“True. And now he wants the other ten.”
“What makes him think those ten are so important?”
Ben ran his fingers across his desk. “Principally, the fact that they are missing, I would imagine. I’ve talked to Imogine, the supervisor in Document Retention, but she says she doesn’t know where the documents are or what information they contained.” He chose his words carefully. “I…don’t suppose you do, by any chance?”
To Ben’s surprise, Crichton leaned across his desk and smiled. “As a matter of fact, I do. I remember removing ten pages myself. They didn’t have anything to do with the XKL-1. They contained a design for a new suspension system—frankly, one that would remedy some unrelated problems we’d experienced. It would have no bearing on the alleged leaf spring defect the Nelsons are complaining about. I didn’t mean to create any problems—we just considered the new design top secret. Do we have to produce that?”
Ben thought for a moment. “Well, there is a legal doctrine protecting proprietary information. Companies are not required to disclose trade secrets, especially where, as here, they have no relevance to the lawsuit.”
“Makes sense to me.”
“There’s also a rule excluding evidence of subsequent repairs. The theory is that, if evidence of repairs made after an incident were admissible at trial, no one would ever make repairs, for fear that the fact of the repair would make it appear at trial that they acknowledged the fault. As a result, more people would be harmed. So the courts have made a policy decision to exclude evidence of subsequent repairs.”
“That’s great!” He walked around the desk and slapped Ben on the back. “That sounds like exactly what we need. By God, I knew you were going to be a winner, Kincaid. What a proactive player. I wish I had ten more just like you.”
“Thank you, sir. Oh, I’ll have to see the missing documents, of course.”
Crichton stiffened. “Why? I already told you what they say.”
“I know. But if I’m going to make representations to the court about their contents—”
“Ben, I don’t have them anymore.”
“Who does?”
“I’m not sure. I think I gave them to Imogene.”
“Imogene says she doesn’t have them.”
“Okay, I’ll instigate a search.”
“Sir, I don’t have time for a search. The hearing starts in less than an hour.”
“Just tell the judge you can’t show them around because they contain trade secrets. I’m sure he’ll understand.”
Ben frowned. “Either that or he’ll cite me for contempt.”
“You’ll handle it. You’ll be great.” Crichton started for the door, but stopped just before he passed through the threshold. “By the way, Kincaid…” He cleared his throat, then stared at the floor.
Ben watched this curious spectacle. Crichton, the boss of every room he entered, suddenly seemed…uncomfortable.
“What I’m trying to say is…well, I probably got out of line…calling you a pussy and all that. What you did on the giant’s ladder, when you saved my butt from splatting on the dirt…that was amazing. Most men would’ve been too scared by half to try something like that. Hell, I’m not even sure I could have brought it off.”
“Really, Mr. Crichton, it was no big deal.”
“The hell it wasn’t. And to think you did that just minutes after I was riding your ass.” He shuffled his feet some more. “What I’m trying to say is I think I owe you an apology.”
“That’s not necessary.”
“No. But I wanted to do it anyway. Now get in that courtroom and give ’em hell, tiger.” And with that, Crichton faded down the hallway.
20
BEN AND ROB SAT at one of two counsel tables in Judge Roemer’s courtroom and waited. Roemer’s courtroom was one of the smaller ones tucked away on the seventh floor of the state courthouse at Fifth and Denver.
Ben checked the clock on the wall. “The judge is already fifteen minutes late. I hate waiting around like this, but it seems to happen every time.”
“Is this sort of like being fashionably late to a party?” Rob asked.
“Well, this is more a power-of-the-judge pose. You know: you have to be on time; I don’t.”
“That must be irritating.”
“True. On the other hand, state judges don’t have clerks, much less magistrates. They have to do everything themselves. Roemer’s probably back in chambers reading our brief.”
Ben apparently was not the only person in the courtroom getting restless. Abernathy lumbered over and plopped another business card in front of Ben. “Wanted to make sure you gentlemen had my new card. It’s got my 1-800 number.”
“You have a 1-800 number? For your law practice?”
“Sure. Doesn’t everyone?” He laughed. “It’s the wave of the future, Ben. Mass marketing. Media referrals.”
“So if I want to call you up and talk about the pending motions or something, I can just use this number?”
“Well…er, no…This is really for prospective clients…”
“Ah.”
“Have you seen my new commercial? It’s running during reruns of Laverne and Shirley on Channel Six.”
Ben glanced at Rob. “You know, I don’t keep up with Laverne and Shirley like I used to.…”
“It’s a great spot.” Abernathy shifted his considerable weight into action, reenacting the commercial. “It starts with the camera tightly focused on me.”
“What a surprise.”
“Then the camera pulls back, and you see I’m wearing a black leather jacket and straddling a great big Harley. I lean into the camera lens and say, ‘If a doctor makes a mistake, I believe he should be held accountable. If you’re hurt On the job, I believe your boss should be accountable.’ Then I rev up the Harley and say, ‘And if you’re injured by some pig on the highway, I believe he should be held accountable.’ By this time, the music is swelling. Really exciting stuff—we looped it from Top Gun. It’s very moving.”
“No doubt.”
“And I finish off with, ‘Don’t give up your claim prematurely. Don’t accept a nuisance settlement from someone who owes you more. You need a hot rod in your corner. Call George Abernathy.’ And then the 1-800 number flashes. It’s beautiful. The first time I saw it, I got choked up.”
“Better than Casablanca,” Rob said.
“Oh, a hundred times over,” Abernathy replied. “If you ever go back into private practice, you should try TV, Ben.”
“I’ll pass. Thanks.”
“Hmmph. You guys who act like you’re too classy to advertise are going to be left behind in the dust.”
“Maybe so,” Ben said, “but at least I won’t be straddling a great big Harley, begging people to sue their friends and neighbors.”
“Since you apparently loathe, litigation so much, we could avoid this whole unpleasant hearing if you’d sit down and talk some settlement.”
“Thanks, but no thanks, Abernathy. I’m not convinced you even have a case.”
Judge Roemer chose that moment to enter the courtroom. Roemer was one of the more laid-back state judges; in fact, Ben reflected, some might call him comatose. He never took an active role, he let the lawyers do whatever they wanted, and he hated to make a decision. “Please be seated,” he mumbled into the microphone.
He glanced at the papers on the bench, frowned, and then said, “I understand we have a discovery dispute today.” His voice was thin and reedy. “I hate discovery disputes. Can’t you boys work this out on your own?”
Abernathy waddled toward the podium and went into his gosh, shucks routine. “Darn it all, Judge, I’ve talked to Mr. Kincaid about this, but he refuses to produce those ten pieces of paper.”