Five Past Midnight in Bhopal - Dominique Lapierre [140]
The ambulance chasers had arrived. They had come from New York, Chicago and even California, people such as the celebrated and formidable San Francisco lawyer Melvin Belli, who announced that he was lodging a writ for compensation against Carbide for a mere $15 billion, more than twice the amount of international aid India was to receive that year.
The tragedy made fine pickings for that special breed of American lawyer who lives off other people’s misfortunes and specializes in obtaining damages and compensation for the victims of accidents. The four or five hundred thousand Bhopalis affected by the multinational’s disaster represented tens, possibly even hundreds, of millions of dollars in various claims for compensation. Under American law, lawyers could collect almost a third of that sum in professional fees, a colossal bounty that transformed the office of Bhopal’s mayor and that of the chief minister into battlegrounds for vested interests. Like big game hunters, the Americans fought over clients in the various neighborhoods. The Kali Grounds bustees fell to the representative of a New York law firm. Chaperoned by Omar Pasha, accompanied by an escort of Indian associates and two interpreters, forty-two-year-old lawyer Frank Davolta Jr., a half-bald colossus of a man, entered Orya Bustee in a swarm of policemen and reporters. The escorts took up their position around the wobbly teahouse tables. Aides brought baskets full of snacks, sweets and bottles of Campa Cola for the American to hand out. After the horror of the last few days, Orya Bustee was rediscovering an occasion for celebration.
When the first survivors appeared, the American had difficulty in repressing a feeling of nausea. Many of them were blind, others dragged themselves along on sticks or lay sprawled out on stretchers. They all gathered in a semicircle on the sisal mats that had been used for Padmini’s wedding feast. The lawyer looked up with incredulity at the source of all this horror. In the winter sunshine, the Carbide plant stood glinting at a stone’s throw like one of Calder’s mobiles.
Ganga Ram surveyed the sahib with suspicion. This was the first American ever to come into Orya Bustee. Why was he there? What did he want? Was he some envoy from Carbide come to convey the company’s apologies? Was he the representative of some sect or religion wanting to say prayers for the dead and those who had survived? It would not be long before the survivors learned the purpose of his visit.
The American lawyer stood up. “Dear friends,” he said warmly. “I’ve come from America to help you. The gas killed people who were dear to you. It ruined the health of those close to you forever, possibly yours, too.” He pointed to the factory on the other side of the parade ground. “The Union Carbide company owes you reparation. If you agree to entrust the defense of your interests to me, I will fight for you to receive the highest possible compensation in my country’s courts.” The lawyer paused to allow his interpreters to translate his words into Hindi, then into Urdu and Orya.
A turbaned man wagged his head, relishing every word. Not for anything in the world would Pulpul Singh have missed this event. He was already contriving ways of diverting this prospective manna into his safe.
Yet the American was surprised at what little reaction his proposal seemed to engender. The faces before him remained set, as if paralyzed. Omar Pasha tried to reassure him, “Be patient, the gas damaged many of the survivors’ mental faculties.” This explanation further engaged the lawyer’s interest. He decided to question some of the victims. He wanted them to tell him about the dreadful night, to describe the suffering to him. He invited everyone to talk about those they had lost. Sheela Nadar, Iqbal, Dalima and Ganga Ram spoke in turn. Suddenly the ice was broken. Calamity found a face and a voice. Frank Davolta took notes and photographs. He felt his file taking shape, assuming a life, gaining