[2013] Consequential Damages

by Joseph Hayes

  “Well, most people don't know what I know. They think he's a saint. He's active in the local church, he's chairman of the neighborhood planning committee, he's worshiped by all the customers who shop in his store. The neighborhood loves him. He's been a goddamn institution there for years.”

  “Has he had any legal problems? Extramarital affairs? Any dirt you know about?”

  “No. Like I said, he's a pillar of the community. Everyone loves the old bastard. Sorry, I wish I could think of something scandalous, but I just don't know of anything.”

  “Don't be sorry. This is great. If his reputation is what you say it is, he's got a lot to lose. Once he sees what we've got in store for him, he won't want a public battle. There's a good chance he'll pay up without much of a fight, just to keep this quiet and preserve his reputation. If he doesn't, he's a fool.”

  “So what happens next?”

  “Here's the plan. You need to write down your story for me. Don't spare any of the gory details. You need to be very specific about what he said and did. Remember, the story needs to make the jury feel absolutely shocked and disgusted.”

  Larry looked worried. “But how can we prove all this? There were no witnesses.”

  “You're the witness, Larry. You'll be selling your story to the jury, so it better be good. Remember, this guy screwed you – figuratively speaking, of course. Our mission is to make sure that justice is done and he pays for what he did. If you have to embellish your story to make sure the jury reaches the right conclusion, then do it! Words are our weapons here, Larry. Don't hold back. We need to do what it takes to make sure that the jury does the right thing here—punishes that son of a bitch and makes you rich! That's the right result, so whatever it takes to get us there is okay.”

  “I understand,” said Larry. “I'll get to work on that. Then what happens?”

  “Then we go to war. First, I'll send a demand letter, letting the old fart know that I'm representing you, and that we will be pursuing a claim for sexual harassment and retaliatory discharge. I’ll tell him that we will be initiating formal legal action if he doesn't agree to a quick settlement. He probably won't, so then we'll start ratcheting up the pressure. We’ll file a complaint with the EEOC, the Equal Employment Opportunity Commission. That's the federal agency that handles employment complaints involving sexual harassment and retaliation. They’ll assign an investigator, who will interview your former boss and get his side of the story. It ought to shake him up when an investigator representing the federal government starts questioning him. And, what’ll shake him up even more is that the investigator will talk to his employees to see whether any of them have observed anything inappropriate. It doesn't really matter what the employees say—the mere fact that they are being interviewed about this will stir things up and get the rumors flying.”

  “I love it!” said Larry, his eyes gleaming. “But what if the EEOC doesn't buy our story?”

  “It doesn't matter. The EEOC investigates these matters, but they don't render any final judgment. When they finish their investigation, they’ll simply render an opinion stating whether or not they concluded that there’s probable cause for believing that the law was violated. Regardless of their conclusion, you then have the right to file a lawsuit in federal court. Then comes the really big blow.”

  “What's that?”

  “We get the local press involved. They can be our greatest ally.”

  “Will they take our side?”

  “Not overtly, but just by doing what they do, they’ll be a huge help. If the allegations are juicy enough, they’ll see the potential for a great story. They'll make some pretense of trying to be objective, but the reality is that they’ll want to sensationalize this. When that happens, the old boy is done for. Everyone who knows him will be wondering about this. By that time, he'll really be feeling the heat, and he may be forced to settle before all of his business dries up and blows away.”

  “So how much should we ask for?” asked Larry, trying unsuccessfully to suppress his eagerness.

  “If you want there to be any hope for a quick score, without a battle, we need to keep it reasonable. If the opening number is too high, he'll have no choice but to fight. If he does decide to fight us, then our price goes way up. What kind of money do you think this guy has anyway?”

  “Shit, he's loaded. That business is a gold mine. You ought to see the traffic that flows through there. He's got to be worth millions.”

  After some discussion, they settled on an opening demand of $250,000. Rick then escorted Larry to the elevator, both of them caught up in the excitement of what was to come. “I'll be ready to go as soon as I get your written summary, so get to work on it. And Larry—make it good!”

  CHAPTER 20

  “Listen, Jerome, you’ve got be careful in there. You’ve got to watch your back every second. Be careful who you hang with.” There was an urgency in Shooter's voice as he spoke to his younger brother. It had been two days since Shooter was released from lockup, but he had not been allowed to visit Jerome until now.

  “Let me tell you how I got by,” Shooter continued. “I tried to make sure that people in there thought I was one dangerous son of a bitch. I talked tough. I acted tough. I made up stories about things I had done on the outside, but I didn’t boast about them in public. I’d tell things to one or two guys, like it was a secret. Before long, everybody heard about it. But here's the key: Except for one time during my first few days, I never actually got into a fight. If you do that, you make enemies. You don't want enemies in the joint. They’ll find a way of getting to you. Also, fighting ruins your chances for an early parole. So control your temper, man. Be smart!”

  Jerome looked tired, like he hadn't slept much lately. He was sullen, the usual bravado and defiance gone. By instinct, he had been acting pretty much like Shooter had suggested since he'd been locked up, but he was eager for any advice Shooter could provide. Jerome had always looked up to his older brother. Shooter was smart, and he knew how things worked. Shooter had been here before. “You gonna come visit once in awhile?” Jerome asked.

  “Yeah, I'll be around. And when you get out, things will be different. I've got plans. But first, you’ve got to get through this. What I'm saying is important, Jerome. There are some bad dudes in there, and I mean real bad. You’ve got to do your best to avoid them, but don't let anyone think you're afraid or weak. Shit, look at you. You're as big as an NFL linebacker now. People won’t mess with you unless they think you're afraid. But if you are, they'll sense it, and they’ll be all over you.”

  “I can take care of myself,” Jerome replied, sounding more like he was trying to convince himself than like he actually believed it.

  “Another thing, Jerome.” Shooter stood up, and his voice rose in intensity. “Watch out for the gangs. They'll try to get their hooks in you. Big, tough looking dude like you – they’ll want you on their side. They'll promise you protection. They'll promise you all kinds of shit. But don't go for it. You’ve got to get along—don't make them mad. It's even okay if you get tight with some of them, because you don't want them as enemies. But don't join up with them. If you do, you'll have a built-in set of enemies on the inside, and the gang you’re with will expect your allegiance once you get out. Like I've been telling you your whole life, if you get in with the gangs, you'll wind up dead or right back in here. Don't let that happen! Got it?”

  “Yeah, I got it.” Easier said than done, Jerome thought. Shooter had survived prison okay, but he only had to do twelve months. Jerome was looking at five very long years.

  A week later, Jerome was in the prison weight room finishing his workout. The bell had sounded, signaling an end to the exercise period. The weight room cleared out much faster than usual. As Jerome moved toward the door, three inmates blocked his path. Two of them had been working out and had the physiques of serious weightlifters. A third had just appeared from somewhere else, apparently just for this occasion. He was small and slight, but had a m
alicious look about him.

  “Is this the new meat?” the small man asked, a sinister smirk on his face.

  “I think he’d make someone a nice wife, what do you think? said the smaller of the two weightlifters. The three of them laughed harshly.

  “Fuck you,” Jerome shot back, glaring at them angrily. He hoped the guard would show up to shoo them out of the weight room, like he normally did at that time. He did not.

  “He talks dirty. I like that,” said the bigger weightlifter.

  “I don’t like it,” scowled the little man. “Let’s teach this punk some respect.”

  All three moved toward Jerome, menace in every step. The big man was in front of the others. Jerome saw the glint of a shiny metal object in his hand, just as he lunged at Jerome.

  CHAPTER 21

  Thoughts of Shooter and Jerome continually drifted through Jake's mind in the days following Shooter's release, like a bad dream that a fitful sleeper cannot escape. He couldn’t stop thinking about the contrast between his life and theirs, and the accidents of fate that placed him where he was and them where they were. He was grateful for the life he was living: his prestigious, well-paying job, his comfortable downtown condominium, and most of all, his precious wife and daughter. Life was difficult for many, but for Jake McShane, right here, right now, life was very good and he was determined not to lose sight of that.

  As the weeks passed, Shooter and Jerome faded from Jake's consciousness. He was too focused on living his own life to dwell on such matters. Work kept him extremely busy. He was getting high marks from his superiors, which was gratifying, but he was still a long way from being put in charge of any significant cases. A generous raise at the start of the year had him feeling even better about his employment situation; however, it was accompanied by an increase in the billable hours quota that he and the firm's other associates were expected to meet.

  Although the time demands imposed by the firm were increasing, Jake did his best to keep family time sacred. He tried to make it home by seven o'clock in the evening, and was generally able to accomplish that by arriving at work earlier in the morning. Sometimes he would work at home late at night, after Amanda and Anna were asleep, but he made sure that the early evening hours were devoted to the two women in his life.

  Their evening routine typically started with a carryout dinner, since neither of them had time to cook. They used mealtime to discuss anything notable from the day. Jake always felt a sense of admiration and pride as he heard about Amanda’s work – her interactions with patients; the new treatments that were being explored and developed; and her efforts to build her practice. She was making a difference in people’s lives, and he derived some vicarious sense of balance in his own life through his wife’s accomplishments. He was often struck by the contrast between Amanda’s professional life as a caregiver and his own work as a litigator, which often left him wondering what difference he was making.

  After dinner, they were both entirely devoted to Anna. Most evenings, weather permitting, they would walk the path along Lake Michigan. Rollerbladers, bicyclists and joggers sped by as they leisurely pushed Anna in her bright blue stroller. Ambling along the stunning lakefront under the Chicago skyline in the company of the woman he loved and their happy little child made it easy for Jake to forget his life at the office and focus on how fortune had smiled upon him.

  After their walk, Jake would plop Anna on his lap for their bedtime reading ritual. This had become a special time for both of them, and only the most dire emergency could interfere with it. Amanda had teased him for starting this routine when Anna was far too young to have any comprehension of the words, yet she was touched by the bond that was obviously being formed between father and daughter.

  On weekends, they usually found time to visit Jake’s parents on the South Side. Both Jake and Amanda enjoyed watching his parents light up in the presence of their little granddaughter, and do everything they could to spoil her within the space of a few hours.

  St. Patrick’s Day fell on a Saturday that year, so Jake took Amanda and Anna to see the raucous South Side parade in his old neighborhood. There was no other gathering quite like this, where one could count on seeing virtually the entire neighborhood in one place at one time. It was a great opportunity to share a uniquely Chicago experience with Amanda during her second springtime in Chicago, and introduce her to dozens of friends and neighbors he had known since childhood.

  They walked the four short blocks from his parents’ house to the parade route on Western Avenue, and elbowed their way through the crowd, Anna stuffed tightly into a backpack strapped around Jake’s shoulders. Amanda gamely got into the spirit of the event and sipped on the green beer that was handed to her as they watched the floats and cars full of neighborhood leaders, city politicians, local business owners, Boy Scouts, marching bands, Little League teams, and the occasional drunken nobody with the Irish cap, just trying to be part of the action.

  Like most St. Patrick’s Days in Chicago, it was chilly and damp, so Jake and Amanda walked back toward his parents’ house after the parade ended, rather than joining the massive post-parade street party. They switched from green beer to hot chocolate and sat at the kitchen table with Jake’s mother, while Anna played on the floor. Mrs. McShane had always enjoyed the parade, but did not feel up to the crowds and the cold weather this year. She listened attentively as Jake recounted the afternoon’s festivities and named the various dignitaries and old friends they had seen.

  “I didn’t see Mickey there,” Jake mentioned to his mother. Then turning to Amanda, he explained, “Mickey is usually there every year, right up front, driving his shiny old Model T.”

  “I’m not surprised, under the circumstances,” said Mrs. McShane. Then, noticing the quizzical look on Jake’s face, she said, “Oh my! You haven’t heard, have you?”

  “Heard what? Is he okay?”

  “No, the poor chap is far from okay. I’ll be right back.” She walked into the living room and returned with a copy of the Southside Review, the local newspaper. She handed Jake the paper, opening it to the second page. There was a picture of Mickey Quinn, a startled expression on his face, below the headline which read, “Local Grocer, Community Leader Accused of Sexually Harassing Male Employee.” Jake seized the newspaper, and his eyes raced over the article. It began,

  “Mickey Quinn, owner of Quinn’s Fine Foods and longtime community leader in the Beverly area, has been accused of sexually harassing a 24-year-old male employee. A lawsuit was filed in federal district court last week alleging that Quinn made unwanted sexual advances toward the employee and terminated him for refusing to accede to those advances. The lawsuit alleges other serious improprieties, including accusations that Quinn exposed himself to the employee …”

  Jake was stunned. “I don’t believe a word of this! Mickey? No way. Absolutely no way!” He handed the newspaper to Amanda.

  His mother’s face was sad. “I find it hard to believe, too. The whole neighborhood is talking about it. After the scandals involving the Catholic priests, everyone around here is really touchy about this kind of thing. I think the poor man is afraid to show his face.”

  “Do you know Larry Doyle, the accuser?” Amanda asked.

  “Yeah, I know him. In fact, I trained him to be my replacement. I had reservations about that guy from the start, and I told Mickey about them. We gave him a short trial period, and I recommended to Mickey that we pass on the guy, but as usual, Mickey thought this might be another lost soul he could help.”

  Jake looked at his watch. It was five thirty, and Quinn’s was open until six o’clock. “I think Mickey may need a little legal advice. I’m going to go pay him a visit. Do you mind?” he asked, looking at Amanda.

  “Not at all. He could probably use a friend about now.”

  Jake made the short walk to Quinn’s and arrived about twenty minutes before closing. The store was normally bustling with last-minute shoppers at this time, but business seemed slower
than usual. He walked through the aisles, looking for Mickey, and even before he finished making the rounds, he could tell that Mickey was not in the store – it was too quiet. When Mickey was there, his presence was obvious. Even when he couldn’t be seen, his strong, chipper voice could be heard incessantly as he greeted customers: “Hello, Mrs. Palmer. You’re looking lovely today… Mrs. Barry, how nice to see you… Rita darling, can I help you find something? … Good morning, Lucy. How are the little ones?” The voice was accompanied by the sound of his heels clicking across the tile floor at a brisk pace. That was just part of the sound Jake associated with a visit to Quinn’s, and it was conspicuously absent.

  Jake recognized the tall middle-aged man wheeling a cart of produce past him. “Hi Bob. Is Mickey around?”

  “Hi Jake. In the back,” he replied without slowing down.

  Jake walked into the back room. In contrast to the quiet of the store, the back room was a flurry of activity as the crew swept the floors, took out the trash and otherwise tidied up so they could make a quick exit after closing.

  Jake found Mickey ensconced in his tiny office, absentmindedly looking at some invoices. It was the only place in the building that provided any semblance of privacy, and even that was limited by the paper-thin walls and the large curtainless windows. Two gray metal desks littered with inconsequential paper formed an L shape against the walls and left barely enough room for two people. Mickey rarely spent time there, except when he needed private time with an employee and when it was time for his quarterly meeting with Vern Snyder, his sourpuss bookkeeper.

  “Mickey?”

  The old grocer looked up and offered a weak smile. “Hello Jake. How are you, lad?” He seemed pensive and his voice was subdued.