Garrison had a knack for finding the spotlight and ran into controversy a time or two over his unique ideas about proportional punishment. Two eighteen-year-olds accused of vandalizing public schools were told to return to his courtroom when they each had a half gallon of gum they had scraped off the bottom of public school desks. To make sure they didn’t cheat, Garrison appointed a deputy sheriff to supervise. Another defendant, accused of violating the noise ordinance with his car stereo, had been sentenced to twelve straight hours of Barry Manilow, again supervised by a poor deputy sheriff who hadn’t done a single thing wrong.
Garrison’s main qualification for the bench was not his intellect, demeanor, or trial experience. Instead, it was his daddy. Old Man Garrison was one of the most successful developers to ever bulldoze trees and destroy wildlife in Hampton Roads. Fortunately for his son, he used his largesse to patronize local Republicans now serving in Richmond. They returned the favor by appointing Robert Jr., a nondescript real-estate lawyer, to an open slot on the Virginia Beach Circuit Court bench.
The partisan nature of the appointment created a small uproar among the local bar, but soon the Virginia Beach lawyers discovered more pressing matters to complain about and left Garrison alone.
Garrison played the part of the proper Southern gentleman, donning seersucker suits starting on Memorial Day and wearing them under his robe at least twice a week until Labor Day. Other accessories included wire-rimmed glasses, membership in the Princess Anne Golf Club, a home on Sixtieth Street just two blocks from the ocean, a beautiful wife, two kids, and a membership in a large church in the Little Neck area of Virginia Beach. He seldom attended.
Garrison knew the other judges found him useful because he didn’t shy away from media attention and loved the high-profile cases. When the Rachel Crawford case hit the desk of the chief judge of the Virginia Beach Circuit Court, Garrison knew immediately that she would assign it to him. Nobody else would want to mess with all the cameras in the courtroom, the public scrutiny, the lawyers hotdogging for the TV audience. Nonetheless, the chief made Garrison wait until just one week before the first hearing on the case-a Motion to Dismiss based on the Protection of Lawful Commerce in Arms Act-before she let him know.
Garrison, however, was one step ahead. He had already discussed the case with his Republican cronies at the Christmas cocktail parties, being careful not to express a legal opinion about the merits. He had never owned a gun himself, preferring sailboats and golf clubs, but his friends all did. In their considered opinions, this was just a money grab based on a tragedy over which MD Firearms had no control. What was next? Suing beer and wine companies when a drunk driver caused an accident? Why not sue Boeing for manufacturing the planes that the terrorists flew into the World Trade Center?
Garrison couldn’t argue with them. He, too, thought the lawsuit was an abuse of the legal system. After all, hadn’t Congress already legislated these types of lawsuits out of existence?
A pro-business judge like him, especially one who believed in the Second Amendment, would dismiss this case so fast the lawyers (both of whom lived out of the area) wouldn’t even have time to figure out where the bathrooms were in the courthouse.
But when the file hit his office early on Friday afternoon, he ran into an unexpected snag. It seemed that the federal statute contained an exception for lawsuits based on aiding or abetting illegal activities. Crawford’s attorney was claiming that the manufacturer knew about the illegal straw purchases and did nothing to stop them.
Dismissing the lawsuit would not be as easy as Garrison had thought.
He decided to have a law clerk do some additional research over the weekend. Even in the absence of a federal statute, he could probably dismiss the case on the theory that a manufacturer couldn’t be held accountable for the criminal acts of a third party who was not acting as its agent.
On Monday, Garrison rushed through his morning docket, ate a quick lunch, and spent the afternoon digging into the case law the clerk had provided. Unfortunately, the law was murky. His gut told him to dismiss the case, but his head cautioned that he might get reversed. A seat on the Virginia Supreme Court was a long shot for any judge; getting reversed on this case would end all hope.
The rules didn’t allow cases to be dismissed at the pleadings stage unless there was no possible way the plaintiff could win even if everything he claimed in the lawsuit was true. Maybe Garrison should wait until further down the road, after the plaintiff produced his evidence at trial, and dismiss the case then. But if he did that, he would have to endure a wave of criticism in the meantime from the very party that had placed him in office.
By Monday evening, the news was out that the case had been assigned to him. Tuesday morning’s paper carried a feature story on Garrison, complete with quotes from local lions of the bar who called the judge “fair” and “evenhanded” and “exacting.”
A highly regarded big-firm lawyer named Mack Strobel summed it up best: “He’s no Lance Ito.”
Garrison shut his office door and read the article several times. There were a few sentences he might have written differently, but for the most part, the reporter got it right. Garrison came across as a no-nonsense judge in control of his courtroom.
He folded the paper and placed it carefully in his briefcase. He couldn’t use the office copier to make copies-someone might notice. He would stop at a Kinkos on the way home. The newspaper would yellow over time but the copies would maintain their color.
This wasn’t just another news story. He sensed that years down the road, in the scrapbook of his life, this story would take on pivotal importance. If he played his cards right, it could be his ticket to the Virginia Supreme Court.
And who deserved it more?
Part IV: Pretrial
29
On Friday, January 30, Jason picked up Case McAllister at the airport and headed to Virginia Beach Circuit Court for an 11:00 a.m. hearing. They had agreed that Jason would introduce Case, move for his admission to the Virginia Bar pro hac vice -for this case only-and Case would argue the motion. If the case ended up going to trial, Jason and Case would be co-counsel, with Jason taking the lead. But Case wanted to argue this first motion, and Case was paying the bills. Enough said.
On the way to the courthouse, Jason expected to talk strategy, but Case was more interested in talking football. He asked about Jason’s dad as well, and Jason gave him the CliffsNotes version of Christmas. His father took him out shooting, Jason said. A few days later, he’d picked up the MD-45 Jason had ordered. The father-son fights, of course, were none of Case McAllister’s business. Jason quickly changed the subject.
“When do you think I’ll be able to pick up my special order?” Jason asked, referring to his customized MD-45.
“Not long,” Case replied. “We were backed up for Christmas and haven’t caught up yet. Prototypes can take a while to produce.”
The Virginia Beach courthouse was a mammoth fortress attached to the city jail by an underground tunnel and located on the edge of a sprawling municipal complex composed of matching colonial-style redbrick buildings. Years ago, when the city complex had sprung to life in the southern, agrarian part of the city, it had been surrounded by cornfields. Now it was surrounded by housing developments, office buildings, and commercial establishments. Trees had been turned into asphalt parking lots, wildlife replaced by convenience stores and fast-food restaurants.