The Justice Game (42 page)

    Jason could see the endgame now. If Judge Garrison didn’t grant the Motion to Strike, money would flow into short sales of gun-company stocks and put options—options that would become incredibly valuable if the stocks went down.

    The justice game was in full swing. And the house held all the cards.

That evening, Luthor ran the figures one last time. Luthor had already established a number of offshore companies to hide the millions of dollars that would be flowing in when the gun companies—MD Firearms in particular—began to collapse. After Ed Poole took the stand on Monday, Jason Noble’s case would tank and the stocks would nose-dive. With any luck, Luthor’s investments would more than double.

    Luthor had also considered a worst-case scenario. Plan B was premised on the unlikely scenario that Jason Noble might try to play the hero and report the blackmail scheme to the authorities. By manipulating the paperwork and forging signatures, Luthor had ensured that ownership of the offshore companies would lead to none other than Jason Noble and Kelly Starling.

    Luthor knew the authorities were naturally suspicious of blackmail claims. Many times, the “victim” was, in fact, the mastermind behind the crime, setting up an elaborate scheme to bilk innocent third parties out of their cash, much like guilty mothers who tried to blame a kidnapper for the “disappearance” of a child. The feds had learned to put the person reporting the claim on the short list of suspects.

    Luthor would help that predisposition along by planting some subtle references to the offshore companies in Jason’s and Kelly’s e-mail histories. There would be just enough of a trail that the feds could piece it together. Luthor would walk away with the money, but the feds would think Jason and Kelly had fled the country and were now spending their millions under new identities in exotic locations. Everyone would marvel at the audacity of the young lawyers’ plan. They would become the Bonnie and Clyde of the twenty-first century.

    Rumors would surface about the two lawyers reappearing in this country or that country, but the rumors would be false.

    The sad truth was that under Plan B, neither Jason Noble nor Kelly Starling would ever be heard from again.

Jason tried to focus on preparing for the Motion to Strike hearing, but his heart wasn’t in it. He kept checking the Kryptonite blog, though he knew his name wouldn’t be there. At least not yet. His mind wandered to LeRon’s family—their shock if they ever learned that their son had not been the one driving the car on the night he died. Facing LeRon’s parents was a prospect worse than facing jail time.

    “How could you let us live with this for ten years?” they would ask.

    The other picture that wouldn’t leave Jason’s mind was of Chief Poole taking the witness stand. Kelly Starling’s cross-examination would be devastating. Anger would smolder just beneath the surface for Marcia Franks, Juror 7. Worst of all would be the look on Case McAllister’s face as the trial went up in flames.

    Plus, the more time Jason spent researching the issue, the more he realized that Judge Garrison wasn’t going to grant the Motion to Strike. Jason still couldn’t get around the precedent of
Farley v. Guns Unlimited.
Garrison had ruled against Jason on this same legal issue at the Motion to Dismiss hearing earlier in the case. Unless Case’s friends in the Virginia legislature had convinced Garrison to change his mind, the case was going to the jury.

    Jason’s spirits were buoyed a little when Andrew Lassiter and Bella returned with the feedback from the shadow jury. They were split four to three in Jason’s favor after the opening statement. One juror had then switched to the plaintiff’s side after Blake Crawford’s testimony, but one had left the plaintiff’s side after the testimony of Agent Treadwell and was now undecided. The net result was a virtual deadlock after the plaintiff’s evidence—not a bad place to be for a defense lawyer.

    Lassiter had a three-page list of suggestions that they discussed until about 11:30. Jason tried to focus on the details, but in reality, the minutiae of the case no longer interested him.

    When Jason decided to pack it in for the night, Bella went into mom mode.

    “Are you eating anything?” she asked. “You look awful.”

    “Yeah. I had a club sandwich.”

    “A trial is a long campaign,” Bella lectured. “Not a single skirmish. You’ve got to rest, and you’ve got to eat.”

    “Good night,” Jason said.

Instead of going straight home, Jason decided to stop by his father’s hotel. He couldn’t explain why he felt this need to sit down and talk with his dad—
really
talk with him—but right now Jason was operating on emotion, not logic. The right brain had taken over.

    He had decided to put it all out on the table—from Luthor’s first e-mail to the impact of the investigation his dad had just concluded. Jason was ready to suggest that they do the right thing, though he feared his dad would resist it.

    In a way, Jason didn’t really care anymore. He was so tired of carrying this weight alone, so desperate to talk with someone about it, so sick of waking up and wondering if perhaps it had all been a bad dream, of wishing the nightmare that controlled his life would finally go away.

    The desk clerk at the Holiday Inn Express dialed his dad’s room, but there was no answer. Jason tried his dad’s cell phone—still no answer. Jason pleaded for his dad’s room number so he could go and knock on the door, but the clerk refused, citing hotel policy. With no other options, Jason settled in at a table in the hotel lobby and waited. His guess was that his dad was out on the town.

    It was 1:30 before his dad staggered in through the lobby door. Jason had seen his dad like this before, the unsteady gait and the faraway look in his eyes.

    Jason was out of his dad’s line of sight and thought about just watching his dad stagger to the elevator so he could leave without saying anything.

    But that was the whole problem. Avoidance. Procrastination. Running from the truth.

    “Dad,” Jason said.

    His father stopped, startled. He looked at Jason, as if seeing a ghost. “Did you get the stuff I left in your office?” his dad asked, leaning back.

    “Yeah. Can I talk to you for a minute?”

    His dad sneered and chuckled a little. “A little late for talk, isn’t it, Son?” He was speaking louder than normal, and Jason knew immediately that this was not the time.

    But when would be the time?

    “Have a seat,” Jason said.

    “Why? You got your buddy Prescott waitin’ under the table? You want to embarrass the old man again?” Jason’s dad spread his arms. “I’m right here. Anything you’ve got to say to me—say it right here.”

    “It’s not about that, Dad. I need your help.”

    His dad reached into his pocket and pulled out a wad of bills. “Here. You want my help. This is all I got left.” He walked over to Jason and slapped the money on the table. “You already took everything else,” his dad said, his words slurred. “It wasn’t enough for you to hate me, you had to get Jules on your side too—make her hate me.”

    Jason shook his head. He stood and tried to hand the money back to his father. “All right. Let’s not talk about this now.”

    “Yeah. That’s right,” said his dad, rejecting the money. “Walk away from it, Son. That’s what you always do.” His father stepped closer, and the stench of his breath just about knocked Jason over. “All I ever wanted was a son with a little bit of backbone.” He paused, his mind evidently working hard to stay on track. “And all I ever got was a son who just turns tail and runs.”

    Jason told himself his father didn’t mean it. The alcohol was talking, not his dad. But the tears welled up anyway, though Jason fought them back and kept them from spilling over.

    “That’s right,” his dad said. “Let’s just have a good cry. That’s what real men do.” He patted the outside of Jason’s arm, shook his head in disgust and turned to walk away.

    “Wait,” Jason said. He reached out and grabbed his father’s arm, almost knocking him off his feet. “I love you, Dad.” The words had slipped out before Jason knew what he was saying. “I don’t care if you hate my guts. You’re my father, and you’re all I’ve got.”

    His father stood there for a moment, as if trying to make the slightest bit of sense out of what he had just heard. To Jason he looked pitiful—confused and at a total loss for words. If Jason had thrown a punch, his dad could have handled it. Somehow, drunk or not, he would have instinctively fought back.

    But for this the man had no response.

    He lowered his gaze and brushed Jason’s hands from his arm. “I’m going to sleep.” He staggered toward the elevator.

    Jason watched until his father disappeared from sight.

    “Good night, Dad,” he said.

In the packed courtroom Friday morning, Jason had an unsettling sense of déjà vu. He had made these same arguments before, and this same judge had rejected them.

    Kelly Starling quoted liberally from
Farley v. Guns Unlimited
for the proposition that proximate cause is a jury issue in these types of cases. This time, she reinforced her arguments with quotes from Judge Garrison’s own ruling on the earlier Motion to Dismiss.

    As before, Jason tried to argue that this case was prohibited by the Protection of Lawful Commerce in Arms Act. But Garrison quickly brushed that argument aside. “We’re dealing with an exception to the Act, Counselor. The issue is whether your client’s conduct aided or abetted the illegal activities of Peninsula Arms.”

    Garrison’s questions were so one-sided that when Kelly Starling was arguing, Jason leaned over and whispered to Case, “I thought your boys in the state legislature were going to straighten him out.”

    Case just shrugged.

    Garrison let the lawyers argue their positions for nearly two hours as the squat little judge enjoyed his turn in the spotlight. At eleven o’clock he took a short recess and fifteen minutes later returned to announce his ruling. He admonished the spectators that he would not tolerate any emotional outbursts, as if he believed his decision would be so controversial that the courtroom would erupt.

    He read his opinion from the bench, alternately looking down at his notes and glancing up so the television cameras could enjoy a view of something more than the top of his bald head. He said he was duty-bound to follow the law. He didn’t write the laws, and in fact many times he didn’t even approve of the laws, but his job was to interpret them as written. A judge who attempts to rewrite laws is working for the wrong branch of government, Garrison said. He paused after that line, appearing confident that every evening news broadcast would use it as their lead.

    “It is clear,” he concluded, “that the plaintiff has presented a viable case under the law as it now stands. Accordingly, I am overruling the defendant’s Motion to Strike.”

Kelly Starling’s relief at surviving the Motion to Strike was short-lived. After lunch, Jason called his first witness to the stand. He didn’t waste any time on supporting actors.

    “The defense calls Melissa Davids,” he announced.

    The CEO of MD Firearms apparently had decided to take the Joe Six-pack approach. She wore jeans, boots, and a white blouse. She held her hand up, head erect, and proudly took the oath.

    “Do you swear to tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth, so help you God?”

    “Absolutely.”

    The jury eyed her suspiciously. The pretrial publicity and her deposition had already made the diminutive woman infamous in their minds.

    Kelly was no expert in body language, but if Osama bin Laden had climbed into the witness seat, she doubted the expressions on the jurors’ faces would have been much different.

    Jason stood and smiled at the witness. “Good afternoon, Ms. Davids.”

    “You can call me Melissa,” she said. “As much as my company’s paid you, we should be on a first-name basis by now.”

    Kelly rolled her eyes, hoping a few jurors were watching.

    The next two hours made Kelly feel like throwing up. Jason did a good job of personalizing Davids and, by association, her company. Over Kelly’s objections, Davids was allowed to talk about getting raped at age sixteen and trying to protect herself by learning jujitsu. She talked about another sexual assault that occurred two years later and how that second life-shattering experience had driven her to purchase her first gun.

    She also talked about her struggles as a small-business owner. There were protestors to deal with and harassment by the ATF and all the normal personnel issues. When Jason mentioned that she must make a lot of money as the CEO of a large gun manufacturer, Davids laughed. She talked about mortgaging her house and borrowing from her 401(k). Sometimes she had to borrow from her husband’s family and friends so she could make payroll. She regularly received death threats and hate mail, and once someone had tried to set her factory on fire.

    And worst of all, of course, there were plaintiffs’ attorneys. She had been sued a dozen times or so; frankly, she had lost track. But MD Firearms had never lost a case.

    “You must have good lawyers,” Jason said.

    “Not really. We like to hire kids fresh out of law school. Give ’em a chance to learn.” She smiled, and to Kelly’s chagrin some of the jurors smiled with her. “We win because we’re right.”

    At least twice, she corrected Jason in his terminology about guns. She turned to the jury when she talked about why they sold guns to anybody with a federal firearms license.

    “My job is to make the best guns possible,” she said. “And to pay my taxes so the government can monitor gun dealers for safety violations. Think about it in the context of air safety. Boeing makes the planes, but the federal government licenses the pilots. If a plane goes down due to pilot error, you don’t sue Boeing.

    “Gun dealers are the same way. The ATF decides who gets to sell guns and who doesn’t. Our job is to supply them with the best-made guns possible.”