The Justice Game

by Randy Singer

  It was bad enough that Jason was forced to call Poole as a witness, bad enough that he had been manipulated into keeping two jurors on the case whom he really didn’t want, but now he was being forced to use Poole as his last witness. By waiting until Monday to call Poole, Jason would end his case the same way Kelly had ended hers—with a whimper.

  Maybe he was just being paranoid. Maybe this guy Luthor really thought Poole would be a good witness. Maybe Luthor wasn’t the one who had provided the damaging documents to Kelly; maybe Luthor had no idea that Poole would get destroyed on cross-examination. Jason couldn’t communicate with the man, so it was impossible to know what he was really thinking. Maybe Jurors 3 and 7 would be strong advocates for Jason’s cause.

  And maybe Santa Claus would show up tomorrow and grant Jason’s Motion to Strike.

  If nothing else, Jason’s life had taught him to be a realist. Mothers die. Fathers disappoint. Friends get killed in car accidents. You get fired for doing a good job. Life is not fair. You move on the best you can.

  What made it harder was that Jason had developed such great respect for Case McAllister. The man had done nothing but encourage and coach Jason since the day they met. Case was entrusting his entire company and career to a rookie lawyer. And Jason was rewarding that trust by selling Case out to an anonymous blackmailer.

  But what else could Jason do? Betray his father and Matt Corey? If he did that, the case would be declared a mistrial, and MD Firearms would have to start over. He could quite possibly lose his law license, and serious jail time was not out of the question.

  But maybe then he could at least live with himself.

  He stopped at a red light, his knuckles white on the steering wheel. He was actually trembling from all the pressure, his mind racing wildly from one thought to the next.

  The light turned green, and Jason took a few deep breaths. He forced himself to think logically. Left brain, Jason; filter out the emotions. Slow down. He needed to play this out one step at a time. If he won the Motion to Strike tomorrow, the case would be over. Even if he lost, he could call Melissa Davids as his first witness. That would buy him the weekend.

  He would run out of time on Monday morning—either rest his case or call Chief Poole to the stand. Honor or reputation? Should he sacrifice his own father or MD Firearms?

  His hands started shaking again as he drove slowly through the intersection.

  * * *

  When Jason got to the office, it was deserted except for Case McAllister. The veteran lawyer was in the firm’s small kitchen, finishing dinner from the Purple Cow disposable containers.

  “I’m going to pick up Melissa at the airport,” Case said. “I’ll take care of getting her ready to testify.”

  “Thanks.”

  “You look like death,” Case said. “You need to get something to eat and take an hour or two off.”

  He shoved a couple of the Styrofoam containers at Jason. Chicken wrap, turkey club, or Caesar salad. Jason didn’t care.

  “I’ve got to work on my argument for the Motion to Strike,” Jason said. He tried to sound upbeat but felt like he was on autopilot. “I’ll rest this weekend.”

  “You might want to call Bella. She’s been trying to get in touch with you.”

  Jason smiled. “I know. Four messages on my BlackBerry.”

  After Case left, Jason dialed Bella’s number. She was at the Courtyard Marriott hotel at the oceanfront with the shadow jury. She and Andrew Lassiter had shown them the opening statements and the first few witnesses. Each individual juror had filled out a brief questionnaire.

  “Andrew says we can’t give them any hint who we’re working for,” Bella reported. “He says it might sway their opinions.”

  “Yeah, that’s standard procedure,” Jason replied. “Don’t want them to know which side is paying them.”

  Bella scoffed at the notion. “That wouldn’t influence me any. If I don’t like somethin’, I tell people. Makes no difference who’s paying me.”

  “I’ve noticed.”

  “Anyway, they like you a lot. But they like Ms. Starling too.”

  This didn’t surprise Jason. He would talk with Andrew later and get a full report on any subtle strategy changes he needed to make based on the shadow jury’s feedback.

  “Andrew says to tell you that the two jurors he would have selected are more favorable than the two you left on the jury,” Bella said. “But I still say you’ve got to trust your instincts.”

  The mention of Jurors 3 and 7 made Jason’s gut clench. “Is my father down there?” he asked, changing the subject.

  Bella hesitated. “Your dad’s not exactly the easiest guy to work with.” Jason could just picture the friction between Bella and his dad—the bellicose secretary and the no-nonsense detective. “He basically left halfway through the day, said he had some investigative work to do. Wouldn’t tell me what it was.”

  Jason thanked Bella and walked from the kitchen into his office. There was a manila envelope on his chair with his father’s handwriting on the outside. Jason Noble, private and confidential. Not to be opened by anyone else.

  Jason tore open the envelope and pulled out a memo from his father with a number of backup documents attached. The memo was written with the clinical detachment of a criminal detective documenting interviews. The information confirmed Jason’s worst fears.

  Among other things, his dad had interviewed students who had taken a course from Rodney Peterson, Juror 3. They had all praised Professor Peterson’s teaching but labeled him as “progressive” or “liberal.” On the issue of gun control, most remembered how passionate Peterson became when talking about the assassination of Martin Luther King Jr. and JFK. He bemoaned the culture’s fascination with guns and violence. Most students acted surprised that Peterson had been allowed to stay on the jury.

  But during jury selection, Jason recalled, Peterson had claimed to have an open mind. He had answered every question truthfully, and this additional information gave Jason no legal basis to have him disqualified now.

  At the end of his memo, Jason’s dad couldn’t resist the urge to temporarily depart from his detached writing style and editorialize a little. Why is a guy like Peterson even on this jury? Didn’t your other investigator pick this up? I looked in the file on Peterson and there were NO interviews with former students.

  Why indeed? Jason thought.

  The memo on Marcia Franks, Juror 7, was even more troubling. Nothing in Rafael’s investigation was wrong: Marcia was a registered Democrat with no religious affiliation, had her kids in a private academy, and proudly displayed her Obama sticker.

  But what Rafael Johansen’s original report did not contain caused Jason to go weak in the knees. He had been set up. There was no longer any doubt about that.

  He glumly read through the details. Marcia Franks had been through a nasty divorce more than ten years ago. She had accused her husband of hiding assets but could never quite prove it. There had been an extended custody battle, and it looked like Marcia had been the loser, receiving joint custody until their son turned sixteen, at which time he had decided to live with his father. Marcia Franks would hate Chief Poole, a man who would undoubtedly remind her of her own ex-husband.

  Jason slumped in his chair, the stark reality of his dilemma hitting home. Luthor was playing it smart. Neither of these jurors had a thing in their background that would disqualify them from serving. But the toxic mixture of Chief Poole, Marcia Franks, and Rodney Peterson would guarantee only one result.

  Jason could see the endgame now. If Judge Garrison didn’t grant the Motion to Strike, money would flow into short sales of gun-company stocks and put options—options that would become incredibly valuable if the stocks went down.

  The justice game was in full swing. And the house held all the cards.

  75

  That evening, Luthor ran the figures one last time. Luthor had already established a number of offshore companies to hide the millions of dollars t
hat would be flowing in when the gun companies—MD Firearms in particular—began to collapse. After Ed Poole took the stand on Monday, Jason Noble’s case would tank and the stocks would nose-dive. With any luck, Luthor’s investments would more than double.

  Luthor had also considered a worst-case scenario. Plan B was premised on the unlikely scenario that Jason Noble might try to play the hero and report the blackmail scheme to the authorities. By manipulating the paperwork and forging signatures, Luthor had ensured that ownership of the offshore companies would lead to none other than Jason Noble and Kelly Starling.

  Luthor knew the authorities were naturally suspicious of blackmail claims. Many times, the “victim” was, in fact, the mastermind behind the crime, setting up an elaborate scheme to bilk innocent third parties out of their cash, much like guilty mothers who tried to blame a kidnapper for the “disappearance” of a child. The feds had learned to put the person reporting the claim on the short list of suspects.

  Luthor would help that predisposition along by planting some subtle references to the offshore companies in Jason’s and Kelly’s e-mail histories. There would be just enough of a trail that the feds could piece it together. Luthor would walk away with the money, but the feds would think Jason and Kelly had fled the country and were now spending their millions under new identities in exotic locations. Everyone would marvel at the audacity of the young lawyers’ plan. They would become the Bonnie and Clyde of the twenty-first century.

  Rumors would surface about the two lawyers reappearing in this country or that country, but the rumors would be false.

  The sad truth was that under Plan B, neither Jason Noble nor Kelly Starling would ever be heard from again.

  * * *

  Jason tried to focus on preparing for the Motion to Strike hearing, but his heart wasn’t in it. He kept checking the Kryptonite blog, though he knew his name wouldn’t be there. At least not yet. His mind wandered to LeRon’s family—their shock if they ever learned that their son had not been the one driving the car on the night he died. Facing LeRon’s parents was a prospect worse than facing jail time.

  “How could you let us live with this for ten years?” they would ask.

  The other picture that wouldn’t leave Jason’s mind was of Chief Poole taking the witness stand. Kelly Starling’s cross-examination would be devastating. Anger would smolder just beneath the surface for Marcia Franks, Juror 7. Worst of all would be the look on Case McAllister’s face as the trial went up in flames.

  Plus, the more time Jason spent researching the issue, the more he realized that Judge Garrison wasn’t going to grant the Motion to Strike. Jason still couldn’t get around the precedent of Farley v. Guns Unlimited. Garrison had ruled against Jason on this same legal issue at the Motion to Dismiss hearing earlier in the case. Unless Case’s friends in the Virginia legislature had convinced Garrison to change his mind, the case was going to the jury.

  Jason’s spirits were buoyed a little when Andrew Lassiter and Bella returned with the feedback from the shadow jury. They were split four to three in Jason’s favor after the opening statement. One juror had then switched to the plaintiff’s side after Blake Crawford’s testimony, but one had left the plaintiff’s side after the testimony of Agent Treadwell and was now undecided. The net result was a virtual deadlock after the plaintiff’s evidence—not a bad place to be for a defense lawyer.

  Lassiter had a three-page list of suggestions that they discussed until about 11:30. Jason tried to focus on the details, but in reality, the minutiae of the case no longer interested him.

  When Jason decided to pack it in for the night, Bella went into mom mode.

  “Are you eating anything?” she asked. “You look awful.”

  “Yeah. I had a club sandwich.”

  “A trial is a long campaign,” Bella lectured. “Not a single skirmish. You’ve got to rest, and you’ve got to eat.”

  “Good night,” Jason said.

  * * *

  Instead of going straight home, Jason decided to stop by his father’s hotel. He couldn’t explain why he felt this need to sit down and talk with his dad—really talk with him—but right now Jason was operating on emotion, not logic. The right brain had taken over.

  He had decided to put it all out on the table—from Luthor’s first e-mail to the impact of the investigation his dad had just concluded. Jason was ready to suggest that they do the right thing, though he feared his dad would resist it.

  In a way, Jason didn’t really care anymore. He was so tired of carrying this weight alone, so desperate to talk with someone about it, so sick of waking up and wondering if perhaps it had all been a bad dream, of wishing the nightmare that controlled his life would finally go away.

  The desk clerk at the Holiday Inn Express dialed his dad’s room, but there was no answer. Jason tried his dad’s cell phone—still no answer. Jason pleaded for his dad’s room number so he could go and knock on the door, but the clerk refused, citing hotel policy. With no other options, Jason settled in at a table in the hotel lobby and waited. His guess was that his dad was out on the town.

  It was 1:30 before his dad staggered in through the lobby door. Jason had seen his dad like this before, the unsteady gait and the faraway look in his eyes.

  Jason was out of his dad’s line of sight and thought about just watching his dad stagger to the elevator so he could leave without saying anything.

  But that was the whole problem. Avoidance. Procrastination. Running from the truth.

  “Dad,” Jason said.

  His father stopped, startled. He looked at Jason, as if seeing a ghost. “Did you get the stuff I left in your office?” his dad asked, leaning back.

  “Yeah. Can I talk to you for a minute?”

  His dad sneered and chuckled a little. “A little late for talk, isn’t it, Son?” He was speaking louder than normal, and Jason knew immediately that this was not the time.

  But when would be the time?

  “Have a seat,” Jason said.

  “Why? You got your buddy Prescott waitin’ under the table? You want to embarrass the old man again?” Jason’s dad spread his arms. “I’m right here. Anything you’ve got to say to me—say it right here.”

  “It’s not about that, Dad. I need your help.”

  His dad reached into his pocket and pulled out a wad of bills. “Here. You want my help. This is all I got left.” He walked over to Jason and slapped the money on the table. “You already took everything else,” his dad said, his words slurred. “It wasn’t enough for you to hate me, you had to get Jules on your side too—make her hate me.”

  Jason shook his head. He stood and tried to hand the money back to his father. “All right. Let’s not talk about this now.”

  “Yeah. That’s right,” said his dad, rejecting the money. “Walk away from it, Son. That’s what you always do.” His father stepped closer, and the stench of his breath just about knocked Jason over. “All I ever wanted was a son with a little bit of backbone.” He paused, his mind evidently working hard to stay on track. “And all I ever got was a son who just turns tail and runs.”

  Jason told himself his father didn’t mean it. The alcohol was talking, not his dad. But the tears welled up anyway, though Jason fought them back and kept them from spilling over.

  “That’s right,” his dad said. “Let’s just have a good cry. That’s what real men do.” He patted the outside of Jason’s arm, shook his head in disgust and turned to walk away.

  “Wait,” Jason said. He reached out and grabbed his father’s arm, almost knocking him off his feet. “I love you, Dad.” The words had slipped out before Jason knew what he was saying. “I don’t care if you hate my guts. You’re my father, and you’re all I’ve got.”

  His father stood there for a moment, as if trying to make the slightest bit of sense out of what he had just heard. To Jason he looked pitiful—confused and at a total loss for words. If Jason had thrown a punch, his dad could have handled it. Somehow, drunk or not, h
e would have instinctively fought back.

  But for this the man had no response.

  He lowered his gaze and brushed Jason’s hands from his arm. “I’m going to sleep.” He staggered toward the elevator.

  Jason watched until his father disappeared from sight.

  “Good night, Dad,” he said.

  76

  In the packed courtroom Friday morning, Jason had an unsettling sense of déjà vu. He had made these same arguments before, and this same judge had rejected them.

  Kelly Starling quoted liberally from Farley v. Guns Unlimited for the proposition that proximate cause is a jury issue in these types of cases. This time, she reinforced her arguments with quotes from Judge Garrison’s own ruling on the earlier Motion to Dismiss.

  As before, Jason tried to argue that this case was prohibited by the Protection of Lawful Commerce in Arms Act. But Garrison quickly brushed that argument aside. “We’re dealing with an exception to the Act, Counselor. The issue is whether your client’s conduct aided or abetted the illegal activities of Peninsula Arms.”

  Garrison’s questions were so one-sided that when Kelly Starling was arguing, Jason leaned over and whispered to Case, “I thought your boys in the state legislature were going to straighten him out.”

  Case just shrugged.

  Garrison let the lawyers argue their positions for nearly two hours as the squat little judge enjoyed his turn in the spotlight. At eleven o’clock he took a short recess and fifteen minutes later returned to announce his ruling. He admonished the spectators that he would not tolerate any emotional outbursts, as if he believed his decision would be so controversial that the courtroom would erupt.

  He read his opinion from the bench, alternately looking down at his notes and glancing up so the television cameras could enjoy a view of something more than the top of his bald head. He said he was duty-bound to follow the law. He didn’t write the laws, and in fact many times he didn’t even approve of the laws, but his job was to interpret them as written. A judge who attempts to rewrite laws is working for the wrong branch of government, Garrison said. He paused after that line, appearing confident that every evening news broadcast would use it as their lead.