Jason paused for a second, trying to read how this blunt honesty was impacting his potential clients. “With respect, Mr. McAllister, you need a good trial lawyer, not somebody who’s going to waste his time filing unwinnable paper motions.”
That assessment was followed by a brief silence, and Jason still couldn’t read the faces of his hosts. Case McAllister made a check mark on his legal pad.
“I like him,” Davids said. “It’s the first honest piece of advice we’ve received on this case. Plus, Robert Sherwood assures me he’s an excellent trial lawyer.”
McAllister nodded his assent, and Jason felt his neck muscles relax. He took note of how Davids had made a point to insert Sherwood’s name into the conversation.
Melissa Davids took a half step forward and looked Jason dead in the eye, as if she was somehow measuring the strength of his character.
“They’re going to demonize us,” she said. “Make you feel like you’re literally the devil’s advocate. You’re going to have to look at that jury and tell them a poor grieving widower doesn’t deserve a dime. You’re going to have to learn about guns and the gun culture. You’re going to have to defend the Second Amendment like it’s your firstborn child. Can you do all that?”
She said it with the seriousness of wedding vows. Man, these folks are intense.
“Yes,” Jason said, setting his own jaw to show that two could play this game. “But you’re going to have to let me call the shots at trial. And let me coach you as a witness. And go along with some wild gambles I might cook up along the way. And let me-and only me-select the jury. And one more thing-you’re going to have to pay my bills on time and send in a seventy-five-thousand-dollar retainer.” He hesitated, trying to make sure he hadn’t forgotten anything. “Can you do all that?”
“I really like this guy,” Davids said to Case McAllister.
21
A few minutes after Melissa Davids made her pronouncement, Case McAllister escorted Jason down the hall to Case’s office, bigger than Melissa’s but every bit as austere. The two men talked litigation strategy for nearly an hour. They agreed not to remove the case to federal court and decided to immediately file a Motion to Dismiss, though neither of the men thought the motion would be successful.
As they were wrapping up, Davids stuck her head in the door. “Grab your overcoat, Noble,” she said. “I’ll meet you at the shooting range in five minutes.”
Before Jason could respond, she was gone.
Case rose slowly, the limp more noticeable this time. “Bum knee,” he said. “Need a total replacement but I keep putting it off. It’s worse after I’ve been sitting for a while.”
Case pulled a long overcoat from a hanger on the back of his office door. “Here,” he said, handing it to Jason.
“I’m fine. Really.”
“Don’t be a hero,” Case said. “You’ll freeze your butt off out there. Melissa loses track of time.”
Jason took the coat and tried it on. It was black and came down to his knees, like something Doc Holliday might have worn to the O.K. Corral. The sleeves were short, and the coat was tight. “Maybe if I take my sports coat off.” He removed his jacket and tried the overcoat again. The sleeves still crawled up Jason’s forearms.
Case sized him up. “Close enough,” he said.
The MD Firearms outdoor firing range was located behind the factory on a large slice of land that backed up to woods full of pine trees. Jason had seen an indoor firing range on the tour provided by Davids. But according to Case, Melissa Davids much preferred to do her target practice outside.
A few minutes after Jason arrived, the company’s CEO showed up carrying two gray attache cases.
“He’s all yours,” Case said. “Just bring him back to the office when you’re done.” The lawyer retreated toward the building as Davids set down the attache cases and handed Jason earmuffs and safety glasses.
“Have you ever fired a gun before?” Davids asked.
“No.”
She looked at him in disbelief. “And you’re a cop’s kid?”
“It’s a long story.”
Davids shook her head. “We’ll psychoanalyze that later. For now, let’s start with some basics.”
After a brief safety lesson, Davids opened the first case. It contained an MD-9, the same gun used by Larry Jamison to mow down Rachel Crawford. Even to Jason, who was now being paid $275 an hour to represent the manufacturer, the gun looked evil.
According to Jason’s research, the MD-9 had become popular with gangs after it made the lyrics of a few ubiquitous rap songs. The gun had a dull black finish and a boxy design-none of the smooth, glossy, machine-finished surfaces of pricier weapons. It featured a stubby barrel and a square pistol grip that jutted down from the center of the gun, not the rear. Davids began loading the slender gray magazine with thirty-two brass 9 mm cartridges.
“What do you know about gun terminology?” she asked.
“Not much. What I’ve read.”
“Gun control folks like describing guns as ‘automatics’ and ‘semi-automatics,’ to make it sound as if a gun like this is a machine gun. A fully automatic keeps firing as long as you hold down the trigger. A semi-automatic, like this gun, fires one round each time you pull the trigger.”
Jason had read some information about how easily the MD-9 could be converted to a fully automatic before it was redesigned in the early 90s. But he decided to save that topic for later.
“You’ll also hear people use the term automatic when referring to a pistol like the MD-45. In that context, what they mean is that the pistol automatically reloads, using the explosive force of the cartridge to load and cock itself after each shot. These pistols are actually auto-loading or semi-automatics.”
She looked up at Jason. “Does that make sense?”
“Sure,” he said. In truth, it was a little confusing. But he’d figure it out.
Melissa Davids demonstrated the proper handling and shooting techniques for the MD-9, instructing Jason in the best stance as she downed several man-shaped targets about fifty feet away. Jason noticed that even in Davids’s expert hands, a few of the shots missed their mark.
She took off the earmuffs and turned to him. “Attorney-client privilege?”
“Of course.”
She looked at the gun, weighing it in her hands. “This thing’s a piece of junk. It’s awkward and bulky and kicks like a mule. It’s good up to about twenty-five feet, and that’s it.”
Jason resisted the obvious question: Then why do you sell it? For one thing, he didn’t want to alienate the company CEO on their first meeting. For another, he already knew the answer: People buy it.
She handed the gun to Jason and pushed a button that made the targets pop back up. Another button moved them to twenty-five feet away.
The gun felt heavy and awkward in Jason’s hand, like it needed a second handle at the back of the gun so his left hand could provide some stability. He tried to mimic Davids’s stance but didn’t quite get it right.
“Bring that one leg back just a little,” she said, tapping his right foot until he slid it back. “Competitive shooters use a squared-off stance, but in a true self-defense encounter, you’re more concerned about balance and the ability to move laterally.
“Now, keep your strong arm straight and stiff, with your support arm slightly bent.” Davids demonstrated as she talked. “Bring the gun straight up into your line of vision until the sights are lined up and on-target.”
Jason did as he was told. His hands trembled a little, partly from the cold, partly from nerves, partly from the unexpected weight of the gun.