by Don Wittig
“Hate to leave you good people, but I go to trial on Monday and have a few more boxes of materials to read. Don’t worry; we’ll make the Pennzoil-Texaco verdict look like chump change. Thanks for letting me help you win this one.” O’Reilly then surveyed the room. He looked everyone in the eye, smiled broadly, then strode confidently back to his office.
When O’Reilly left the room, the group was served lunch catered by Maxims. Deerman assumed command of the group. Deerman, fit and tough, was a tall, rugged outdoorsman who had acquired invaluable political and legal experience in the environmental and global warming wars. As executive director of Sahara, he had learned the skills to manage the focus of the diverse group that made up his board of directors. The directors ranged from the college elitists, scientists, and regular folks to antieverything carbon do-gooders. Deerman worked with them all to forge the most politically savvy and powerful green group in the country. His rather plain looks were good cover for a keen mind and a purpose driven will.
He began, “Good to see everyone again. I want to say on behalf of the Sahara Club that we are one hundred percent behind this case. We are just flattered and glad Dr. Lewis asked us to join with her. This case will make our past lawsuits pale in comparison to what we can accomplish here. Your decision to join us or not is up to you,” Deerman said.
“My group, Earthcore, and Greenpreserve have all anted up our part of the five million front money. The rest of you pikers need to pony up with the green by the first of the month. If you want out, now is the time. O’Reilly thinks we shouldn’t have more than three or four groups anyway. He even mentioned there were some radical groups he didn’t want, none of you, of course. So now it’s first come, first served. We are in for the long haul and think this could be a homerun for everyone who is in. All of your groups were handpicked and already made the first cut. Now it’s a matter of showing us the color of your commitment. Get back to me by Friday. O’Reilly hopes to file the lawsuit by the end of the month.”
7 The Judge
B LACK ROBE FLOWING, JUDGE JEFFREY Martin strode back to his chambers for afternoon tea. The Houston environs were not quite as comfortable as his New Orleans courtroom and chambers, but they were spacious and imposing. He liked the large, cavernous courtrooms but preferred his own more gracious, albeit smaller chambers. Fortunately, most of his staff made the transfer from their storm-ravaged city to the hustle and bustle of Houston. Quite a contrast, he mused, from the musty old city to the nouveau glass-and-steel city. He couldn’t help pondering the marked difference between the way Houston handled the near miss of Rita contrasted with the bungling and fighting between the politicos of his own state. After Rita, with a Democratic mayor in Houston and a Republican county judge and governor, more arguing and cat calling would have been expected. But then Houston didn’t have to face an actual disaster, only the threat of one.
Someone knocked on Martin’s chamber door. “Come in,” he beckoned. Mark, his junior law clerk, burst in, almost out of breath.
“Judge, did you hear the rumor? We are getting the first hurricane tort! And Richard O’Reilly is bringing the complaint. It sounds like a blockbuster. I can’t wait. Heard he may be suing for a trillion dollars!”
“Sounds exactly like what I would expect from O’Reilly,” snorted the Judge. “I don’t know this fellow, but everyone who tries any lawsuits has heard of him. Rumor says he got a verdict of twenty million or so for some incapacitated bull. These Houston trial lawyers think they are better than anyone else. But he has another think coming if he believes he’ll waltz in here and take over my court. In twenty-seven years I have seen them all. And a lot of them just need to be locked up. So, Mark, you have any good news?” Martin smiled and peered over his well-worn spectacles.
“Well, the Fifth Circuit just affirmed you on the Dow Chemical case.”
“Why doesn’t that surprise me? If you take money away from the widows and orphans, you are right and get affirmed. When you let them keep a few measly millions, you are wrong and get reversed. Anyway, you’ll have to excuse me. I have to get ready for another motion to dismiss on some more Vioxx cases. I appreciate your brief on that, Mark. You did a fine job.”
Mark grinned his gratitude to the gracious judge.
Martin leaned back in his oversized, maroon judge’s chair. Just what I need, he mused. I am ready for senior status and instead get saddled with this Katrina mess. Why do I get all the big ones? Probably because I like the challenge. They know I can do it. A lot of these newer judges never tried a case before they went on the bench. I can’t even count the cases I tried as a lawyer, much less as a judge. I have handled almost every kind of white-collar crime and mass tort case there is. I like the commercial cases better, but the lawyers usually put everyone to sleep. Follow the money. The best lawyers are where the pots are the richest: at the rainbows end.
The judge returned to the courtroom. Everyone noticed a little more bounce to his step and a new vibrancy.
“Good tea?” one of the attorneys solicited.
“Indeed,” the judge replied, his eyes twinkling.
Judge Martin was as Old South as Robert E. Lee. He matriculated first at VMI (Virginia Military Institute) and then the University of Virginia. Tall and handsome, Martin was a marathon man both in and out of his running shoes. He gave up on the triathlons after a spiral fracture of his left femur. Toned and fit, he weighed only five pounds more than when he was commissioned and went into the air force after graduating from VMI. Martin was proud of his military service, proud of his country, and proud of his four children.
The law had been a jealous mistress, especially to the young attorney Jeff Martin. He had been bored by transactional work, paper shuffling, drafting contracts, and commercial deals. One day he ventured into the courtroom. There Martin found instant success and the feeling of actually completing something in his life. Every case was like a new chapter, and when he finished, he felt a sense of accomplishment unknown to many of his cohorts. He defended the Fortune 500s as if he were a majority shareholder in each of their companies. He made his way into the boardroom of two corporate giants as their general counsel. However, just as he had tired of paper shuffling, he grew weary of corporate politics. Blunt and outspoken, Martin didn’t cotton to the new wave of political correctness. The only thing he hated more than PC and tokenism was quotas.
“Don’t tell me who to hire and fire! If you want to run this company into the ground, just fill my department with a bunch of marginal lawyers. I don’t care what color they are, what sex they are, but they better be damn good. And don’t forget loyal!”
Loyalty was part of the highest code to this warrior of the courtroom and the roundtable. One thing he could not tolerate was behind-the-back sniping. The hair on the back of his neck would bristle if any in his command looked askance or talked without using absolute discretion. His strong intellect and knowledge of the law usually kept Martin way out of trouble. But if anyone wanted to fight about loyalty, well, that was something worth fighting over.
The judge would never walk away from a fight or a challenge. Boys’ schools and the courtroom taught Martin how to fight with words or, if pushed, well, he didn’t want to think about that anymore. Now, just as he was looking forward to the lighter docket of a senior judge, he was to be saddled with a barnburner and giant of a lawsuit.
Ronald Reagan appointed Martin to the federal bench. Shortly before the appointment, Martin had taken a turn at the plaintiff or complainant’s side of the table. He enjoyed the challenge of taking on the big companies. He never sued a former client, but he enjoyed the Robin Hood role. He eventually got squeamish over the risk of betting the farm on virtually every case. Martin was surprised when the president’s office called. After all, he had been a Yellow Dog Democrat. Didn’t hurt though that his senior senator, and friend, was chairman of the Senate Appropriations Committee. The president needed a vote on something. In the Democratic Old South, Martin was still a true-blue conserva
tive, and so he passed muster with Washington. The timing was excellent. Martin was ready to put down the sword and ascend the bench, glad for the lifetime appointment.
The judge went home that evening and merrily kissed his wife, Shirley Anne, warmly and somewhat provocatively. He went directly into the den and pulled his grandfather’s cavalry saber down from its mantle place. He picked up the silver polish next to his easy chair and gave the blade a fresh coat of spit and polish. He turned on Fox News and slowly sipped his Chilean cabernet.
8 Mack for the Defense
B RADLEY MACK PORED OVER THE expert’s deposition, getting ready to defend Exxon in another oil spill case. It was late in the evening, but he still wanted to make time to catch up with what was really going on in Dallas and the world at the Mansion. The Mansion hosted a quiet and sedate watering hole for some of the Dallas elites. Mack enjoyed his weekly visit to catch up on happenings in big “D” and DC. His reverie was broken when his private line rang. “Mack here,” he responded.
“Bradley, this is Arturo Medina. How is everything in ‘Dallisss’?”
“Mr. Attorney General, to what do I owe this honor?”
“Well, Bradley, the president needs you again. One of those high rolling ambulance chasers from Houston, Reilly, I believe, has filed an incredible trillion dollar lawsuit. Reilly represents some disgruntled whistleblower, Corps of Engineer retiree, and a bunch of wacko environmentalists. They are suing the Corps and FEMA. The way the complaint reads, you would think the president seeded Katrina just to make it bigger and he personally guided the storm into the backyards of the poor and downtrodden. It’s a big mess, and you know from the Congressional hearings that we could be in trouble. The Democrats and the press want to make it the president’s fault that those Cajuns couldn’t get into the buses and get away from a cat four hurricane. Are you interested in coming to the aid of your country for the third time?”
“Arturo, I am surprised. Hadn’t heard a word about this case but figured it had to be coming. I just don’t know if I am your man. You know they’ll make political hay over the fact I represented the president in Dade County in the election case. And I have more work than I can handle now. I would have to clear my docket, and that would take a few weeks at least. And I don’t want to add to the deficit with what I’ll have to charge. By the way, his name is O’Reilly, not Reilly. He’s the best on the Whigs side of the aisle.”
“Money will not be a problem. We’ll just float some more thirtyyear bonds to pay you. That’s in the equation, but we’re not too worried about the election case. Some of the best lawyers in the country were on both sides. So that could be a plus but no worse than a neutral. Besides, Bradley, the fact you were a Marine Corps battalion commander is exactly what we need to marshal a defense against these frivolous claims. The president told me you got a battlefield promotion to Lt. Colonel. Didn’t know that about you. You barely needed to shave then, as I heard the story.”
“True, true. During Tet we lost a few good men, but did we decimate those Cong. You know, Tet was probably America’s greatest battle victory, but it turned the tide of public opinion against us. Arturo, you know we will be swimming upstream on this Katrina battle too.”
“Yup. That’s why we need the best. How about it, Colonel?”
“Give me a day to talk with my partners. But please call me Brad. We vets have learned not to talk too much about all the baby killing we supposedly did across the pond. As long as it’s OK with the firm, I’ll be your point man. You know I’ll need a platoon of lawyers to take on O’Reilly and his company of ragbags and tree huggers. Rest assured there will be a few Purple Hearts in this fight, and I wanna make sure the enemy gets more than their share! I’ll ring you tomorrow. Give the president and first lady my best.”
Bradley lurched back in his high back judge’s chair, one of his only souvenirs from when he served briefly on the federal bench. The bench was the wrong vantage for Bradley. He found himself objecting and sustaining his own objections. He was a man for the trenches and disdained the lofty perch of the judge, especially a federal district judge. He frowned on the too frequent incompetence of some lawyers in front of him, often representing the very people who needed the best lawyers but could not afford them.
Brad’s thoughts wandered. No, I’m a trial lawyer and was foolish to think I could sit up there and try to be neutral. I was born a fighter and will go to the hereafter with my flak jacket and helmet on. O’Reilly is looking for a war and by God I’ll give him one. Maybe he and I should just strap it on, mortal combat, a duel or a few rounds in the cage. Winner take all. I could save the taxpayers millions in defense costs, and he could give the tree huggers their donation money back so they could keep on saving the environment from my greedy clients. What a mess we live in. To think people actually blame the government that spends billions trying to protect them. Biting the hand that feeds you. But that’s our entitlement culture. The government saves all. When they don’t, it’s the litigation lottery, triple or nothing. That’s a worthy goal. ‘Nothing, nada, zilch.’ Feed the bloodsuckers some Katrina soup. We’re gonna kick some butt!
The partners’ meeting the next morning went well. Two of the junior partners signed up to be lieutenants to Bradley. Only one senior partner, Jon Brown, an undersecretary of state to President Clinton, raised some concerns.
“You know, Bradley, that O’Reilly wouldn’t take this case without getting a lot of money up front and having a pretty good inkling about how he’s gonna tear you a new one. And you promised after the election case no more tilting with windmills. Still, it sounds like an exciting and challenging case. Just the kind that gets you ready for battle. But can we really trust Medina to get our bills paid every six months or so? You know my man Willie would have gotten us what we deserve. As long as you are sure Medina knows where to find the green. Sorry, no pun intended.”
“No problem. Medina has been the president’s right hand man since he was governor. If he can’t get it done, nobody can. I trust him. And the president.”
“Go get ‘em. Just don’t put my name on any of the court papers.”
“Jon, you didn’t want your name on the door. It won’t be on the pleadings either. Every good defense firm needs a smart closet lib or two. I respect your thoughts. I appreciate everyone’s help. I’m going to need it. Thanks, men. You too, Linda!
“By the way, Linda, do you want to join the team?”
“No thanks, Bradley. I’ll just take over your Exxon docket.”
9 The White House Calling
“GENERAL MEDINA, THE WHITE HOUSE just CALLED, and they want you over there this afternoon at four. Can you make it?” “Make it happen, Jeanne. Bet it’s this new Katrina lawsuit. Headlines are everywhere: ‘Trillion-Dollar Katrina Claim!’ ‘FEMA Busters File First Lawsuit!’ ‘First Hurricane Tort Filed.’ No news is good news; it’s only bad or it isn’t news. Jeanne, also call Justice Cowen. Tell her I am sorry and I’ll have to miss her this afternoon. See if she can make it tomorrow.”
“Will do, General.”
not already there. The debt is already nine trillion. We just don’t need this right now. Any kind of big verdict could send the markets reeling. You know the Goreites and their fellow travelers will use this to raise more money for their favorite global warming, left-wing candidates. Could cost us six or eight House seats at a minimum.”
Medina responded, “Rumor is, Mr. President, this whole case is funded by Natureone and some other greens. They are using some lady engineer as their poster child. I hadn’t thought about the extra money they might get. That could tip the political balance in several districts, no doubt. I’ll see what I can do with Bradley, but I’ll have to suffer through one of his tongue lashings. He promised the greens wouldn’t see a red cent until the US Supreme Court tells him. You know he thinks he can win every case, and he is chomping at the bit on this one. I’ll see what I can do to persuade him. Thanks, Mr. President. Wish me luck.”
2
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2 “Yes, Mr. President, how can I help you?”
“Arturo, we’ve been discussing this frivolous new lawsuit against FEMA and the Corps of Engineers. I think we should just turn Mack Bradley loose and kick the river rats back under the wharf where they belong. But Carl here has another take. Elections are coming up sooner than we would like; we could lose a lot of seats in the House.”
“That bad?”
“Maybe not, but Carl thinks we don’t need to add any more fuel to the fire. I want you to call Bradley and see if he can get this thing settled, say for ten or twenty million. Think about it: a trillion dollar claim. That would push us into a recession if we’re
General Medina caught Bradley Mack at home, sipping his Glenlivets. Mack bolted from his chair and screamed at the attorney general. “Offer money on this #@&*x lawsuit? Not me. Get some wimpy defense lawyer to throw my tax money at them. The worst possible defense tactic you can use is to offer this kind of money right after a lawsuit is filed. It shows weakness. O’Reilly would smell blood and be even more unreasonable if we ever decide we need to settle the case. Besides, O’Reilly just mounted this horse.” Mack knew O’Reilly would ride the free publicity for a long way before even thinking about money. Right now O’Reilly was getting millions of dollars of free pub. His greens were all over the morning shows, crying about glaciers melting, sea temperatures rising, bigger hurricanes, and the incompetence of FEMA, not to mention the Army Corps. The whole environmental movement was ecstatic for the chance to be back on page one.
“Bradley, I agree with you. If you were president, we could do it your way. But Carl insists and the president agrees. So let’s talk it over.” Medina smiled as he pictured Mack pacing like a caged tiger.