The Justice Game

by Randy Singer

  Jason spent the next few weeks trying to learn the procedures in the criminal courts in and around Richmond. As promised, Sherwood delivered a few major cases to Jason’s door, all dealing with hair-testing evidence. Three more cases came as referrals from Dr. Patricia Rivers, the commonwealth’s former chief forensic toxicologist. By week six, Jason had seven cases in his filing cabinet.

  The call from Robert Sherwood, promising case number eight, was totally unexpected.

  “You ready to take that job with the big firm in D.C.?” Sherwood asked.

  “Just about.”

  Sherwood laughed. “Hang in there. It’ll get much worse before it gets better. Trust me—I’ve been there.”

  “Thanks for the encouragement.”

  “How many cases you got?” Sherwood asked.

  “Not many,” Jason admitted. He felt a little embarrassed about the exact number. He had never been much of a marketing guru. “Ten or so.”

  “That’s not bad for the first few months,” Sherwood said. “Any civil cases yet?”

  “Not yet.”

  “You ready for your first one?”

  Jason felt a surge of adrenaline. He had already figured out that landing the cases was half the battle.

  “I think I can squeeze it in.”

  “You may not want it,” Sherwood said, his tone playful. “It’ll take lots of time. Probably bill about two fifty, maybe even three hundred an hour. The client will have no trouble paying. Plus, it’s high profile.”

  “Maybe I’d better stick to criminal work,” Jason said, playing along. “I’d rather work for less money and keep worrying about getting paid.”

  “Okay,” Sherwood said. “Have a good day.”

  “No… wait! Are you serious?”

  “It’s a good case.” This time Sherwood sounded more somber. “But there’s a catch.”

  Jason waited. There was always a catch.

  “The case was filed in Virginia Beach. The plaintiff’s lawyer is not the kind to settle. It seems to me that any lawyer taking this case would have to spend a lot of time in Virginia Beach, maybe even move there. It’s the kind of case where you’ve got to get inside the heads of the jurors. From your time with us, you know how important that is.”

  “I’ve spent time in Newark. I think I could survive a few months in Virginia Beach.”

  “Good. The client will be calling you any day. Her name is Melissa Davids. She’s the CEO of MD Firearms. She wants you to defend the Rachel Crawford case.”

  Jason didn’t respond immediately; he was not at all sure that he had heard the man correctly. “The Crawford case?”

  “She wants a fresh face to represent the gun industry,” Sherwood said. It sounded like he was having fun breaking the news. “Someone who might also happen to be a pretty decent trial lawyer.”

  Jason was at a loss for words. Most lawyers waited an entire career for a case like this. “Am I going to serve as local counsel?”

  “Not just local counsel. As far as I know, they’re looking for you to help try the case. Maybe serve as co-counsel with their in-house lawyer.”

  “That’s unbelievable.…” For a split second, the euphoria lifted Jason. The next second, reality set in. “What makes them think I’m qualified?”

  “They’re going on my say-so. And trust me, Jason, you’re more than ready.”

  19

  Melissa Davids did not waste any time. She called Jason the day after his phone conversation with Robert Sherwood and summoned him to Atlanta for an urgent meeting with herself and Case McAllister, general counsel for MD Firearms.

  Jason scheduled his flight for 6:30 a.m. on December 12, two days after the initial phone call. He woke at 4 a.m. and rummaged around his closet for a few extra minutes before deciding on the perfect attire for meeting with a gun-manufacturing client—jeans, a white shirt, and a sports jacket. The windchill was supposed to be near freezing, but Jason hated traveling while carting around a heavy winter coat and briefcase. Since 95 percent of his time would be spent indoors or on planes, he decided to leave the overcoat at home.

  His commuter flight got bounced around a little by the wind gusts. When it finally landed, they had to sit on the runway for thirty minutes waiting for their gate to clear. Jason fought his way through the crowded terminal to the underground transit and up the long escalator to the baggage claim area.

  A driver holding a poster-board sign with Jason’s name printed neatly in black Magic Marker waited for him. For the first time in his life, Jason felt like a big-time lawyer.

  “Welcome to Atlanta,” the man said. “You must be Jason Noble.”

  They shook hands and Jason mumbled, “Thanks for coming for me.”

  “Let me get that,” the man said, grabbing Jason’s briefcase.

  “Thanks,” Jason said, though he felt a little silly letting an old guy carry his briefcase. The driver was about seventy or so, with stooped shoulders, a thin, pointed nose, and gray hair slicked back so that it curled around his ears. He was wearing a suit, a red bow tie, and cowboy boots.

  Jason followed his driver to short-term parking, buttoning his sports coat along the way as the wind knifed through him. His driver seemed to be limping a little.

  “Where’s your overcoat?” the driver asked.

  “I hate lugging them around,” Jason said. The cold air in the parking garage bit into Jason’s face, and he felt a little stupid.

  The driver led him to a Ford Taurus and beeped it unlocked. “This baby’s got a good heater,” he said. “You can ride in the backseat. But most folks prefer to ride up front with me.”

  Reluctantly, Jason took the hint and climbed in the front. He had actually been looking forward to daydreaming while he rode through Atlanta, spurring a few positive memories and repressing negative ones as he recognized familiar landmarks. The drive to Buford would take close to an hour in the morning traffic.

  The man carefully placed Jason’s briefcase in the backseat and popped open the trunk. He retrieved a black pistol in a shoulder holster and strapped it on under his suit coat.

  “We’ve been in a big fight with Hartsfield-Jackson,” he explained, climbing into the car. “They don’t want guns anywhere on airport property—parking lots, nothin’—but we’ve taken ’em to court a couple of times. The Second Amendment is the Second Amendment. The feds get to take your guns at the metal detectors, not before. I’ve got a concealed-carry permit and bring my gun every time I come to the airport, just out of spite.”

  Jason resisted the urge to tell him that he agreed with the feds on this one. The thought of thousands of passengers running around the airport premises—even outside the metal detectors—with guns hidden under their suit coats was not a comforting one.

  Over the next hour, Jason had no time to stroll down memory lane. The driver engaged in conversation virtually nonstop, even after Jason tried to make it clear at the outset, by giving only one- or two-word answers, that he wasn’t interested in talking. The driver chatted about the Second Amendment, hunting, frivolous lawsuits, his ostrich skin cowboy boots, Jason’s choice of vehicles, the Georgia Bulldogs, illegal immigrants, and lenient judges. The driver even pried information out of Jason about his father, a homicide detective in Atlanta.

  “Cop’s kid, huh. I’m surprised you’re not a prosecutor.”

  “So’s my father.”

  They eventually pulled up to a nondescript one-story redbrick building on a small industrial road off Lawrenceville-Suwanee, basically in the middle of nowhere. There was a large cinder block manufacturing facility behind the office building and a parking lot on the side, full of hundreds of cars. There were a few 18-wheelers parked near the loading docks.

  Out front, there was one small sign with the address of the facility and the name MD Firearms. A few neatly trimmed shrubs lined the sidewalks. The Georgia crabgrass that passed as a lawn in these parts had gone brown for the winter.

  Jason had envisioned a far different facility. The in
famous MD Firearms, in the fulcrum of so much national media attention, looked like any other law-abiding small American manufacturing facility, piecing together a product and struggling to make a buck.

  “That’s our manufacturing plant out back,” the driver said. “There’s a shooting range on the other side of it—can’t really see it from here. And this one-story building in front that looks like a renovated elementary school—that’s the worldwide headquarters of MD Firearms.”

  Jason thanked the driver, who dropped him off at the front door and handed Jason his briefcase. “The receptionist knows you’re coming,” the driver said.

  Jason peeled off a five-dollar bill from the other money in his pocket and tried to hand it to the driver.

  “No, thanks,” the man said. “I work for the company. We’re not allowed to take tips.”

  “Okay. Well, thanks again.” Jason drew a deep breath and headed into the facility.

  20

  The inauspicious size of the building was only the first of many surprises. Melissa Davids met Jason in the lobby and gave him a personal tour of the manufacturing facility.

  She was nothing like the fierce advocate he had seen on television. She knew most of the line workers by name and asked questions about their families’ Christmas plans. Even though Davids was a small and nondescript woman, her personality dominated everyone in her presence. She had this thing for calling people by their last name and somehow made that feel more informal and intimate than if she had used their first name or a nickname. The place was neat and businesslike, the kind of atmosphere you might expect to find at any top-notch manufacturing plant.

  After the tour, Davids took Jason back to her office, located at the front corner of the building. It was about half the square footage of Jason’s office. Pictures of Melissa’s husband—an accountant, according to Jason’s research—and children adorned the walls. She picked up the phone and asked Case McAllister to join them.

  A few minutes later, Jason’s driver came into the office, a sly smile on his face. It took a second for Jason to piece it together. Stunned, he casually shook the man’s hand.

  “We’ve met,” Case said. “Had a good ride from the airport together.”

  Jason felt like an idiot for failing to get the man’s name. It was probably some kind of litmus test, seeing how a lawyer would treat a lowly driver for the company. Quickly, Jason scrolled through his conversation with Case, trying to remember if he’d said anything stupid.

  “Has Melissa told you the meeting rules yet?” Case asked.

  Meeting rules? “No.”

  “She hates meetings,” Case said. “Believes that committees and meetings are the places good ideas go to die. Any meeting at MD Firearms involving Melissa is a stand-up meeting. If we can’t finish it in a half hour, we do it off-line.”

  “Good rules,” Jason said.

  “How’d he do on the ride?” Davids asked.

  Case checked a notepad he was holding. “A little more liberal than most of our outside lawyers. Not much of a hunter or gun aficionado. Doesn’t detest frivolous lawsuits with quite the same passion you and I might.”

  Jason felt himself going a little red and started wondering how he might explain this to Robert Sherwood. I lost the client before I even got to their facility.

  “Any good points?” Davids asked.

  “A couple. He drives a Ford F-150 truck, and his dad’s a cop.” This elicited an approving nod from Davids. “He’s also a Georgia Bulldog fan. Graduated from UGA Law.”

  “Salvageable,” Davids said.

  “Barely,” Case said.

  The whole exchange felt surreal, like being a draft pick and watching the front office evaluate you. They were talking past Jason, as if he didn’t exist.

  But then Case McAllister addressed him. “We’ve interviewed two other prospective lawyers who both assured us we could get summary judgment based on the Protection of Lawful Commerce in Arms Act. Said they could make the case go away in less than six months. Have you looked at that issue?”

  The question threw Jason even more off stride, not because he hadn’t looked at the Act but because he hadn’t known he was in a beauty contest with other law firms. He really wanted this case, and Robert Sherwood had made it sound like it was Jason’s just for the asking. But he couldn’t fudge his legal advice just to land a client.

  “The way I read the complaint, it falls within an exception to the Act,” Jason said. “And if we decide to leave the case in state court, which I recommend based on the conservative nature of Virginia Beach juries, it will be almost impossible to get summary judgment. Virginia is the only state that doesn’t allow the use of depositions for a summary judgment motion. If we don’t get a judgment on the initial pleadings, which is unlikely based on my review of the complaint, then we’re going to trial.”

  Jason paused for a second, trying to read how this blunt honesty was impacting his potential clients. “With respect, Mr. McAllister, you need a good trial lawyer, not somebody who’s going to waste his time filing unwinnable paper motions.”

  That assessment was followed by a brief silence, and Jason still couldn’t read the faces of his hosts. Case McAllister made a check mark on his legal pad.

  “I like him,” Davids said. “It’s the first honest piece of advice we’ve received on this case. Plus, Robert Sherwood assures me he’s an excellent trial lawyer.”

  McAllister nodded his assent, and Jason felt his neck muscles relax. He took note of how Davids had made a point to insert Sherwood’s name into the conversation.

  Melissa Davids took a half step forward and looked Jason dead in the eye, as if she was somehow measuring the strength of his character.

  “They’re going to demonize us,” she said. “Make you feel like you’re literally the devil’s advocate. You’re going to have to look at that jury and tell them a poor grieving widower doesn’t deserve a dime. You’re going to have to learn about guns and the gun culture. You’re going to have to defend the Second Amendment like it’s your firstborn child. Can you do all that?”

  She said it with the seriousness of wedding vows. Man, these folks are intense.

  “Yes,” Jason said, setting his own jaw to show that two could play this game. “But you’re going to have to let me call the shots at trial. And let me coach you as a witness. And go along with some wild gambles I might cook up along the way. And let me—and only me—select the jury. And one more thing—you’re going to have to pay my bills on time and send in a seventy-five-thousand-dollar retainer.” He hesitated, trying to make sure he hadn’t forgotten anything. “Can you do all that?”

  “I really like this guy,” Davids said to Case McAllister.

  21

  A few minutes after Melissa Davids made her pronouncement, Case McAllister escorted Jason down the hall to Case’s office, bigger than Melissa’s but every bit as austere. The two men talked litigation strategy for nearly an hour. They agreed not to remove the case to federal court and decided to immediately file a Motion to Dismiss, though neither of the men thought the motion would be successful.

  As they were wrapping up, Davids stuck her head in the door. “Grab your overcoat, Noble,” she said. “I’ll meet you at the shooting range in five minutes.”

  Before Jason could respond, she was gone.

  Case rose slowly, the limp more noticeable this time. “Bum knee,” he said. “Need a total replacement but I keep putting it off. It’s worse after I’ve been sitting for a while.”

  Case pulled a long overcoat from a hanger on the back of his office door. “Here,” he said, handing it to Jason.

  “I’m fine. Really.”

  “Don’t be a hero,” Case said. “You’ll freeze your butt off out there. Melissa loses track of time.”

  Jason took the coat and tried it on. It was black and came down to his knees, like something Doc Holliday might have worn to the O.K. Corral. The sleeves were short, and the coat was tight. “Maybe if I take my sports coat
off.” He removed his jacket and tried the overcoat again. The sleeves still crawled up Jason’s forearms.

  Case sized him up. “Close enough,” he said.

  * * *

  The MD Firearms outdoor firing range was located behind the factory on a large slice of land that backed up to woods full of pine trees. Jason had seen an indoor firing range on the tour provided by Davids. But according to Case, Melissa Davids much preferred to do her target practice outside.

  A few minutes after Jason arrived, the company’s CEO showed up carrying two gray attaché cases.

  “He’s all yours,” Case said. “Just bring him back to the office when you’re done.” The lawyer retreated toward the building as Davids set down the attaché cases and handed Jason earmuffs and safety glasses.

  “Have you ever fired a gun before?” Davids asked.

  “No.”

  She looked at him in disbelief. “And you’re a cop’s kid?”

  “It’s a long story.”

  Davids shook her head. “We’ll psychoanalyze that later. For now, let’s start with some basics.”

  After a brief safety lesson, Davids opened the first case. It contained an MD-9, the same gun used by Larry Jamison to mow down Rachel Crawford. Even to Jason, who was now being paid $275 an hour to represent the manufacturer, the gun looked evil.

  According to Jason’s research, the MD-9 had become popular with gangs after it made the lyrics of a few ubiquitous rap songs. The gun had a dull black finish and a boxy design—none of the smooth, glossy, machine-finished surfaces of pricier weapons. It featured a stubby barrel and a square pistol grip that jutted down from the center of the gun, not the rear. Davids began loading the slender gray magazine with thirty-two brass 9 mm cartridges.