Free The Litigators by John Grisham Page A

air. “Stay away from our clients!” he yelled, and everyone followed the voice. It was an amazing sight. David Zinc was near the bus bench, holding a large, jagged piece of metal from the wreckage, waving it near the face of a frightened Vince Gholston, who was backing away.
    “These are our clients!” David said angrily. He looked crazed, and there was no doubt he would use the weapon if necessary.
    Oscar moved next to Wally and said, “That kid may have some potential after all.”
    Wally was watching with great admiration. “Let’s sign him up.”

CHAPTER 8
    W hen Helen Zinc pulled in to the driveway at 418 Preston, the first thing she noticed was not the well-worn exterior of Finley & Figg, Attorneys-at-Law; rather, it was the flashing neon sign next door advertising massages. She turned off the lights and the engine and sat for a moment to gather her thoughts. Her husband was alive and safe; he’d just had “a few drinks,” according to one Wally Figg, a somewhat pleasant man who’d phoned an hour earlier. Mr. Figg was “sitting with her husband,” whatever that meant. The digital clock on the dash gave the time as 8:20, so for almost twelve hours now she had been worrying frantically over his whereabouts and safety. Now that she knew he was alive, she was thinking of ways to kill him.
    She glanced around, taking in the neighborhood, disapproving of everything about it, then got out of her BMW and slowly headed for the door. She had asked Mr. Figg how, exactly, her husband made his way from the tall buildings of downtown Chicago to the blue-collar neighborhood around Preston Avenue. Mr. Figg had said he didn’t have all the details, and it would be best if they talked about it later.
    She opened the front door. A cheap bell rattled. A dog growled at her but made no effort to attack.
    Rochelle Gibson and Oscar Finley were gone. Wally was sitting at the table, clipping obituaries from old newspapers, and dining on a bag of chips and a diet soda. He stood quickly, swiped his hands on his pants, and offered a big smile. “You must be Helen,” he said.
    “I am,” she said, almost flinching as he thrust out a hand to shake.
    “I’m Wally Figg,” he said, already sizing her up. A very nice package. Short auburn hair, hazel eyes behind chic designer frames, five feet eight, slender, well dressed. Wally approved. He then turned and waved an arm in the direction of the cluttered table. Beyond it, against the wall, was an old leather sofa, and on the sofa was David Zinc, dead to the world, comatose again. His right pants leg was torn—a small wound from the car smashup and its aftermath—but other than that he looked quite undisturbed.
    Helen took a few steps over and gave him a look. “Are you sure he’s alive?” she asked.
    “Oh yes, very much so. He got into a scuffle at the car wreck and tore his pants.”
    “A scuffle?”
    “Yep, guy named Gholston, a slimeball across the street, was trying to steal one of our clients after the big wreck, and David here chased him off with a piece of metal. Somehow he tore his pants.”
    Helen, who had endured enough for one day, shook her head.
    “Would you like something to drink? Coffee, water, Scotch?”
    “I don’t drink alcohol,” she said.
    Wally looked at her, looked at David, looked back at her. Must be a strange marriage, he thought.
    “Neither do I,” he said proudly. “There’s fresh coffee. I made a pot for David, and he drank two cups before taking his little nap.”
    “Yes, thank you,” she said.
    They sipped coffee at the table and spoke softly. “The best I can tell,” Wally said, “is that he snapped on the elevator this morning as he was going to work. Cracked up, left the building, and wound up in a bar where he pretty much spent the whole day drinking.”
    “That’s what I gather,” she said. “But how did he get here?”
    “Haven’t got that far yet, but I gotta tell you, Helen, he says he’s not going back, says he wants