Impact (26 page)

Hawthorne nods, embarrassed by the concern rumpling the old man's face.

“Bad?”

“They pronounced me dead for a while.”

“So tell me. What have I got to look forward to?”

Hawthorne smiles. “On the whole, I'd rather have been in Kenya.”

The reference is to a series of depositions he and Haroldson had taken back in 1975, pursuing the reason a 747 had somehow missed the Nairobi runway by a quarter mile.

Haroldson's palm falls onto Hawthorne's left knee. “You look pretty spunky for a dead man, Alec. But from now on, leave the dying to those of us who're ahead of you in line. I'd hate to lose you, boy. You're the only man in the room I enjoy breaking bread with. Or trust when my back is turned.”

Haroldson fixes him with his fathomless blue eyes and the twinkle that has charmed juries around the world for more than half a century. Hawthorne feels the surge of affection he always experiences when the old man pays him a compliment. “Coming from the best there ever was, that means at lot.”

“Well, it's God's own truth.”

Haroldson smiles at a memory. Hawthorne guesses his friend has used the identical phrase before a thousand juries and has persuaded each of them that he and the Lord are on a first-name basis.

“Hear you boys in California are about to solve this here liability crisis we've got ourselves mixed up in,” Haroldson continues.

Hawthorne shrugs. “We're giving it a go. Got to keep folks from shooting themselves in the foot by passing another initiative measure.”

“Well, I hope you get it done. I swear, these days people would vote to sleep in a swamp if someone promised it would reduce their tax bill.”

“We put a deal together in Sacramento last month, but I don't know if it's going to be enough to keep the insurance boys happy. They still want a cap on contingent percentages that will make sure personal injury lawyers earn slightly less than poets.”

As Haroldson nods morosely, a gale of laughter rises in the front of the room, from the vicinity of Vic Scallini. Haroldson leans toward Hawthorne so he can be heard above the din. “I expect you'll be made top dog in this thing, Alec. If so, I'll support you any way you want, including keeping my mouth shut. Not much competition out your way except Scallini, and I wouldn't back Scallini for boxing commission. Even in New Jersey.”

Hawthorne enjoys the old man's gibe. “You're going to try to get us sent to Florida though, aren't you?”

“Sure. And if I win, I'll put in for co-chair and ask for you to be my running mate. But I expect them to send the whole kit and kaboodle to San Francisco, and if so, I'll let you have the top slot with my blessing. I'm too old to run from coast to coast every other week, plus you know how I feel about Californians.”

“Scallini will make a strong pitch for lead counsel,” Hawthorne says. “Think he has a shot?”

“Maybe. This panel doesn't know Vic the way we do. He puts together a good application, since he's not encumbered by compunctions against prevarication. As usual, his best chance is that they'll give it to him just to shut him up.”

“That could turn SurfAir into a marathon.”

“Surely could, especially since the NTSB is still stuck for a proximate cause. That could leave it up to Vic to find one, and Vic couldn't find liability in a crash case with the help of my best bird dog.” Haroldson laughs. “Look at him. If his chest expands any further, they'll put him on a platter and serve him at Thanksgiving. Took the East Coast boys to dinner last night, you know, trying to buy some votes.”

“I heard”

“All except me, that is. I can't forgive him for the fuckup in St. Louis. He should never have let the airline keep those test documents from the press. Cost us the best chance we've ever had to make crashworthiness a requirement for newly certified aircraft.”

“Vic's never been strong on public policy.”

Haroldson nods. “Vic's only strong on Vic.”

As Haroldson makes a move to leave, Hawthorne puts a hand on his arm to stop him. “You've been around a long time, Ed. Don't you ever think of throwing in the towel?”

Haroldson laughs his customary squeak. “Trying to get me out of your hair so you can take over the whole country instead of just the silly side of the Mississippi?”

“It's just that lately I've been wondering what I'll be doing twenty years from now, and I'm not sure I want it to be this.”

“Hell, son. If you're breathing without help and not wearing a diaper you'll be ahead of the game, believe me. But I know what you mean. I swam that ditch after my first wife died. What I finally decided was that I couldn't think of anything I'd rather do in life than go to court to help folks who've been busted up in a plane crash.”

“But it's so inefficient.”

“So's anything folks do in groups of more than two. It just happens to be the best system anyone's come up with to help right wrongs. When they come up with a better one, men I'll retire.”

“You have kids don't you, Ed?”

“I got kids and I got
grand
kids. Come Christmas, it's like a beehive at our place in the Hamptons. I'd throw them out if I didn't love them so damn much. And I love them because they're little bitty scrappers just like me.”

“Sounds nice.”

“Is nice. But it wouldn't be nice if it happened every day, know what I mean? I go to work because I like to, Alec. And I come home because I like to do that, too. If I did only one or the other, I'm not sure I could say the same.” Haroldson paused and looked him in the eye. “You're not thinking of hanging up the briefcase, are you?”

“Naw. Just chatting.”

“Well, don't decide one way or another till you get your health back. I know you've had a scare, and the medics are probably telling you it's the job that brought you down. Well, maybe it was and maybe it wasn't. Some guys work their whole life just to retire at sixty-five and a week later they're dead from the decompression.” Haroldson leans close. “We're sharks, boy. We feed on this nonsense—not the money so much, but the sport. Some of us couldn't live five minutes if they took it all away.”

“I suppose not.”

Haroldson's face is worthy of Rushmore. “I do know one thing, son—it'll kill you if it doesn't make you proud, and you can't be proud if you don't give it all you've got. If you can't do that, sell your practice and buy a house down in little old Carmel and watch the waves go back and forth. Ain't nothing we do worth dying over, that's for sure. Though once in a while we do more than we get credit for.”

“Sometimes it's hard to keep that in mind.”

“We're the best lawyers in the world, Alec. And we work for the folks who need us most. That's what the big boys can't stand, you know, that in our kind of work the poor man has a better lawyer than the corporations. They won't quit till they change that around, Alec; we've got to fight them all the way.” Haroldson claps him on the shoulder. “Now I got to go tell some lies to Vic. Hell, the panel might have gone mad and he might end up stud bull in this thing.”

Haroldson slides out of the pew. A moment later, a door opens beyond the jury box and the judicial panel files into the courtroom. The three robed arbiters glance with disapproval at what amounts to a pin-striped mob, then take their places atop the elevated bench. The chief judge bangs the gavel and the lawyers reluctantly drift toward seats.

The gavel bangs again. “We are here pursuant to a motion to consolidate the SurfAir litigation for the purpose of pretrial proceedings, to choose the proper forum for those proceedings, and to select a plaintiffs' committee to coordinate all motion and discovery practice in the case.”

As the chief judge fumbles with his papers, the lawyers eye each other like quiz contestants five minutes before the show. The selection of the plaintiffs' committee is in the nature of an all-star vote. Because the prize is less money than renown, it is particularly coveted; each pursues the job not for the doing but for being asked. As in most varieties of law practice, the actual labor—the preparation of papers and reviewing of documents and digesting of depositions—will be done by people like Martha, up to the eve of trial.

“We have reviewed the file in the matter,” the judge continues, “and are prepared to rule on the consolidation and transfer issue. Are there any additions to the papers previously presented on the point?”

Vic Scallini hops to his feet clutching a snarl of documents. His unbuttoned vest flaps around his watch fob like a blue serge sheet hung to dry on a golden line. Behind him, several heads shake, slowly and sarcastically. Scallini is an exemplar of one of the most dispiriting axioms of modern life—that noise becomes believed.

“Victor Scallini of Los Angeles, Your Honor. Counsel for the families and loved ones of twenty-one crash victims. With all due respect, I would like to urge the court to transfer these cases to the great state of California. Even though, as usual, the majority of the lawyers in this room are from the East Coast, that should not be of significance. Flight 617 was a West Coast plane crashing at a West Coast location while flying the colors of a West Coast airline. The appropriate forum is obvious, for the convenience of both plaintiffs and defendants. Moreover, I—”

The judge's brow furls. “We have read your moving papers, Mr. Scallini. Have you anything new to add?”

“Only that since the papers were filed, my office has been engaged by the mournful heirs of three additional victims, and we will be filing wrongful death claims on their behalf within the week.
California
heirs, I might add, Your Honor. The number of plaintiffs represented by my office now exceeds the number represented by any other counsel in the room. I therefore—”

“Thank you, Mr. Scallini. Your comments are duly noted Anyone else?”

“Ed Haroldson, Your Honor. Counsel in the Brooks, Hoskitt, and Shadburne cases.”

“Yes, Mr. Haroldson?”

“I rise only to point out that the proximate cause of this crash is still in dispute. The NTSB has not yet issued its report, and until it does so, the possibility exists that the engines on the aircraft failed in some respect. Since the engines were manufactured in Florida, I submit that to discount that forum at this stage of the litigation would be premature. Thank you, Your Honor. That's all I have.”

“Thank you, Mr. Haroldson. Anyone else?”

When no one moves, Hawthorne gets to his feet, feeling a momentary lightness in his head, a prickle in his hands. “Are you considering only the forum issue, Your Honor?”

“At this point, yes.”

“Then I have nothing to add. Sorry to interrupt.”

The chief judge glances at his colleagues and receives two nods. “If there is nothing further, the panel is prepared to rule. We hereby order all cases in the SurfAir disaster litigation, heretofore or hereafter filed, consolidated for pretrial proceedings and transferred to the Honorable Hugh V. Powell, Judge of the United States District Court for the Northern District of California.”

The audience grumbles, but no one rises to object. It has been a foregone conclusion. Ammunition is saved till later.

“Now then. We are also here to select the lead counsel of the plaintiffs' committee and the membership of the committee itself. The panel has reviewed the petitions and accompanying affidavits and finds itself duly impressed with the qualifications and experience of the applicants. We are also cognizant of the objections filed by at least two counsel of record, claiming that the appointment of a plaintiffs' committee deprives litigants whose counsel are not on the committee of their right to be represented by the attorney of their choice. As it has done many times before, the panel rejects that argument, pointing out the delay and expense, to say nothing of the duplication and consequent burden on the defendants, of allowing these actions to proceed separately. The panel also observes that the consolidation of cases and the actions of the plaintiffs' committee apply only to pretrial proceedings, not to trial of the cause itself. The right to a trial attorney of choice is thus preserved inviolate. At this time—”

Scallini lumbers toward the vertical once again. “Your Honor, may I point out that of the victims in this case, seventy-two percent are from California, and of those seventy-two percent, my office represents thirty-six percent. Therefore, it seems only equitable, particularly in light of the historic favoritism shown to
East
Coast attorneys in these matters, that I be—”

“We have duly noted that point in your petition, Mr. Scallini. Thank you. Now, at this time—”

“One more matter, Your Honor. If you please.”

“Yes, Mr. Scallini?”

“Since filing my application, it has been my pleasure to acquire a new partner in my practice. He—”

“How is that relevant, sir?”

“I'm happy to suggest an answer. My new partner is Daniel Griffin, Esquire. Mr. Griffin is known to the men in this room as a skilled and experienced aviation attorney. He was formerly with the law office of Mr. Alec Hawthorne, but some weeks ago Mr. Griffin chose to join me in litigating the SurfAir matter, as well as the many other major cases that I have been engaged to pursue all over the world. Even as we speak, Mr. Griffin is in my offices in Los Angeles preparing a discovery schedule to include all possible sources of admissible evidence, as well as—”

“Thank you, Mr. Scallini. Your point is noted.”

“Your Honor?”

“Yes, Mr. Hawthorne?”

Eyes crawl over him like lice. Unprepared for the revelation of Dan Griffin's new allegiance, Hawthorne finds Scallini's coup both painful and embarrassing, but at the moment there is nothing to be done but endure his colleagues' slimy speculations. He clears his throat and speaks from a hidden script.