One-third of $400,000 was a gigantic fee for a hungry young lawyer, but the money had vanished. Bannick complained to the judge, who was not sympathetic. He thought about suing Schnetzer but decided against it for three reasons. The first was that he was afraid to tangle with the crook. The second was that he doubted he would ever see a dime. And the third, and most important, was that he didn’t want the embarrassment of a public lawsuit in which he played the role of a green lawyer who got duped by an ambulance chaser. There was enough humiliation already as the story made the rounds in the courthouses.
So he added Mal Schnetzer to his list.
To his delight, Mal eventually fleeced some more clients, got caught, indicted, convicted, disbarred, and sent to prison for two years. When he was released, he drifted to Jacksonville where he hustled cases for a gang of billboard lawyers. He made a few bucks and was brazen enough to set up a small law office at Jacksonville Beach, where he settled car wrecks without the benefit of any bar membership. When he was accused of practicing law without a license, he closed up shop and left the state.
Bannick watched him and tracked his movements.
Years passed and he surfaced in Atlanta where he worked in the back room as a paralegal for some divorce lawyers. In 2009, Bannick found him in Houston working as a “consultant” for a well-known tort firm.
* * *
—
Two months earlier, Bannick had rented a furnished eighty-foot unit in a high-end trailer park just outside Sugar Land, half an hour from downtown Houston. It was a massive place with eight hundred identical white trailers parked in long neat rows with wide streets. The rules were strict and enforced: only two vehicles per trailer, no boats or motorcycles, no laundry hanging from lines, no yard signs, no excessive noise. The small neat lawns were maintained by management. All lawn chairs, bikes, and barbecue grills were stored in identical sheds behind the trailers. He had been there twice and, though he had never dreamed of living in a trailer, found it relaxing. No one within a thousand miles knew who he was or what he was doing.
After a quick nap, he drove down the street to a big-box discount store and paid $58 in cash for a Nokia burner phone with a prepaid SIM card good for seventy-five minutes. Since no contract was involved, the clerk didn’t ask for personal information. If he had, there was an entire collection of fake driver’s licenses ready in the wallet. Sometimes they wanted ID, but usually they didn’t care. He had bought so many burners and tossed them all away.
Back at the trailer, he called the law firm late Friday afternoon and asked for Mal Schnetzer, who was gone for the day and the weekend. He explained to the secretary that it was urgent and he needed to speak with him. The secretary, obviously well trained by her bosses, pried a bit and was told that the case involved a young man who had been badly burned on an offshore oil rig, one owned by ExxonMobil. She offered to find another lawyer in the firm, but Mr. Butler said no, he had been referred by a friend and told that Mr. Schnetzer was the man to talk to.
Ten minutes later, his cheap phone buzzed and there was the voice he recognized. He raised his an octave and tried to sound somewhat squeakier. “My son is in the hospital in Lake Charles with burns over eighty percent of his body. It’s just awful, Mr. Snitcher.”
“It’s Schnetzer, by the way.” Still an ass. “And this happened on a rig, right?” Every injury on an offshore platform was covered by the Jones Act, a lawyer’s bonanza.
“Yes, sir. Three days ago. I’m not sure he’s gonna make it. I’m trying to get over there but I’m disabled and can’t drive right now.”
“And you’re down in Sugar Land, right?”
“Yes, sir. And I got lawyers callin’ right and left, buggin’ the hell out of me.”
“Not surprised to hear that.”
“I just hung up on one.”
“Don’t talk to them. How old is your son?”
“Nineteen. He’s a good boy, works hard, supports me and his mom. Still single. He’s all we got, Mr. Schnetzer.”
“I see. So you can’t drive over here to the office.”
“No, sir. If my wife was here she could drive me, but she’s comin’ in from Kansas. That’s where we’re from. We need to get to the hospital. I don’t know what to do, sir. We need your help.”
“Okay. Look, I can be there in about an hour, if that’ll work.”
“You can come here?”
“Yep, I think I can work in a quick trip over.”
“That’d be great, Mr. Schnetzer. We gotta have someone to help us.”