Grif Stockley
Probable Cause
1
Chapman? Wearily, I rub my forehead as if I’m hoping his name will come off in my hand. Not even a glimmer. I put down my pen, wishing the brief in the Davis case would go away. How do appellate judges stay awake? I flip through the Rolodex on my desk, on the off chance his name will show up. Why would a jail doctor be calling me? I haven’t had a criminal case since I left the Blackwell County Public Defender’s Office over a year ago. Personal injury law pays more, but it isn’t as much fun. Especially if you’re an associate cranking out research and the crap cases the senior partners throw like dog scraps to us once they realize the cases aren’t turning into pots of gold as they had hoped. What the hell-maybe this doc’ll be in a car wreck someday.
“This is Gideon Page,” I say, glad for any excuse to take a break.
Brief writing isn’t my long suit anyway. A decision was handed down by the Arkansas Supreme Court two weeks ago with my name on it (I did most of the work, though a senior partner’s name went first) in which the court reversed a million-plus judgment for our client on the jury instructions.
The second big case this month down the tubes for Mays amp; Burton. We’re on a roll-unfortunately it seems straight downhill.
“Mr. Page,” a deep, rich voice reverberates in my ear, “my name is Dr. Andrew Chapman. I’ve just been charged with manslaughter. Can you come talk to me?”
As if I’d gulped pure caffeine, I feel instantly alert. Mays amp; Burton stays away from criminal cases, but this guy could be loaded. I look at my watch. In seven minutes, at precisely two o’clock (Oscar Mays likes his associates to walk in right on the dot-he’s usually on the phone, but that’s okay), I have a command performance with Oscar, presumably to go over my research on the Davis case. As fast as we’re losing cases, we could stand some cash flow. Maybe Oscar’ll go for it.
“I’ll be down to see you in less than an hour.” If Oscar passes on it, I’ll refer the guy after I break my boss’s neck.
“Thank you,” Dr. Chapman says politely and hangs up.
Elated, I put down the phone and write his name down on a yellow pad. Who is he? God, lawyers are horrible. Bad news makes me feel almost as good as sex. I grab up the Davis file, but instead of heading for Oscar’s office, I swing by the John. Sometimes, I think the best thing about being an attorney is being able to go to the bathroom whenever I want. If I worked in a factory, I’d need a catheter attached to my thigh.
In the head, I join Daryl Worley, who is at the next urinal.
He doesn’t look so hot. Charcoal-colored pouches under his already dark eyes make him look as if he has survived a physical beating instead of an emotional and financial one.
He was the lawyer on the Stoddard case a week ago in which the judge snatched from us on a judgment notwithstanding the verdict after a jury had awarded our client two million dollars.
“How’s it going, Darryl?” I say, unzipping my pants. Daryl, ten years younger, made partner last year. He has become a friend in the last few months, and we’ve started playing some tennis this summer.
He smiles sadly as he shakes off, but instead of a mournful acknowledgment, he recites, “You can beat it on the wall;
you can throw it on the rocks; but it’s always in your pants you get that last little drop.”
Damn! If people knew what some of us were really like.
The guy is smooth as mercury in front of a jury, but as soon as he steps outside the courtroom he regresses into an adolescent. I laugh dutifully while he washes his hands, not having heard that ditty since high school.
“Women have it worse,” I say, keeping the conversation off law. If given a chance to talk about the case, Darryl will start in on Curtis Hadley, the trial judge in the Stoddard case, and I haven’t got the time. I’m a little surprised he hasn’t been to my office to talk to me today about it.
Darryl begins to hum the Marine Hymn as he pushes the hot-air machine button. He rubs his hands together briskly, pretending to read the instructions. ‘“Him on. Rub hands together. Then wipe hands on pants.”
Junior associate that I am, I grin. I’ve seen that cartoon, too. What the hell? There’s nothing new under the sun. And, according to my tenth-grade Sunday school teacher, that saying comes from the book of Ecclesiastes. Perhaps Darryl is whistling in the graveyard: truly, with his raccoon eyes, he has a sickly look about him.
“Catch you later,” I tell him.
“Yeah,” he says, not looking me in the eye. Losing is a serious business. The firm spent over thirty thousand of its own money in experts and exhibits.
Martha Birford, who shares with me here an employment anniversary date, arrives outside Oscar Mays’s office at the same time, and we go in together. She has a piece of the Davis case, too. We both like Oscar better than Chip Burton.
It is no secret that Oscar was responsible for hiring us, for one thing, but also he is genuinely a nice man. He is in his sixties and seems ready to retire, but for some reason he won’t or can’t. If his office is any indication, he can afford it. He has a fireplace, an antique walnut desk I’d like to steal if I could figure out a way to get it through the door, and works of unknown (to me) Southern artists, who, according to Martha (incongruously, an art history major in college), for the moment are quite popular.
“Have a seat,” he says affably, standing until Martha is seated, always the old Southern gentleman. It hits me that Martha and I are getting a raise. I want to tell him that I have brought the firm a decent client but have learned that Oscar likes to speak first, whatever the situation. Age before beauty, I suppose.
Age has its compensations. Oscar’s suit, a dapper, baby blue summer Brooks Brothers, in the $750 range, looks tailored and nicely hides his sizable paunch. After all these months, I’ve only seen the man not wearing his suit coat in the bathroom.
“Martha and Gideon,” he begins kindly, “I’ve got some bad news. Our profits, as you know, are way down, and we are letting you both go. Your work is fine. It’s merely a question of finances. I’m really very sorry.”
I remain perfectly still, trying to maintain my composure.
My spine is so straight and rigid a bone in my lower back pops in protest. Surely this can’t be happening. I’ve worked my butt off for this place. This time next year I had hoped to have paid off enough of my debts to be able to incur some more in order to send my daughter to college. I am gripping the sides of the leather chair and trying to relax.
Martha, who could have paid off a sizable chunk of the savings and loan bailout with what she spent for her recent wedding, begins to cry just as she did two weeks ago this past Sunday at the front of the Pine Bluff First Baptist Church.
Pleasant, but with a headful of gray hair (the firm apparently likes the mature look), Martha was thrilled when her recently unemployed boyfriend of five years caved in and accepted her last ultimatum.
As if he is consoling a newly rich widow, Oscar stands and pushes a box of tissues from his desk at Martha. She snuffs loudly. I feel like joining her. Oscar, his voice registering disapproval, as if this won’t do, says ruefully, “In retrospect, we should have waited to take on some new people, and of course, you’re aware of the setbacks we’ve had recently.”
The man has a nice gift for understatement. Since the place has been like a tomb the last couple of weeks and a copy of the most recent court reversal is sitting on my desk, I feel like saying that we’ve had an inkling that year-end bonuses might be down this time around. Yet, there is no point in leaving on a bad note: we’ll still be here for a while, and I’ll need a reference.
“So when is our last day?” I ask, keeping my voice light and if not managing a smile, at least a nice grimace.
Oscar sits back down. Tears, he decides, he can handle.