The Rainmaker (51 page)

“Thank you,” I say with a smile, then I slowly turn to the bench and say loudly, “The panel looks fine to me, Your Honor.” I return to my seat, patting Dot on the shoulder as I sit.

Drummond is already on his feet. He tries to look calm and affable, but the man is burning. He introduces himself and begins by talking about his client, and the fact that Great Benefit is a big company with a healthy balance sheet. It’s not to be punished for this, you understand? Will this influence any of you? He’s actually arguing the case, which is improper. But he’s close enough to the line not to get called down. I’m not sure if I should object. I’ve
vowed that I’ll do so only when I’m certain I’m right. This line of questioning is very effective. His smooth voice begs to be trusted. His graying hair conveys wisdom and experience.

He covers a few more areas without a single response. He’s planting seeds. Then it hits the fan.

“Now, what I’m about to ask you is the most important question of the day,” he says gravely. “Please listen to me carefully. This is crucial.” A long, dramatic pause. A deep breath. “Have any of you been contacted about this case?”

The courtroom is perfectly still as his words linger, then slowly settle. It’s more of an accusation than a question. I glance at their table. Hill and Plunk are glaring at me. Morehouse and Grone are watching the jurors.

Drummond is frozen for a few seconds, ready to pounce on the first person who’s brave enough to raise a hand and say, “Yes! The plaintiff’s lawyer stopped by my house last night!” Drummond knows it’s coming, he just knows it. He’ll extract the truth, expose me and my corrupt paralawyer partner, move to have me admonished, sanctioned and ultimately disbarred. The case will be postponed for years. It’s coming!

But his shoulders slowly sink. The air quietly rushes from his lungs. Buncha lying schmucks!

“This is very important,” he says. “We need to know.” His tone is one of distrust.

Nothing. No movement anywhere. But they’re watching him intensely, and he’s making them very uneasy. Keep going, big boy.

“Let me ask it another way,” he says, very coolly. “Did any of you have a conversation yesterday with either Mr. Baylor here or Mr. Deck Shifflet over there?”

I lunge to my feet. “Objection, Your Honor! This is absurd!”

Kipler is ready to come over the bench. “Sustained! What are you doing, Mr. Drummond!” Kipler yells this directly into his microphone, and the walls shake.

Drummond is facing the bench. “Your Honor, we have reason to believe this panel has been tampered with.”

“Yeah, and he’s accusing me,” I say angrily.

“I don’t understand what you’re doing, Mr. Drummond,” Kipler says.

“Perhaps we should discuss it in chambers,” Drummond says, glaring at me.

“Let’s go,” I shoot back, as if I’m just itching for a fight.

“A brief recess,” Kipler says to his bailiff.

DRUMMOND AND I sit across the desk from His Honor. The other four Trent & Brents stand behind us. Kipler is extremely perturbed. “You better have your reasons,” he says to Drummond.

“This panel has been tampered with,” Drummond says.

“How do you know this?”

“I can’t say. But I know it for a fact.”

“Don’t play games with me, Leo. I want proof.”

“I can’t say, Your Honor, without divulging confidential information.”

“Nonsense! Talk to me.”

“It’s true, Your Honor.”

“Are you accusing me?” I ask.

“Yes.”

“You’re out of your mind.”

“You are acting rather bizarre, Leo,” His Honor says.

“I think I can prove it,” he says smugly.

“How?”

“Let me finish questioning the panel. The truth will come out.”

“They haven’t budged yet.”

“But I’ve barely started.”

Kipler thinks about this for a moment. When this trial’s over, I’ll tell him the truth.

“I would like to address certain jurors individually,” Drummond says. This is usually not done, but it’s within the judge’s discretion.

“What about it, Rudy?”

“No objection.” Personally, I can’t wait for Drummond to start grilling those we allegedly polluted. “I have nothing to hide.” A couple of the turds behind me cough at this.

“Very well. It’s your grave you’re digging, Leo. Just don’t get out of line.”

“WHAT’D Y’ALL DO in there?” Dot asks when I return to the table.

“Just lawyer stuff,” I whisper. Drummond is at the bar. The jurors are highly suspicious of him.

“Now, as I was saying. It’s very important that you tell us if anyone has contacted you and talked about this case. Please raise your hand if this has happened.” He sounds like a first-grade teacher.

No hands anywhere.

“It’s a very serious matter when a juror is contacted either directly or indirectly by any of the parties involved in a trial. In fact, there could be severe repercussions for both the person initiating the contact, and also for the juror if the juror fails to report it.” This has a deathly ring to it.

No hands. No movement. Nothing but a bunch of people who are quickly getting angry.

He shifts weight from one foot to the next, rubs his chin and zeroes in on Billy Porter.

“Mr. Porter,” he says in a deep voice, and Billy feels zapped. He bolts upright, nods. His cheeks turn red.

“Mr. Porter, I’m going to ask you a direct question. I’d appreciate an honest response.”

“You ask an honest question and I’ll give you an honest answer,” Porter says angrily. This is a guy with a short fuse. Frankly, I’d leave him alone.

Drummond is stopped for a second, then plunges onward. “Yes, now, Mr. Porter, did you or did you not have a phone conversation last night with Mr. Rudy Baylor?”

I stand, spread my arms, look blankly at Drummond as if I’m completely innocent and he’s lost his mind, but say nothing.

“Hell no,” Porter says, the cheeks getting redder.

Drummond leans on the railing, both hands clutching the thick mahogany bar. He stares down at Billy Porter, who’s on the front row, less than five feet away.

“Are you sure, Mr. Porter?” he demands.

“I damned sure am!”

“I think you did,” Drummond says, out of control now and over the edge. Before I can object and before Kipler can call him down, Mr. Billy Porter charges from his seat and pounces on the great Leo F. Drummond.

“Don’t call me a liar, you sonofabitch!” Porter screams as he grabs Drummond by the throat. Drummond falls over the railing, his tassled loafers flipping through the air. Women scream. Jurors jump from their seats. Porter is on top of Drummond, who’s grappling and wrestling and kicking and trying to land a punch or two.

T. Pierce Morehouse and M. Alec Plunk Junior dash from their seats and arrive at the melee first. The others follow. The bailiff is quick on the scene. Two of the male jurors try to break it up.

I stay in my seat, thoroughly enjoying the thrashing. Kipler makes it to the bar about the time Porter is pulled off and Drummond gets to his feet and the combatants are safely separated. A tassled loafer is found under the
second bench, and returned to Leo, who’s brushing himself off while keeping a wary eye on Porter. Porter is restrained and settling down quickly.

The jury consultants are shocked. Their computer models are blown. Their fancy theories are out the window. They are utterly useless at this point.

AFTER A SHORT RECESS, Drummond makes a formal motion to dismiss the entire panel. Kipler declines.

Mr. Billy Porter is excused from jury duty, and leaves in a huff. I think he wanted some more of Drummond. I hope he waits outside to finish him off.

THE EARLY AFTERNOON is spent in chambers going through the tedious process of picking jurors. Drummond and his gang firmly avoid any of the people Deck and I mentioned on the phone last night. They’re convinced we somehow got to these folks, and somehow persuaded them to remain quiet. They’re so bitter they will not look at me.

The result is a jury of my dreams. Six black females, all mothers. Two black males, one a college graduate, one a disabled former truck driver. Three white males, two of whom are union workers. The other lives about four blocks from the Blacks. One white female, the wife of a prominent realtor. I couldn’t avoid her, and I’m not worried. It takes only nine of the twelve to agree on a verdict.

Kipler seats them at 4 P.M., and they take their oaths. He explains that the trial will start in a week. They are not to talk about the case with anyone. He then does something that at first terrifies me, but on second thought is a wonderful idea. He asks both attorneys, me and Drummond, if we’d like to make a few comments to the jury, off the record and informal. Just tell a little about your case. Nothing fancy.

I, of course, was not expecting this, primarily because it’s unheard of. Nonetheless, I shake off my fear, and stand before the jury box. I tell them a little about Donny Ray, about the policy and why we think Great Benefit is wrong. In five minutes I’m finished.

Drummond walks to the box, and a blind person could see the distrust he’s created with the jury. He apologizes for the incident, but stupidly blames most of it on Porter. What an ego. He talks about his version of the facts, says he’s sorry about Donny Ray’s death, but to suggest his client is responsible is ludicrous.

I watch his team and the boys from Great Benefit, and it’s a scared bunch. They have a rotten set of facts. They have a plaintiff’s jury. The judge is an enemy. And their star not only lost all credibility with the jury but got his ass whipped as well.

Kipler adjourns us, and the jury goes home.

Forty-three

S
IX DAYS AFTER WE PICK THE JURY AND four days before the trial begins, Deck takes a call at the office from a lawyer in Cleveland who wants to speak with me. I’m immediately suspicious because I don’t know a single lawyer in Cleveland, and I chat with the guy just long enough to get his name. Takes about ten seconds, then I gently cut him off in mid-sentence and go through a little routine as if we’ve somehow been disconnected. It’s been happening all the time lately, I tell Deck loud enough to be recorded in the receiver. We take the three office phones off the hook, and I run to the street where the Volvo is parked. Butch has checked my car phone and it appears remarkably free of bugging devices. Using directory assistance, I call the lawyer in Cleveland.

It turns out to be an immensely important phone call. His name is Peter Corsa. His speciality is labor law and employment discrimination of all types, and he represents a young lady by the name of Jackie Lemancyzk. She found her way to his office after she was suddenly fired from Great Benefit for no apparent reason, and together they
plan to seek redress for a multitude of grievances. Contrary to what I’d been told, Ms. Lemancyzk has not left Cleveland. She’s in a new apartment with an unlisted phone.

I explain to Corsa that we’ve made dozens of phone calls to the Cleveland area, but haven’t found a trace of Jackie Lemancyzk. I was told by one of the corporate boys, Richard Pellrod, that she’d returned to her home somewhere in southern Indiana.

Not true, says Corsa. She never left Cleveland, though she has been hiding.

It evolves into a wonderfully juicy story, and Corsa spares no details.

His client was sexually involved with several of her bosses at Great Benefit. He assures me she’s very attractive. Her promotions and pay were given or denied based on her willingness to hop into bed. At one point she was a senior claims examiner, the only female to reach that position, but got herself demoted when she broke off an affair with the VP of Claims, Everett Lufkin, who appears to be nothing more than a weasel but has a fondness for kinky sex.

I concur that he appears to be nothing more than a weasel. I had him in deposition for four hours, and I’ll assault him next week on the witness stand.

Their lawsuit will be for sexual harassment and other actionable practices, but she also knows a lot about Great Benefit’s dirty laundry in the claims department. She was sleeping with the VP of Claims! Lots of lawsuits are coming, he predicts.

I finally pop the big question. “Will she come testify?”

He doesn’t know. Maybe. But she’s scared. These are nasty people with lots of money. She’s in therapy now, really fragile.

He agrees to allow me to talk to her by phone, and we
make arrangements for a late night call from my apartment. I explain that it’s not a good idea to call me at the office.

IT’S IMPOSSIBLE to think about anything but the trial. When Deck’s not at the office, I pace around talking to myself, telling the jury how truly awful Great Benefit is, cross-examining their people, delicately questioning Dot and Ron and Dr. Kord, pleading with the jury in a rather spellbinding closing argument. It is still difficult to ask the jury for ten million in punitive and keep a straight face. Perhaps if I were fifty years old and had tried hundreds of cases and knew what the hell I was doing, then maybe I would have the right to ask a jury for ten million. But for a rookie nine months out of school it seems ridiculous.

But I ask them anyway. I ask them at the office, in my car and especially in my apartment, often at two in the morning when I can’t sleep. I talk to these people, these twelve faces I can now put with names, these wonderfully fair folks who listen to me and nod and can’t wait to get back there and dispense justice.

I’m about to strike gold, to destroy Great Benefit in open court, and I struggle every hour to control these thoughts. Damn, it’s hard. The facts, the jury, the judge, the frightened lawyers on the other side. It’s adding up to a lot of money.

Something has got to go wrong.

I TALK TO JACKIE LEMANCYZK for an hour. At times she sounds strong and forceful, at times she can barely hold it together. She didn’t want to sleep with these men, she keeps saying, but it was the only way to advance. She’s divorced with a couple of kids.

She agrees to come to Memphis. I offer to fly her down and cover her expenses, and I’m able to convey this with
the calm assurance that my firm has plenty of money. She makes me promise that if she testifies, it has to be a complete surprise to Great Benefit.