He stutters, stammers, tries to blame it on the regional offices and the district offices.
“Do you understand the concept of contempt of court?” Kipler asks.
“Maybe, well, not really.”
“It’s very simple. Your company is in contempt of court, Mr. Keeley. I can either fine your company, or place you, as the CEO, in jail. Which shall it be?”
I’m sure some of his pals have pulled time at the federal country clubs, but Keeley knows that jail here means one downtown with lots of street types. “I really don’t want to go to jail, Your Honor.”
“Didn’t think so. I hereby fine Great Benefit the sum of ten thousand dollars, due and payable to the plaintiff by 5 p.m. tomorrow. Call the home office and get a check FedExed, okay?”
Keeley can do nothing but nod.
“Furthermore, if this information is not faxed in here by nine in the morning, then you’ll be taken to the Memphis City Jail, where you’ll remain until you comply. Plus, while you’re there, your company will be fined five thousand dollars a day.”
Kipler turns and points downward at Drummond. “I have repeatedly warned you about these documents, Mr. Drummond. This behavior is grossly unacceptable.”
He raps his gavel angrily, and leaves the bench.
Forty-four
Under normal circumstances, I might feel silly wearing a blue and gray cap with a tiger on it, along with my suit, and leaning on a wall in Concourse A of the Memphis airport. But this day has been anything but normal. It’s late, and I’m dead tired, but the adrenaline is hopping. A better first day of trial would be impossible.
The flight from Chicago arrives on time, and I’m soon spotted by my cap. A woman behind a large pair of dark sunglasses approaches, looks me up and down, finally says, “Mr. Baylor?”
“That’s me.” I shake hands with Jackie Lemancyzk, and with her male companion, a man who introduces himself only as Carl. He has a carry-on bag, and they’re ready to go. These people are nervous.
We talk on the way to the hotel, a Holiday Inn downtown, six blocks from the courthouse. She sits in the front with me. Carl lurks in the backseat, saying nothing but guarding her like a rottweiler. I replay most of the first day’s excitement. No, they do not know she’s coming. Her hands shake. She’s brittle and frail, and scared of her shadow. Other than revenge, I can’t figure out her motive for being here.
The hotel reservation is in my name, at her request. The three of us sit around a small table in her room on the fifteenth floor, and go over my direct examination. The questions are typed and in order.
If there’s beauty here, it’s well concealed. The hair is chopped off and badly dyed to some dark red shade. Her lawyer said she was in therapy, and I’m not about to ask questions. Her eyes are bloodshot and sad, not at all enhanced with makeup. She’s thirty-one, two small children, one divorce, and from outward appearances and demeanor it’s hard to believe she spent her career at Great Benefit in one bed and out of another.
Carl is very protective. He pats her arm, occasionally gives his opinion about a particular answer. She wants to testify as soon as possible in the morning, then get back to the airport and get out of town.
I leave them at midnight.
At nine Tuesday morning, Judge Kipler calls us to order but instructs the bailiff to keep the jury in its room for a few moments. He asks Drummond if the claims information has been received. At the rate of five thousand bucks a day, I almost hope it hasn’t.
“Came in about an hour ago, Your Honor,” he says, obviously relieved. He hands me a neat stack of documents an inch thick, and even smiles a little when he hands Kipler his set.
“Mr. Baylor, you’ll need some time,” His Honor says.
“Give me thirty minutes,” I say.
“Fine. We’ll seat the jury at nine-thirty.”
Deck and I dash to a small attorney’s conference room down the hall, and wade through the information. Not unexpectedly, it’s in Greek and almost impossible to decode. They’ll be sorry.
At nine-thirty, the jury is brought into the courtroom and greeted warmly by Judge Kipler. They report in good condition, no sicknesses, no contact last night from anybody regarding the case.
“Your witness, Mr. Baylor,” Kipler says, and day two is under way.
“We’d like to continue with Everett Lufkin,” I say.
Lufkin is retrieved from the witness room, and takes the stand. After the Section U fiasco yesterday, nobody will believe a word he says. I’m sure Drummond chewed on him until midnight. He looks rather haggard. I hand him the official copy of the claims information, and ask him if he can identify it.
“It’s a printout of a computer summary of various claims information.”
“Prepared by the computers at Great Benefit?”
“That’s correct.”
“When?”
“Late yesterday afternoon and last night.”
“Under your supervision as Vice President of Claims?”
“You could say that.”
“Good. Now, Mr. Lufkin, please tell the jury how many medical policies were in existence in 1991.”
He hesitates, then starts to play with the printout. We wait while he searches through the pages. The only sound for a long, awkward gap is the shuffling of paper in Lufkin’s lap.
The “dumping” of documents is a favorite tactic of insurance companies and their lawyers. They love to wait until the last minute, preferably the day before the trial, and unload four storage boxes full of paperwork on the plaintiff’s lawyer’s doorstep. I avoided this because of Tyrone Kipler.
This is just a taste of it. I guess they thought they could trot in here this morning, hand me seventy pages of printout, most of it apparently meaningless, and be done with it.
“It’s really hard to tell,” he says, barely audible. “If I had some time.”
“You’ve had two months,” Kipler says loudly, his microphone working splendidly. The tone and volume of his words are startling. “Now answer the question.” They’re already squirming at the defense table.
“I want to know three things, Mr. Lufkin,” I say. “The number of policies in existence, the number of claims on these policies and the number of these claims which were denied. All for the year 1991. Please.”
More pages are flipped. “If I recall correctly, we had something in the neighborhood of ninety-seven thousand policies.”
“You can’t look at your numbers there and tell us for certain?”
It’s obvious he can’t. He pretends to be so engrossed in the data he can’t answer my question.
“And you’re the Vice President of Claims?” I ask, taunting.
“That’s right!” he responds.
“Let me ask you this, Mr. Lufkin. To the best of your knowledge, is the information I want contained in that printout?”
“Yes.”
“So, it’s just a matter of finding it.”
“If you’ll shut up a second, I’ll find it.” He snarls this at me like a wounded animal, and in doing so comes across very badly.
“I’m not required to shut up, Mr. Lufkin.” Drummond rises, pleads with his hands. “Your Honor, in all fairness, the witness is trying to find the information.”
“Mr. Drummond, the witness has had two months to gather this information. He’s the Vice President of Claims, surely he can read the numbers. Overruled.”
“Forget the printout for a second, Mr. Lufkin,” I say. “In an average year, what would be the ratio of policies to claims? Just give us a percentage.”
“On the average, we get claims filed on between eight and ten percent of our policies.”
“And what percentage of the claims would ultimately be denied?”
“Around ten percent of all claims are denied,” he says. Though he suddenly has answers, he’s not the least bit pleased to share them.