me for the past hour and seven minutes just becauseyoudon't have any work ethics, young lady."

I gritted my teeth. The peaceful feeling evaporated. "I think you mean workethic, Mr. Ellison. And please call me December. Or evenboss. Boss would be great, actually."

Subtle didn't really work on Mr. Ellison. "Well, I guess if you only have theoneethic, that's how you say it. I've got lots of ethics. And you'd better give me my own key, so I can get to work while you lollygag around in the morning. Where's the chickie?"

I juggled my briefcase and coffee as I unlocked the office door. "Max. Her name is Max. No girlie, no chickie. Try to keepup with what century you're in, Mr. Ellison. She usually comes in at nine, like me. How about you just come in at nine, when we do?"That way, you can't break anything.

He stomped off toward the file room. "Fine, but you're paying me for this morning. And make a different coffee today. That stuff yesterday gave me the runs."

I made a face at his retreating back. "TMI, Mr. Ellison. TMI."

He stopped at the doorway and turned around. "By the way, your butt looks huge in that skirt,boss."

This whole boss thing isn't all it's cracked up to be.

After a fairly calm morning spent reviewing Charlie's file and refereeing arguments between Mr. Ellison and Max—who was back to normal clothes, thank goodness—my phone rang as I was pondering the vital decision between Wendy's and Taco Bell for lunch. Praying that Mr. Bessup was finally returning our calls and would magically appear and take Ellison off of my hands, I snatched up the receiver. "December Vaughn."

"Ms. Vaughn, this is P. Addison Langley the Third. You can call me Addison." The dulcet tones of Southern charm flowed out of the phone.

"OK, Addison. How can I help you?" Probably selling long-distance services. Perfect telemarketer voice.

"No, it is I who wishes to helpyou, Ms. Vaughn. I understand you filed a notice of appearance in the Deaver case this morning."

I glanced at my watch, surprised. "You've got pretty good information, Addison, because I just filed that about an hour ago, after I talked with my client. Who are you, exactly?"

He laughed. "It's been a very long time since a lawyer in this town—or anywhere in northeast Florida, for that matter—asked me who I am, young lady. Where have you been? I am the managing partner of Langley, Cowan, and Allens."

Ah, Langley, Cowan. NowthatI'd heard of. Langley Cowan was a hundred-year-old white shoe defense firm that represented all the biggest companies in the area, and several from out of state. They'd been co-lead counsel for the defendant manufacturers in the latest round of diet drug litigation, and I'd heard some interesting tales of them butting heads with the New York firm that served as the other co-lead. Not to mention that they were BDC's defense counsel on the Deaver case, although Langley hadn't personally signed the pleadings I'd seen so far.

If this Langley werethatLangley, I was seriously outgunned.

"Ms. Vaughn? Are you still there?" Suddenly his voice didn't sound all that charming to me. More . . .smarmthan charm.

"I'm here, Mr. Langley. What can I do for you?"

"Call me Addison. May I call you December? ItisDecember, isn't it? Curious name."

This from a man namedAddison?

"Well, then, December, as you surely know by now, we are chief outside counsel for BDC Pharmaceuticals and are defending BDC in the insulin cases. Since you're apparently taking over Charles Deaver's case, I thought I'd call you. All in the spirit of cooperation, you understand."

I understood, all right. I'd made similar calls myself, under orders, when I was a baby lawyer. First, you get the solo practitioner or generalist attorney to think you're her friend. Then you quickly offer to settle, before one of the huge plaintiff's firms that operate on the industrial model swoop the plaintiff up in the giant Hoover suction of client solicitation.

Let me back up a minute. The mass tort model was pretty simple, really. The FDA would recall a drug for what they calledAdverse Events, and what the rest of us called reports of serious adverse side effects. Like cancer, or heart disease, or death.

The kind of side effect that could ruin your day.

Then, when the pixels had barely settled from the FDA's internet press release, an elite group of plaintiffs' attorneys from law firms based throughout the country would hop on their private jets and head for a central meeting place. Someplace simple, like the Four Seasons in New York or the Bellagio in Vegas.

These particular plaintiffs' attorneys are really into understatement, you understand.

They'd put an action plan into effect, based on the many, many cases they'd worked together in the past. Quickly draw up teams and designate which did what. Discovery, expert witnesses, medical knowledge, Daubert and other evidentiary challenges to the science. Then they'd drink a few dozen thousand-dollar bottles of wine and head back to their respective states to start the real work: pulling in cases.

There's a fine line between solicitation, which is illegal in most states, and advertising for cases. The line has to do with the directness of the approach. For example, an attorney can't approach aspecificperson known to have aspecificproblem and say, "Hey, I'm a lawyer. Hire me for your case."

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