Free The Litigators by John Grisham

What’s his name?”
    “AC.”
    “AC. All right. Help me out here. What does AC stand for?”
    “Ambulance Chaser.”
    “I like it. I really, really like it. Does he bite?”
    “Don’t touch him.”
    The two partners had moved quietly into view. They were standing in the door of Oscar’s office. Rochelle gave them a nervous look.
    “This is where I want to work,” David repeated. “I need a job.”
    “Are you a lawyer?” Wally asked.
    “Are you Figg or Finley?”
    “I’m Figg. He’s Finley. Are you a lawyer?”
    “I think so. As of eight o’clock this morning I was employed by Rogan Rothberg, one of six hundred. But I quit, snapped, cracked up, went to a bar. It’s been a long day.” David leaned against the wall to steady himself.
    “What makes you think we’re looking for an associate?” Oscar asked.
    “Associate? I was thinking more in terms of coming straight in as a partner,” David said, then doubled over in laughter. No one else cracked a smile. They were not sure what to do, but Wally would later confess he thought about calling the police.
    When the laughing stopped, David steadied himself again and repeated, “I love this place.”
    “Why are you leaving the big firm?” Wally asked.
    “Oh, lots of reasons. Let’s just say I hate the work, hate the people I work with, and hate the clients.”
    “You’ll fit in here,” Rochelle said.
    “We’re not hiring,” Oscar said.
    “Oh, come on. I went to Harvard Law School. I’ll work part-time—fifty hours a week, half of what I’ve been working. Get it? Part-time?” He laughed again, alone.
    “Sorry, pal,” Wally said dismissively.
    Not too far away, a driver hit the horn, a long frantic sound that could only end badly. Another driver slammed his brakes violently. Another horn, more brakes, and for a long second the firm of Finley & Figg held its collective breath. The crash that followed was thunderous, more impressive than most, and it was obvious that several cars had just mangled themselves at the intersection of Preston, Beech, and Thirty-eighth. Oscar grabbed his overcoat. Rochelle grabbed her sweater. They followed Wally out the front door, leaving the drunk behind to take care of himself.
    Along Preston, other offices emptied as lawyers and their clerks and paralegals raced to inspect the mayhem and offer solace to the injured.
    The pileup involved at least four cars, all damaged and scattered. One was lying on its roof, tires still spinning. There were screams amid the panic and sirens in the distance. Wally ran to a badly crumpled Ford. The front passenger door had been torn off, and a teenage girl was trying to get out. She was dazed and covered in blood. He took her arm and led her away from the wreckage. Rochelle helped as they sat the girl on a nearby bus bench. Wally returned to the carnage in search of other clients. Oscar had already found an eyewitness, someone who could help place blame and thus attract clients. Finley & Figg knew how to work a wreck.
    The teenager’s mother had been in the rear seat, and Wally helped her too. He walked her to the bus bench and into the waiting arms of Rochelle. Vince Gholston, their rival from across the street, appeared, and Wally saw him. “Stay away, Gholston,” he barked. “These are our clients now.”
    “No way, Figg. They’re not signed up.”
    “Stay away, asshole.”
    A crowd grew quickly as onlookers rushed to the scene. Traffic was not moving, and many drivers got out of their cars to take a look. Someone yelled, “I smell gas!” which immediately increased the panic. A Toyota was upside down, and its occupants were trying desperately to get out. A large man with boots kicked at a window but couldnot break it. People were yelling, screaming. The sirens were getting closer. Wally was circling a Buick whose driver appeared to be unconscious. Oscar was handing out business cards to everyone.
    In the midst of this mayhem, a young man’s voice boomed through the