John Grisham has a new hero . . . and she’s full of surprises
The year is 2008 and Samantha Kofer’s career at a huge Wall Street law
firm is on the fast track—until the recession hits and she gets
downsized, furloughed, escorted out of the building. Samantha, though,
is one of the “lucky” associates. She’s offered an opportunity to work
at a legal aid clinic for one year without pay, after which there would
be a slim chance that she’d get her old job back.
In a matter of
days Samantha moves from Manhattan to Brady, Virginia, population 2,200,
in the heart of Appalachia, a part of the world she has only read
about. Mattie Wyatt, lifelong Brady resident and head of the town’s
legal aid clinic, is there to teach her how to “help real people with
real problems.” For the first time in her career, Samantha prepares a
lawsuit, sees the inside of an actual courtroom, gets scolded by a
judge, and receives threats from locals who aren’t so thrilled to have a
big-city lawyer in town. And she learns that Brady, like most small
towns, harbors some big secrets.
Her new job takes Samantha into
the murky and dangerous world of coal mining, where laws are often
broken, rules are ignored, regulations are flouted, communities are
divided, and the land itself is under attack from Big Coal. Violence is
always just around the corner, and within weeks Samantha finds herself
engulfed in litigation that turns deadly.
Product Details
Editorial Reviews
Review
“An important new novel . . . Grisham’s work—always
superior entertainment—is evolving into something more serious, more
powerful, more worthy of his exceptional talent.
” —Patrick Anderson,
The Washington Post
“John Grisham makes a powerful closing argument against Big Coal, but the message never obscures
a satisfying, old fashioned, good guy-bad guy legal thriller.” —
Christian Science Monitor
“
Grisham has written one of his best legal dramas in quite some time
with this dive into small-town politics. There's a mystery, but that's a
minor portion of the story. The main thrust that will engage readers is
Samantha Kofer and the cast of characters that help her discover her
passion.” —Associated Press
About the Author
JOHN GRISHAM is the author of twenty-seven novels, one work of
nonfiction, a collection of stories, and four novels for young readers.
www.doubleday.com
www.jgrisham.com
www.facebook.com/JohnGrisham
Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved.
1
The horror was in the waiting--the unknown, the
insomnia, the ulcers. Co-workers ignored each other and hid behind
locked doors. Secretaries and paralegals passed along the rumors and
refused eye contact. Everyone was on edge, wondering, "Who might be
next?" The partners, the big boys, appeared shell-shocked and wanted no
contact with their underlings. They might soon be ordered to slaughter
them.
The gossip was brutal. Ten associates in Litigation
terminated; partially true--only seven. The entire Estate division
closed, partners and all; true. Eight partners in Antitrust jumping to
another firm; false, for now.
The atmosphere was so toxic that
Samantha left the building whenever possible and worked with her laptop
in coffee shops around lower Manhattan. She sat on a park bench one
pleasant day--day ten after the fall of Lehman Brothers--and gazed at
the tall building down the street. It was called 110 Broad, and the top
half was leased by Scully & Pershing, the biggest law firm the world
had ever seen. Her firm, for now, though the future was anything but
certain. Two thousand lawyers in twenty countries, half of them in New
York City alone, a thousand right up there packed together on floors 30
through 65. How many wanted to jump? She couldn't guess, but she wasn't
the only one. The world's largest firm was shrinking in chaos, as were
its competitors. Big Law, as it was known, was just as panicked as the
hedge funds, investment banks, real banks, insurance conglomerates,
Washington, and on down the food chain to the merchants on Main Street.
Day
ten passed without bloodshed, as did the next. On day twelve there was a
flash of optimism as Ben, one of Samantha's colleagues, shared a rumor
that credit markets in London were loosening a bit. Borrowers might find
some cash after all. But late that afternoon the rumor had run out of
gas; nothing to it. And so they waited.
Two partners ran
Commercial Real Estate at Scully & Pershing. One was nearing
retirement age and had already been shoved out. The other was Andy
Grubman, a forty-year-old pencil pusher who'd never seen a courtroom. As
a partner, he had a nice office with a distant view of the Hudson,
water he hadn't noticed in years. On a shelf behind his desk, and
squarely in the center of his Ego Wall, there was a collection of
miniature skyscrapers. "My buildings" he liked to call them. Upon
completion of one of his buildings, he commissioned a sculptor to
replicate it on a smaller scale, and he generously gave an even smaller
trophy to each member of "my team." In her three years at S&P,
Samantha's collection had six buildings, and that was as large as it
would get.
"Have a seat," he ordered as he closed the door.
Samantha sat in a chair next to Ben, who was next to Izabelle. The three
associates studied their feet, waiting. Samantha felt the urge to grab
Ben's hand, like a terrified prisoner facing a firing squad. Andy fell
into his chair, and, avoiding eye contact but desperate to get things
over with, he recapped the mess they were in.
"As you know, Lehman Brothers folded fourteen days ago."
No
kidding, Andy! The financial crisis and credit meltdown had the world
on the brink of a catastrophe and everyone knew it. But then, Andy
rarely had an original thought.
"We have five projects in the
works, all funded by Lehman. I've talked at length with the owners, and
all five are pulling the plug. We had three more in the distance, two
with Lehman, one with Lloyd's, and, well, all credit is frozen. The
bankers are in their bunkers, afraid to loan a dime."
Yes, Andy, we know this too. It's front-page. Just get it over with before we jump.
"The
exec committee met yesterday and made some cuts. Thirty first-year
associates are being let go; some terminated outright, others laid off.
All new hires are deferred indefinitely. Probate is gone. And, well,
there is no easy way to say this, but our entire division is on the
block. Cut. Eliminated. Who knows when owners will start building again,
if ever. The firm is unwilling to keep you on the payroll while the
world waits for loose credit. Hell, we could be headed for a major
depression. This is probably just the first round of cuts. Sorry, guys.
I'm really sorry."
Ben spoke first. "So we're being terminated outright?"
"No.
I fought for you guys, okay? At first they planned to do the pink slip
thing. I don't have to remind you that CRE is the smallest division in
the firm and probably the hardest hit right now. I talked them into
something we're calling a furlough. You'll leave now, come back later,
maybe."
"Maybe?" Samantha asked. Izabelle wiped a tear but kept her composure.
"Yes,
a big fat maybe. Nothing is definite right now, Samantha, okay? We're
all chasing our tails. In six months we could all be at the soup
kitchen. You've seen the old photos from 1929."
Come on, Andy, a
soup kitchen? As a partner, your take-home last year was $2.8 million,
average at S&P, which, by the way, came in fourth in
net-per-partner. And fourth was not good enough, at least it wasn't
until Lehman croaked and Bear Stearns imploded and the sub-prime
mortgage bubble burst. Suddenly, fourth place was looking pretty good,
for some anyway.
"What's a furlough?" Ben asked.
"Here's the deal. The firm keeps you under contract for the next twelve months, but you don't get a paycheck."
"Sweet," Izabelle mumbled.
Ignoring
her, Andy plowed ahead: "You keep your health benefits, but only if you
intern with a qualified nonprofit. HR is putting together a list of
suitable outfits. You go away, do your little do-gooder bit, save the
world, hope like hell the economy bounces back, then in a year or so
you're back with the firm and you don't lose any seniority. You won't be
in CRE but the firm will find a place for you."
"Are our jobs guaranteed when the furlough is over?" Samantha asked.
"No,
nothing is guaranteed. Frankly, no one is smart enough to predict where
we'll be next year. We're in the middle of an election, Europe is going
to hell, the Chinese are freaking out, banks are folding, markets are
crashing, nobody's building or buying. The world's coming to an end."
They
sat for a moment in the gloomy silence of Andy's office, all four
crushed with the reality of the end of the world. Finally, Ben asked,
"You, too, Andy?"
"No, they're transferring me to Tax. Can you
believe it? I hate Tax, but it was either Tax or driving a cab. I got a
master's in taxation, though, so they figured they could spare me."
"Congratulations," Ben said.
"I'm sorry, guys."
"No, I mean it. I'm happy for you."
"I could be gone in a month. Who knows?"
"When do we leave?" Izabelle asked.
"Right
now. The procedure is to sign a furlough agreement, pack up your stuff,
clean off your desk, and hit the street. HR will e-mail you a list of
nonprofits and all the paperwork. Sorry, guys."
"Please stop saying that," Samantha said. "There's nothing you can say that helps matters here."
"True,
but it could be worse. The majority of those in your boat are not being
offered a furlough. They're being fired on the spot."
"I'm sorry, Andy," Samantha said. "There are a lot of emotions right now."
"It's
okay. I understand. You have the right to be angry and upset. Look at
you--all three have Ivy League law degrees and you're being escorted out
of the building like thieves. Laid off like factory workers. It's
awful, just awful. Some of the partners offered to cut their salaries in
half to prevent this."
"I'll bet that was a small group," Ben said.
"It was, yes. Very small, I'm afraid. But the decision has been made."
A
woman in a black suit and a black necktie stood at the quad where
Samantha shared a "space" with three others, including Izabelle. Ben was
just down the hall. The woman tried to smile as she said, "I'm Carmen.
Can I help you?" She was holding an empty cardboard box, blank on all
sides so no one would know it was the official Scully & Pershing
repository for the office junk of those furloughed or fired or whatever.
"No, thanks," Samantha said, and she managed to do so politely.
She could have snapped and been rude, but Carmen was only doing her
job. Samantha began opening drawers and removing all things personal. In
one drawer she had some S&P files and asked, "What about these?"
"They
stay here," Carmen said, watching every move, as if Samantha might
attempt to pilfer some valuable asset. The truth was that everything of
value was stored in the computers--a desktop she used in her space and a
laptop she took almost everywhere. A Scully & Pershing laptop. It,
too, would remain behind. She could access everything from her personal
laptop, but she knew the codes had already been changed.
As if
sleepwalking, she cleaned out the drawers and gently tucked away the six
miniature skyscrapers from her collection, though she thought about
tossing them into the trash can. Izabelle arrived and was given her own
personal cardboard box. All others--associates, secretaries,
paralegals--had suddenly found business elsewhere. Protocol had been
quickly adopted--when someone cleans out a desk, let them do it in
peace. No witnesses, no gawking, no hollow farewells.
Izabelle's
eyes were puffy and red; she had obviously been in the restroom crying.
She whispered, "Call me. Let's have a drink tonight."
"Sure,"
Samantha said. She finished stuffing it all into the box, her briefcase,
and her bulky designer bag, and without looking over her shoulder she
marched behind Carmen down the hallway and to the elevators on the
forty-eighth floor. As they waited, she refused to look around and
absorb it one last time. The door opened and thankfully the elevator was
empty. "I'll carry that," Carmen said, pointing to the box, which was
already increasing in bulk and weight. "No," Samantha said as she
stepped inside. Carmen pushed the button for the lobby. Why, exactly,
was she being escorted out of the building? The longer she pondered the
question the angrier she became. She wanted to cry and she wanted to
lash out, but what she really wanted was to call her mother. The
elevator stopped on the forty-third floor and a well-dressed young man
stepped in. He was holding an identical cardboard box, with a large bag
strapped over his shoulder and a leather briefcase under an arm. He had
the same stunned look of fear and confusion. Samantha had seen him in
the elevator but never met him. What a firm. So mammoth the associates
wore name badges at the dreadful Christmas party. Another security guard
in a black suit stepped in behind him, and when everyone was in place
Carmen again pressed the button for the lobby. Samantha studied the
floor, determined not to speak even if spoken to. On the thirty-ninth
floor, the elevator stopped again, and Mr. Kirk Knight got on board
while studying his cell phone. Once the door closed, he glanced around,
saw the two cardboard boxes, and seemed to gasp as his spine stiffened.
Knight was senior partner in Mergers & Acquisitions and a member of
the executive committee. Suddenly face-to-face with two of his victims,
he swallowed hard and stared at the door. Then he suddenly punched the
button for floor number 28.
Samantha was too numb to insult him.
The other associate had his eyes closed. When the elevator stopped,
Knight hustled off. After the door closed, Samantha remembered the firm
leased floors 30 through 65. Why would Knight make a sudden exit onto
28? Who cared?
Carmen walked her through the lobby and out the
door onto Broad Street. She offered a meek "I'm sorry," but Samantha did
not respond. Laden like a pack mule, she drifted with the foot traffic,
going nowhere in particular. Then she remembered the newspaper photos
of the Lehman and Bear Stearns employees leaving their office buildings
with boxes filled with their stuff, as if the buildings were on fire and
they were fleeing for their lives. In one photo, a large color one on
the front of the Times's section B, a Lehman trader was caught with
tears on her cheeks as she stood helplessly on the sidewalk.
But
those photos were old news now and Samantha did not see any cameras.
She set the box down at the corner of Broad and Wall and waited for a
cab.
2
In a chic SoHo loft that cost her $2,000 a
month, Samantha flung her office crap at the floor and fell onto the
sofa. She clutched her cell phone, but waited. She breathed deeply, eyes
closed, emotions somewhat in check. She needed her mother's voice and
reassurance, but she did not want to sound weak, wounded, and
vulnerable.
The relief came from the sudden realization that she
had just been freed from a job she despised. Tonight at seven she might
be watching a movie or having dinner with friends, not slaving away at
the office with the meter running. This Sunday she could leave the city
with no thoughts whatsoever about Andy Grubman and the pile of paperwork
for his next crucial deal. The FirmFone, a monstrous little gadget that
had been glued to her body for three years now, had been surrendered.
She felt liberated and wonderfully unburdened.
The fear came from
the loss of income and the sudden detour in her career. As a third-year
associate, she was earning $180,000 a year in base salary, plus a nice
bonus. A lot of money, but life in the city had a way of devouring it.
Half evaporated in taxes. She had a savings account, one she
halfheartedly acknowledged. When you're twenty-nine, single, and free in
the city, in a profession where next year's package will exceed this
year's salary plus bonus, why worry too much about saving money? She had
a friend from Columbia Law who'd been at S&P for five years, had
just made junior partner, and would earn about half a million this year.
Samantha had been on that track.
She also had friends who jumped
off the treadmill after twelve months and happily fled the awful world
of Big Law. One was now a ski instructor in Vermont, a former editor of
the Columbia Law Review, a refugee from the bowels of S&P who lived
in a cabin by a stream and rarely answered his cell. In just thirteen
months he had gone from an ambitious young associate to a mildly
deranged idiot who slept at his desk. Just before HR intervened, he
cracked up and left the city. Samantha thought of him often, usually
with a twinge of jealousy.
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