Judge Landis turns his tired eyes to me. “Mr. Riley?”
I’m annoyed for two reasons. First, my head is still killing me from being jumped last night. Second, I shouldn’t have to be here. I supervise all litigation involving Harland Bentley’s companies, but I don’t oversee the day-to-day work on these cases. That job belongs to the partners who work under me at my firm. But whenever trial judges call a settlement conference, as Judge Landis has today, they want the “trial attorneys” present, meaning the lead lawyers on each side. So here I am.
Make it three reasons I’m annoyed, because the wound to my pride is almost as bad as the one to my skull. I still can’t believe I got snookered by that lady last night. She batted her eyes at me and my defenses evaporated.
“Oh, I’d be very interested in how Mr. Riley spins this,” says Jeremy Larrabee. Jeremy and I have history, not a particularly amicable one, but I always get a kick out of him. Always wearing his emotions on his sleeve, still with the sixties-era ponytail, the acne scarred skin and deep-set eyes, the bright wardrobe. Today, it’s a lemon yellow shirt, wild purple tie, and chocolate sport coat.
“She was fired because she took two-hour lunches,” I say. “And because she only showered about once a week. We’re not offering a dime.”
Larrabee’s jaw clenches. A vein shows itself above his bushy eyebrows. He’s past sixty now, and, from what I hear, has all but abandoned criminal defense. In fact, I don’t think it was long after he lost the Burgos case that he gave up the practice. Now he’s a plaintiff’s lawyer, working on some civil rights stuff that suits him, and, these days, spending much of his time suing Bentley Bearings, one of the subsidiaries for Harland Bentley’s holding company, BentleyCo. He has no fewer than eleven suits filed against us currently. So far, we haven’t offered anything on any of the cases. He is building up fees and expenses on these cases and looking for seed money-a settlement of at least one of these claims to pay for the prosecution of the other ones.
“I think it might be helpful if I spoke to each of you separately,” says the judge. “Starting with Mr. Riley.”
A common tactic in a pretrial conference-the judge talks to each side separately, trying to scare each party into thinking their case is garbage and they better settle but quick. Judges always try to settle cases to clear their dockets. The last thing Judge Landis wants to hear is a motion for class certification on a bullshit case like this.
Jeremy stands tentatively and looks at me. “Mr. Riley,” he says, and walks out.
I put my head in my hands as the door closes, and it’s me and the judge.
“I noticed a nasty bruise on the back of your head,” the judge says. “Your hand has seen better days, too.”
“You shoulda seen the other guy.”
“How is the governor’s daughter these days?”
He means Shelly. I look up at him and don’t say anything, but my expression betrays me.
“Ah, too bad.” He settles back in his leather chair. “I liked her. She had a real-spirit.”
“That she did.”
“Her loss. Hmm. I see you have Senator Almundo in the Public Trust indictments. Are the screws pretty tight?”
“Any tighter,” I say, “he’d explode.”
“Well, if anyone can pull a rabbit out of a hat…” The judge nods at the door. “Interesting that Larrabee’s suing Harland Bentley’s company. I mean, with the history.” He shakes his head, like he doesn’t know what to make of it. “Some kind of grudge or something? ”
I shrug. “His client killed Harland’s daughter. What would he have against Harland?”
Judge Landis drums his fingers conclusively on his desk. He doesn’t know, either. How could anyone understand the erratic mind of Jeremy Larrabee? “Now, Paul, about this case-”
“Not a dime, Danny,” I say. “Larrabee’s a cockroach. We throw him a crumb and he multiplies.”
The judge drops his hands on his massive desk. His chambers are an homage to the hunter. The floor is covered with bearskin and the walls are adorned with various beheaded animals. I’m no hunter, but I’ve played a few rounds of golf with the Honorable Daniel Landis. The only thing I’ve seen him hunt for is a Titleist that he sliced into the woods.
He massages his prominent forehead and then wags a finger at me. “You’re going to give him nuisance money,” he says.
“We’ll give his client a year’s worth of soap,” I say.
The judge’s shoulders tremble as he laughs.
“And we’ll strap a feedbag to her face.”
“Stop.” The judge’s face is red as a beet, a smile planted on his face. He catches his breath. “Ten thousand,” he says. “Your billionaire client spends that on dinner. And the woman gets reinstated.”
“Ten thousand what?” I say. “Ten thousand nose plugs for the people who have to work around her?”
Danny likes that one even better. His laughter turns to a cough and he waves me out. His face a bright red, he holds up ten fingers as I close the door to the judge’s chambers.
Jeremy Larrabee is sitting in the empty courtroom, talking on his cell phone. He seems surprised to see me. “Already?” he asks, punching out the cell phone. He needs some work on his poker face. He was hoping for something, anything, from me, and the fact that I spent about sixty seconds in there gives him the answer. I pick up my jacket and briefcase.
“You’re leaving?” he asks.
“I am.” I try to show lawyers every courtesy, but this guy is trying to play one of Harland’s companies and his cases are bogus. He needs to see how little I care about him.
“Give the judge a minute,” I say. “He’s still in tears over the plight of your client.”
“I’m going to get that class certified,” he answers. “Then we’ll talk.”
There is no chance that Danny Landis is going to allow a class action on this case. Jeremy should know that. A good lawyer knows the law. But a great lawyer knows the judge.
“Jeremy.” I step closer to him. “Do yourself a favor and pick another company. We won’t settle a single one of these. That’s eleven trials and you’ll lose them all. That’s a guarantee. Make a good business decision.”
I rethink the judge’s question, why Jeremy would pick Harland’s company to go after. Is he looking for a rematch with me? I’ve wondered that since the first suit was filed, but I’d never ask him. He wouldn’t admit it, anyway.
I walk away but he calls out to me: “Cost of litigation.”
The three-word mantra of any desperate plaintiff’s lawyer. It will cost you a hundred grand to litigate this case, so give me eighty and we’re all winners. Sure, Larrabee’s right that it will cost Harland Bentley over a hundred thousand to take this case through trial. That’s what this parasite is counting on, that companies will forgo principle and pay out some cash just to save money on the defense of the case. They aren’t counting on Harland Bentley. Or me.
“Five thousand,” I say, remembering what the judge asked but cutting it in half.
“Five thousand isn’t even close,” Larrabee says. “Her lost wages alone-”
“I meant for all eleven cases.” I push the door open and leave the courtroom.