Law and Addiction

by Mike Papantonio

  Ailes looked over at Jake and did some more head shaking. “And yet the plaintiff’s pleading insists that MHC, an exemplary health care science firm, is guilty of a number of ludicrous assertions. Because of those outrageous claims, which go so far as to allege criminal conduct, we intend to bring personal and professional sanctions against Mr. Rutledge. Specifically, it is our goal to seek monetary sanctions, as well as bar sanctions that should result in his suspension and/or disbarment.”

  “Objection,” said Paul, rising to his feet.

  Judge Perry nodded. “I get it, Mr. Vogel. There is no need to argue.”

  He motioned for Paul to sit down, but the lawyer remained standing. Turning his gaze to Nathan Ailes, it was Paul’s turn to shake his head. “Before this case is over, Mr. Ailes, it will be my goal to make sure that it won’t only be a civil jury hearing the facts of this case. For today, though, I would advise you to focus on the business of this proceeding.”

  Judge Perry barely tapped his gavel, but that was enough to command complete silence.

  “Lecturing lawyers is my job, Mr. Vogel. Now, be seated.”

  Paul nodded contritely, said, “I am sorry, Your Honor,” and took a seat. Even Jake could see, though, that Judge Perry’s mild admonition spoke volumes. The consensus of the court, he was sure, was that Nathan Ailes was an asshole.

  “It is also my job to determine the facts of this case,” said the judge. “And I will make it clear for the record, Mr. Ailes, that nothing I saw in the plaintiff’s pleading would merit sanctions.”

  Jake let out a little sigh of relief that only Paul heard.

  Judge Perry turned his gaze to Ailes. “Although you have had the floor for some time, Mr. Ailes,” he said, “I have yet to hear anything that wasn’t already detailed in your lengthy written response to the original plaintiff’s pleading and its subsequent amendments. Do you have anything new, some novel argument, perhaps, with which to acquaint me?”

  “No, Your Honor,” said Ailes.

  “Then rather than waste any more time,” said Judge Perry, “I will commence with my own questioning.”

  For more than an hour, Judge Perry grilled the lawyers. As he’d been coached, Jake stuck to his script, reiterating the law governing motions to dismiss. Whenever the opportunity presented itself, Jake also provided damning information against the defendants.

  When Judge Perry’s direct questioning ended, he asked Jake what his helicopter view of the case would be if the litigation were allowed to proceed. Jake had hoped for a question of that sort. It was why he’d spent so many hours standing in front of a mirror and talking into a microphone. Now was his chance to shine.

  “Judge Perry,” said Jake, “in his brief, as well as in open court, Mr. Ailes stated that none of the consequences from the opioid epidemic were foreseeable. He said that the manufacturers and distributors of opioids had no way of knowing the drugs they were selling by the billions would be overprescribed by doctors. That they could never have predicted that gangsters would move in, and that so-called pill mills—medical establishments that allowed doctors to write countless prescriptions to anyone wanting opioids—would simply become the middlemen for street pushers. And over and over again, Mr. Ailes insists that none of this is MHC’s problem, and that they had no legal duty to do anything except distribute pills and make a profit.

  “Let’s accept that supposition. Let’s say at the onset of MHC’s distribution of opioids that the consequences were unforeseeable. We’ll take them at their word for that first year, and even the second year, when their profits were only in the two hundred-million-dollar range. Let’s even throw in that third year as well. What then, though? After that time, it’s absolutely inconceivable that Mr. Ailes’s client didn’t know exactly what was going on. From the documents I presented the court, you can see that in the first year of opioid sales in the small county of Wayne, West Virginia, only five thousand opioid pills were sold to a population of twenty thousand people. However, four years later, more than eight million opioid pills were sold in a calendar year in that same small county. To paraphrase Shakespeare, ‘Something is rotten in West Virginia.’ How can such a small population be taking so many pills every single day? That wasn’t just good marketing, Judge. That was legalized and reckless drug peddling.”

  Nathan Ailes jumped to his feet. “Objection, Your Honor.” Ailes wagged his index finger as if he were poking holes in the air. “Haven’t we heard enough rabid conjecture? This wannabe lawyer is impugning the good name of my client and making them sound like gangsters. His wild speculation is turning this whole proceeding into a circus.”

  “And that would make me the ringmaster, would it not, Mr. Ailes?” Judge Perry’s little smile belied the hardness of his gaze. “Since that is the case, I would suggest you tread carefully on your high wire. Now, please have a seat. And Mr. Rutledge, let’s finish up.”

  “Yes, sir. I haven’t even yet addressed the matter of corporate profits. Between year one and year four, MHC’s profits skyrocketed from one hundred million dollars to well over two billion dollars. And though MHC is the largest distributor, there are two other Fortune 25 companies making similar profits. And these same results have occurred in small counties all over West Virginia.

  “Your Honor, if you allow this case to proceed, we intend to pursue a host of claims against MHC and its ilk, where we will provide data showing how these companies were complicit in creating the opioid epidemic. The figures are irrefutable. What is also irrefutable is that the three major drug distribution companies were well aware of what was going on. Every day their own employees were witness to droves of West Virginians lined up first thing in the morning in front of the pill mills they helped create. These pill mills would never even have existed if not for the corporate pushers who supplied them.”

  Unseen to anyone but Jake, Paul made a cutting motion with his hand. Jake had more than made his point.

  “Thank you, Judge,” said Jake.

  He took a seat next to Paul. Although he did his best not to smile, Jake wasn’t sure if he succeeded. Making his case in a courtroom was everything he’d hoped it would be . . . and more.

  Judge Perry turned to the defendant’s table. “Mr. Ailes, I’ve heard from you already, but I will give you exactly two minutes to respond to Mr. Rutledge.”

  Ailes stood up. He put two fingers on his ear and pretended to be hearing something. “Is that an ambulance I hear?” he asked. “Because if it is, Mr. Rutledge might consider trying to chase it down, as it seems that’s the kind of indiscriminate finger-pointing law he wants to practice. Mr. Rutledge continually claims this so-called epidemic was foreseeable, even though he hasn’t shown that to be the case. The health corporation I represent has no legal duty other than to deliver its products according to the drug distribution laws of both the federal government and the state of West Virginia. It complied with those laws while at the same time delivering a product that brought relief to individuals suffering debilitating pain. Given those facts, I am hoping you won’t encourage the opposing lawyers. If it comes to it, in the long run they will not prevail.”

  Ailes used all ten of his dancing digits to make his point. Jake found his waving hands incredibly annoying.

  “It’s time to shut this little garden party down,” said Judge Perry. “Thank you, one and all, for your contributions in this matter. Please know that I’ll take everything under advisement and have an order out to you in a timely fashion.”

  The judge rose from his bench, then disappeared through the door behind him.

  The defense team quickly followed suit. Studiously ignoring Jake and Paul, they filed out of the courtroom, their noses held high as if trying to avoid smelling something base and disgusting.

  5

  TIME TO COWBOY UP

  It had been a long time since Jake could leisurely sip his morning cup of coffee. He was actually sitting down at an old vinyl padded dining table that had been in his family for as long as he could r
emember. For once, his laptop wasn’t on. It wasn’t as if he was taking a morning off work, but he wasn’t doing three things while gulping down a cup of coffee. The respite would be brief, Jake knew. He was already thinking about what needed to be done.

  His cell phone sounded. Before answering, he looked at the display and saw that Paul Vogel was calling, which brought a smile to his face. He knew Paul was responding to the email sent out that morning from the district court in Ohio, which informed them that they had prevailed against MHC’s motion to dismiss for a second time. The courts in both West Virginia and Ohio had given the green light for their lawsuit to proceed.

  “Good morning, Paul.”

  “And it is a good morning for the young barrister, isn’t it? Congratulations, Clarence Darrow! Are you celebrating with champagne?”

  41 “Instant black coffee,” said Jake. “Maybe I’ll splurge and pick up some milk today. But I’d like to offer a toast to you with my imaginary glass of champagne.”

  “I’m all ears.” “Okay, then: To West Virginia’s best trial lawyer, who somehow managed to prevent me from making too many stupid mistakes.”

  “I didn’t want you to get disbarred on my watch,” said Paul.

  “I think Jazz Hands was hoping he could provoke me enough for that to happen.”

  Jake and Paul had taken to calling Nathan Ailes “Jazz Hands” after he’d used his fingers a second time to enumerate the ten reasons why the case should be dismissed. Even in front of a different judge, Ailes and his ten fingers hadn’t had any better luck.

  “I expect you’ll be hearing from Jazz Hands in the next day or two,” said Paul. “Despite all his noise and posturing about this being a minor nuisance suit, I’m sure he’ll make some kind of inadequate and insulting offer to settle the case out of court.”

  “Good luck with that.”

  “If he makes the offer in person,” said Paul, “right after you tell him ‘Hell no,’ you ought to close with the jazz hands.”

  Jake laughed. “How about I just wave goodbye to him?”

  “That lacks the drama of all ten digits,” said Paul.

  “All right,” said Jake, “I’m all in.” After a moment, he added, “I’m hoping you are, too. I’ve been giving a lot of thought to what you said about litigating this case like it should be done. I know you’re right when you say it will be outrageously expensive.”

  “I believe I said outrageously and prohibitively expensive,” said Paul. “The other side will make sure of that. They’ve got the deep, deep pockets. You don’t.”

  “And because of that, I know you still think I should join forces with a big firm.”

  “Not just any big firm,” said Paul. “You need a firm that has a history of not being afraid of a tap-out kind of brawl against mega corporations and all the resources they bring; it has to be a firm with lawyers who don’t blink first.”

  “What if I can deliver that, Paul? What if I can get one of the best firms to join us in this case? Would you help see the case all the way to the end if I could deliver that?”

  There was a long silence on the telephone line. Jake held his breath while waiting for a reply.

  “When you came to me, Jake,” Paul said, “I didn’t tell you that I was already more than familiar with the opioid problem our state was experiencing. In fact, I was friends with, and an unofficial adviser to, the former state attorney general who tried to crack down on the proliferation of opioids. That made him the enemy of Big Pharma, and when it came election time, they put a big bull’s-eye on his back and poured money into the coffers of the candidate running against him. Long story short, my friend was voted out of office, and the new attorney general is a pathetic puppet for the drug companies.

  “That’s when I got involved with politics on the local level and started talking to county commissioners so that I could get some idea about the trail of carnage left by opioids. In the county where I live, there are around one hundred and fifty overdoses every week. The fallout has been enormous. Because of that, for the last three years my firm has been helping financially to shine a light on the fact that the pill bottle has become even more dangerous than the crack pipe.”

  “Why didn’t you ever tell me that?” said Jake.

  “I wanted to get to know you first,” said Paul. “I’m selective about who I go to war with. Let me point out that when we first met, you were a very young lawyer who showed up in my office with an idea that most people would have thought was crazy. Now you’re looking crazy like a fox.”

  “I sure hope you’re implying what I think you are.”

  “My firm doesn’t have the resources to go up against this industry alone,” said Paul, “but if you find the right legal warriors to help you out with this, then I’m all in.”

  “I already know what firm I want,” said Jake.

  “Tell me they don’t carry alligator briefcases and wear Armani suits.”

  Jake chuckled. “That would be a deal breaker.”

  After Paul hung up, Jake felt better than he had in a long time. His mentor was in, as long as Jake landed his fish. Jake’s thoughts turned to Blake. In his absence, any victory felt bittersweet. You put me on this path, brother, he thought, but I’m afraid we still have a long way to go in our journey. In some ways Jake felt as if he’d traveled far. But he was still living in the same rundown home, barely getting by, with a nonexistent personal life. That didn’t matter, though. There were lots of people like Blake out there who needed him to succeed, and that meant he had to pull a rabbit out of a hat. No, not a rabbit. Something much bigger. Something with sharp teeth. Less than five minutes later, after writing out a little script, Jake was making the call.

  He took a few deep breaths to steady himself. The law firm of Bergman/Deketomis was located in Spanish Trace, a coastal city on the Florida Panhandle. Jake knew they were one of the most successful personal injury law firms in the country, and that they’d collected somewhere in the vicinity of $5 billion in jury verdicts and settlements. They were big-time, and Jake needed them.

  “Thank you for calling Bergman/Deketomis,” said the receptionist. “Where may I direct your call?”

  “Nick Deketomis, please,” said Jake.

  “One moment, please.”

  Jake’s heart pounded in his chest while he sat on hold listening to Euge Groove blast away on his sax. The jazz buildup proved anticlimactic; the next person who came on the line wasn’t Nick Deketomis.

  “Nick Deketomis’s office. This is Diana Fernandez. How may I help you?”

  “I’d like to speak to Mr. Deketomis,” said Jake.

  “Who is calling?”

  “My name is Jake Rutledge, ma’am.”

  “And what is this regarding, Mr. Rutledge?”

  Jake realized that Diana was the gatekeeper. Unless you had Nick Deketomis’s private number, there was likely no getting around his assistant. He looked at his short script, then set it aside and took his chance.

  “Thank you for asking, Diana,” he said. “It’s about Zombieland.”

  “Zombieland?” she said.

  “That’s correct, ma’am.”

  Not hiding her amusement, she asked, “Is that one word or two?”

  “One word, ma’am.”

  “Anything else?”

  “Well, Diana, I’d appreciate your mentioning that I’m a lawyer in West Virginia. I’ll give you my cell phone number. Please tell Mr. Deketomis he can call me day or night.”

  vvv The whirlwind that was Nicholas Stavros Deketomis—known by most as Deke—stopped by Diana’s desk to collect his messages. Deke was always juggling multiple cases. “Look,” he said into his cell phone, “the figures don’t lie. The glyphosates—they use cause cancer. That’s the only explanation for all the cancer cases springing up in gardeners and agricultural workers and groundskeepers.” Deke listened to the other speaker for a few moments, shook his head, and then said, “That dog don’t hunt.” He went on to rattle off statistics about the man
y cancers attributed to the herbicide in question, a product manufactured by one of the largest agrochemical companies in the world.

  That was Deke through and through. He looked professional in his tailored suit but would have been more at home in a rolled-up flannel shirt and jeans. Deke spoke in a folksy, unhurried way. There was no artifice to him. That was why juries liked him and opposing lawyers hated him. To use his own words, when it came down to the clinches, Deke was “tougher than a two-dollar steak.”

  He finished the call and turned to Diana. “That man doesn’t know whether to check his ass or scratch his watch,” he said.

  Diana laughed. She’d heard all his sayings in the many years they’d worked together, but he never failed to make her laugh.

  She reached for Deke’s messages, anticipating his extended hand a moment before he stretched it her way. Even though Diana logged all calls into a computer file, Deke was old school and preferred to have his calls written out on message pads. The pile she handed him was more than an inch thick.

  “Did I ever tell you that you’re the best thing since sliced bread?” Deke asked.

  “Not for at least an hour.”

  “Shame on me,” said Deke, tipping an imaginary hat.

  He headed into his office, then a minute later buzzed Diana on the intercom.

  “What is Zombieland?” he asked.

  “I believe it’s a Woody Harrelson film,” she said. “I think Mila Kunis was in it as well. In my humble opinion, it was a B minus or C plus.”

  “So this”—Deke paused to find the name on the message pad— “this Jake Rutledge called me to talk movies?”

  “No, I didn’t get that impression. Mr. Rutledge said he’s a lawyer in West Virginia.”

  “This is a teaser,” Deke said.

  “What’s a teaser?” asked Diana.

  “It’s a tactic to get someone to call you back,” he said. “When I was a young lawyer, I used to use teasers all the time.”