Time to bring it home, Rick thought. He had already given his closing argument, and the defense had just finished theirs. Now it was time for rebuttal—his last chance to make an impression with the jury before they would make their decision.
“By this point, you’ve heard and seen all the evidence, and you’re probably tired of hearing me and Mr. Tyler argue about it.” Nicole Beasley smiled, and Rick returned the gesture, moving his eyes down the line of faces as his own smile gradually faded. Then, slowly and deliberately, he walked to the plaintiff’s table and stood by his client. “This is normally the time in the trial when I would ask my client to stand.” Rick’s voice carried to every corner of the courtroom, and he felt adrenaline flood his veins. This was why he loved trying cases. There was no feeling like it in the world. “I’d ask her to stand and I’d tell you her name one last time and request that you go back in that jury room and do what you think is fair. I’d ask you to use your common sense and render a fair decision.” Rick paused and looked down at the young woman sitting in the wheelchair. He put his hand on her shoulder and she clasped it with her own for a brief second. Then, letting go, Rick looked at the jury. “I’m not going to do that today. I’m not going to do that, because I can’t do that. Grace Simpson can’t stand. She can’t walk. She can’t feel her legs at all. Grace Simpson is paralyzed from the waist down.”
The courtroom was silent as a morgue as Rick strode back toward the jury box, stopping at the defense table and pointing. “Grace Simpson can’t walk anymore because JPS Van Lines didn’t care enough to do even the most basic of background checks on one of their drivers. When JPS hired Mack Boone, they were putting a man with four speeding tickets and two DUIs back on the highway. Now”—Rick’s voice dripped with sarcasm—“Mr. Tyler here wants to argue that those offenses were in the past. He wants to say that this was all just a terrible accident. That the light had just turned red, and that if Ms. Simpson had glanced in both directions before proceeding forward she would have seen Mr. Boone’s speeding van before it plowed into her Honda Civic at fifteen miles over the speed limit. Mr. Tyler argues that Mr. Boone wasn’t legally intoxicated at the time of the crash, but my question to you is this: Why would a person whose sole job is to safely drive a van have any alcohol in his system at three thirty in the afternoon on a Tuesday?”
Rick paused, glaring again at Brock Smith, the president of JPS, before approaching the jury for the final time. Noticing that most of them, even Beasley, were looking at the floor, perhaps unnerved by Rick’s intensity, he spoke in a calm voice.
“Grace Simpson was on her way to lacrosse practice.”
Then he paused and waited. After several seconds, he saw the desired effect. Every person on the jury had raised their head, and all eyes had returned to him. Rick forced back a smile, because he could almost hear Professor McMurtrie’s gravelly voice in his head. Sometimes the most effective tool in a closing argument is to stop talking.
Rick continued in the same measured tone. “Grace had a lacrosse scholarship to the University of Alabama. She’d loved the game since she was nine years old and had realized her dream of getting a chance to play for the Crimson Tide. She could run like a deer.” He stopped and pointed at his client. “Now she can’t run at all.”
Rick Drake counted a thousand one, a thousand two, and then a thousand three. Then he looked back at the jury. “I’m not asking for fairness today, ladies and gentlemen. I’m demanding justice for that young woman over there. JPS Van Lines negligently and recklessly allowed Mack Boone to drive for them, and Boone ran a red light while speeding and under the influence of alcohol and left Grace Simpson a paraplegic. You can’t give Grace her legs back. But you can punish those who took them away.” Rick peered at the defense table one last time and then turned back to the jury. “Don’t let them get away with this.”
Three hours later, at 7:30 p.m., Rick was jostled from sleep in the hallway of the courthouse with the words that make the hair on every trial lawyer’s arms stand on end: “They’ve reached a verdict.”
Rick made a quick dash for the restroom and splashed water on his face, trying to wake up. Normally, a trial will adjourn at five. But when Judge Poe had tendered the case to the jury at four thirty, Nicole Beasley and her eleven companions asked to stay late to see if they could reach a decision. After almost two full weeks of trial, the judge had not hesitated in his response. “You can stay as long as you like,” he had said.
So, while all the courthouse staff, parties, and lawyers involved in other cases had left the building, everyone associated with Simpson v. JPS Van Lines, including the ample press corps following the case, had stayed. During the wait, Rick had found a quiet alcove, kept his cell phone turned off, and tried to get some rest. He was due in court in Jasper the following morning at ten, but he forced himself not to think about the obstacles that awaited him there or what he might do if the jury here was still deliberating. They wouldn’t have asked to stay late if they didn’t think they could reach a verdict, he had thought, and his instincts had turned out to be correct.
Now, feeling his heart pounding in his chest, he wiped his face with a towel and hustled into the courtroom to take a seat between Grace and her mother at the counsel table. As the jury filed back into their box to the left of the judge’s bench, mother and daughter held hands and Rick said a silent prayer. God, please give this family peace. He had learned the most valuable lesson of his career in his first jury trial in Henshaw. The case was never about him, the lawyer. It was always about the client. This case was about Grace Simpson and her family. The pain and agony that they had been put through. The broken dreams. She would never play lacrosse again. She would never walk again. She would never bear children.
Feeling heat behind his eyes, Rick steeled himself to be calm and cool. Never let them see you sweat, the Professor had always instructed. Win, lose, or draw, you’re a professional first and foremost.
God, I wish he was here, Rick thought. Then, as Judge Braxton Poe entered the courtroom, Rick stood and tried to breathe.
“Has the jury reached its verdict?” Judge Poe asked, his voice even raspier than normal from the effects of a bad cold.
“Yes, Your Honor.” Nicole Beasley rose from her seat in the box, and Rick felt a warm and fuzzy feeling in his chest. She’s the foreman.
“What says the jury?” the judge asked.
Turning to face the counsel tables, Beasley spoke in a loud, clear voice. “We the jury for the circuit court of Tuscaloosa County, Alabama, find for the plaintiff.”
Rick felt Grace Simpson’s hand squeeze his own. Yes, he thought, but that was only part one.
Beasley continued. “The jury awards compensatory damages to the plaintiff in the amount of two million five hundred thousand dollars.” Beasley paused and gave Rick the slightest of nods. “And punitive damages in the amount of twenty million dollars.”
Rick Drake closed his eyes and felt arms wrap around him. To his right, Barbara Simpson was hugging him and whispering into his ear over and over again, “Thank you, thank you, thank you.” With this money, Barbara would be able to take care of her daughter for the rest of her life. There was joy but also an overpowering sense of relief in her voice. Then, opening his eyes, Rick looked to his left, where Grace Simpson cried softly in her wheelchair. What was she thinking about right now? The kids she would never birth? The lacrosse games she would never play? Or was she thinking about the last thing that Jameson Tyler, the attorney for JPS, told the jury? “If she had only looked both ways before entering the intersection, she could have prevented this tragedy.” Or maybe it was the piece of evidence the jury didn’t hear. That she had tried a synthetic marijuana cigarette a week before the accident to help her relax for two exams and that a minuscule trace of it was found in her system. Rick’s board-certified toxicologist opined that the nominal amount of cannabis found in Grace’s urine would have had no impairment whatsoever on her ability drive a vehicle and, on the eve of trial,
Judge Poe had finally granted Rick’s motion to exclude the evidence. The jury had never heard about the pot, but that didn’t mean Grace Simpson wasn’t thinking about it now.
There was never any peace for the victims. No jury verdict would give them that.
As he was packing up his briefcase, long after Barbara and Grace Simpson had said their goodbyes and left the courtroom, Rick felt a strong hand pat his shoulder.
“Great job, Rick.”
Rick looked up and managed a tired smile. “Thanks, Jameson.”
Jameson Tyler was a senior partner with Jones & Butler, the largest law firm in Birmingham. Tyler was widely considered to be the best defense lawyer in the state. He and Rick had a history, and most of it was bad. When he was in law school, Rick had clerked for two summers at Jones & Butler, and Tyler had been his mentor. An offer had been made, but then it was withdrawn after Rick got into a well-publicized altercation with the Professor after a trial team competition. When Rick and the Professor had teamed up to take on Willistone Trucking Company in a truck accident case in Henshaw, Alabama, three and a half years ago, Tyler had been on the other side. The verdict had been huge—ninety million dollars—and had started Rick on his path as a plaintiff’s lawyer.
But it was still hard to look at Jameson Tyler and feel anything but bitterness and resentment. With his perfectly tailored charcoal-gray suit, heavily starched white shirt, light-blue tie, and carefully parted hair, which had turned from dark brown to salt and pepper in the last few years, Tyler was the walking embodiment of the big-firm lawyer. He was everything that Rick Drake had wanted to be when he was in law school.
Even now, after having been torched for twenty-two point five million dollars, Tyler had a toothy grin on his face, the picture of confidence. “You know we’ll appeal.”
“I do,” Rick said.
“Judge Poe screwed the pooch when he denied my motion to bifurcate the negligence and negligent hiring and supervision portions of the trial. He also should’ve let the evidence of marijuana in your client’s system come in.” Jameson shook his head and scoffed. “It’s almost like Braxton felt bad for all the grief he’d given the Professor over the years before Tom got sick and was trying to make up for it by throwing y’all some bones on these rulings.” He paused, and his grin faded away. “It doesn’t matter. The bottom line is that this case isn’t over. Not by a long shot.”
Rick didn’t immediately respond. He was too tired to argue the law anymore after an eight-day trial and didn’t have the first clue about Judge Braxton Poe’s motivations, though he was aware of the bad blood between the Professor and Poe and had seen it firsthand in the trial of Wilma Newton the year before. Finally, licking his lips, he gazed at his nemesis and spoke in a voice hoarse from fatigue. “You know what my bottom line is, Jameson?”
The defense lawyer cocked his head to the side, waiting.
“A win is a win. Good luck with your appeal.”
Jameson smirked and headed for the exit, grabbing his own briefcase on the defense table as he left. At the double doors, he stopped and looked over his shoulder at Rick. “Why in the world didn’t we settle this case?”
Rick gazed across the gallery at him, realizing that they were the only two people left in the courtroom. “Because you’re an asshole,” Rick said.
Jameson guffawed. “And then some, kid. And then some.” He shook his head. “Remind me again how we left it at the mediation.”
Rick smirked, knowing damn well that Jameson didn’t need a reminder. “You only offered two hundred and fifty thousand, and the insurance policy limits were three million. JPS is a two-hundred-million-dollar company.”
Jameson rubbed his chin. “Well, this little development”—Jameson pointed to the now-empty jury box—“has changed the landscape. We’ll forgo the appeal if your client will accept the limits. I suspect the Supremes will, at worst case, knock the verdict in half, if not more, and I’m betting on them overturning it altogether.”
Rick wasn’t sure what the Alabama Supreme Court would do, but he knew that an appeal would last at least two years, and Barbara Simpson had almost gone broke paying for all the extra medical supplies Grace needed that insurance wouldn’t cover. “I’ll get back to you,” Rick said, figuring there was some water in Jameson’s offer and JPS would probably go past the limits to five or even ten million, either of which Barbara Simpson would probably accept in lieu of the two-year wait and the possibility of having to try the case all over again.
“You do that,” Jameson said, grabbing the door handle. Then, for several seconds, Jameson paused without moving.
“Something else on your mind?” Rick finally asked.
Without looking at him, Jameson spoke. “You kicked my ass, Rick. We tried this case because I convinced my client that you couldn’t carry the ball without the Professor there to recover your fumbles. I . . . didn’t think you could pull it off.” Jameson turned and looked Rick in the eye. “My hat’s off to you.”
“Thank you,” Rick managed, still not quite believing what he’d just heard.
“If you’re ever interested in crossing back over to the dark side, let me know. Our firm would love to have you.”
Rick smiled. They both knew that would never happen. “I’ll keep it in mind.”
13
Twenty minutes later, Rick trudged down the steps of the Tuscaloosa County Courthouse after granting a couple of interviews to the reporters who had waited. Most of the questions asked for his reaction to the jury verdict and whether he thought the result would stand up on appeal. Rick thanked the jury for its “fair and just award” and said he was relieved for Grace and Barbara Simpson that this ordeal was finally over.
When he reached the parking lot, he saw a green Channel 19 news van parked next to his car. A young woman stood by the van twirling a microphone. Next to her was an extremely tall and skinny man setting up a video camera on a tripod.
“Great,” he whispered, sighing as he unlocked the trunk of his 1998 rusted gold Saturn and placed his briefcase inside.
“Got time for one last interview, counselor?” the woman asked, winking at him. Georgi Perry was a petite woman with short blond hair reminiscent of the way the actress Gwyneth Paltrow had worn her locks in several movies that Rick had watched as a kid. She had fair skin, green eyes, and a well-earned reputation as an incredibly hard worker not afraid to elbow her way into sticky situations and ask tough questions. Two years earlier, after the tornado hit in April, Georgi had spent weeks on the front lines interviewing survivors of the tragedy. She had also managed to obtain a rare death row exclusive with Foster Arrington, the middle school teacher convicted of abducting, raping, and murdering one of his students.
“Anything for you, Georgi,” Rick said, managing a tired smile and beginning to adjust his tie for the camera.
“Keep it undone,” she said, and he looked at her with a question in his eyes.
She walked over and undid the top button of his shirt and reloosened the tie he had just tightened. “I’m serious. It looks better this way. Gives you that battle-weary-lawyer look.”
“Whatever you say,” Rick said. He had gotten to know the reporter in the months after his return from Pulaski two years earlier. She had done a special on the social and racial implications of the trial of Bocephus Haynes, which had gone over well with her viewership and been a nice platform for the firm.
“OK, we good to go, Paul?” Georgi glanced at the beanpole of a cameraman, who gave a thumbs-up. Rick felt Georgi’s hand grip his forearm and pull him closer to her. He could smell the pleasant scent of coconut coming from her hair. Then she let go as Paul counted down with his fingers: Three, two, one . . .
“We are standing here with attorney Rick Drake, the lawyer for Grace Simpson, the Tuscaloosa High lacrosse player who was left a paraplegic after a tragic accident with a vehicle on the JPS Van Line almost two years ago. Today, a Tuscaloosa County jury awarded Ms. Simpson twenty-two point five million dollars, the
largest verdict that this county has seen in over a decade. Mr. Drake, would you care to comment on the jury’s result?”
Without hesitation or conscious thought, Rick gazed into the camera and gave the same spiel he had said to the reporters on the courthouse steps. When he finished, he started to walk away, assuming the interview was over. Georgi’s voice stopped him.
“Mr. Drake, one last question. Your firm has been involved in several high-profile trials over the last three years: The case against Willistone Trucking Company over three years ago in Henshaw, Alabama, that resulted in the largest jury verdict in west Alabama history. Your televised defense of Bocephus Haynes in Pulaski, Tennessee, on charges of capital murder, which we profiled on this news station. And last year, the defense of Wilma Christine Newton, who was charged with the murder of local trucking tycoon Jack Willistone. In all those cases, your partner, Professor Tom McMurtrie, was lead counsel, but it is our understanding that he was not present for the Simpson trial this past week due to health problems. Has Professor McMurtrie officially retired, and if so, what does the future hold for Rick Drake?”
Rick paused before responding. This was the kind of question that could make him look like a prick if he gave the wrong answer. But it also gave him a platform to say something meaningful. He gazed at the reporter and spoke in a soft tone. “The Professor has retired. He . . .” Rick paused, not wanting to elaborate on his partner’s health, and Georgi raised her eyebrows. “He’s earned it,” Rick finished, gazing down at the asphalt.
The Final Reckoning (McMurtrie and Drake Legal Thrillers Book 4) Page 6