He walks to the chalkboard and writes the figure of $746, and tells the jury this is the monthly income for the Blacks. Next to it he writes the sum of $200,000, and multiplies it by six percent to get the figure of $12,000. He then tells the jury what he really wants, and that’s to double the Blacks’ monthly income. Wouldn’t we all like that? It’s easy. Award the Blacks the $200,000 that the transplant would’ve cost, and if they’ll invest the money in tax-free bonds at six percent, then they’ll have $1,000 a month in tax-free income. Great Benefit will even agree to do the investing for Dot and Buddy.
What a deal!
He’s done this enough to make it work. The argument is very compelling, and as I study the faces I see the jurors considering it. They study the board. It seems like such a nice compromise.
It is at this point that I hope and pray they remember Dot’s vow to give the money to the American Leukemia Society.
Drummond ends with an appeal for sanity and fairness. His voice deepens and his words get slower. He’s nothing but sincerity. Please do what is fair, he asks, and takes his seat.
Since I’m the plaintiff, I get the last word. I’ve saved ten minutes of my alloted half-hour for rebuttal, and as I walk to the jury I’m smiling. I tell them that I hope one day I’ll be able to do what Mr. Drummond has just done. I praise him as a skilled courtroom advocate, one of the best in the country. I’m such a nice kid.
I have just a couple of comments. First, Great Benefit now admits it was wrong and in effect offers two hundred thousand dollars as a peace offering. Why? Because right now they’re chewing their fingernails as they fervently pray that they get hit with nothing more than two hundred thousand. Second, did Mr. Drummond admit these mistakes and offer the money when he addressed the jury Monday morning? No, he did not. He knew everything then that he knows now, so why didn’t he tell you up front that his client was wrong? Why? Because they were hoping then that you wouldn’t learn the truth. And now that you know the truth, they’ve become downright humble.
I close by actually provoking the jury. I say, “If the best you can do is two hundred thousand dollars, then just keep it. We don’t want it. It’s for an operation that will never take place. If you don’t believe that Great Benefit’s actions deserve to be punished, then keep the two hundred thousand and we’ll all go home.” I slowly look into the eyes of each juror as I step along the box. They will not let me down.
“Thank you,” I say, and take my seat next to my client. As Judge Kipler gives them their final instructions, an intoxicating feeling of relief comes over me. I relax as never before. There are no more witnesses or documents or motions or briefs, no more hearings or deadlines, no more worries about this juror or that. I breathe deeply and sink into my chair. I could sleep for days.
This calm lasts for about five minutes, until the jurors leave to begin their deliberations. It’s almost ten-thirty.
The waiting now begins.
Deck and I walk to the second floor of the courthouse and file the Riker divorce, then we go straight to Kipler’s office. The judge congratulates me on a fine performance, and I thank him for the hundredth time. I do, however, have something else on my mind, and I show him a copy of the divorce. I quickly tell him about Kelly Riker and the beatings and her crazy husband, and ask him if he’ll agree to emergency injunctive relief to prohibit Mr. Riker from getting near Mrs. Riker. Kipler hates divorces, but I have him captive. This is fairly routine in domestic abuse cases. He trusts me, and signs the order. No word on the jury. They’ve been out for fifteen minutes.
Butch meets us in the hallway and takes a copy of the divorce, the order just signed by Kipler and the summons.
He has agreed to serve Cliff Riker at work. I ask him again to try and do it without embarrassing the boy.
We wait in the courtroom for an hour, Drummond and his gang huddled on one side. Me, Deck, Cooper Jackson, Hurley and Grunfeld all grouped together on the other. I’m amused to observe the suits from Great Benefit keeping their distance from their lawyers, or maybe it’s the other way around. Underhall, Aldy and Lufkin sit on the back row, their faces glum. They’re waiting for a firing squad.
At noon, lunch is sent into the jury room, and Kipler sends us away until one-thirty. I couldn’t possibly keep food in my stomach, the way it’s flipping and whirling. I call Kelly on the car phone as I race across town to Robin’s apartment. Kelly is alone. She’s dressed in a pair of baggy sweats and borrowed sneakers. She has neither clothing nor toiletries with her. She walks gingerly, in great pain. I help her to my car, open the door, ease her inside, lift her legs and swing them around. She grits her teeth and doesn’t complain. The bruises on her face and neck are much darker in the sunlight.
As we leave the apartment complex, I catch her glancing around, as if she expects Cliff to jump from the shrubs. “We just filed this,” I say, handing her a copy of the divorce. She holds it to her face and reads it as we move through traffic.
“When does he get it?” she asks.
“Right about now.”
“He’ll go crazy.”
“He’s already crazy.”
“He’ll come after you.”
“I hope he does. But he won’t, because he’s a coward. Men who beat their wives are the lowest species of cowards. Don’t worry. I have a gun.”
The house is old, unmarked and does not stand out from the others on the street. The front lawn is deep and wide and heavily shaded. The neighbors would have to strain to see any movement. I stop at the end of the drive and park behind two other cars. I leave Kelly in the car and knock on a side door. A voice over an intercom asks me to identify myself. Security is a priority here. The windows are all completely shaded. The backyard is lined with a wooden fence at least eight feet high.
The door opens halfway, and a hefty young woman looks at me. I’m in no mood for confrontation. I’ve been in trial for five days now, and I’m ready to snap. “Looking for Betty Norvelle,” I say.
“That’s me. Where’s Kelly?”
I nod to the car.
“Bring her in.”
I could easily carry her, but the backs of her legs are so tender it’s easier for her to walk. We inch along the sidewalk, and onto the porch. I feel as though I’m escorting a ninety-year-old grandmother. Betty smiles at her and shows us into a small room. It’s an office of some sort. We sit next to each other at a table with Betty on the other side. I talked to her early this morning, and she wants copies of the divorce papers. She reviews these quickly. Kelly and I hold hands.
“So you’re her lawyer,” Betty says, noticing the hand-holding.
“Yes. And a friend too.”
“When are you supposed to see the doctor again?”
“In a week,” Kelly says.
“So you have no ongoing medical needs?”
“No.”
“Medication?”
“Just some pain pills.”
The paperwork looks fine. I write a check for two hundred dollars — a deposit, plus the first day’s fee.
“We are not a licensed facility,” Betty explains. “This is a shelter for battered women whose lives are in danger. It’s owned by a private individual, an abused woman herself, and it’s one of several in this area. Nobody knows we’re here. Nobody knows what we do. We’d like to keep it that way. Do both of you agree to keep this confidential?”
“Sure.” We both nod, and Betty slides a form over for us to sign.
“This is not illegal, is it?” Kelly asks. It’s a fair question given the ominous surroundings.
“Not really. The worst they could do would be to shut us down. We’d simply move somewhere else. We’ve beep here for four years, and nobody’s said a word. You realize that seven days is the maximum stay?”