Dead Peasants
Authors: Larry D. Thompson
DEAD PEASANTS
Larry D. Thompson
STORY MERCHANT BOOKS
BEVERLY HILLS
2012
Copyright © 2012 by Larry D. Thompson. All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the express written permission of the author.
http://www.larrydthompson.com/
Story Merchant Books
9601 Wilshire Boulevard #1202
Beverly Hills CA 90210
The tension in the Beaumont, Texas courtroom was as real as that in the Cotton Bowl if Texas and Oklahoma were tied with one minute to go. The parties had been in trial for three weeks and two days. On one side of the aisle were the families of three refinery workers killed in an explosion that had killed or maimed dozens of others. The rest had settled with the oil company. These three families were represented by Jackson Douglas Bryant, a lawyer who in another era would have been a riverboat gambler. He convinced them to turn down million dollar settlements before trial. The loss of their loved one was worth far more than a paltry million dollars. He even turned and walked away when the company lawyer offered five million per family at the close of evidence. He was confident that a Jefferson County jury would take care of their own.
After two days of jury deliberations his clients had exhausted every possible topic of conversation and sat, stone-faced and nervous, on the wooden benches. Several of them wondered if they were making a mistake by rejecting enough money to provide for themselves and several generations of kids and grandkids. Still, they crossed their fingers and followed the advice of Jack Bryant.
On the other side of the rail where the lawyers strutted their stuff as if actors on stage, the company attorneys were huddled with their client, whispering to each other about Bryant’s refusal to even counter their fifteen million dollar offer. Bryant was standing at the bailiff’s desk, resting his hands on his cane and debating whether the Houston Texans would ever make the playoffs. Bryant was a Texans fan, but the bailiff had written them off once the Saints acquired Drew Brees and won a Super Bowl. He was now officially a part of the “Who Dat?” nation. If the tension got to Bryant, he was too good a poker player to let it show. Somewhere in the neighborhood of fifty years old, he was a lean six feet with brush cut brown hair swept back from a widow’s peak, piercing blue eyes and a chin with a Kirk Douglas dimple. He always chose an expensive Western cut suit and Justin cowboy boots for trial. The Justin boots had been his choice since he got his first pair as a kid growing up in Fort Worth. He always carried a cane. For trial it was one with a gold knob on the top to match the gold Rolex on his wrist. Among all of his canes, he liked this one the best. It reminded him of the legendary Bat Masterson, gunfighter and poker player. The entire outfit, including the Rolex, was calculated. He had long believed that jurors would be more inclined to award big money if they saw it up close and personal.
Jack would never have admitted it, but he was getting worried. If anyone looked closely at his eyes, he would see they were bloodshot, a product of tossing and turning the night before as he replayed the trial in his mind and wondered what he might have done differently. They had made their final arguments two days before and now it was approaching five o’clock.
Were they going to hang up? I damn sure don’t want to have to try this son of a bitch again
, he thought.
Two loud buzzes echoed through the courtroom. One buzz was for lunch or a cigarette break. Two meant they had a verdict. The bailiff rose, and as he walked by Jack, he whispered, “Good luck, man.”
Jack stepped through the swinging gate at the rail to shake hands with his male clients and hug the women. Then he returned to the empty counsel table as the judge came from his chambers. Judge Lucius Benton had a mane of white hair that he tied back in a pony tail. His handlebar mustache was so thick that it appeared as if his voice was muffled by a white buffalo hide. “I understand we have a verdict. Please remain standing for the jury.”
The bailiff opened the jury room door, and the six men and six women filed in. Jack thought he detected one woman smiling slightly as she glanced at him before taking her seat. The bailiff handed the verdict to Judge Benton. Silence filled the room as the lawyers and litigants stared at the judge who slowly flipped through the verdict to confirm it was in order and properly signed. Finally, he turned to the jury.
“Mr. Foreman, am I correct that this is a unanimous verdict?”
“Yes, sir,” a longshoreman on the first row replied.
“Then, with approval of counsel I’ll merely read the answers.”
The first questions dealt with the liability of the refinery. Was the refinery negligent in its maintenance practices? The jury answered, “Yes.” Did that negligence cause the deaths of the three workers? The jury answered, “Yes.” Jack smiled as he looked over to the defense table and saw the dejected looks of the company representative and his cadre of defense lawyers. Now came the important part. The jury awarded each family twenty million dollars in actual damages for losing their loved one. A defense lawyer pitched his pen on the table and leaned back, disgust on his face. The company representative stared at the jury with hatred in his eyes. Maybe they would tear down their goddamn refinery in Beaumont and move it to a county where the people would appreciate the economic benefit of fifteen hundred jobs.
Next were questions about gross negligence and punitive damages. The jury found the refinery knew its practices were dangerous and should be punished. They awarded ten million dollars in punitive damages per family. Several adult sons of the workers started whooping and hollering. The widows sobbed uncontrollably. Even Jack had tears in his eyes as he realized the total verdict was ninety million. Seeing he was rapidly losing control, the judge banged his gavel until the handle broke. The bailiff shouted for order. Worried that they might be held in contempt of court, Jack turned and motioned to his clients for silence. Slowly they returned to their seats. Some stared at the judge. Others turned to the jury and mouthed, “Thank you.”
Looking around the courtroom to make sure decorum was restored, Judge Benton announced, “Counsel, I’m sending this case immediately to mediation before retired Judge Simon Jefferson. If he has an opening next week, I expect all of you to be there to see if we can get this case resolved before you spend three or four years on appeal. I commend counsel on both sides for a job well done. You are excused.”
Jack took his clients out into the hallway where he huddled with them about the mediation. In Texas all big plaintiff verdicts went to mediation before appeal. The defendant had two shots at reversing the verdict, one before three justices at the court of appeals and one before nine justices at the Supreme Court. The bigger the verdict, the greater the likelihood of a reversal. The process would take at least four years, even if they won. He discussed the concept of a bird in the hand and reminded them that discounting the verdict a few million now would put money in their pockets immediately. A few of his clients looked puzzled. Still, they had put their trust in Jack, and he hadn’t let them down yet.
They overflowed Judge Jefferson’s conference room on the following Wednesday. In addition to Jack and his fourteen clients, the defendant found it necessary to fly in two lawyers from New York and a claims representative from London to join the three lawyers who put up the losing defense. They filled the chairs and stood along the walls as Judge Jefferson explained the purpose of mediation was to try to reach a settlement without taking the case through the appellate process and, perhaps, even back to another trial. He alluded to the fact that the Texas Supreme Court was all Republican, Nine justices who, judging from their opinions, thought it their solemn duty to protect big business from juries in Beaumont and certain other plaintiff leaning counties in South Texas. Jack’s clients listened and were uncertain what to make of such remarks. Hadn’t they just scored a giant victory last week?
When the opening session was concluded, the plaintiffs remained in the large conference room and the group of defense lawyers and representatives were led to a slightly smaller one.
After they were gone, Judge Jefferson turned to Jack. “Helluva job you did, Jack. This your biggest?”
“Biggest one in Beaumont. Had one over a hundred million in the valley a few years ago,” Jack replied with a smile on his face.
“You know how this game is played,” the judge said. “Give me a demand and I’ll take it to them.” He turned to look at the clients. “It’s a little like Henry Kissinger’s shuttle diplomacy from years ago. What do you say, Jack?”
“Not my move, Judge. I’ve got the verdict and the whip hand at this point. You’re in the wrong room. You best walk down the hall. Tell them that they better get way north of that fifteen million they offered last week. Otherwise, we’re walking.”
Judge Jefferson nodded his understanding as he excused himself. When he returned an hour later, he again warned of the risks of an appeal in a Republican state before saying he had an offer of twenty-five million. Jack pretended to look at an imaginary hole card. “They’re going the right direction but it’s going to be a long day. Tell them I’ll knock two million off the verdict.”
Jack was right. It was a long day. On two different occasions, once with a counter-offer of forty million dollars and once with sixty million on the table, Jack told all of his clients to get up. They were leaving. Both times Judge Jefferson convinced them to stay. At ten o’clock that night the offer was seventy-five million dollars, payable by wire transfer to Jack’s trust account in thirty days. Jack got up, walked around the table to shake Judge Jefferson’s hand and told him that they had a deal. When the judge left the room to advise the other side, Jack was swarmed by his clients as they laughed, cried and pounded Jack on the back until he begged for mercy.
Jack’s fee was forty percent. After paying expenses and a million dollar bonus to each of his two associates, he would net close to thirty million dollars. That, he thought, is the reason that he moved to Beaumont after law school.
The next day he called his associates into his office. Still a little hung over after celebrating until the Spindletop Bar closed at one in the morning, he was unshaven and wearing jeans and a T-shirt. “Sit down, my friends. I have an announcement. I’m retiring, effective today. The office and all the cases are yours. All I ask is that you send me a third of any fees you recover on our current cases.”
His associates protested, saying they needed him to head the firm. Besides, he was too young to retire. He raised his hands and asked them to stop. His mind was made up. “I’m moving back to Fort Worth, back to where I was born and raised. You guys know my son, J.D., got out of the Marines, enrolled at TCU and is trying out for the TCU football team. I’m going to buy a nice house, kick back, do a little hunting and fishing, and watch J.D. play football. I haven’t been in his life to speak of in near fifteen years. It’s time to change that.”
