Directed Verdict (8 page)

She cleared her head of these distracting emotions—purposefully, clinically, she willed herself to disregard them—and continued with her rehearsed synopsis of sovereign immunity law. “In 1976 Congress codified the issue of sovereign immunity with the Foreign Sovereign Immunity Act. That law basically provides that foreign governments cannot be sued in U.S. courts unless one of five exceptions applies.”

Brad’s eyes lit up. “Loopholes are my specialty.” He smiled playfully.

Leslie maintained her game face. “Maybe so, but I doubt any of these exceptions would apply. The Reeds are not the first U.S. citizens to be tortured by another country. Let me put it this way: if the Nazi holocaust victims could not successfully sue under this act in New York City, it’s hard to think we could do it here in the conservative federal courts of Norfolk, Virginia.”

Brad fell silent and stared pensively at the ships motoring slowly by on the Lynnhaven. Leslie thought she perceived a slight sag in his shoulders.

Brad turned from the horizon and picked at his food. “If you had to file suit on the Reed case, if you had no choice but to file suit, what approach would you take?”

Leslie furrowed her brow and took her turn staring at the river. “I would argue the implicit waiver clause—that when other nations torture U.S. citizens in violation of
jus cogens
norms, they waive their immunity from suit. This theory has never been squarely addressed by the U.S. Supreme Court. I would stress the fact that Charles and Sarah Reed were U.S. citizens tortured for religious reasons and that our courts have a special role to play when the fundamental rights of U.S. citizens are involved.”

Brad thought about this for a moment. “Oh, you mean the Strobel argument.”

Leslie winced. “Yeah, I guess so. But I’d prefer not to call it that.”

“Call it anything you want, as long as it works.”

“I didn’t say it would work. Only that it was our best argument.”

“What are our chances?” Brad asked. He sat up straighter, taking a big bite of a crab-cake sandwich. “I’m ready.”

“What?”

He chewed for a minute, then swallowed hard. He chased the sandwich with a gulp of tea. “I said . . . I’m ready. I just want to know what our chances are.”

Leslie put down her fork. This was not going as she had planned. “Nearly impossible. Didn’t you hear me? Brad, every effort by every lawyer to haul a foreign government into court based on human rights violations for the past hundred years has been unsuccessful. And there are lots of cases with facts every bit as horrible as yours.”

She said it with an edge. And either the tone or the bluntness of the assessment caused a long silence between the two. Leslie became uncomfortable and resumed working on her meal. Brad gazed down the river some more.

After what seemed like an eternity, he spoke. “There’s got to be a first time,” he mumbled.

“What do you mean by that?”

“Leslie, with every new breakthrough for justice, there’s got to be a first time. How do you think we got our civil rights laws? Some lawyers were sitting around, just like we are today, knowing they had justice on their side, but not the law. That didn’t stop them, because they knew the law was meant to serve justice, not the other way around. I know this may sound corny, but it’s true. Ninety-nine percent of the lawyers in the world see the law as it is, but the few really great ones see the law as it ought to be.”

Brad spoke as if the law were a sacred thing. He leaned forward, his voice reverent, barely above a whisper, and suddenly Leslie saw Bill leaning toward her, his voice coming out of the past full of captivating idealism. She gasped before she could stop herself.

“What is it?” he asked.

Leslie felt her cheeks grow hot. “Nothing,” she murmured. “You were saying?”

Brad now focused on the horizon and continued in the same passionate tone. “Most lawyers think the laws are written in law books, but a few lawyers understand that the fundamental laws of justice are carved deep in the human spirit, that the law books just try to capture those transcendent laws that are already there. And when the laws on the books don’t match what justice requires, you change the laws on the books, not the definition of justice.

“You wait your whole career for a case like this. There’s got to be a first time, Leslie. And I think this case just might be it.”

Brad finished his impromptu speech, and more silence followed. He fixed his gaze on Leslie, beseeching her with his steel blue eyes. It was, without a doubt, one of the most intense looks she had ever experienced—one of the most intense feelings she had ever felt.

She couldn’t look away.

Get a grip, Connors,
she told herself.
It’s just a case. It’s not a crusade, and it won’t bring world peace. He’s just another guy.

Yeah, right.

“If I decide to go tilting after these windmills,” Brad was asking, “will you join me? I could really use your help on the research. And I’ll pay twenty bucks an hour.”

Leslie had predicted this scenario. She had practiced saying no the entire trip from Williamsburg to Virginia Beach. She had finals coming up and the trip to England. It was not a good time.

“Thanks for the offer, Brad. But I just can’t . . . I don’t have time.” She looked down at her food; it had not moved. “I promised myself I would study abroad this summer, then slow down some my third year and enjoy law school. I just . . . I don’t know . . .”

Her voice trailed off, and she knew she had left the door open, cracked ever so slightly. It was not part of the plan.

Brad apparently sensed it too. “Law school will always be there. England can wait. But this case—” He paused. “A case like this comes around once, maybe twice, in a lifetime. Don’t you see it? The moot court argument. Sarah Reed just walking into my office on another matter. It’s destiny, Leslie. You can’t say no to destiny.”

Brad was playing hardball, but Leslie had steeled herself. Sure, she would like nothing more than to work on a potentially groundbreaking case. But she had already decided. She had other plans. Plans that had been two years in the making. Plans that would cause less pain than working on a case for another widow—a case that would remind her every step of the way of the devastating loss of her own husband. And she couldn’t throw out her plans just because some irresistible man across a lunch table asked her to.

Could she?

“Okay,” she said, stunned by her own words. “But I’m worth at least fifty an hour.”

Brad smiled broadly, white teeth flashing, and lifted his tea glass for a toast.

“Deal,” he said. “You can start Monday.”

Leslie touched his glass gingerly with her own, convinced she had just made a huge mistake.

* * *

The driver of the large rig had been at it for twenty-two straight hours. His logs would say differently, of course, so that his company would not be cited for violating FTC regulations. The money was good, but he was getting too old for this. He would dump his load at the depot on Military Highway, then push on through to a rest area outside Richmond.

It was warm for an April night, so he kept his windows down. The fresh air would help keep him awake, keep the heavy eyelids open, and might even help him shake off those brews he had thrown down at the truck stop in Suffolk. He was pretty sure he had stopped after two or three, nothing he couldn’t handle, nothing he hadn’t handled before.

Blasts from a car horn stunned him awake. He jerked his head up just in time to see the driver of the car, wide-eyed, looking out the driver’s side window in horror at the truck careening toward him . . . felt a jolt, heard the surreal sound of shattering glass and smashing metal and the sickening thud of a car under the truck chassis.

* * *

Nikki Moreno heard it on her police scanner. A bad accident, possible fatality, at the intersection of Military Highway and Battlefield Boulevard—less than four blocks away. With any luck, she could beat the police to the scene.

She wasn’t dressed for this. It was Friday night, and she had gone straight from the beach to the parties. She was wearing shorts, a bikini top, and sandals. It would have to do.

She reached under the seat and pulled out a half-empty bottle of Jack Daniels. She made a mental note to replenish her stock. You never knew when opportunity might knock.

“Hang in there, pal, you’ve got to pull through,” she mumbled to herself as she gunned the engine. “You’re never worth as much dead.”

8

EVEN BELLA HAD TO ADMIT
the case sounded good. The caller was Ralph Johnson, who had first come to Brad five years ago after losing two fingers in a saber-saw accident. Bella remembered how Brad had parlayed those two fingers into a nifty structured settlement with a total payout of more than $150,000. After Brad took his third, Johnson would have had enough for a down payment on a new home. In his euphoria, and without even consulting his wife, Ralph decided to get a new pickup, stay in the run-down shack they lived in, and have a little money on the side to party.

Five years later, the party money was gone, and the house was feeling cramped, but the pickup was still going strong. Like a rock. Ralph never regretted the way he spent his windfall.

Now Ralph called from the bedside of his brother Frank at Norfolk General Hospital. Misfortune had again visited the Johnson family, and Ralph was hoping Brad could find another pile of cash to ease the pain. Frank had had the bad luck of navigating an intersection at the same time a sleeping drunk driver in an 18-wheeler blew through a red light and demolished Frank’s vehicle. Ralph was sure this was a case for Brad Carson.

Upon learning the facts, Bella transformed herself into a sugary-sweet grief counselor. But she had a hard time disguising the glee in her voice as she offered Ralph and his brother her deepest condolences. She assured them that Brad would be on the way immediately. Justice would be done. The jerk who caused this terrible tragedy would pay. Dearly.

She talked of justice, but she thought about cash. The case was a gold mine. By the time she hung up the phone, she was practically drooling.

* * *

Brad took the call from Bella on his cell phone and was at the hospital in a flash. He waited briefly for the elevator, lost patience, then bounded up the stairs to the third floor, where Frank Johnson was being treated. He took the stairs two at a time, his feet barely touching the floor, the adrenaline pumping. He always felt this way when he landed a promising new case.

This feeling, this sense of excitement at someone else’s misfortune, always prompted a bout of guilt followed by the same Brad Carson pep talk. The practice of law was so competitive, he reminded himself, there was nothing wrong with feeling good about landing a new case. After all, the damage had already been done, and
someone
needed to help the man get the money he deserved to get on with his life. Brad was convinced that nobody could do that better than he could. Apparently Frank’s brother agreed. Brad worked hard and got an honest referral. No need to feel bad about that.

Brad put on his best look of professional compassion and stepped inside the door to Frank Johnson’s room. He surveyed the small crowd of people and immediately sensed that something was wrong. Frank was lying uncomfortably in traction, hooked up by tubes to a computer contraption that monitored his vitals and fed him intravenous fluids. Frank’s wife sat by his bedside, holding his hand. Ralph stood next to her with downcast eyes. All of this was typical of the hospital room of an injured client. But the woman with her back to the door was the source of Brad’s discomfort. She was clearly not medical personnel, and Brad sensed trouble.

Ralph sheepishly introduced the stranger as Nikki Moreno, a paralegal for Billy “the Rock” Davenport.

Brad extended his hand to Nikki. In her other hand, and clearly visible to Brad, was a typed contract for legal services. At the bottom of a full page of small print was a signature that Brad assumed belonged to Frank Johnson.

Brad gave her hand a menacing squeeze. Nikki lifted an eyebrow.

She did not look the part of a professional. She was thin—too thin for Brad’s taste—and all legs, which she showed off with a tight miniskirt and three-inch heels. Nikki apparently believed that the gods of style required her to lavishly decorate and puncture her smooth olive skin with a small tattoo on her ankle, a more prominent one on her left shoulder, a pierced navel clearly visible under her cropped blouse, and numerous holes in her ears. Despite her over-the-top presentation, Nikki’s face had an exotic Latino allure that came from sharp, angular bones, deeply tanned skin, long black hair, and dark brown eyes—accentuated with generous amounts of dark eye shadow.

Brad immediately determined he would not be outhustled by a legal assistant for a second-rate ambulance chaser like the Rock. “What are you doing here?” he asked bluntly.

“Our firm represents Frank Johnson. What are
you
doing here?” Nikki fired back.

Brad shot a glance at Ralph Johnson. Ralph pinned his eyes to a spot on the floor.

“Mr. Johnson—” Brad pointed to Ralph—“called
me
to see if I could help his brother the same way that I helped him. I didn’t know that you were tailgating the ambulance to the hospital.”

“It’s not my fault you’re a day late and a dollar short,” Nikki retorted. She turned to Mrs. Johnson. “Brad’s a pretty good lawyer who could do a pretty good job if this were a garden-variety personal injury case. But he works alone. In a complicated case involving serious injuries, you’ll be better off with the resources of a firm like Davenport & Associates.”

Brad snorted. “Your boss doesn’t know the first thing about trying cases.” He turned from Nikki to Ralph. “Tell your brother about our case, Ralph. Tell him how a real lawyer operates.”

All eyes turned to Ralph, who was still mesmerized by the spot on the floor. He stood silent and unmoving, like a statue.

“A real lawyer,” Nikki interjected, “does not act up so bad in court that he gets thrown in jail in the middle of his client’s case. It’s hard to be effective for your client when you’re sitting in jail.”

“I wasn’t talking to you,” Brad snapped.

The statue cleared his throat. “It’s like this,” Ralph said haltingly. “Ms. Moreno, here, brings some things to the case that no other firm brings. She can help us prove the other driver was drunk. She’s an eyewitness to his drinking—”

“I can always subpoena her,” Brad interrupted. “I’m telling you, Ralph, you don’t want Davenport trying your brother’s case. The other side will laugh all the way to a defense verdict.”

“You can’t subpoena me if I’m representing the truck driver,” Nikki said, raising her voice. She waved the paperwork under Brad’s nose. “And believe me, if Mr. Johnson reneges on this contract, the truck driver will hire me in a heartbeat.”

Brad rolled his eyes. “If you’re a witness, I’ll subpoena you. And why would the truck driver hire
you
?”

Brad knew this argument between him and a second-class paralegal was totally undignified.
But what are my options? Let her steal the case so the Rock can sell out Frank for a quick and easy settlement?

Not in a million years.

A nurse wearing the most severe scowl imaginable stepped between Brad and Nikki—
where did she come from?
—and unceremoniously asked them to leave the room. “My patient has enough trauma in his life right now,” she said scornfully. “Why don’t you take your little disagreement into the hallway?”

Chastised and feeling like a total idiot, Brad murmured an apology to the family, flashed another angry glare at Nikki, and walked quickly from the room.

Nikki followed.

“What a coincidence,” Brad lectured, “that you just
happened
upon this accident and
happened
to witness the other driver slamming down a few drinks. What do you do, spend all night listening to a police scanner, waiting for some poor soul to get killed or injured? I ought to report you to the bar.”

Nikki just stood there, staring at Brad.

“Are you finished?” she said at last.

“For now.”

“Good, because then maybe you’ll listen. We were doing just fine here until you showed up, hotshot. If you don’t mind, I’m going to go back in there to confer with my client. You, by the way, are not invited.” She turned on her heel.

Brad saw his window of opportunity closing quickly. He could not stand the thought of a hapless lawyer like the Rock representing Frank Johnson. He had to do something. Fast.

“Wait,” Brad said. “We’ve both been called on this case.” He paused. He was having difficulty forcing out this next sentence. “Let’s work as co-counsel and split the fee.”

Nikki stopped at the door and turned. She brushed her long dark hair back over her shoulder. If it was designed to impress, it didn’t. Brad was already starting to hate himself for suggesting this pact with the devil.

Nikki glanced around the hallway and took a step toward Brad. “Okay, here’s the scoop,” she said in a hushed voice. “If you want a piece of this case, you hire me. It’s a package deal. The case and I come together.”

Brad was stunned. Slack-jawed. If he told her off, he would lose the case for sure.

“I did hear about this accident on the scanner,” Nikki whispered. “I got to the scene before any help arrived. The other driver smelled like a brewery. I asked if he was okay. Somebody else was already helping Mr. Johnson. I looked into the truck and saw an open bottle of Jack Daniels. I told him I worked for a lawyer and suggested he have a drink to calm his nerves.”

She paused, allowing the audacity of what she had done to sink in.

“I’ve been hanging with the Rock long enough to know the protocol. You tell a drunk driver at the scene to drink some more and then not talk to anyone. The blood-alcohol test will not be able to distinguish what percentage is due to alcohol consumed before the accident and how much is due to alcohol consumed after the accident and before the police arrived. The only person who knows how much the truck driver drank after the accident, as opposed to before the accident—” Nikki again paused and checked the hallway, looking this way and that—“is me. That’s why both you and Mr. Johnson need me on this case.”

Brad just stood there, shaking his head, condemning her with his eyes. He had never seen such outrageous conduct.

“Of course,” Nikki continued, “I didn’t want to see the guy get away with drunk driving, so I came over here as soon as Mr. Johnson could have visitors. I told Mr. and Mrs. Johnson that if they retained our firm, I would be happy to testify on their behalf.”

“That was big of you,” Brad huffed.

“If the Johnsons decide to use some other firm—including yours,” Nikki continued in her conspiratorial whisper, “I’ll just give the truck driver a call, and he’ll retain us. That way any information I have will either be protected by the attorney-client privilege or I’ll just conveniently forget it.”

“You’ve got no morals,” Brad said, stating the obvious.

“Says the man who purposefully baits a judge and gets himself thrown in jail.”

“That’s different.”

Nikki shrugged. “Whatever.” She smiled. “My morals are beside the point. I’m not stupid. I’ve got a case you want, and you need a good paralegal.” She looked down the hallway one more time. The coast was still clear. “And if you repeat this, I’ll deny I ever said it—but I also know you’re ten times the lawyer Davenport ever dreamed of being. Take the deal, Carson.”

Brad did some quick math in his head. Even if he gave Nikki a huge salary out of his one-third contingency fee, he would still turn a handsome profit. If he didn’t like her work, he could fire her. If she was good, he did need a paralegal, and he could sure use a hustler like Nikki. But he would lay down some strict ethical guidelines on acceptable behavior in soliciting cases.

“Here’s the deal,” Brad said. “I can’t give you a percentage of the case because it’s unethical to give a nonlawyer a percentage for bringing a case to the firm. And despite the way you operate, some of us still believe the ethical rules that govern lawyers ought to be followed every once in a while. But if you bring this case to our firm, and you agree to abide by our code of conduct, I’ll give you a one-year contract for fifty thousand dollars.” He frowned to emphasize his displeasure at making such a distasteful offer.

Nikki scoffed. “This case alone is worth half a million to your firm. And I can bring in a bunch of other cases like it. But I’m willing to prove myself in the first year.” Nikki furrowed her brow and glanced at the contract in her hand, as if she were trying to calculate the combined worth of the contract and her own brilliance. “I’ll come for a mere seventy-five thousand, plus a bonus if we do well on the Johnson case. We can talk about the amount of the bonus when we negotiate year two.”

Brad pushed a sharp breath out through his nose, like she had just asked him for the Grand Canyon. He shook his head. “Sixty thousand.”

Nikki didn’t hesitate or blink. She just turned on her heel again and headed straight for the hospital room.

“Okay,” Brad fumed. “Seventy-five.”

She turned. “Plus medical benefits, parking, and a 401(k) plan.”

“You’re hired,” Brad said quickly.

The two new partners walked down the hall to the waiting area and drew up a short contract on the back of the paper that Johnson had signed. The knot in the pit of Brad’s stomach reminded him he would have to break this news to Bella. He prepared himself to offer her a raise.

“One more question,” Brad said to Nikki as he signed the makeshift agreement. “Where did that truck driver really get the Jack Daniels?”

“If you want the answer to that one,” Nikki said, smiling, “you’ll have to give me a raise.”

Just as Brad expected. He made a mental note to keep an eye on Nikki Moreno.