We understand this.
“You need to start making plans for your next stop.”
I’d love for it to be my apartment, but we haven’t discussed this yet.
“How many women are here?” I ask.
“Today, five. Kelly, you’ll have your own room with a bath. Food’s okay, three meals a day. You can eat in your room or with the rest. We don’t offer medical or legal advice. We don’t counsel or have sessions. All we offer is love and protection. You’re very safe here. No one will find you. And we have a guard with a gun around here someplace.”
“Can he come visit?” Kelly asks, nodding at me.
“We allow one visitor at a time, and each visit has to be approved. Call ahead for clearance, and make sure you’re not followed. Sorry, though, we can’t allow you to spend the night.”
“That’s fine,” I say.
“Any more questions? If not, I need to show Kelly around. You’re welcome to visit tonight.”
I can take a hint. I say good-bye to Kelly, and promise to see her later tonight. She asks me to bring a pizza. It is, after all, Friday night.
As I drive away, I feel as though I’ve introduced her to the underground.
A reporter from a newspaper in Cleveland catches me in the hallway outside the courtroom, and wants to talk about Great Benefit. Did I know that the Ohio Attorney General is rumored to be investigating the company? I say nothing. He follows me into the courtroom. Deck is alone at the counsel table. The defense lawyers are telling jokes across the room. No sign of Kipler. Everyone’s waiting.
Butch served papers on Cliff Riker as he was leaving for a quick lunch. Riker offered some lip. Butch didn’t back down, declared himself ready to rumble and Riker left in a hurry. My name is on the summons, so from this point on I’ll be watching my back.
Others drift in as the time approaches two o’clock. Booker shows up and sits with us. Cooper Jackson, Hurley and Grunfeld return from a long lunch. They’ve had several drinks. The reporter sits on the back row. No one will talk to him.
There are lots of theories about jury deliberations. A quick verdict is supposed to favor the plaintiff in a case like this. The passing of time means the jury’s deadlocked. I listen to these unfounded speculations and I cannot sit still. I walk outside for a drink of water, then to the rest room, then to the snack bar. Walking is better than sitting in the courtroom. My stomach churns violently and my heart pounds like a piston.
Booker knows me better than anyone, and he joins these walks. He’s nervous too. We poke along the marble hallways going nowhere, just killing time. And waiting. In times of great turmoil, it’s important to be with friends. I thank him for coming. He said he wouldn’t miss it for the world.
By three-thirty, I’m convinced I’ve lost. It should’ve been a slam-dunk decision, a simple matter of picking a percentage and calculating the result. Maybe I’ve been too confident. I recall one awful story after another about pathetically low verdicts in this county. I’m about to become a statistic, another example of why a lawyer in Memphis should take any decent offer to settle. Time passes with excruciating delay.
From somewhere far away, I hear my name being called. It’s Deck, outside the courtroom doors, waving desperately for me. “Oh my God,” I say.
“Just be cool,” Booker says, then both of us practically race to the courtroom. I take a deep breath, say a quick prayer and step inside. Drummond and the other four are in their seats. Dot sits alone at our table. Everyone else is in place. The jury is filing into the box as I walk through the gate in the railing and sit next to my client. The faces of the jurors reveal nothing. When they’re seated, His Honor asks, “Has the jury reached a verdict?”
Ben Charnes, the young black college graduate, and foreman of the jury, says, “We have, Your Honor.”
“Is it written on paper according to my instructions?”
“Yes sir.”
“Please stand and read it.”
Charnes rises slowly. He’s holding a sheet of paper that’s visibly shaking. It is not shaking as violently as my hands. My breathing is quite labored. I’m so dizzy I feel faint. Dot, however, is remarkably calm. She’s already won her battle with Great Benefit. They admitted in open court that they were wrong. Nothing else matters to her.
I’m determined to keep a straight face and display no emotion, regardless of the verdict. I do this the way I’ve been trained. I scribble on a legal pad. A quick glance to my left reveals the same strategy being employed by all five defense lawyers.
Charnes clears his throat, and reads, “We, the jury, find for the plaintiff and award actual damages in the amount of two hundred thousand dollars.” There is a pause. All eyes are on the sheet of paper. So far, no surprises. He clears his throat again, says, “And, we, the jury, find for the plaintiff, and award punitive damages in the amount of fifty million dollars.”
There’s a gasp from behind me, and general stiffening around the defense table, but all else is quiet for a few seconds. The bomb lands, explodes and after a delay everyone does a quick search for mortal wounds. Finding none, it’s possible to breathe again.
I actually write these sums on my legal pad, though the chicken scratch is illegible. I refuse to smile, though I’m forced to bite a hole in my bottom lip to achieve this effect. There are lots of things I want to do. I’d love to bound onto the table and gyrate like an idiot football player in the end zone. I’d love to dash to the jury box and start kissing feet. I’d love to strut around the defense table with some obnoxious in-your-face taunting. I’d love to leap onto the bench and hug Tyrone Kipler.
But I maintain my composure, and simply whisper, “Congratulations,” to my client. She says nothing. I look at the bench and His Honor is inspecting the written verdict which the clerk has handed him. I look at the jury, and most of them are looking at me. It’s impossible at this point not to smile. I nod and silently say thanks.
I make a cross on my legal pad and under it write the name — Donny Ray Black. I close my eyes and recall my favorite image of him; I see him sitting in the folding chair at the softball game, eating popcorn and smiling just because he was there. My throat thickens and my eyes water. He didn’t have to die.
“The verdict appears to be in order,” Kipler says. Very much in order, I’d say. He addresses the jury, thanks them for their civic service, tells them their meager checks will be mailed out next week, asks them not to talk about the case with anyone and says they are free to leave. Under the direction of the bailiff, they file from the courtroom for the last time. I’ll never see them again. Right now, I’d like to give them each a cool million.
Kipler too is struggling to keep a straight face. “We’ll argue post-trial motions in a week or so. My secretary will send you a notice. Anything further?”
I just shake my head. What more could I ask for?
Without standing, Leo says softly, “Nothing, Your Honor.” His team is suddenly busy stuffing papers in briefcases and files in boxes. They can’t wait to get out of here. It is, by far, the largest verdict in the history of Tennessee, and they’ll be forever tagged as the guys who got clobbered with it. If I wasn’t so tired and so stunned, I might walk over and offer to shake their hands. This would be the classy thing to do, but I just don’t feel like it. It’s much easier to sit here close to Dot and stare at Donny Ray’s name on my legal pad.
I’m not exactly rich. The appeal will take a year, maybe two. And the verdict is so enormous that it will face a vicious attack. So, I have my work cut out for me.