Directed Verdict (19 page)

“I had a great time tonight,” he whispered. His face was just inches from hers. He couldn’t take his eyes from hers. He didn’t dare blink.

“Thanks,” she said and flashed a soft smile under heavy eyelids that lit up the room. “Me too.”

“I put one of my T-shirts on the couch, if you want something comfortable to sleep in. There are towels and washcloths in the bathroom. And a spare toothbrush.”

“A toothbrush?” Leslie smiled. “I won’t even ask.”

He kissed her again on the forehead, brushed his hand softly against her cheek, then turned and headed for the stairs.

“We make a pretty good team,” he said as he walked away.

He meant it in a lot of different ways.

* * *

Brad set the alarm for 6 a.m. and resisted the strong urge to go back downstairs before then. He slept fitfully, but he slept smiling. He woke up on his own a few minutes before the alarm and rose quickly to fix breakfast.

The couch was empty. Though the T-shirt was gone, Leslie left the sheets and blankets neatly folded on top of the pillow along with a note of thanks. Brad shook his head in disbelief. She must have called a cab. He would never understand that woman.

Later that morning, Brad drove a half hour from his house to the beach to pick up the painting and then another hour to Williamsburg to deliver it. He left the artwork carefully leaning against the outside door of the garage that housed Leslie’s apartment.

* * *

One of Barnes’s men, increasingly bored with his uneventful surveillance of Brad, decided to have a little fun. As Brad drove away down the long dirt road that led from Leslie’s home, the man slipped out of his car and placed the painting in the trunk. His wife would love it. One of the perks of an otherwise unrewarding job.

20

MACK STROBEL PERSONALLY COUNTED
no fewer than eighteen empties scattered around Teddy Kilgore’s private yacht by the time he joined the brain trust. Teddy had docked across the street from the office, in a reserved slip at the Waterside Marina, to pick up Mack so the brain trust could plot Carson’s defeat. The heat and stickiness of the mid-September day clung to Mack like a leech. He’d been working on the case all day while his cohorts hit the links and floated the waterways, drinking, eating crab, and billing their time to the
Reed
file. And what had they accomplished?

“Where’s Phillips?” he asked without bothering to greet anyone.

“Gone below.” Mackenzie gestured below deck with a low chortle.

Strobel leaned over the stairway and bellowed. “Mel! Let’s get on with it.”

Mackenzie slapped a hand on Strobel’s shoulder. “No, I mean he’s
gone
below.” Mackenzie tipped his hand like a bottle to his lips, indicating that Phillips had downed more than his share of brew and would not be participating in this evening’s meeting. Mack cussed. Mackenzie laughed, nearly giddy.

After delivering a scathing piece of his mind, a tirade that had no discernible impact on his partners, Mack kicked back in a lounge chair himself and opened his first brew. If he couldn’t beat them, he would join them, and at least salvage what remained of this miserable autumn day.

Elbow deep in crab legs and failing miserably in his attempt to pry some meat out of the pesky bones, Teddy Kilgore played his usual role of conciliator.

“Mack, my man. The way I see it, you’re just working too hard. That’s why we’ve got associates. Let them take all those depositions. Conserve your strength, that’s what I say.”

Kilgore took a break from his losing battle with the crabs, proud of his advice, and gloated in the manner of those who drink too much and say something simple that they find to be incredibly profound.

“Thanks,” Strobel said sarcastically. He was tired of carrying this firm on his back.

Teddy smiled. “Don’t mention it.” He took another swallow of his Michelob and dove back into the crabs.

“The way I see it,” Mackenzie said, “you’ve really only got one problem—Judge Johnson. You just pulled the wrong judge for that hearing. Otherwise you’d be home free.”

“I never would have thought of that,” Strobel said, even more sarcastically than before. “Unfortunately, the court doesn’t consult with me when it assigns the cases.”

“What judge do you want?” Win asked, tossing Mack another beer. “Here, Teddy, let me help you with that. I can’t believe you’ve lived in Tidewater all these years and still don’t know how to shell these things.”

Teddy smiled as he let Win pick the good meat out of the crabs and put it on a plate for him. “I let the hired help take care of that,” he said.

Strobel had witnessed this scene before. Teddy was probably the most skilled crab-picker of the bunch, but he was also the laziest. Teddy had learned a long time ago that the best way to get good crab meat without the hassle of picking the shell was to look helpless and wait for a volunteer. There was always a volunteer.

“Baker-Kline would be a home run for us,” Strobel said. His mood was sweetened some as he saw Teddy sandbag Mackenzie. “She’s usually pro-defense, and she hates Carson. Threw his sorry bones in jail for contempt last year.”

“I know,” Win replied. “That case was all over the tube.”

As they talked, Melvin Phillips staggered up the steps, walked over to the cooler, and took out another beer. He belched loudly, then turned and looked at Mack.

“What do you think?” Mack asked sarcastically. “About the
Reed
case—the one you’re billing your time to today.”

“Mmm,” Phillips said, as he carefully headed back toward the stairs, leaning on objects as he navigated his way. “Settle.” Then he belched again and headed below.

“Any more beer in that cooler?” Teddy asked. He needed something to wash down the crab legs. “Who are the possibilities?”

“For what?”

“For the judge. What else are we talking about?”

“There are five slots for judges not on senior status,” Strobel explained. “One of those slots is vacant, waiting for Congress to approve the president’s chosen man. Judge Stonebreaker is about halfway through a major antitrust trial that has been dragging on for months, and the defense just started. Even if she finishes by mid-October, which I doubt, they would never send her right back into another long and complex case.”

“Who does that leave?” Teddy asked. He threw an empty toward the cardboard box from the Waterside Wharf that they were using for trash. The can bounced harmlessly on the deck, several feet short.

“It leaves Johnson, Baker-Kline, and Lightfoot, who is too liberal for my liking.”

“Then let’s get rid of Lightfoot,” Win said. “Let’s do a little judge shopping.”

“How?” Mack asked. “Call some of your Mafia buddies?”

“Don’t need to with Lightfoot,” Win said smugly. “Don’t forget, before he was a judge, he was a career politician, and our family financed major portions of his reelection campaigns.”

“That’s probably why he lost,” Mack mumbled.

Win ignored the comment. “Some of the money was dirty,” he explained. “Dummy corporations set up to evade federal limits, that type of thing. I can tell Lightfoot our clients have been snooping around, that this guy Barnes got wind of those financing irregularities and is threatening to leak them to the press if Lightfoot comes near this case.”

Mack was intrigued by the idea of knocking Lightfoot out of the running. “But even if we give Lightfoot an incentive not to hear the case, he can’t take himself out because he doesn’t make the assignments. That job falls to Baker-Kline, since she’s the current chief judge of the Eastern District of Virginia.”

“You’re right, but a chief judge never messes with another judge’s vacation. I’ll explain the score to Lightfoot, then give him an out by inviting him to join our family at our vacation place in the Blue Ridge Mountains during the second week of October. It would be hard for him to try the case in Norfolk if he has plans to hunt with me in Charlottesville.”

“The problem,” Mack replied, “ is that your plan leaves me with a toss-up between Johnson and Baker-Kline. Heads I win; tails I lose. I think I would rather keep Lightfoot in the running and at least lessen the odds of getting Johnson.”

Win Mackenzie caught Mack’s eye and nodded toward Teddy, whose head was tilted back so far it looked like his neck might snap off at any minute. His eyes were closed, but his mouth was wide open, sucking in the humid Tidewater air. As usual, this strategy session had boiled down to the two hard-core litigators.

“How important is this case?” Win asked, lowering his voice. “I want a serious answer, not sarcasm.”

“It’s one of the biggest I’ve ever tried.” Mack ruminated as he gazed out at the sailboats meandering down the river. “The publicity for the firm will be huge. Win or lose, we’ll be a household name.”

“Then let’s pull out all the stops,” Mackenzie said. “I’ve got a deal for you. Name me as the lead lawyer for the case on appeal and the media spokesman during trial. I’ll guarantee that you get Baker-Kline as your judge.”

The prospect of getting Baker-Kline for the case struck Mack as too good to be true. But the price was high—letting Win have a piece of the glory. Mack leaned back in his chair, took a long pull on his beer, and chose his words carefully.

“How you gonna do that?” he asked. “And how could you be media spokesman if you’re on vacation in the Blue Ridge Mountains?”

“I never guaranteed that an emergency would not arise and keep me from going.”

“What about Johnson?”

Win’s lips curled into a smug little smile. “Leave that to me. Some things you don’t want to know.” He paused and looked at Mack. “Deal?”

Strobel narrowed his eyes, pictured Ichabod seated on the bench—glaring down at Carson, slicing him down to size—then Strobel extended his light beer toward Mackenzie. They sealed the deal with a toast, set to the backdrop of a busy evening at the Waterside and the sound of Teddy’s snoring.

* * *

Unlike the lawyers he had hired, Ahmed was more concerned with the jury than the judge. Accordingly, when he received the list of more than one hundred prospective jurors from his lawyers about a month prior to trial, he took immediate action. As usual, he started with a phone call to Barnes.

“Did you get the list of prospective jurors?”

“Yes, it came this morning. We’re on it. Give us two weeks, and we’ll have a complete report.”

“I can get a report from the lawyers. I need more from you. We need some of these jurors in our pocket. Can you make that happen?”

There was silence on the phone line. Ahmed waited Barnes out.

“I don’t know,” Barnes finally said. “That’s serious stuff in the United States. You can pull time for messing with a jury.”

“Humor me. How could you do it if you wanted to?”

Barnes waited a few more beats before answering. “Well, off the top of my head, I’d start with the first thirty or forty prospective jurors and ask Strobel who he’ll strike with his preemptories. Then I would hire some local investigators to do some background work on the remaining jurors. Go through their garbage, check out their places of employment, talk to some of their friends, those types of things.

“We would pick the ten most vulnerable jurors and start laying the foundation for buying or blackmailin’ ’em if they get selected. We prefer blackmail. It’s cheaper and more effective. There’s a good chance that 20 percent of these folks are cheatin’ on their spouses, lookin’ at pornography on the Internet, or stealin’ from their bosses. We trade our silence for their vote.

“Any preliminary contacts with jurors would be done only by one of my top two men. We would be very discreet in our approach. You can usually find out if someone can be bought without ever asking the question. We only need one member to hang the jury in a civil case. But two can provide moral support for each other during deliberations.”

“Make it happen,” Ahmed said, “and you’ve increased your bonus by one million. Pay whatever it takes to buy the jurors.”

There was a long silence. Ahmed sensed Barnes’s reluctance and decided to wait him out again. Barnes was not used to refusing an order. And a million dollars was a lot of money, even to Barnes.

“No promises, Ahmed. I’m not willing to go to the big house over a civil case.”

“Get it done.”

Ahmed hung up the phone.

Justice in America was not cheap.

* * *

Brad had a less ambitious plan for the list of prospective jurors.

“Bella,” he said into the speakerphone. “Have you got a minute?”

“No,” she snorted. “But I’ll come in anyway.”

A few seconds later she lowered herself into one of the client chairs across the desk from Brad.

“Would you take the list of prospective jurors and send it to these folks?” Without looking up from his paperwork, Brad handed her a list of fellow lawyers he could trust. “Draft a cover letter asking them to take a minute and look at the list to see if they know anyone on it. Give them your number to call if they have any information. Let’s get those letters out today, if possible.”

Bella didn’t move. As usual, Brad had been taking the lady for granted. When there was no discernible response to his request, he looked up from his work for the first time and noticed that her eyes were watering. He couldn’t recall the last time he saw that happen.

“What’s wrong?” he asked as he put his other work aside. She had his full attention.

“Brad, we’ve got a serious cash-flow problem. It hasn’t been this tight since the first year we started.” She placed a stack of papers on his desk. “These are the invoices just for the
Reed
case.” She placed a smaller stack next to them. “These are the other invoices we’ve received in the last thirty days. If I paid everything in both of these piles, we’d have only fifty-five thousand in the bank. Between the experts, Nikki’s trip to Saudi Arabia, the deposition transcripts, and the usual salaries and overhead costs, we’re burning through almost seventy-five thousand a week. Even if we max out our line of credit with Virginia National and drag out our creditors as long as we can, I figure we could get through an eight-week trial, but no more. If we lose, we’re sunk. Even if we win, we don’t have the cash flow to get us through an appeal.”

She sighed, as if a huge weight had just been lifted from her shoulders. The bills remained on the corner of Brad’s desk. Bella was the master of anxiety transfer.

Brad was used to Bella being the purveyor of bad financial news. What struck him this time was the intensity of her emotions. They had been through tougher times when they first started, and Bella had never been so despondent.

“We’ve just got to settle some of these other cases we have kicking around the office,” Brad suggested. “We’ll get through this. We’re survivors.”

“What other cases? We’ve already settled or farmed out just about any case of value except the Johnson case. I think it’s time to settle Johnson.”

“Bella, we’ve had this conversation before. The insurance company always lowballs the settlement offers until the eve of trial. It’ll be months before we can get a trial date and scare them into a reasonable offer. I won’t sell out one client for the good of another.”

“Brad, I’m telling you, we don’t have any choice. We either settle Johnson, or we bankrupt the firm.”

They were both raising their voices, each retort louder than the last.

“Bella, it’s not an option. End of discussion. We would file for bankruptcy and drop the
Reed
case before we would start selling out our clients.” Brad took a breath and lowered the volume. “Now, what are our other options?”

“You can take out an equity line on your house . . .”

“Good. Work up the paperwork. How much will that net?”

“About another 150 if we’re lucky. You’ve already got a serious first mortgage on that monster.”

“Okay, what else?”

Much to Brad’s surprise, the tears welled up again. But this time Bella didn’t hold back as the tears tumbled quietly down her cheeks and onto her lap. Brad had never seen her this way and didn’t quite know what to do. He slowly rose, grabbed some tissues, and went over to put a hand on Bella’s shoulder. He crouched down in front of her.