Directed Verdict (20 page)

“This isn’t about the money, is it?”

Bella shook her head. Brad waited patiently with his hand on her shoulder. She finally began forcing the words out.

“We could . . . should . . . stop paying salaries . . . for a little while. But I can barely afford . . . Mom’s home. I’m in huge debt. She’s all I’ve got. I don’t want to lose her.” The words came tumbling out in a fit of emotion.

“Bella,” Brad said softly, “it’s gonna be all right. . . . You’re not going to lose her. . . . It’s gonna be all right.”

* * *

When Bella left, Brad closed his door and slumped into his chair. His head throbbed, and his chest felt tight. This was the price he paid for the freedom of being his own boss—the loneliness of leadership.

He leaned back in his chair, put his hands behind his head, and stared hard at the ceiling. He took inventory. In one month, he would be trying a case that many thought was unwinnable. His usually steady secretary was in a state of panic. He had fallen hard for a woman whom he could not figure out. The steady barrage of sixteen-hour days had set his nerves on end. He had just lost his main expert witness in a bizarre deposition that made him think his office might be bugged. He had decimated his practice to handle this case and now risked bankruptcy even if he won. And to add insult to injury, he would have to share the contingency fee on the only good case he had in the office—the Johnson case—with the most pitiful plaintiff’s lawyer in Tidewater: the Rock.

There was only one solution. He would work harder. And he would streamline the case. He would cut expenses. He would take it one day at a time. If he won, other major cases would pour into the office. Even if he lost, it would be a glorious loss, and more cases would pour into his office.

Besides, his client was a missionary and presumably had a direct line to the Almighty. It was a good thing. He could use a little divine intervention or at least a little luck.

* * *

Just down the hall, Leslie refined her preliminary game plan to reflect the recently completed depositions and other developments in the case. The fifty-page document outlined the witnesses and their expected testimony. It discussed various evidentiary issues and the law supporting the plaintiff’s position on each issue. It outlined the exhibits and documents they intended to introduce at trial, together with any anticipated objections. Each page of the valued document was appropriately marked:
Confidential: Attorney/Client Privilege and Trial Work Product
.

As she prepared to leave the office, Leslie made four copies. She hand-delivered two copies in confidential envelopes to the desks of Nikki and Bella and slid a copy under Brad’s door. She tucked the fourth copy in her own briefcase and left the original on the corner of her desk.

* * *

Nikki left the office a few minutes after Leslie at 6:30. Unlike Leslie, she had no intention of taking work home with her. Nikki did, however, return to the office just before midnight as she had for the last five nights in a row. The first night Leslie was still working at the office, so Nikki just threw a few things in her briefcase, said hello, and headed home. The other four nights, the office had been empty except for the occasional visit by the cleaning crew. Nikki worked each night for almost three hours, and tonight she would do so again. By her rough calculations, she figured that she should be able to mail the last letter out by 3 a.m. If not, she was determined to stay until she finished.

Nikki’s advanced warning system consisted of a listening device of the type parents used to monitor their babies. She placed the receiver in the lobby in an out-of-the-way location. The monitor sat on her own desk as she worked. Each time that the cleaning crew came in the first few nights, the system had given Nikki the advanced warning that she needed to sweep the documents off her desk and into one of her empty desk drawers. Her office was at the end of the hall away from the reception area, a short walk that would take no more than fifteen seconds from the front door, just enough time to return her office to normal.

Nikki took the monitor with her as she headed to the kitchen to pour her first cup of coffee. As was her habit, she turned off the light to her own office and walked quickly down the hall. Just as she was about to walk through the reception area, she heard the distinct noise of a key being inserted, the doorknob turning, and the front door opening. She had no chance to get to the kitchen to turn off the coffee or to sneak back and clean up her own office in the dark. Instead, she slid into the nearest office, which happened to belong to Brad, and sat by the open door for a few seconds in the pitch dark.

She heard footsteps coming down the hallway toward the office. They were fast and determined, landing hard like a man’s. She didn’t hear the usual noise of the handcart or the clunking of cleaning supplies.

It must be Brad!
It was Nikki’s worst nightmare.

The hall light flipped on. Nikki froze in a moment of panic. How could she explain herself if he caught her in his office in the dark? She actually considered, just for a moment, hiding behind the door and slamming Brad in the back of the head to knock him unconscious. She would slip out, and the whole incident would be written off as a burglary gone awry.

Instead, she made a quick move for his massive oak desk and slid underneath it, in the hollow where Brad would put his legs if he sat in his desk chair. The man entered the room and flicked on the lights. She heard the deafening noise of her own heart pounding in her ears. She tried to control the sound of her breathing and found herself holding her breath to remain as quiet as possible. She covered her face with her hands, every muscle of her body tensed.

She fully expected Brad to sit at his desk and unavoidably kick her when he sat down. She would be discovered, fired, and perhaps arrested.

But the man in the room did not sit down or even move behind the desk. She heard him rummage around the papers on top of the desk, finally finding the object of his search. He seemed to hesitate, possibly reading the document, then turned and headed for the door. After what seemed like forever, the man turned off the lights and left the room.

Nikki sat shuddering under Brad’s desk, doubled over in the fetal position, not able to move her limbs for several minutes. She eventually calmed her nerves, walked to the kitchen, and turned off the coffeepot. She went to her office and locked the door.

She left the offices of Carson & Associates and came back fifteen minutes later with a bottle of rum. She needed something stronger than caffeine to help get her through this night.

Three hours later, at precisely 3:30 a.m., she licked the last stamp and sealed the last envelope.

21

THE PANIC USUALLY SETS IN ABOUT
a month prior to a big trial, when the lawyers realize how much still needs to be done and how little time there is to do it. For Brad, the pretrial panic arrived right on schedule. He had four lousy weeks left to prepare witnesses, review depositions, prepare an opening statement, and complete a million other detailed tasks that would mean the difference between a good case and a mediocre one. The fact that he would have to spend one of those weeks in Saudi Arabia taking depositions exacerbated his jitters.

Complicating things even further were some lingering questions that Brad could not answer or ignore: How did the defendants find out about Worthington’s arrest? And why did the defendants seem to anticipate every legal argument that Brad and his team made in their briefs? It was as if someone were reading their mail. Or worse. And it was this lingering paranoia that drove Brad, one day before leaving for Saudi Arabia, to the office of Patrick O’Malley, private investigator.

Patrick was a step above the average PI who worked out of his home and spied on unfaithful spouses. Patrick had an office in a run-down strip shopping center on Military Highway in Virginia Beach. He specialized in electronic surveillance and in finding missing persons.

Brad arrived at the office after a long day of depositions. He opened the door and looked around the reception area’s yellow walls and stained carpet. The magazines were about two months old, which appeared to be the same general time frame of the last office cleaning. If O’Malley was making money, he had certainly not squandered any of it on first impressions.

O’Malley appeared from the back, a tall, slim figure with a bushy Fu Manchu mustache from another era. He wore cowboy boots, faded jeans, and a denim shirt.

“Brad, my man,” he said and gave Brad an enormous bear hug. “Why this sudden urge to slum it and meet in my office?”

“Just wanted to see what ‘uptown’ looks like.”

“You are the personification of ‘uptown,’ Mr. Bradley Carson, attorney at law, proud owner of a Dodge Viper, and landlord of the estate on the river.” O’Malley bowed deeply. “May I kiss the ring?”

“Give me a break.”

“Just don’t forget us little people.”

“That’s why I’m here. I want to hire one of the little people.”

“This isn’t about your ex, is it?”

“No.” Brad laughed. “I wish it were that easy. Look, I don’t have much time, and I don’t have much information. But I’m working on this case, and the other side seems to know what I’m thinking even before I figure it out. I don’t have any hard evidence, but I’m concerned the office might be bugged. Can you check it out?”

“Absolutely, man. Are you talking about the Reed case?”

Brad nodded.

“Saw your mug in the paper,” O’Malley continued. “Want my advice?”

“No.”

“Settle, baby. You’re in the big leagues on that one. Take the money and run. You’ll have a hard time winnin’. Just be happy with the publicity you’ve got and move on.”

“Thanks for the encouragement,” Brad said.

“You know how the song goes: ‘Know when to hold ’em and know when to fold ’em.’ Now, what do ya need?”

In five minutes the two men put together a plan to sweep the office for bugs every morning. Brad would have the locks changed on the doors and issue new keys to his team. He would hire a new cleaning crew for the next few months. He would have everybody change computer passwords, voice mail passwords, and phone numbers. Brad would have Bella send a list of the new passwords to O’Malley so he could check the computers and phones for outsiders tapping into the system.

Brad would tell each of his team members to be attentive for any suspicious signs.

Brad could not bring himself to believe that any member of his inner circle was involved. He may be paranoid, he told O’Malley, but he was still a good judge of character, and he knew he could trust Leslie, Nikki, and Bella. The Rock, on the other hand, would be totally cut out of the loop.

* * *

Chesapeake Estates looked pleasant enough on the outside. Manicured lawns surrounded the dark brick building with the huge white pillars, giving the place a Southern colonial feel. It also featured a large front porch, on which the residents would sit and rock for hours while they discussed the weather and complained about the government. Unlike isolated nursing homes, the facility rested snugly on the outskirts of the exclusive Riverwalk development in the heart of Chesapeake. The nurses and staff seemed to genuinely care about the residents at Chesapeake Estates. The care didn’t come cheap, but like so many other things in life, you got what you paid for. As far as Bella was concerned, there was no nursing home good enough for her mother—Gertrude Harper—but Chesapeake Estates came close.

The pristine appearance of the place stood in stark contrast to the turmoil going on in most of the residents’ lives. Many struggled with Alzheimer’s, dementia, Parkinson’s, and other diseases that tormented an aging mind and body. Bella’s mother suffered from advanced Parkinson’s. She had her good days and her bad days. Lately, the good days were scarce.

It was a beautiful fall afternoon, and Bella intended to leave work early and take her mother for a walk. But nobody left Carson & Associates early these days. And so Bella did not arrive at Chesapeake Estates until nearly 7 p.m. She went straight to her mother’s room.

Getting her mom out of that room had become more of a challenge as Gertrude’s nervous system and muscle control deteriorated. Doctors told Bella the disease did not affect her mother’s mind, only her physical ability to communicate her thoughts. Bella didn’t believe it. Some days Gertrude didn’t even recognize her and called out incessantly for Bella’s father, who had divorced Gertrude more than twenty years earlier and been dead more than five.

Bella took Gertrude for a long walk and tried to convince her that her ex-husband was not coming back. Gertrude unloaded her many concerns about things that made no sense to Bella, undoubtedly driven by conversations she had overheard from the other residents. Bella found it nearly impossible to understand Gertrude, who shook uncontrollably as she talked. Her walking pace was incredibly slow, and she was stooped almost in half. Sometimes during these walks Bella would think about her mother in the vigor of her youth, how she would always have the answers for life’s many challenges. Oh, how she wished she could turn back the clock and tap into some of that wisdom now.

At nearly 9 p.m., exhausted and hungry, Bella kissed her mom on the forehead—the same way that her mom used to kiss Bella when she was just a little girl—and told Gertrude she would be back soon. As Bella left Chesapeake Estates, she wondered if her mom would even remember the visit. Bella felt the tears welling up in her eyes as she turned to leave, desperately missing the only person in her life who had ever cared enough to wipe them away.

* * *

Win Mackenzie picked up the phone and dialed the clerk’s office for Judge Samuel Johnson. He asked to speak with Alex Pearson, one of Johnson’s two law clerks.

“Alex, this is Winsted Mackenzie, a litigation partner at Kilgore & Strobel. How’s it going?”

“Great,” Alex said. “Working with Judge Johnson is excellent. I’ve learned more in my first few months on the job than I did in my entire third year of law school.”

Mackenzie, himself a University of Virginia man, did not doubt that. Alex had attended Washington and Lee.

“Alex, let me cut right to the point, because I know Judge Johnson keeps you hoppin’. Every year, Kilgore & Strobel gets literally hundreds of résumés for the few litigation spots that open up for first-year associates. I have personally reviewed your résumé and heard about your work ethic in federal court. We’ve checked out your references and law school class ranking.”

Win Mackenzie paused for a second to let the suspension build.

“Alex, you are this firm’s number-one choice for next year. We’d like you to start full-time at Kilgore & Strobel next year as a litigation associate without the necessity of the interviews with firm partners we normally require. You’ll be getting a letter confirming all this, but I wanted to personally call and tell you myself.”

There was silence on the other end of the line. Win figured Alex was probably pinching himself to make sure it was true.

“That sounds great,” Alex finally managed. “Will the letter give the details of the offer?”

“It will,” Win said. “But let me also handle some of those myself.”

For the next several minutes, Win Mackenzie, trained trial lawyer, put the hard sell on a flabbergasted Alex Pearson. The generosity of the firm and the flattery of Mackenzie just about rendered poor Alex speechless. When Win mentioned a special ten-thousand-dollar signing bonus, he could almost hear Alex panting on the other end of the line.

Oh, the innocence of the young,
Mackenzie thought.

“Take your time making this decision, Alex. I know you’ll ultimately make the right choice.”

Win hung up the phone and dialed another number. This time it was not a law clerk but a federal appeals court judge who answered the phone. After exchanging pleasantries, Mackenzie got right down to business with his cousin.

“I hope this isn’t improper, but I may need your help with something that just came to my attention. Can I talk to you confidentially—dead man’s talk here—and get some advice about a potential conflict of interest?”

“You know you can, Win. What’s up?”

“Our firm has made an employment offer to one of Judge Johnson’s current law clerks, and I just found out we’ve got a small problem. I’m trying to look out for Judge Johnson, who I know is a personal friend of yours. He admires you greatly. Johnson is one of several judges who may have an opportunity to handle the Reed case, in which our firm is representing the defendants. Word has it that the plaintiff’s lawyer would make a motion to disqualify Johnson based on a conflict of interest if he were selected. They would say that he can’t be objective when one of his law clerks, who is helping him research the case, has an employment offer to work for the firm representing the defendants. Their point has some merit. Johnson doesn’t need the bad publicity, and it puts him in a no-win situation. You know him well. Can you say something to the guy?”

“Sure, Win. Lots of other judges can hear that case. No sense in Samuel putting himself in that situation. I’ll call back if there’s any difficulty. Thanks for the heads up. And, Win . . .”

“Yeah.”

“Good luck in the case. The nation will be watching.”

* * *

After waiting forty minutes in Baker-Kline’s reception area—the price any lawyer pays for showing up unannounced—Win was eventually ushered into the presence of the Haughty One. He filled the air with ten minutes of small talk before Her Honor’s impatience got the better of her.

“I know you didn’t just come here to talk about community politics, Win, and I’ve got to be back on the bench in ten minutes.”

Perfect,
Win thought. He leaned forward and lowered his voice a notch. “What I’m about to say is just between us—stays right here?”

Ichabod nodded, her impatience replaced by curiosity. “Of course.”

“It’s about the spot on the Fourth Circuit Court of Appeals.” He noticed Ichabod’s eyes light up. That spot, one step below the Supremes, occupied every district judge’s dreams. “As you know, my uncle sits on the Senate Judiciary Committee. The politics of these appointments is getting very interesting.”

“I’m sure,” Ichabod said, studying Win intently.

“Of course, the president makes the nominations, and you’re not exactly—how do I say this discreetly?—his type of candidate.” Win shifted in his seat, crossed his legs, and put on the most solemn, secretive face he could muster. “But we control the Senate Judiciary Committee. And right now, the president’s candidates just can’t seem to get out of committee.”

This brought a knowing little smirk from Ichabod. Win was sure she had followed the proceedings carefully.

“As always in politics, talk of compromise has cropped up. My uncle and his buddies could let most of the president’s nominees out of committee if he throws them a bone by nominating someone who cares about our agenda . . . like the rights of women.”

Ichabod was nodding with her whole body now. She could obviously see where this was headed.

“Your name’s been floated, and, well, my uncle is one of your strongest proponents. The problem is . . .” Win paused and pursed his lips, as if trying to figure out how best to say this without hurting the judge’s feelings.

“Win,” Ichabod said, “don’t tiptoe around this. If there’s a problem, I need to know.”

Win still feigned hesitation. “Well, word is that the administration fears you might be anti–big business and adverse to the administration’s foreign policy direction. I mean, they know they have to accept at least one pro-choice judge, just to get their own pro-life judges through, but they don’t want it to be someone who’s also going to create problems on other fronts.”

Ichabod looked past Win, her brow furrowed, digesting this information. She had bought the whole thing. Now, for the delicate part.

“Judge, there’s a high-profile case on the court’s docket right now that could demonstrate just the opposite, that you are not inclined to counteract the administration on foreign policy. It’s more or less a slam dunk, but our firm’s involved, and I don’t know if it’d be proper to discuss it with you . . .”

Ichabod looked at Win with narrow eyes. “Tell me about the case, Win.” Then she tapped her finger on the desk. “But realize that I will not now, nor would I ever, commit to rule a certain way on the case until I’ve heard the evidence.”

“I know that, Judge,” Win responded quickly. “I just thought if you knew the facts of the case, you could decide if you even wanted to get involved. By a twist of fate, our firm has a conflict of interest with the one other judge who
could
hear it, so we could basically . . . well, we could increase the odds of you winding up with the case if that would be helpful.”

“You understand,” Ichabod warned, “that I’m making no promises.”