“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 Paperwas scheduled for hearing today, but Claimant Pabon died Tuesday night of a drug overdose. Which is unfortunate for both Mr. Pabon… and myself.”
12:48P.M.
HANK WANTED HIS RELATIONSHIP WITHS.LOUGREENE KEPTprivate. 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 façade 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, andan 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 usualunion businesson 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.”
