Jack wanted to puke. He’d been present at numerous such proceedings in the past but felt like he was going through it for the first time, because now he was one of those family members and the case involved the death of his own wife. How could I have been so blind for so long? he asked himself as he sat there listening to men and women who liked nothing more than the sound of their own voices supporting the system that fed them so well.
One of the newer and more naive members of the panel actually had a question for Jack. “Why haven’t you filed a lawsuit, Mr. Tobin? If your case has merit, you could present it to a jury of ordinary people.”
To his credit, Ken Cooper did not object to Jack’s answering the question. He could have successfully argued that the evidence stage of the hearing was over and that the lawyers were no longer allowed to speak. But he didn’t.
“Well,” Jack replied, remaining seated, “it’s a simple question but a complicated answer-an answer I’ve thought about a great deal. The only thing civil suits can do is compensate people with money. There is a great deal of propaganda in this country right now about those malpractice suits: it talks about greedy trial lawyers tricking juries into awarding huge sums of money and poor doctors having to pay high insurance premiums. The doctors have jumped in bed with the insurance industry, and it remains to be seen who will get the top position in that little affair. On the other hand, many lawyers have abused the system. The people who have been intentionally excluded from this discussion are the victims, because they have no power.
“I don’t need money. And I don’t want this discussion to be about all that crap I just mentioned. I want it to be about people and how they’ve been harmed by this doctor. If you want to limit lawsuits, then you have to discipline your doctors. You can’t have it both ways. That’s criminal in my mind.”
“Mr. Tobin,” Chairman Green said as soon as Jack finished, “I understand you’ve had an unfortunate loss, but that is no reason to make accusations and use inappropriate analogies.”
Jack only heard the first part of the sentence. He exploded from his chair. “Did you just call the death of my wife-her name was Pat, by the way, in case you don’t have it on your cheat sheet up there-did you just call her death ‘an unfortunate loss’?” Before the stunned doctor could respond, Jack was at him again. “How about if I come up there and wring your skinny little neck? What adjective do you think your colleagues would supply for that loss?”
“You’re out of order, Mr. Tobin,” the chairman shouted.
“Out of order? You think I’m out of order? I’m not out of order. This is out of order.” Jack threw himself over the table that was in front of him and started toward the chairman, who looked like he was about to wet his pants and with good reason. Jack was a hell of a lot bigger than he was.
As he started forward, a huge hand reached out, grabbed him by the shoulder, and pulled him back. The shoulder and arm attached to that hand wrapped themselves around Jack’s body.
“Hold on, brother,” Henry said soothingly. At the same time, four uniformed security officers were moving toward them. Henry spoke to them as calmly as he had spoken to Jack.
“Hold on now,” he said. “Me and Mr. Tobin here were just leaving. I assure you, you don’t want to get in our way.”
Perhaps it was the way he said it, or perhaps it was the size of the man-they could see how firmly he held Jack-or perhaps it was the look in his eyes. Whatever it was, the guards stopped in their tracks. Henry and Jack left the ballroom unimpeded.
Jack was in a rage, oblivious to his surroundings. Henry didn’t let go until they were in the parking lot. Even then, he stood between Jack and the entrance to the hotel.
“Don’t worry, Henry,” Jack told him. “I’m not going back in. I’ve said all I’m going to say to those people.”
“If it makes you feel any better, Jack, people like that never listened to me either.”
“C’mon, let’s get a beer,” Jack said.
“Sure thing,” Henry replied.
Not long after Henry regained his freedom, Jack had filed a claims bill with the Florida state legislature requesting that the state of Florida compensate Henry for the seventeen years he’d spent on death row. Henry and Jack were invited to a hearing before a legislative committee of state senators and representatives. Jack had witnessed enough closing arguments by plaintiffs’ lawyers in his years as an insurance defense attorney to know how to uncork the tear ducts of even the most jaded politicians. By the time he was through telling the story of Henry’s near-execution, there were very few dry-eyed members of the committee left. They awarded Henry three million dollars.
Henry was forever grateful to Jack. After Pat’s death, he stayed at the home in Bass Creek for a couple of months before buying his own place in Miami. However, he still came out to Bass Creek to spend the weekends.
Henry had made a promise to Jack to work with him on his death penalty projects in any capacity he needed. Henry knew how to do legal research, and he could investigate in places Jack could never go. He could even serve as a bodyguard if necessary. His performance at the San Juan Capistrano proved that even when he was outnumbered, people did not want to mess with Henry Wilson.
Jack was on his fifth beer when the melancholy set in. Henry was used to it.
“It’s been a year, Henry, but it’s like I lost her yesterday.”
“A year isn’t very long, Jack, when you love someone as much as you loved Pat.”
“Yeah, but I can’t seem to get on with things. It’s like I’m stuck in place. If Pat were here she’d give me a good swift kick.”
“I was stuck in place for as long as I can remember, Jack. You’ll come out of it soon. I can see the early stirrings already. Dr. Green was part of that. I can still see his face as you started toward him.”
That got a smile out of Jack.
Maybe Henry’s right, he thought. Maybe I am coming out of it.
40
Langford Middleton was intelligent and ambitious. He was also passive and indecisive, but those qualities didn’t show up on his resume. On paper, Langford looked like he had it all-undergraduate degree from Princeton, law degree from Columbia. He was equally impressive in person, standing a little over six feet, two inches tall with a full, thick head of brown hair, a strong jaw, sharp features, and a booming baritone voice. He was the fourth generation of a prominent New York family. His mother was a professor at City College, his father a Park Avenue doctor like his father before him and his father’s father.
The powers that be at the Wall Street firm of Stockwell, Pennington, Morris, and Jewel fell in love with Langford Middleton, his resume, and his pedigree when they met him on a recruiting visit to Columbia. He was everything they were looking for in a young trial lawyer. So they offered him a job with a six-figure income, which Langford graciously accepted.
Like the other associates, Langford spent the first few years of his career in the library, researching and writing for the partners. His work was acceptable in the sense that he laid out the problems and presented the research. However, time after time, Langford failed to provide the partner he was working for with a decisive conclusion as to legal precedent or a definitive strategy on how to proceed. Even though he was transferred from partner to partner over the years, nobody seemed to notice that Langford was not living up to the expectations the firm had for its associates. He had an affable, easygoing manner about him, and in his brief appearances in court at motion hearings he was generally impressive. He even did okay sitting second chair in a few trials. Consequently, when his five years were up, Langford was offered a partnership, which he again graciously accepted.