The thought that his own client might be pushing this case toward trial troubled Jason. Maybe it was just the product of his cynical and imaginative mind. Or maybe Case had been through so much controversy in his day that this was just a blip on the radar screen. Either way, Jason still felt it odd that the same ruling that had sent his own stomach into a relentless churn had not seemed to impact Case at all.
But then he thought about the moment that Kelly had first pulled out the Farley ruling. Case had seemed understandably frustrated. And surprised. So maybe he just got over things quickly.
When Jason reached the interstate, instead of heading north toward Richmond, he took the second entrance ramp, heading south and eventually east to Virginia Beach. There were certain things he couldn’t control. The judge, for example. Maybe his client as well.
But Jason had a job to do, and he needed to focus on that. He had to assume this case would ultimately go to trial.
Today had given him a chance to analyze Kelly Starling, and he had been impressed. She was businesslike and well prepared, but she also had a quick smile, lively brown eyes, and a short, layered haircut that gave her an all-American image. She could do Wonder Bread commercials. Plus, she seemed to be a true extrovert, not a private person like Jason who just played the part of a trial lawyer.
But he could count on at least one weakness. She was from Burgess and Wicker, a traditional big firm that taught traditional big-firm trial prep. She would focus on pretrial depositions, file truckloads of legal motions, and try to bury Jason in a mountain of paperwork. She would view the trial as a battle of evidence, hers versus his, a procedural competition with the verdict as the prize.
But Jason had been trained differently. At Justice Inc., under Andrew Lassiter’s watchful eye, Jason had discovered that the courtroom was not about debate; it was about drama. The trial was a play, the jury the audience, the lawyers the actors. What mattered most to Jason was not this piece of evidence or that piece of evidence. What mattered to him was the audience. What did they value? What motivated them? How could he touch on the issues they cared about most? It was Cicero, not big-firm training, that formed the basis for Jason’s playbook: Touch the heart, move the mind.
That was the key to advocacy.
But there were practical concerns as well. He had overlooked a critical case in his prep for today’s hearing because he wasn’t part of the local legal culture. That was why smart companies usually hired local legends for their trials as opposed to nationally known out-of-town lawyers. Every courthouse had its own culture. Every city and county had its unique jury pool with a unique set of values, fears, and hot buttons to push.
Let Kelly Starling focus on evidence and legal motions, Jason decided. He would work hard on those aspects of the case too, but his real focus would be elsewhere. He would become part of the Virginia Beach culture. Tonight he would spend time hanging out in Virginia Beach. Tomorrow he would look for a temporary place to stay for the next few months, just like Robert Sherwood had suggested.
In six months or so, unless Case McAllister took care of things behind the scenes, Jason would play a starring role in the case of Crawford v. MD Firearms.
It was time to start getting into character.
33
Jason secured a room at an oceanfront hotel, then drove up Laskin Road, looking for a place to eat. He had been on edge at lunch and hadn’t had much appetite. Now he was famished.
About half a mile from the oceanfront, next to an abandoned movie theater, Jason found just the place. He pulled into a burger joint with a purple roof and a sign that promised thick shakes. The Purple Cow. If he wanted to find an authentic slice of Virginia Beach life, this looked like a promising place.
The interior featured purple booths, an old jukebox playing “Help Me, Rhonda,” a soda bar, a giant gum ball machine, children’s crayon drawings of purple cows pasted to one wall, and a colorful assortment of life-size figures covering the others, including a picture of Bill Clinton dressed up like Elvis and singing next to an image of Marilyn Monroe. The place was about half full, not a bad crowd for a weeknight in the winter, and the hostess said Jason could sit anywhere he wanted. Jason picked a booth in the back corner and studied the menu.
Jason guessed his waitress was a local high school or college student. Her name badge said Kim, and she tried to talk Jason into ordering a purple milk shake, pointing out a family at the next table where the kids sported purple teeth and tongues.
“You can’t come to the Purple Cow and not order a purple milk shake.”
“I’ll stick with vanilla.”
For the main course, Kim recommended lasagna, and Jason obliged. A few minutes later she brought the vanilla shake, and Jason knew immediately that he had found the right spot. The shake was otherworldly good, a throwback to the days of real ice cream and real milk, thick enough that you couldn’t coax it through a straw. Kim served it in two glasses-the tall aluminum glass it was mixed in and a tall thin glass to drink from. This was the way shakes were supposed to be served.
A thought hit Jason just before the food arrived. It was crazy, and way outside his comfort zone, but his competitive instincts edged out his shyness. Kelly Starling would probably be spouting off on television tonight on one channel, while Melissa Davids would be making her case on another. But Jason had an opportunity to find out how real Virginia Beach jurors might think. He got Kim’s attention, and she came smiling to the table.
“Do you have any regulars in here?” Jason asked. “I need to bounce something off some folks who live in Virginia Beach. Get their opinion on something.”
Kim scrunched her forehead, looking confused.
“I’m a lawyer,” Jason said, lowering his voice. “I’m from out of town, and I’ve got a case I need to try in a few months. I wanted to get a quick opinion from the types of people who might sit on my jury… I’ll even pay for their dinner.”
Kim asked a few questions about the case, and Jason kept it general. Still, she heard enough to pique her curiosity. “Could I listen too?” she asked.
“As long as you don’t get in trouble with your boss.”
“That won’t be a problem,” Kim said. She nodded toward a corner booth. “The guy facing us is a youth pastor named Wayne from a local church. He comes in here about once a week. That couple with him-I can’t remember their names-but they’re in the church too.”
“Think they’ll do this?” Jason asked.
“A free meal? Wayne? Uh… yeah.”
After an awkward introduction, Jason began explaining the facts of the Crawford case. He spoke with as much detachment as he could muster; he didn’t even let on whether he represented the plaintiff or the defendant. About three minutes into his presentation, he was forced to start over again when the couple who owned the restaurant joined the discussion, asking lots of probing questions.
He took mental notes as the little group argued about the right verdict. The men tended to sympathize with MD Firearms, but the woman who was part owner of the restaurant proved to be very persuasive. “I’ll never forget seeing that shooting on television,” she said. “I just think this manufacturer has a duty not to use dealers who are making illegal sales.”
Her husband shook his head. “I don’t see that. The manufacturer didn’t shoot that woman.”
“But let’s say we hire an employee who we know has violent tendencies. And then he gets mad one day and gets in a fight with a customer. You don’t think we’d be responsible?”
The question brought a reflective pause. “I see your point,” her husband said.
And so did the others. Once the pendulum started swinging, it didn’t stop until it had arrived at $2.5 million.