But I ask them anyway. I ask them at the office, in my car and especially in my apartment, often at two in the morning when I can’t sleep. I talk to these people, these twelve faces I can now put with names, these wonderfully fair folks who listen to me and nod and can’t wait to get back there and dispense justice.
I’m about to strike gold, to destroy Great Benefit in open court, and I struggle every hour to control these thoughts. Damn, it’s hard. The facts, the jury, the judge, the frightened lawyers on the other side. It’s adding up to a lot of money.
Something has got to go wrong.
I talk to Jackie Lemancyzk for an hour. At times she sounds strong and forceful, at times she can barely hold it together. She didn’t want to sleep with these men, she keeps saying, but it was the only way to advance. She’s divorced with a couple of kids.
She agrees to come to Memphis. I offer to fly her down and cover her expenses, and I’m able to convey this with the calm assurance that my firm has plenty of money. She makes me promise that if she testifies, it has to be a complete surprise to Great Benefit.
She’s scared to death of them. I think a surprise would be lovely.
We live at the office over the weekend, napping only a few hours at our respective apartments, then returning like lost sheep to the office to prepare some more.
My rare moments of relaxation can be attributed to Tyrone Kipler. I’ve silently thanked him a thousand times for selecting the jury a week before the trial, and for allowing me to address them with a few off-the-cuff remarks. The jury was once a great part of the unknown, an element I feared immensely. Now I know their names and faces, and I’ve chatted with them without the benefit of written notes. They like me. And they dislike my opponent.
However deep my inexperience runs, I truly believe Judge Kipler will save me from myself.
Deck and I say good night around midnight, Sunday. A light snow is falling as I leave the office. A light snow in Memphis usually means no school for a week and the closing of all government offices. The city has never purchased a snowplow. Part of me wants a blizzard so tomorrow will be delayed. Part of me wants to get it over with.
By the time I drive to my apartment, the snow has stopped. I drink two warm beers and pray for sleep.
“Any preliminary matters?” Kipler says to a tense group in his office. I’m sitting next to Drummond, both of us looking across the desk at His Honor. My eyes are red from a fitful night, my head aches and my brain thinks of twenty things at once.
I am surprised at how tired Drummond looks. For a guy who spends his life in courtrooms, he looks exceptionally haggard. Good. I hope he worked all weekend too.
“I can’t think of anything,” I say. No surprise, I rarely add much to these little meetings.
Drummond shakes his head no.
“Is it possible to stipulate to the cost of a bone marrow transplant?” Kipler asks. “If so, then we can eliminate Gaskin as a witness. Looks like the cost is about a hundred and seventy-five thousand.”
“Fine with me,” I say.
Defense lawyers earn more if they stipulate to less, but Drummond has nothing to gain here. “Sounds reasonable,” he says indifferently.
“Is that a yes?” Kipler demands harshly.
“Yes.”
“Thank you. And what about the other costs. Looks like about twenty-five thousand. Can we agree that the amount of the claim for the actual damages sought by the plaintiff is an even two hundred thousand? Can we do this?” He’s really glaring at Drummond.
“Fine with me,” I say, and I’m sure it really irritates Drummond.
“Yes,” Drummond says.
Kipler writes something on his legal pad. “Thank you. Now, anything else before we get started? How about settlement possibilities?”
“Your Honor,” I say firmly. This has been well planned. “On behalf of my client, I’d like to offer to settle this matter for one point two million.”
Defense lawyers are trained to express shock and disbelief with any settlement proposal made by a plaintiff’s lawyer, and my offer is met with the expected shaking of heads and clearing of throats and even a slight chuckle from somewhere behind me, where the minions are clustered.
“You wish,” Drummond says acidly. I truly believe Leo is sliding off the edge. When this case started he was quite the gentleman, a very polished pro both in the courtroom and out. Now he acts like a pouting sophomore.
“No counterproposal, Mr. Drummond?” Kipler asks.
“Our offer stands at two hundred thousand.”
“Very well. Let’s get this thing started. Each side will get fifteen minutes for opening statements, but of course you don’t have to use it all.”
My opening statement has been timed a dozen times at six and a half minutes. The jury is brought in, welcomed by His Honor, given a few instructions, then turned over to me.
If I do this sort of thing very often, then maybe one day I’ll develop some talent for drama. That’ll have to wait. Right now I just want to get through it. I hold a legal pad, glance at it once or twice, and tell the jury about my case. I stand beside the podium, hopefully looking quite lawyerly in my new gray suit. The facts are so strongly in my favor that I don’t want to belabor them. There was a policy, the premiums were paid on time every week, it covered Donny Ray, he got sick, and then he got screwed. He died for obvious reasons. You, the jurors, will get to meet Donny Ray, but only by means of a videotape. He’s dead. The purpose of this case is not only to collect from Great Benefit what it should have paid to begin with, but also to punish it for its wrongdoing. It’s a very rich company, made its money by collecting premiums and not paying the claims. When all the witnesses have finished, then I’ll be back to ask you, the jurors, for a large sum of money to punish Great Benefit.
It’s crucial to plant this seed early. I want them to know that we’re after big bucks, and that Great Benefit deserves to be punished.
The opening statement goes smoothly. I don’t stutter or shake or draw objections from Drummond. I predict Leo will keep his butt in his chair for most of the trial. He doesn’t want to be embarrassed by Kipler, not in front of this jury.
I take my seat next to Dot. We’re all alone at our long table.
Drummond strides confidently to the jury box and holds a copy of the policy. He gets off to a dramatic start: “This is the policy purchased by Mr. and Mrs. Black,” he says, holding it up for everyone to see. “And nowhere in this policy does it say that Great Benefit has to pay for transplants.” A long pause as this sinks in. The jurors don’t like him, but this has their attention. “This policy costs eighteen dollars a week, does not cover bone marrow transplants, yet the plaintiffs expected my client to pay two hundred thousand dollars for, you guessed it, a bone marrow transplant. My client refused to do so, not out of any malice toward Donny Ray Black. It wasn’t a matter of life or death to my client, it was a matter of what’s covered in this policy.” He waves the policy dramatically, and quite effectively. “Not only do they want the two hundred thousand dollars they’re not entitled to, they also have sued my client for ten million dollars in extra damages. They call them punitive damages. I call them ridiculous. I call it greed.”