No hands. No movement. Nothing but a bunch of people who are quickly getting angry.
He shifts weight from one foot to the next, rubs his chin and zeroes in on Billy Porter.
“Mr. Porter,” he says in a deep voice, and Billy feels zapped. He bolts upright, nods. His cheeks turn red.
“Mr. Porter, I’m going to ask you a direct question. I’d appreciate an honest response.”
“You ask an honest question and I’ll give you an honest answer,” Porter says angrily. This is a guy with a short fuse. Frankly, I’d leave him alone.
Drummond is stopped for a second, then plunges onward. “Yes, now, Mr. Porter, did you or did you not have a phone conversation last night with Mr. Rudy Baylor?”
I stand, spread my arms, look blankly at Drummond as if I’m completely innocent and he’s lost his mind, but say nothing.
“Hell no,” Porter says, the cheeks getting redder.
Drummond leans on the railing, both hands clutching the thick mahogany bar. He stares down at Billy Porter, who’s on the front row, less than five feet away.
“Are you sure, Mr. Porter?” he demands.
“I damned sure am!”
“I think you did,” Drummond says, out of control now and over the edge. Before I can object and before Kipler can call him down, Mr. Billy Porter charges from his seat and pounces on the great Leo F. Drummond.
“Don’t call me a liar, you sonofabitch!” Porter screams as he grabs Drummond by the throat. Drummond falls over the railing, his tassled loafers flipping through the air. Women scream. Jurors jump from their seats. Porter is on top of Drummond, who’s grappling and wrestling and kicking and trying to land a punch or two.
T. Pierce Morehouse and M. Alec Plunk Junior dash from their seats and arrive at the melee first. The others follow. The bailiff is quick on the scene. Two of the male jurors try to break it up.
I stay in my seat, thoroughly enjoying the thrashing. Kipler makes it to the bar about the time Porter is pulled off and Drummond gets to his feet and the combatants are safely separated. A tassled loafer is found under the second bench, and returned to Leo, who’s brushing himself off while keeping a wary eye on Porter. Porter is restrained and settling down quickly.
The jury consultants are shocked. Their computer models are blown. Their fancy theories are out the window. They are utterly useless at this point.
After a short recess, Drummond makes a formal motion to dismiss the entire panel. Kipler declines.
Mr. Billy Porter is excused from jury duty, and leaves in a huff. I think he wanted some more of Drummond. I hope he waits outside to finish him off.
The early afternoon is spent in chambers going through the tedious process of picking jurors. Drummond and his gang firmly avoid any of the people Deck and I mentioned on the phone last night. They’re convinced we somehow got to these folks, and somehow persuaded them to remain quiet. They’re so bitter they will not look at me.
The result is a jury of my dreams. Six black females, all mothers. Two black males, one a college graduate, one a disabled former truck driver. Three white males, two of whom are union workers. The other lives about four blocks from the Blacks. One white female, the wife of a prominent realtor. I couldn’t avoid her, and I’m not worried. It takes only nine of the twelve to agree on a verdict.
Kipler seats them at 4 p.m., and they take their oaths. He explains that the trial will start in a week. They are not to talk about the case with anyone. He then does something that at first terrifies me, but on second thought is a wonderful idea. He asks both attorneys, me and Drummond, if we’d like to make a few comments to the jury, off the record and informal. Just tell a little about your case. Nothing fancy.
I, of course, was not expecting this, primarily because it’s unheard of. Nonetheless, I shake off my fear, and stand before the jury box. I tell them a little about Donny Ray, about the policy and why we think Great Benefit is wrong. In five minutes I’m finished.
Drummond walks to the box, and a blind person could see the distrust he’s created with the jury. He apologizes for the incident, but stupidly blames most of it on Porter. What an ego. He talks about his version of the facts, says he’s sorry about Donny Ray’s death, but to suggest his client is responsible is ludicrous.
I watch his team and the boys from Great Benefit, and it’s a scared bunch. They have a rotten set of facts. They have a plaintiff’s jury. The judge is an enemy. And their star not only lost all credibility with the jury but got his ass whipped as well.
Kipler adjourns us, and the jury goes home.
Forty-three
Six days after we pick the jury and four days before the trial begins, Deck takes a call at the office from a lawyer in Cleveland who wants to speak with me. I’m immediately suspicious because I don’t know a single lawyer in Cleveland, and I chat with the guy just long enough to get his name. Takes about ten seconds, then I gently cut him off in mid-sentence and go through a little routine as if we’ve somehow been disconnected. It’s been happening all the time lately, I tell Deck loud enough to be recorded in the receiver. We take the three office phones off the hook, and I run to the street where the Volvo is parked. Butch has checked my car phone and it appears remarkably free of bugging devices. Using directory assistance, I call the lawyer in Cleveland.
It turns out to be an immensely important phone call. His name is Peter Corsa. His speciality is labor law and employment discrimination of all types, and he represents a young lady by the name of Jackie Lemancyzk. She found her way to his office after she was suddenly fired from Great Benefit for no apparent reason, and together they plan to seek redress for a multitude of grievances. Contrary to what I’d been told, Ms. Lemancyzk has not left Cleveland. She’s in a new apartment with an unlisted phone.
I explain to Corsa that we’ve made dozens of phone calls to the Cleveland area, but haven’t found a trace of Jackie Lemancyzk. I was told by one of the corporate boys, Richard Pellrod, that she’d returned to her home somewhere in southern Indiana.
Not true, says Corsa. She never left Cleveland, though she has been hiding.
It evolves into a wonderfully juicy story, and Corsa spares no details.
His client was sexually involved with several of her bosses at Great Benefit. He assures me she’s very attractive. Her promotions and pay were given or denied based on her willingness to hop into bed. At one point she was a senior claims examiner, the only female to reach that position, but got herself demoted when she broke off an affair with the VP of Claims, Everett Lufkin, who appears to be nothing more than a weasel but has a fondness for kinky sex.
I concur that he appears to be nothing more than a weasel. I had him in deposition for four hours, and I’ll assault him next week on the witness stand.
Their lawsuit will be for sexual harassment and other actionable practices, but she also knows a lot about Great Benefit’s dirty laundry in the claims department. She was sleeping with the VP of Claims! Lots of lawsuits are coming, he predicts.
I finally pop the big question. “Will she come testify?”
He doesn’t know. Maybe. But she’s scared. These are nasty people with lots of money. She’s in therapy now, really fragile.
He agrees to allow me to talk to her by phone, and we make arrangements for a late night call from my apartment. I explain that it’s not a good idea to call me at the office.
It’s impossible to think about anything but the trial. When Deck’s not at the office, I pace around talking to myself, telling the jury how truly awful Great Benefit is, cross-examining their people, delicately questioning Dot and Ron and Dr. Kord, pleading with the jury in a rather spellbinding closing argument. It is still difficult to ask the jury for ten million in punitive and keep a straight face. Perhaps if I were fifty years old and had tried hundreds of cases and knew what the hell I was doing, then maybe I would have the right to ask a jury for ten million. But for a rookie nine months out of school it seems ridiculous.