Directed Verdict (13 page)

* * *

Her earlier anxieties entirely gone, Leslie desperately wished the night had just begun. She stood in the shadows of Dog Street, facing Brad, inches apart. Brad reached down and took her hands in his.

“I had a great time,” he said. “I really wish you weren’t going to England. It could be a long two months.”

“I know,” Leslie said, surprised by the intensity of her inward response to the warmth and strength of his hands. She could not move or think; she could only shudder.

“Can we do this again when you get back?” Brad asked. He released one hand and gently brushed her hair back over her shoulder.

She hadn’t felt this way in so long. “I’d like that.”

Brad gently drew her close, and she did not resist. The warmth of being held by him, the security of his arms—she had forgotten how special the nearness could feel. She breathed deeply, filling her lungs with the presence of Brad Carson. And then, suspended in time, she closed her eyes and gracefully tilted back her head. Their lips gently touched. Dog Street spun; the passion flowed. It was, in Leslie’s considered opinion, an awesome kiss. One that lasted longer than she intended. One that surprised her with the intensity of her own passion, the tingling of her skin, the release of pent-up emotions. It was at once tender and exhilarating. It was only a few seconds, but it completely carried her away.

Dog Street was indeed magical.

But for Leslie, it was also confusing. She pulled slightly away from Brad, thoughts racing through her mind too fast to process, a jumble of emotions and feelings from past and present colliding.

“I can’t do this, Brad. I’m not ready; it’s still too fresh.” Even to Leslie, it sounded crazy. How could she not be ready to move on after three years? When would she be?

But it was also true. She needed more time. The emotions she had just felt, that she hadn’t felt since she lost Bill, she had believed she would never feel them again. It was just too raw. Too overpowering. And Leslie cared too much for Brad to tell him anything but the truth.

“I lost a husband to cancer three years ago,” she whispered. “I’m sorry.” She took a half step back, looked down, and shuffled her feet. Her guilt was magnified by the knowledge of what she was doing to Brad.

“Leslie, I didn’t know . . . I would have never . . .” He paused and gently took her hands. “You’ve got nothing to apologize for.”

His kindness only made her feel worse. She could think of nothing to say, completely embarrassed by the unfolding events she was powerless to change.

“Do you want to talk about it?” he asked gently.

Leslie shook her head.

“If you ever do, just let me know.”

She nodded.

“C’mon,” Brad said. “I’ll walk you to your car.”

14

HIS THREATENING OVERTURES
to Brad Carson aside, Mack Strobel was a sensible lawyer and would not file a Rule 11 motion lightly. He wanted nothing more than to see Carson taken out to the proverbial legal woodshed with a whipping stick, humiliated by the sanctions. But since the courts used the Rule 11 woodshed sparingly, Mack would have to exercise caution to prevent his request from blowing up in his own face. As he always did when he needed advice, Mack summoned the other members of the firm’s informal brain trust.

Though Kilgore & Strobel had an official executive committee, everyone knew it was the four men assembled this day at the Norfolk Golf and Country Club who called the shots. They gathered informally to plot strategy on every major case or business deal the firm ever handled. It was their way of rewarding each other with easy billable hours at the expense of clients who would never notice the difference. Today, after a grueling eighteen holes in the heat of a May afternoon, they were paying off bets and throwing down a few cold ones to lubricate their brain cells.

Mack polished off his second glass, surveyed the group, and found himself silently shaking his head.
If this is the A team,
he thought,
it’s a wonder that our firm can function at all.

Seated directly across from Mack was a wrinkled man with sad, droopy eyes, stooped but still vigorous, with a pointed face and tufts of gray hair on the sides of his head. Nothing grew on top and had not for as long as Mack could remember. His name was Theodore “Teddy” Kilgore, the grandfatherly patriarch of the firm and the only lawyer who outranked Mack. He no longer actively practiced law, but he was still the firm’s premier “rainmaker,” snagging well-heeled clients so the young bucks could work on their cases.

To Mack’s right at the small table was Melvin Phillips, a brilliant Harvard graduate and a first-rate tax attorney with no social graces. The boys at Kilgore & Strobel valued his big brain and frequently came to him with their thorniest problems, but they also kept him well hidden from the clients. He never combed his thick gray hair, and he wore ill-fitting suits that looked like hand-me-downs from a traffic court lawyer. Melvin housed his huge cranium inside a round head, precariously perched on a round body with not one discernible muscle. He had an enormous chin and small beady eyes, shrunk further by the magnification of thick glasses, so that he always sported an out-of-touch look.

On Mack’s other side was the member of the brain trust with the best pedigree, a man whom Mack personally despised because of his genteel arrogance and condescending ways. Winsted Aaron Mackenzie IV came from good stock. His father was a prominent Virginia politician, his grandfather an appellate court judge, and his great-grandfather, the original Winsted Aaron Mackenzie, fought for the Confederacy. “Win” was the pretty boy of the firm—tailored suits and monogrammed shirts, silk ties and wavy brown television-evangelist hair that never moved, even in the stiffest breeze. Win was fifteen years younger than Mack, but already he had a reputation for hard-nosed trial tactics that rivaled Mack’s folklore. There was no small amount of professional jealousy between the two.

“The issue I need this group’s help on,” Mack finally announced, “is whether we should file for Rule 11 sanctions against Carson.”

“I would,” Win said predictably. “This is one of the most outrageous claims I’ve ever seen. We aren’t aggressively serving our clients if we don’t go after Carson. It’s a no-brainer.”

Melvin Phillips nodded his approval, then raised his hand to flag down a waitress. “What’s the deal? All the waitresses on strike? I’m dying of thirst here!” Everyone in the room, including the waitresses, ignored him.

“I don’t know,” Teddy said. “This whole Rule 11 business is bad for lawyers. We file against Carson on this case, some other lawyer will file against our firm on the next one. Pretty soon cases just become personal wars between attorneys. We oughta be able to disagree on a case without getting personal.”

Mack knew the old man would be cautious and reluctant to file. In many ways, Teddy still lived in a bygone era inhabited by gentlemen lawyers. He was not in touch with the age of Rambo litigation.

“Teddy, things have changed,” Mack said dispassionately. “Carson would slit our throats in a heartbeat if we gave him the chance, and so would half the other lawyers in Tidewater. Litigation is not a gentleman’s game anymore; it’s war. And in war, you take no prisoners.”

“I agree, Teddy,” Win said. “If we don’t file Rule 11, we’re just enabling guys like Carson to file more junk lawsuits.”

Melvin finally flagged down a waitress. “Anybody need another?” he asked. He replenished his drink, and the skull session continued. This time Melvin was engaged.

“What are the chances?” Melvin asked.

“What do you mean?” Mack countered.

“Exactly what I said. What are the chances that you’ll win on Rule 11? To my thinking, it’s purely a tactical call. If you have a fair chance of winning, file the motion. It will send a signal to the judge that you really believe this case is nonsense. It makes it more likely that the judge will throw the case out. It also gives the judge a compromise. He can deny your Rule 11 motion, thus throwing a bone to Carson, but then grant your motion to dismiss and get rid of the case. Judges like to play Solomon and split the baby like that, and you like it because you get what you are really after—a dismissed case.” Melvin stopped for a long gulp of beer.

“But if your chances are bad,” he continued, “the judge will just hammer you, because judges hate Rule 11 motions. What’s more, you’ll encourage Carson to make all kinds of other frivolous motions. Like Win just said, you become the enabler of his conduct.”

The others thought about Melvin’s comments. For a long time nobody spoke.

“I think Carson’s claim against Saudi Arabia is totally bogus and Rule 11 has a good shot,” Mack said, sensing that the others were waiting on his analysis. “But his claims against Aberijan and the individuals are based on a different set of laws and may have some merit. At the very least, he could avoid Rule 11 on those claims.”

Melvin finished another long gulp and set his glass down hard on the table, as if banging a gavel. “That’s your answer then. You file Rule 11 but limit it to Carson’s frivolous claim against Saudi Arabia.”

“Makes sense,” Mack conceded, though he was actually hoping for a broader and more aggressive filing.

“Let’s not make this a common practice of the firm,” Teddy said. “I don’t want a reputation as the firm that always files Rule 11.”

The other partners nodded their approval. Mack would humor the old man for a few more years. Even Mack was not willing to take on Teddy just yet.

“Let’s talk about Sarah Reed for a minute,” Melvin said, rolling his huge head around to survey his audience. “Have you looked at the case from her perspective? If her allegations are true, what are her weaknesses and how can they be exploited?”

“Of course I’ve considered that,” Mack said. Of course he had not, but he could not concede as much to this bunch. “We’ve looked at this from every possible angle.”

“Since our last session, I’ve been putting myself in Sarah Reed’s shoes,” Melvin continued, as if Mack had never spoken. “There’s one thing she fears worse than losing this case.” He paused, apparently trying to create a little mystery. He took another long swallow of his beer. This was one of Melvin’s annoying habits that Mack particularly despised. Start a sentence, then take a bite or a drink while others sit in suspense. “And that is revealing the names of the church leaders in Saudi Arabia. According to her own allegations, her husband died rather than reveal those names. She would undoubtedly dismiss this suit, rather than expose these people, for fear they would be persecuted. That’s her weakness; figure out a way to exploit it.”

I waited for that?
“That’s a great theory,” Mack scoffed, “but impossible to implement. I intend to push for those names in discovery, but Carson will object. The judge will probably not think they are relevant to our defense of the case.”

Melvin smiled, squinting his beady eyes. “Figure out a way to make them relevant, Mack. You’re the litigator. Make them a central issue in the case. Force her to chose between revealing the names and dropping the case. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got to take a little trip.”

With that, Melvin staggered off toward the rest room, leaving the others shaking their heads.

“Old Melvin—frequently wrong but never in doubt,” Win said.

But Mack just sat there, staring after his quirky partner, his mind a thousand miles away. Abruptly, Mack turned to the two remaining members of the group. “Maybe so, but he may be onto something this time. I’ve got an idea.”

For the next half hour, they discussed and refined the details of Mack’s plan. The entire meeting lasted two hours and cost the nation of Saudi Arabia $3,225. It would prove to be worth every penny.

* * *

Brad pretty much neglected the
Reed
case during the two months that Leslie spent in England. To be sure, the case proceeded, but Brad himself was too busy with other matters to devote his time to the file. His primary concern during the summer months was a tricky product liability case that went to trial during the last week of July. The case settled while the jury was deliberating, but preparing the case decimated Brad’s summer.

While Brad deposed engineers and scrutinized product-testing reports on this other case, the trickle of paper from Kilgore & Strobel became a flood. Every day, the mail would be littered with pleadings, motions, or discovery requests from Strobel’s minions. Brad didn’t pay much attention to the growing mountain of paperwork. He knew nothing major would occur until after the court conducted a hearing on the motion to dismiss in late August. Fortunately, Leslie would be back in the country a few weeks early to help him prepare.

* * *

All summer long, Leslie and Bella wore out the FedEx planes between Virginia Beach and Exeter. Leslie attended class in the morning, worked on legal pleadings all afternoon, then reviewed her FedEx packages for more presents from Kilgore & Strobel. She was thankful her coursework was light but resentful that she had no time to tour the country. She could not take time off while there was work to be done on the
Reed
file, and there was always work to be done on the
Reed
file.

* * *

For Bella, it was just another lonely day in the office. Brad was in court, and Nikki and Sarah were huddled in the conference room working on answers to interrogatories. As usual, Bella held down the fort, answering the phone and doing the firm’s filing. The clock on her desk barely moved, the morning stretched on forever, and she found herself counting the minutes until lunch.

At a few minutes before twelve, Bella put her phone on forward, rushed down to the firm’s small kitchen, closed the door behind her, and lit up her fifth or sixth cigarette of the morning—she had lost count. She turned on the small fan strategically placed in the corner of the countertop and pulled a plastic chair up to the small table. She grabbed her bag lunch out of the refrigerator and picked up her sappy romance novel. The plot was all too predictable, but she had bought it for the picture of the strapping young gladiator on the cover with the long dark hair and the come-hither look. She settled in for another solitary lunch hour. It was, she supposed, the price you paid when you exercised your freedom to smoke.

There were no windows in the kitchen, just white walls stained yellow, a tile floor, a counter area, sink, refrigerator, microwave, and coffeepot. To Bella, it was as cramped as a jail cell. But thanks to some tense negotiations with Brad a few years ago, it was also the one place inside the office where she could still officially smoke. Until Nikki came, she could also sneak a smoke in the women’s rest room or light up when Brad was out of the office, but now even those minor luxuries had disappeared.

Bella indulged herself in a little self-pity. Discrimination against smokers seemed to be not just legal, but downright fashionable. It was not like she could control it. Someone ought to do something about this. Smokers have rights too.

As she worked her way through a salad and another unimaginative chapter of the book, the door burst open, and Nikki darted through. As usual, Nikki held her breath and went straight for the refrigerator to retrieve her lunch. She waved snidely at Bella and gave her a tight-lipped smile. Then she waved the smoke away from her face, neither talking nor breathing the entire time she was in the room.

“Hope you choke,” Bella said as the door closed behind Nikki.

A few minutes later, three pages and two long, passionate kisses later, to be exact, the door opened again, but this time more slowly. Sarah Reed stuck her head in the kitchen and walked in with her own bag lunch.

“Hi,” she said. “Mind if I join you?”

“Um . . . no.” Bella put the book down and gathered her Tupperware a little closer to her own place, making room for Sarah. “That’d be great.”

She watched Sarah spread out a sandwich, some carrot sticks, and an apple. Bella suddenly felt self-conscious about the cigarette smoking away on the ashtray in front of her. She liked Sarah—after all, no one else had dared join her for lunch in this smoking dungeon. But Bella decided not to put out her cigarette yet, as a matter of principle.

“What’re you reading?” Sarah asked.

Would a missionary approve of a romance novel?
“Just something I found lying around,” Bella said. She gave the book a suspicious and unfamiliar look, as if somebody had just switched her book of choice when she wasn’t looking. She turned the book over so it was lying with its cover facing down.

“It’s probably a nice break after all those legal pleadings,” Sarah said. “I don’t know how you do it, day after day.”

“Yeah, it is.” Bella took a short puff on her cigarette and blew the smoke over her shoulder. “The other stuff does get pretty dry.”

Sarah nodded. “Can I get your advice on something?”