You want to be Dan Webb. You want Jack Welch calling you when his divorce gets ugly. You want John Reed, a man you’ve never met before, asking you to get to the bottom of how Richard Grasso ended up with nearly $200 million from the New York Stock Exchange. You want former Gov. George Ryan of Illinois reaching out to you when federal prosecutors indict him for fraud and racketeering. You want The New York Times anointing you a “superlawyer”; clients falling over themselves to pay your $700-an-hour fee. It must be great to be Dan Webb.
You want to be Dan Webb? This is how you would have spent most of May. Holed up in Gilmer, Texas, a fleck of a town in East Texas whose claim to fame is its annual Yamboree yam festival. Stepping over two months’ worth of cigarette butts, in blast-furnace heat, on your way to a courtroom squeezed into the building housing the county jail. Dodging rabid pickup trucks as you walk the cracked asphalt to a rented office next to the Tater-Town Barbershop, where you’ll gulp down a lunch of chicken strips. Leaving court at the end of the day and driving 25 miles to the nearest decent motel, across from the Waffle House, to start preparing for tomorrow.
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