“I'm willing.”
“We thought so. When can we fly you up?”
The image of Lou Dell closing the door on them flashed before his eyes, and he frowned. He breathed deeply, and said with great frustration, “Well, I'm tied up in court right now. Jury duty. I'm sure Troy told you.”
Ken and Ben appeared to be confused by this. “It's just a couple of days, isn't it?”
“No. The trial's scheduled for a month, and we're in week two.”
“A month?” Ben asked, on cue. “What kind of trial is it?”
“The widow of a dead smoker is suing a tobacco company.”
Their reactions were almost identical and left no doubt how they personally felt about such lawsuits.
“I tried to get out of it,” Lonnie said in an effort to smooth things.
“A product liability suit?” Ken asked, thoroughly disgusted.
“Yeah, something like that.”
“For another three weeks?” Ben asked.
“That's what they say. I can't believe I got stuck,” he said, his words trailing away.
There was a long pause in which Ben opened a fresh pack of Bristols and lit one. “Lawsuits,” he said bitterly. “We get sued every week by some poor clod who trips and falls and then blames it on the vinegar or the grapes. Last month a bottle of carbonated water exploded at a private party in Rocky Mount. Guess who sold 'em the water? Guess who got sued last week for ten million? Us and the bottler. Product liability.” A long puff, then a quick chew on a thumbnail. Ben was steaming. “Gotta seventy-year-old woman in Athens claiming she wrenched her back when she allegedly reached up high to get a can of furniture polish. Her lawyer says she's entitled to a coupla mill.”
Ken stared at Ben as if he wanted him to shut up, but Ben evidently exploded easily when the topic was broached. “Stinkin' lawyers,” he said, smoke pouring from his nostrils. “We paid over three million last year for liability insurance, money just thrown away because of all the hungry lawyers circling above.”
Ken said, “That's enough.”
“Sorry.”
“What about the weekends?” Lonnie asked anxiously. “I'm free from Friday afternoon until late Sunday.”
“I was just thinking of that. Tell you what we'll do. We'll send one of our planes to get you Saturday morning. We'll fly you and your wife to Charlotte, give you the grand tour of the home office, and we'll introduce you to our bosses. Most of these guys work Saturdays anyway. Can you do it this weekend?”
“Sure.”
“Done. I'll arrange the plane.”
“You sure there's no conflict with the trial?” Ben asked.
“None that I can foresee.”
Ten
After moving along with impressive punctuality, the trial hit a snag on Wednesday morning. The defense filed a motion to prohibit the testimony of Dr. Hilo Kilvan, an alleged expert from Montreal in the field of statistical summaries of lung cancer, and a small battle erupted over the motion. Wendall Rohr and his team were particularly enraged at the defense tactic; the defense so far had tried to bar the testimony of every plaintiff's expert. Indeed, the defense had proved quite effective at delaying and attempting to bar everything for four years. Rohr insisted that Cable and his client were once again stalling, and he made an angry plea to Judge Harkin for the imposition of sanctions against the defense. The war over sanctions, with each side demanding monetary penalties from the other and the Judge so far denying same, had been raging almost since the initial suit was filed. As with most large civil cases, the subplot of sanctions often consumed as much time as the real issues.
Rohr ranted and stomped in front of the empty jury box as he explained that this latest motion by the defense was the seventy-first-“count 'em, seventy-one!”-to be filed by the tobacco company seeking to exclude evidence. “We've had motions to exclude evidence of other diseases caused by smoking, motions to prevent evidence of warnings, motions to prevent evidence of advertising, motions to exclude evidence of epidemiological studies and statistical theories, motions to preclude reference to patents not used by the defendant, motions to exclude evidence of subsequent or remedial measures taken by the tobacco company, motions to preclude our evidence of the testing of cigarettes, motions to strike portions of the autopsy report, motions to exclude addiction evidence, motions-“
“I've seen these motions, Mr. Rohr,” His Honor interrupted when it appeared as if Rohr might name them all.
Rohr hardly missed a beat. “And, Your Honor, in addition to the seventy-one-count 'em, seventy-one!-motions to exclude evidence, they've filed exactly eighteen motions for continuances.”
“I'm very much aware of this, Mr. Rohr. Please move along.”
Rohr walked to his cluttered table and was handed a thick brief by an associate. “And, of course, each defense filing is accompanied by one of these damned things,” he said loudly as he dropped the brief onto the table. “We don't have time to read these, as you know, because we're too busy preparing for trial. They, on the other hand, have a thousand lawyers billing by the hour and working even as we speak on another harebrained motion, which will, no doubt, weigh six pounds and doubtless take up more of our time.”
“Can we get to the merits, Mr. Rohr?”
Rohr didn't hear him. “Since we don't have time to read these, Your Honor, we simply weigh them, and so our rather brief answer goes something like this: 'Please allow this letter memorandum to serve as our response to the defendant's four-and-a-half-pound, typically overdone brief in support of its latest frivolous motion.'”
With the jury out of the courtroom, smiles and manners and pleasant behavior were forgotten by everyone. The strain was evident on the faces of all the players. Even the clerks and the court reporter looked edgy.
Rohr's legendary temper was boiling, but he had long since learned to use it to his advantage. His occasional friend Cable kept his distance without holding his tongue. The spectators were treated to a loosely controlled brawl.
At nine-thirty, His Honor sent word to Lou Dell to inform the jurors that he was finishing up a motion, and the trial would start in a few moments, hopefully by ten. Since this was the first delay in which the jurors were told to wait after being set to go, they took it well. The little groups reconvened themselves, and the idle chitchat of folks waiting against their wishes continued. The divisions were along the lines of sex, not race. The men tended to group together at one end of the room, the women at the other. The smokers came and went. Only Herman Grimes kept the same position, at the head of the table, where he played hunt-and-peck with a laptop braille computer. He had let it be known that he was up until all hours of the morning plowing through the narrative descriptions of Bronsky's diagrams.
The other laptop was plugged into a socket in a corner where Lonnie Shaver had established a makeshift office with three folding chairs. He analyzed printouts of grocery stock, studied inventories, checked a hundred other details, and was generally content to be ignored. He was not unfriendly, just preoccupied.
Frank Herrera sat near the braille computer, poring over the closing quotations in The Wall Street Journal, and occasionally chatting with Jerry Fernandez, who sat across the table grappling with the latest Vegas line on Saturday's college games. The only male who enjoyed talking to the women was Nicholas Easter, and on this day he was quietly discussing the case with Loreen Duke, a large jovial black lady who worked as a secretary at Keesler Air Force Base. As juror number one, she sat next to Nicholas, and the two had developed a habit of whispering during the trial, at the expense of almost everybody. Loreen was thirty-five with no husband and two kids, and a nice federal job which she missed not in the least. She had confessed to Nicholas that she could be absent from the office for a year and no one would care. He told her wild stories of bad deeds by the tobacco companies in trials past, and he “confessed to her that he had studied tobacco litigation at great length during his two years of law school. Said he dropped out due to financial reasons. Their low voices were carefully gauged to land just outside the ear-range of Herman Grimes, who at the moment was slapping his laptop.