The Ultimate Resolution

by Dave Sullivan

  Several blocks past the bridge Jake turned right on a side street and left again on Minnesota Avenue, the only other street which ran lengthwise on Duluth's narrow peninsula called Park Point. Next to a picturesque marina near the Coast Guard station on the bay side of Park Point was the Greysolon Health Care Facility, a long low single story structure set against the backdrop view of the St. Louis Bay and Duluth Harbor. Jake parked the Jeep in a small blacktop parking lot near the main entrance.

  Sarah Pallmeyer was waiting for them in the lobby. She wore a beige sweater and black slacks pulled over leather boots. Her blonde hair hung down to her shoulders, framing her small face. As they entered, she walked to meet them at the door.

  "Hi!" she said smiling. "You found it."

  "Once you get across the bridge, it's pretty hard to get lost," said Charles. "How are you?"

  "I'm fine," she said. "Bobby's doing very well today. I'm glad. I wanted you to see him at his best."

  Sarah led them down a long hallway, past rooms occupied mostly by old people in various states of health and awareness. The walls on both sides had hand rails mounted the entire length of the hallway except for the door openings. It resembled a hospital ward hallway even to the presence of a nurses' station at about the halfway point. At her son’s room, Sarah ushered them through the doorway.

  He was seated in a wheelchair near the only bed in the room. He did not appear to be aware they had entered the room. Bobby Pallmeyer's eyes were open. They stared straight ahead toward the floor a few feet in front of the wheelchair. His blond hair was unruly as though he had just got out of bed. The wheelchair had a tray, like a child's highchair. Bobby's right arm rested on the tray. His left arm hung on his side, the forearm folded into his lap.

  The room around him was pleasant enough. The bed was covered with a tastefully selected bedspread in a flowered print. Pillows in matching pillow shams were stacked against the headboard. Opposite the bed was an entertainment center, a large piece of furniture housing a 26 inch color TV, a radio and stereo system with a cassette and a CD player, and a VCR connected to the TV. On shelves and the window sills were flowers, cards and some toys, a stuffed bear, and some battery operated educational toys with alphabet and word games. Outside, the waters of the St. Louis Bay looked dark and cold. The ore boat they had waited for at the Aerial Bridge was passing the Port Terminal Dock on the opposite side, heading for a dock up river or farther south in St. Louis Bay.

  Jake took his eyes off the slowly moving ore boat and looked around the room again. While it was obvious the people who took care of this room and supplied its possessions cared very much for its occupant, there wasn't much besides the entertainment center that seemed appropriate for a twenty-two year old man. He reminded himself of the medical records he had studied. Besides his crippling physical injuries, Bobby Pallmeyer had the mental age of a child of four to six years.

  Sarah knelt down beside the wheelchair putting her face close to her son's face. She kissed him gently on the cheek.

  "Bobby, it's Mommy," she spoke softly to him, "you have some visitors."

  As she spoke Bobby Pallmeyer turned toward her voice, but he did not appear to look at her. His vacant gaze seemed directed past her toward the windows.

  Jake was a little nervous about the situation, but Charles Stanton moved right in, leaning over the wheelchair, taking Bobby's right hand in his huge hands.

  "Hi, Bobby!" he beamed. "I am Professor Stanton. You can call me Charles. Your mother does. And this is Jake Kingsley," he pointed to where Jake was standing.

  Jake came forward. "Hi Bobby." He touched the back of Bobby's hand.

  Bobby Pallmeyer moved his right hand and forearm in an arc back and forth across the surface of the tray on his wheelchair. He made a vocal noise, but that is all it could be termed. The sound was not a word or words. It sounded like a groan. The sound was similar to that of a child who has not yet learned to speak except the voice had the depth and timber of an adult male.

  "We were just going out for a stroll in the hallway," Sarah told them. "Bobby likes to go to the community room, don't you Bobby?" Bobby raised his eyes slightly and formed a crooked smile. His mother placed a hand on her son's shoulder, patted him lightly, and began to push the wheelchair toward the door.

  Jake and Charles followed as Sarah pushed her son down the long hallway past the rooms of other residents. Beyond the large open dining area was an equally large and open community room with comfortable furniture, a few tables, two television sets and numerous bookshelves containing books, magazines, jig-saw puzzles, and games. As they entered two old men playing checkers at a table nearby turned to look at Bobby. A few other people were in the large room, all at least fifty years older than Bobby Pallmeyer, judging by their appearance. One gentleman was being helped by a young aid as he used a walker to cross the room to sit down on an overstuffed couch facing the windows looking out on the bay. Jake noticed the ore boat had disappeared from view.

  They sat with Sarah and Bobby as Sarah worked with Bobby using a simple educational game for very small children. She put several brightly colored plastic shapes on the tray in front of him.

  "Bobby," she said brightly, "Will you point to the triangle?"

  Without changing the direction of his gaze, Bobby Pallmeyer began to slide his right arm and hand across the tray arcing in front of the colored shapes. He hesitated in front of a round blue disk, then moved further to the yellow triangle, flexing his wrist slightly to extend his fingers to touch the triangle.

  "Very good!" Sarah beamed. "Now can you find the blue piece?"

  Bobby withdrew his fingers in a clumsy stiff movement, moved his forearm slightly back to his right, extended the wrist again and rested his finger tips on the round blue disk.

  After two hours visiting Sarah and Bobby and discussing arrangements with the staff for a "Day in the Life" video tape to be made and later shown to the jury depicting a typical day in Bobby Pallmeyer's life, Jake and Charles left for an appointment to see Bobby's treating physician, Dr. Laurence Pickett, at the Lake Superior Clinic.

  "Well, that was an experience," said Charles, as they drove back across the aerial bridge. "I certainly don't envy either of them. It's hard to imagine how either of them can stand it. The depth of their tragedy is beyond comprehension."

  Jake agreed. "But," he said, "our job is not sympathy, but to do the best we can for them in court."

  "I believe in a fault based tort system of compensation," said Charles, "but I don't see that it can do much for them."

  "You're right, money can't undo the wrong, but perhaps it can make them more comfortable and provide the means to make the most out of what they do have." Jake crossed Superior Street proceeding up the hill to Second Street where he turned right onto the eastbound one-way street that would take them to the Lake Superior Clinic.

  "It's worse than if he were a vegetable," said Charles, shaking his head.

  "What?"

  "He knows." Charles turned from the passenger window to face Jake. "He knows enough to know how badly things have turned out for him."

  Jake and Charles sat opposite Dr. Pickett's desk as he explained the nature of Bobby Pallmeyer's injuries. Although obvious, Jake clarified the permanent nature of the injuries and that they were the proximate or direct result of the tractor accident. They also confirmed that Bobby's treatment and care at Greysolon Health Care Facility were reasonably necessary and that his medical expenses and health care costs were reasonable. Dr. Pickett confirmed that he would give a video tape deposition to be taken at his office at a time to be arranged with his staff.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  It was Monday, January 24. Judge Eugene Hawthorne adjusted himself in his chair, leaned forward resting his elbows on the massive oak desk and stared at the lawyers seated in his chambers.

  "Well, Gentlemen," he began, "any reason you can't settle this case and save the taxpayers some money?" The judge touched the frame of his glasses and ran a hand ov
er his thinning gray hair.

  The defense had three lawyers at the pre-trial conference. Ed Hamilton was there with two assistants. One, Dick Edwards, Jake knew from previous cases. The other was new to Jake.

  Jake appeared alone for the plaintiff.

  "Judge, we are running into a few snags along the way," Hamilton started, "Probably the best thing is to assign a trial date and let us proceed with discovery and final trial preparation."

  "What about experts?" the judge asked. "Have opinions been disclosed?"

  "Plaintiff has." Jake spoke up. "We're waiting for defendant."

  "We should have that shortly, Judge."

  "How about IME's?" Judge Hawthorne continued.

  "None necessary, your Honor," Dick Edwards, the first assistant responded.

  Jake smiled. The "Independent Medical Examination" or "IME", still regarded by most plaintiffs' lawyers as the "adverse medical exam," was the normal request by the defendant in an injury case. Bobby's injuries were so bad, however, that it wasn't an issue. Ed Hamilton and company didn't need any more medical evidence of how badly Bobby was hurt.

  "What do you think, Jake?" Judge Hawthorne looked at him.

  "Excuse me, your Honor?" Jake came back from his thoughts.

  "Ed says just assign a trial date and keep going. You agree?"

  "That's fine with me, Judge. We may have some discovery problems yet, but we can work them out, maybe with your help."

  The judge called in his clerk, a woman who appeared to be in her mid forties, who arrived with the judge's calendar.

  "How long?" Judge Hawthorne looked up from the calendar.

  "About two weeks," said Jake, looking at Hamilton.

  "Agreed, Judge," Hamilton was nodding affirmatively, "should be about right."

  The clerk leaned over the judge while they studied the calendar and conferred, ignoring the lawyers seated there.

  "How's July 19? Can't get two weeks before that. And we can start on Monday because I won't have special term motions that week."

  "Okay with the plaintiff, your Honor," said Jake.

  Hamilton was conferring in whispers with his assistants. Then he turned back to the judge, "That is acceptable to the defense as well, your Honor."

  "Finish discovery by May 1st and motions by June 1st?"

  The lawyers nodded and made notes.

  "So be it then," Judge Hawthorne rose from his chair. "A Scheduling Order will be sent to you. Thank you, Gentlemen."

  Jake stood. "Thank you, your Honor."

  "Yes, thank you, your Honor," said Ed Hamilton.

  "Thank you, your Honor," echoed the first assistant, Edwards.

  "Thank you, your Honor," echoed the second assistant.

  Jake left the elevator on the second floor, entering the twenty-four story foyer of the courthouse. The Hennepin County Government Center was comprised of two twenty-four story towers joined by walls of mostly glass creating a rather spectacular interior twenty-four story foyer. Jake had always marveled that even though built during the energy crises of the early seventies, it was built with this open space the size and volume of a tall downtown building that had to be cooled in the summer and heated in the winter when it was often -20 degrees outside! Seven catwalk bridges crossed between the towers at various upper levels.

  Jake crossed the open floor past the fountain to the skyway to the Pillsbury Center across Third Avenue. Mondays were Judge Hawthorne's normal Special Term days, when he heard motions and other hearings that did not require testimony. Outside it was cold and snowing hard. Jake saw the weather through the skyway glass. Looks like there'll be accumulation, he thought as he looked at the slush forming in the streets.

  He was to meet Stanton for lunch at Sergeant Preston's near the U of M Law School on the Mississippi's west bank. His car was parked in a ramp just east of the courthouse on the skyway system. First, he had an errand at his old office in the Norwest Center on Marquette Avenue. His firm had moved from the old First National Bank Building six years earlier.

  Jake pushed open the large carved oak door next to the gold letters announcing, "Stratton, McMasters & Hines, Attorneys at Law." The receptionist looked up as Jake came through the doorway.

  "Jake!" she smiled. "How nice to see you. What brings you here, in this weather?" She nodded toward the window and the heavy snowfall outside.

  "Hi, Mary." Jake nodded. "Is Jim Decker in this morning?"

  Mary checked the log sheet on the desk in front of her. "He was in court this morning at 9:30. He should be back by now. You know, they don't always check in with me when they come back." She rolled her eyes. "Let me check." She lifted the receiver from the telephone console. "Sandy, is Jim back? Jake Kingsley is here." She smiled up at Jake. "That's right, Jake's out here right now."

  She looked up at Jake. "She's trying to find him now," she smiled.

  "Thanks," said Jake. "How have you been?"

  "Same old place," Mary gestured around her receptionist's desk. "Nothing's changed. We do the best we can to keep these lawyers in line, but...you know how it is."

  Jake nodded. More than a few times this receptionist had helped him out and even protected him when he wasn't keeping to schedule.

  A warbling sound came from the console.

  "Stratton, McMasters & Hines," Mary announced in a practiced melodious response. "Good morning, may I help you? One moment," she pressed buttons on the console. "Ms. Roberts, line three, please."

  Mary looked at Jake, about to say something when a buzzer sounded from the console. "Front desk", she answered. "Okay, I'll tell him, thanks."

  Jake, Sandy says Jim will be right out. Want some coffee?"

  "No thanks," Jake declined. "I just need to see Jim for a minute."

  Jake sat in one of the leather chairs in the reception area. On a coffee table were the latest news magazines, the Wall Street Journal, and several copies of the latest advertising brochure of the firm. A bound booklet with a photograph of the Minneapolis skyline on its soft cover, the brochure began with a history of the firm over the last fifty years, described the many specialties and services of the firm, and finished with photographs and personal biographies of the partners and associates.

  Jake saw, somewhat to his surprise, that he was still listed. The words, "Of Counsel" and his picture and bio appeared after the associates.

  "Jake Kingsley!" Jim Decker appeared in the doorway next to the receptionist's desk. "Mary, did you let this crawl in here?"

  Mary looked shocked. "Why, Mr. Decker, when he said he was coming to see you, I let him right in!" She smiled, "One can only hope his company would be good for you. It would relax you and take a load off your staff," she looked sternly, "and they could use it."

  Decker looked hurt. "Mary, Mary, Mary, I only do what is necessary. My beloved and loyal staff do not need your protection . . . although I am sure they appreciate the effort."

  They both smiled and turned to Jake.

  "Nothing's changed," they said in unison and laughed at their common thought.

  "Come on in," said Decker and gestured toward the hallway to his office.

  Jake thanked Mary and followed him down the hallway.

  Jake and Jim Decker sat in Decker's office discussing the Pallmeyer case. From Decker's 29th floor office, Jake could see the snow falling outside among the loop's tall buildings. The usual panoramic view to the southwest towards Minneapolis' lakes was obscured by white haze of the snow showers.

  The law firm had already contributed substantial support to Jake and Charles and had advanced considerable sums toward expenses for filing fees, expert witness fees and more. Jake came today to bring Jim Decker up to date on the status of the case.

  "The trial will be in July," Jake told him.

  "How does it look?"

  "We think it looks pretty good," answered Jake. "One never wants to get overly optimistic in these cases, but we think we have some pretty good industry literature to support our claim of defective design. Of course m
ost of the manufacturers didn't do any different, so our position requires a finding that the whole industry was at fault."

  "Oh, that's good." Decker grinned. "Tilting at windmills, are we?"

  Jake smiled. He liked working with Decker and his sarcastic humor. His attitude helped Jake remember to keep things in perspective. Considering Decker's line of work as a divorce lawyer, knowing how to keep a sense of humor and to keep things in perspective was extremely important to him and he was good at it.

  Although Jim Decker was not in the civil litigation section of the firm and not involved in civil litigation outside his family law practice, he was, by Jake's choice, the one in the firm in charge of the Pallmeyer case. He was the one who helped get Jake the arrangements with the firm so he could take the case.

  "You'll need an office and a conference room during trial," said Decker. "I'll see to it. Be kinda nice to have you back here workin' for a while. Of course you'll be in trial most of the time. Come to think of it, you always were in court most of the time."

  They reviewed the schedule set forth by Judge Hawthorne and discussed the anticipated motions and the logistics of the trial itself.

  Jim Decker loaned Jake a portable hand held dictating machine and an office where he dictated a status report to Sarah Pallmeyer. His letter essentially mirrored the discussion he had had with Decker, describing the pre-trial conference, explaining to her the Judge's scheduling order and telling her what they would be doing next.

  Finally, Jake gave the dictation tape to one of the secretaries in word processing, said good bye to Jim Decker and excused himself to go meet Charles Stanton.

  ************

  ***

  ************

  Just a week later, Jake, Charles Stanton and Bert Hanson all sat in the conference room at Cherokee Tractor & Implement Company in St. Louis examining documents produced pursuant to plaintiff's document production request. They were under the watchful eye of George Ballard, one of the associate attorneys at Cherokee's defense firm, Hobbs, Vance, Bruckman & Rosen.