Hurt? Injured? Need a Lawyer? Too Bad!

But when Karen got back to her own house and tried to call her mother, there was no answer. After the night passed with no response, she returned to her mother’s house, in Tyler, and found her collapsed on the floor. She had been there for nine hours, too sick to reach the phone. As soon as Karen helped Sylvia up, thick, grainy blood started pouring out of her nose and mouth. Sylvia Fuller died before the paramedics could arrive.

Because there were many things that just didn’t seem right about that visit to the emergency room, Karen and her brother David Fuller began an investigation. They hired a private pathologist to go over their mother’s medical records, which showed that Sylvia’s cardiac enzymes had been irregular (a sign that often necessitates a hospital stay). Two EKGs revealed an irregular heart rate. No one had mentioned either finding to Karen or her mother at the hospital. In written notes, the ER doctor had suggested that the irregular heartbeat was a side effect of digitalis—a drug Sylvia wasn’t taking. Hospital records also stated that Sylvia had walked out of the emergency room on her own, when in fact she had been discharged, heavily medicated, in a wheelchair. Then David discovered that the pathologist who had conducted the autopsy for the hospital had a checkered history; he had left the Harris County medical examiner’s office under a cloud after jeopardizing at least fifteen homicide investigations because he was practicing without a Texas medical license.

Like Alvin Berry, Sylvia Ann Fuller’s children had never sued anyone before. But they also felt that their mother had been robbed of her life and didn’t want what had happened to her to happen to anyone else. “If the emergency room had been very crowded and they had been overwhelmed, I could even forgive them,” David told me. “But she was the only patient in there.” One employee had been watching TV, Karen had told him. So, with his sister, David began looking for a lawyer.

They saw the first one last December. He explained the realities: The facts of the case looked promising, but because their mother was retired, they would have a hard time getting any lawyer to take the case. It was, essentially, the same story Kelly Reddell had told Alvin Berry: Anyone who didn’t work—the elderly, homemakers, or children—was looking at a cap on noneconomic damages of $250,000. Trying such cases was simply not cost-effective for the lawyer or the client. (“It’s an assault on those who are the most vulnerable,” one plaintiff’s attorney told me. “It’s almost legal malpractice to take those cases.”)

David contacted about fifteen lawyers and was turned down by all of them. One letter explained why: “Unfortunately, many of your legal rights have been taken away by state laws proposed and lobbied for by insurance, HMO, and corporate interests,” the lawyer wrote. “You and your family deserve better from the Texas government.” The lawyer suggested that David contact a citizens’ advocacy group and state officials.

So that’s what he did. He described his mother’s experience in a letter to Governor Rick Perry and received a form letter from someone in the constituent services office. It described Texas’s great success in limiting frivolous lawsuits and reducing medical malpractice rates. “Please let us know if we may assist you in the future,” the letter ended.

The letter made him more determined than ever to find a lawyer. So far, he’s had no luck.

“I THINK IT’S IMPORTANT to set the stage for this discussion by talking about what the civil justice system in Texas was like in the eighties and early nineties,” Dick Trabulsi told me earnestly, during our first meeting. The past was a mirror image of today: Trial lawyers, most of whom were Democrats who were generous with their campaign contributions, had lots of loyal friends in key legislative positions, as well as in the governor’s office and throughout the judiciary, from the Texas Supreme Court down to local district courts. They were skilled in the art of “forum shopping”—filing their cases in friendly counties, particularly in South and East Texas—and styled themselves as defenders of the weak while using their money and power to bend the rules in their favor. “Legalized extortion” is the way former lieutenant governor Bill Ratliff—who, as a state senator, wrote most of the 2003 tort reform law—described the situation to me. “If a really mean trial lawyer had a case in the right courtroom, he would break you. Insurance companies would settle anything for higher and higher amounts rather than go to a stacked court.”

Because venue laws were so loose in Texas, a case with only the most tenuous connection to the state (or the county) could still be tried in that locale, regardless of where the alleged wrongdoing had occurred. (In a seminal case, workers at a Costa Rica banana plantation who claimed to have been injured by a pesticide manufactured by Dow Chemical and Shell Oil outside the state sued in Texas, where Shell was headquartered—and won.)

Public attitudes in those days were more sympathetic to consumers and injured people than to corporate defendants. Texas attorneys made hundreds of millions of dollars in cases involving everything from breast implants (in which the science was debatable) and tobacco (in the celebrated case in which five trial lawyers, including courtroom superstar John O’Quinn, received an arbitrated fee, paid by tobacco companies, of $3.3 billion) to asbestos (in which people who were not sick managed to routinely walk away with very tidy payouts of cash from their former employers). The turning point came in 1987, when famed Houston trial lawyer Joe Jamail allowed himself to be filmed by 60 Minutes as he cozied up to Texas Supreme Court justice Oscar Mauzy and bragged about his $25,000 campaign contributions soon after the court had allowed a $10.5 billion verdict Jamail had won for Pennzoil against Texaco to stand. (“Justice for Sale?” the segment was titled.) The New York Times said that the conduct of Texas’s courts was “reminiscent of what passes for justice in small countries run by colonels in mirrored sunglasses.”

Corporate America fought back, decrying a crisis in litigation. Republicans like Vice President Dan Quayle capitalized on the partisan aspects of the issue by attacking the mostly Democratic trial lawyers in speeches as elitists. Advocacy groups sprang up across the nation—the tobacco industry in one year gave $55 million to the American Tort Reform Association—while the conservative Manhattan Institute asserted, loudly but debatably, that abuses of our legal system were costing Americans $300 billion a year.

It was in this atmosphere, in 1993, that Dick Weekley decided he had had enough. As he would later write with Hugh Rice Kelly in TLR’s monograph, “Template for Reform,” “The Trials controlled the Legislature, and Austin mandarins dismissed attempts at meaningful reform as wishful thinking.” Weekley began to convene meetings of Houston businessmen and community leaders to discuss the problem, and the people who kept coming back were Leo Linbeck, Trabulsi, and Kelly. They formed Texans for Lawsuit Reform, styling themselves as outsiders, refusing to “go along to get along.” To defeat “the most powerful special-interest group in the country,” they knew that they had to match their opponents “in focus, funding, and tenacity.”

IT WAS PROBABLY NOT surprising that the Legislature initially viewed them with derision and contempt—“Dick Weekley is gonna feel like he was f—ed by a bull,” one lobbyist vowed—but they were undaunted. TLR’s chief lobbyist, a former Republican legislator from Houston named Mike Toomey, explained to the group that they would never effect change until they could break up the coalition of Democratic state senators who could prevent tort reform legislation from coming to the floor for a vote. So the group set to work, tattling on legislators who paid lip service to tort reform back home but in Austin remained beholden to the trial lawyers. They raised $600,000 for the 1994 elections and spent about $300,000 on three contests in which novice Republicans were trying to unseat veteran Democrats—and won them all. The new senators TLR helped to elect gave Republicans their first majority in the state Senate in more than a century. Suddenly, the trial lawyers weren’t laughing anymore.

There was a new governor too: George W. Bush, who had defeated Ann Richards, in 1994, by sticking to four issues, one of which was tort reform. (By the time he was reelected, in 1998, TLR and similar groups had given more than $4 million to his two campaigns.) Karl Rove told the Washington Post that once Bush took on the trial lawyers, “Business groups flocked to us.” Enron CEO Ken Lay, an early TLR member, warned the newly elected governor in a letter, “Let me finally say that I believe there are few, if any, issues more important to this state than reforming our tort system. It has become the laughing stock of the country and is certainly discouraging companies from moving offices and plants into Texas. Over time it will encourage many of us with large operations in Texas to entertain moving some of these to other states to attempt to reduce our exposure to what has become an extremely capricious legal system.” (Lay did not mention Enron’s long history of pipeline safety violations.) In February Bush responded by declaring tort reform an emergency issue, overriding a rule that prohibited lawmakers from taking up legislation during the first sixty days of a session.

Still, there were enough Democrats in high places that TLR didn’t get everything it wanted. Lieutenant Governor Bob Bullock, who presided over the Senate, forced TLR and other tort reform groups to sit down with the trial lawyers and negotiate a compromise, which they did, near the end of the 1995 session. Punitive damages were contained; instead of being calculated at four times actual damages, they were reduced to twice that amount, plus an amount equal to noneconomic damages (for pain and suffering), up to $750,000. (“Of course, the punitive damages are not what compensates somebody for their loss,” says Weekley. “It’s just pure money.”) The era of soaking the defendant with the deepest pockets came to an end; in the past, if a jury found that the defendant was more negligent than the plaintiff, that defendant could be held liable for the entire amount of a judgment. After 1995, a defendant was on the hook for only his share of the responsibility, a concept defined by TLR as “proportionate liability.” The effect of this was that if, say, an uninsured  driver who rear-ended a poorly designed car was found to be 40 percent responsible for the resulting explosion, then the injured plaintiff would have to “eat” that 40 percent—the Legislature having chosen to protect the negligent automaker instead of the innocent victim. The rules covering where a case could be tried in Texas were tightened substantially; defendants could be sued only where negligence had occurred or where they were based. While plaintiff’s lawyers howled that victims would have a much harder time winning cases, it was hard to argue with reforms that probably corrected some of the worst abuses of the legal system.

Soon after the session, plaintiff’s attorney Mark Lanier found himself at a fund-raising lunch for a religious right organization, seated next to then—agriculture commissioner Rick Perry.

“What’s this next session gonna do to me?” Lanier asked.

“Hey, don’t worry,” Perry told him. “We’ve gone as far as we need to.”

That, of course, did not turn out to be accurate.

JUST BEFORE HE SIGNED the contract for his house, on New Year’s Day 2002, Brian Zaltsberg looked the KB Home salesman in the eye and gave him a stern warning. “Go ahead and lose the commission if there are going to be problems with the house,” he said. “Because your time will be better spent on someone else. If you screw me, I’m gonna come back on ya.”

The salesman for KB, one of the nation’s largest homebuilders, promised that the house would be just fine. So Brian and his fiancée, Stephanie, signed the contract and, thrilled, became first-time homeowners. They were just two young kids—27 and 23 years old, respectively—without much education or money to throw around. Brian, tall, wiry, and favoring gimme caps, was determined to finish college while he earned a living developing Web sites and repairing computers. Porcelain-skinned Stephanie had finished high school and was looking forward to life as a homemaker and a mom. Brian felt they had bought, for their hard-earned $140,000, a piece of the American dream. “Happy people,” Brian said of his envisioned future, when the three of us met at his favorite Mexican restaurant in Fort Worth. “Dream home and all that.” The 1,800-square-foot one-story brick house, in a sun-scorched suburb on the northwest side of the city, was far from lavish, but to the Zaltsbergs, it was paradise. “We were so damn excited,” Stephanie told me.

But the trouble started even before they moved in. Groundbreaking was delayed, and then construction was erratic. Brian would often find the site littered with trash and once pulled containers from fast-food restaurants from the half-finished walls. But those were small problems compared with the one that took place on moving day. The Zaltsbergs stored many of their belongings in the garage while they set up the house, and as night fell, so did a downpour. Brian stepped outside for a smoke and noticed that water was flowing from inside the garage out into the street. He ran inside and saw water cascading down the walls and pooling on the floor, soaking into everything they had stored there. The Zaltsbergs had paid an extra $2,000 for a drywalled garage; now the Sheetrock was damaged and everything within was ruined.

Every day after that seemed to bring new problems: KB repaired the roof flashing where the leak had occurred but refused to replace the Sheetrock; the attic door stuck, and some of the rafters in the attic had split. Brian could pry bricks out of their mortar on exterior walls, and shingles flipped up in the wind. He asked KB to schedule repairs so that workmen wouldn’t interrupt meetings with clients at his home, but they showed up unannounced. Eventually, Brian demanded a meeting with KB. He was stressed to the max; he wanted KB to buy the house back from him. “I don’t want to live there anymore,” he told them. KB refused. Then Brian threatened KB with the only weapon he had: He would exercise his First Amendment rights and put up a Web site he would call kbhomesucks.com. The representative laughed in his face and told him to go ahead.