Sara Plankmore is also a third-year law student, and she’s the only girl I’ve ever loved. She dumped me four months ago for an Ivy Leaguer, a local blueblood. She told me they were old friends from high school, and they somehow bumped into each other during Christmas break. The romance was rekindled, and she hated to do it to me, but life goes on. There’s a strong rumor floating around these halls that she’s pregnant. I actually vomited when I first heard about it.
I examine the Blacks’ policy with Great Benefit, and take pages of notes. It reads like Sanskrit. I organize the letters and claim forms and medical reports. Sara has disappeared for the moment, and I’ve become lost in a disputed insurance claim that stinks more and more.
The policy was purchased for eighteen dollars a week from the Great Benefit Life Insurance Company of Cleveland, Ohio. I study the debit book, a little journal used to record the weekly payments. It appears as though the agent, one Bobby Ott, actually visited the Blacks every week.
My little table is covered with neat stacks of papers, and I read everything Dot gave me. I keep thinking about Max Leuberg, the visiting Communist professor, and his passionate hatred of insurance companies. They rule our country, he said over and over. They control the banking industry. They own the real estate. They catch a virus and Wall Street has diarrhea for a week. And when interest rates fall and their investment earnings plummet, then they run to Congress and demand tort reform. Lawsuits are killing us, they scream. Those filthy trial lawyers are filing frivolous lawsuits and convincing ignorant juries to dole out huge awards, and we’ve got to stop it or we’ll go broke. Leuberg would get so angry he’d throw books at the wall. We loved him.
And he’s still teaching here. I think he goes back to Wisconsin at the end of this semester, and if I find the courage I just might ask him to review the Black case against Great Benefit. He claims he’s assisted in several landmark bad-faith cases up north in which juries returned huge punitive awards against insurers.
I begin writing a summary of the case. I start with the date the policy was issued, then chronologically list each significant event. Great Benefit, in writing, denied coverage eight times. The eighth was, of course, the Stupid Letter. I can hear Max Leuberg whistling and laughing when he reads this letter. I smell blood.
I hope Professor Leuberg smells it too. I find his office tucked away between two storage rooms on the third floor of the law school. The door is covered with flyers for gay rights marches and boycotts and endangered species rallies, the sorts of causes that draw little interest in Memphis. It’s half open, and I hear him barking into the phone. I hold my breath, and knock lightly.
“Come in!” he shouts, and I slowly ease through the door. He waves at the only chair. It’s filled with books and files and magazines. The entire office is a landfill. Clutter, debris, newspapers, bottles. The bookshelves bulge and sag. Graffiti posters cover the walls. Odd scraps of paper lay like puddles on the floor. Time and organization mean nothing to Max Leuberg.
He’s a thin, short man of sixty with wild, bushy hair the color of straw and hands that are never still. He wears faded jeans, environmentally provocative sweatshirts and old sneakers. If it’s cold, he’ll sometimes wear socks. He’s so damned hyper he makes me nervous.
He slams the phone down. “Baker!”
“Baylor. Rudy Baylor. Insurance, last semester.”
“Sure! Sure! I remember. Have a seat.” He waves again at the chair.
“No thanks.”
He squirms and shuffles a stack of papers on his desk. “So what’s up, Baylor?” Max is adored by the students because he always takes time to listen.
“Well, uh, have you got a minute?” I would normally be more formal and say “Sir” or something like that, but Max hates formalities. He insisted we call him Max.
“Yeah, sure. What’s on your mind?”
“Well, I’m taking a class under Professor Smoot,” I explain, then go on with a quick summary of my visit to the geezers’ lunch and of Dot and Buddy and their fight with Great Benefit. He seems to hang on every word.
“Have you ever heard of Great Benefit?” I ask.
“Yeah. It’s a big outfit that sells a lot of cheap insurance to rural whites and blacks. Very sleazy.”
“I’ve never heard of them.”
“You wouldn’t. They don’t advertise. Their agents knock on doors and collect premiums each week. We’re talking about the scratch-and-sniff armpit of the industry. Let me see the policy.”
I hand it to him, and he flips pages. “What are their grounds for denial?” he asks without looking at me.
“Everything. First they denied just on principal. Then they said leukemia wasn’t covered. Then they said the leukemia was a preexisting condition. Then they said the kid was an adult and thus not covered under his parents’ policy. They’ve been quite creative, actually.”
“Were all the premiums paid?”
“According to Mrs. Black they were.”
“The bastards.” He flips more pages, smiling wickedly. Max loves this. “And you’ve reviewed the entire file?”
“Yeah. I’ve read everything the client gave me.”
He tosses the policy onto the desk. “Definitely worth looking into,” he says. “But keep in mind the client rarely gives you everything up front.” I hand him the Stupid Letter. As he reads it, another nasty little smile breaks across his face. He reads it again, and finally glances at me. “Incredible.”
“I thought so too,” I add like a veteran watchdog of the insurance industry.
“Where’s the rest of the file?” he asks.
I place the entire pile of papers on his desk. “This is everything Mrs. Black gave me. She said her son is dying because they can’t afford treatment. Said he weighs a hundred and ten pounds, and won’t live long.”
His hands become still. “Bastards,” he says again, almost to himself. “Stinkin’ bastards.”
I agree completely, but say nothing. I notice another pair of sneakers parked in a corner — very old Nikes. He explained to us in class that he at one time wore Converse, but is now boycotting the company because of a recycling policy. He wages his own personal little war against corporate America, and buys nothing if the manufacturer has in the slightest way miffed him. He refuses to insure his life, health or assets, but rumor has it his family is wealthy and thus he can afford to venture about uninsured. I, on the other hand, for obvious reasons, live in the world of the uninsured.
Most of my professors are stuffy academics who wear ties to class and lecture with their coats buttoned. Max hasn’t worn a tie in decades. And he doesn’t lecture. He performs. I hate to see him leave this place.
His hands jump back to life again. “I’d like to review this tonight,” he says without looking at me.
“No problem. Can I stop by in the morning?”
“Sure. Anytime.”
His phone rings and he snatches it up. I smile and back through the door with a great deal of relief. I’ll meet with him in the morning, listen to his advice, then type a two-page report to the Blacks in which I’ll repeat whatever he tells me.
Now, if I can only find some bright soul to do the research for Miss Birdie. I have a few prospects, a couple of tax professors, and I might try them tomorrow. I walk down the stairs and enter the student lounge next to the library. It’s the only place in the building where smoking is permitted, and a permanent blue fog hangs just below the lights. There is one television and an assortment of abused sofas and chairs. Class pictures adorn the walls — framed collections of studious faces long ago sent into the trenches of legal warfare. When the room is empty, I often stare at these, my predecessors, and wonder how many have been disbarred and how many wish they’d never seen this place and how few actually enjoy suing and defending. One wall is reserved for notices and bulletins and want-ads of an amazing variety, and behind it is a row of soft-drink and food dispensers. I partake of many meals here. Machine food is underrated.