[2013] Consequential Damages

by Joseph Hayes

  Shooter looked doubtful. “Coach, I haven’t been to church since I was a kid. I don’t think I’m the kind of guy he’s looking for.”

  “You may be exactly what he’s looking for. He doesn’t need another minister. He’s looking for someone to help with his athletic program. Someone who can coach, and more importantly, someone who can relate to these kids. He’s been able to raise a lot of money, mostly from a small handful of professional athletes who grew up around here. He’s used it to refurbish the old gym, put in lockers and showers, and is even in the process of developing a first-class baseball field. His athletic program will be a big draw for the kids, but he’s too busy to run it himself. He needs someone who can be dedicated to that part of his ministry.”

  “And you think he’ll consider me?”

  “I know he’ll consider you. Hell, I’ve talked to him. He’s already considering you. Will you go see him?”

  Three days later, Shooter sat across a desk from Lonnie Cole, in a cramped but comfortable office in the back of Holy Redemption Church. There were few occasions where Shooter could remember meeting someone who made him feel nervous or intimidated, but Lonnie Cole certainly did. He was an NFL legend, both for his ferocity on the field and his wild lifestyle off it. At forty-eight years of age, he still cut an imposing figure. He was massive—six-foot-six, rippling with muscles, and not an ounce of fat on him. He looked just as intense in person as he did in the pictures Shooter had seen of him on the football field years earlier.

  “I understand you’ve done time, and no one wants to hire you,” said Reverend Cole in a booming voice. “What makes you think you can handle this position, Mr. Tucker?”

  “I’ve played basketball all my life. I know the game. I think—”

  “Have you ever coached before?” the Reverend asked sharply. “There’s a big difference between coaching and playing, you know.”

  “Well, Reverend Cole—”

  “Everyone around here calls me Reverend Lonnie, or just plain Lonnie. You can call me that too.” It sounded more like a command than an invitation. “Yes sir,” Shooter replied, feeling off-balance. “Like I was saying, I know the game and can play it at a high-level. I think the kids will see that and it will help me earn their respect. I think they’ll listen to me.”

  “Son, it takes more than talent on the basketball court to earn respect, especially with the kind of kids we have around here.”

  “I realize that, Reverend. But I think that these kids will relate to me because I’m just like them. I grew up like they’re growing up. I had nothing. I lived in a gang-infested, crime-ridden neighborhood—just like them. I still do. And I’ve made mistakes. Hopefully that’ll make me seem human to them, someone they can relate to. Maybe I can prevent at least some of them from making the same mistakes I’ve made.”

  Reverend Cole nodded his head and smiled. As he smiled, he seemed to transform into a gentle giant, rather than a ferocious intimidator. “Amen, Brother Tucker. That’s my hope too. That’s why I asked Coach Foster to send you over here.”

  Shooter squirmed in his chair and looked downward. “Reverend Lonnie, there’s something you need to know. I don’t go to church. I haven’t been in years. If this is a religious ministry, I’m not sure I’m what you’re looking for.”

  Reverend Cole put his elbows on his desk and leaned forward. “Listen, son, you can’t force people to come to God. They need to come to Him willingly, on their own. I don’t pressure anyone to find religion. I try to do God’s work and lead by example. I tell people my story when they’re ready to hear it—when they ask me. If I hired some religious fanatic to work with these kids, that would backfire. They would resent it and stay away. I just want to get them off the streets and in here. If they feel comfortable coming here, then eventually some of them will open their minds and their hearts to the Lord. If you come to work here, I will never push religion on you. I will insist that you act as a good role model, but as for religion, all I ask is that you avoid being judgmental, set aside whatever preconceived ideas you may have, and keep your mind and heart open. Do you think you can do that?”

  “I can do that, Reverend. If you give me a chance, you won’t regret it, I promise you. Just a chance. That’s all I ask.”

  “The Almighty gives all of us a second chance for redemption. That’s what the Lord teaches us. Put our sins behind us and lead a better life. I’ve been given many chances, and I’m now blessed with the ability to give others a new start. That’s what I see before me now. I’m giving you a chance. It’s up to you to make the most of it.”

  Shooter sprang to his feet and extended his hand. “Thank you, Reverend. I really mean it. You won’t regret this. I’ll make you proud.”

  “I believe you will, Shooter. Now, it’s time for my workout. How about a game of one-on-one? I want to see if your game is as good as I hear. They tell me turnaround jumper is unstoppable. We’ll see about that.”

  “Go easy on me, Reverend. I may be a little rusty.” Shooter laughed, feeling a sense of elation for the first time in a long while. “By the way, can I ask you something?”

  “Sure.”

  “How come there’s nothing in your office to remind you of your football days? No pictures, no trophies, no helmet or jersey. What’s up with that?”

  Reverend Cole put his arm around Shooter’s shoulder, and guided him out of the tiny office. “That’s because it ain’t about me, son. When I was playing ball, I was as self-centered as a guy could be. I craved attention, money, drugs, women—and I had it all. I lived a wild, hedonistic, selfish life. I had everything money could buy, and do you know what? I was empty inside. Then I found the Lord and I learned that I had it all wrong. I found purpose and meaning by turning away from myself and trying to make things better for others. That’s what it’s all about. It ain’t about me, and I don’t need any reminders of when I made it all about me. Does that make sense?”

  “It makes perfect sense.”

  CHAPTER 26

  As with most federal courts, the wheels of justice in the Chicago court system moved slowly. Almost two years had elapsed since Jake had visited Rick in the Kensington bar, and the trial was just now approaching. For the most part, the press had ignored the situation, since there was nothing new to report. However, the ordeal had taken a significant toll on Mickey Quinn. He could hear the whispers and the snickers when he walked past his friends at the country club or in the local restaurants. People stared. He was the butt of jokes and gossip and he knew it. Friends who had once been eager to golf with him or dine together were no longer calling. He had been asked to resign his position as chairman of the neighborhood planning committee, not because anyone thought he was guilty, he was told, but because he was a “distraction” and a “source of controversy.” Just until he was exonerated, they told him, and then they would be delighted to have him resume his duties.

  The atmosphere at the grocery store was markedly different. Business was steady, but it was not the booming, bustling place it had once been. Mickey’s ubiquitous presence—greeting customers, helping them locate the hard-to-find items, advising them on their meat and produce selections—was no longer evident. He had become reclusive. Most of those still shopping there were his loyal supporters and told him so, but even those words of encouragement were bitter reminders of his bleak situation.

  Vern, in his accounting capacity, had been advising Mickey that the business was in dire straits. Margins in the grocery industry were razor thin under the best of circumstances, and Mickey had always tolerated even thinner margins than most due to his bloated expenses—primarily, the employment of a staff whose size was grossly out of proportion to the revenues generated by the business. But now, business was down significantly, and financially speaking, he was bleeding. Let it bleed, Mickey instructed Vern, much to the latter's dismay. When the trial was over, everything would be back to normal, Mickey assured him.

  Two weeks before trial, Rick summoned Larry to his office
to begin the intense preparation for his testimony. They went over his story in excruciating detail, point by point. Rick prepared Larry for the questions he would likely hear from Mickey's counsel, and they carefully rehearsed their answers. Rick played the role of opposing counsel and put Larry through a brutal cross-examination, barraging Larry with questions in a rapid-fire style, badgering him, taunting him, even mocking him. Rick looked and felt like a frustrated football coach, rebuking, cajoling and pushing to get his player to perform at a level that he just did not seem capable of achieving. By the end of the afternoon, they were exasperated with each other.

  “For Chrissakes, Larry, you've got to be believable! The only way we win this is if you can convince twelve jurors that every word you're saying is true. You're stumbling and stammering, you're hesitant, you're groping for answers. You look like an unprepared student trying to bullshit his way through class. That's not going to cut it!”

  “Hey, get off my case, man,” Larry snapped back. “You're supposed to be on my side. Stop giving me such a hard time. I know the story. You're just getting me flustered, that's all.”

  Rick fought hard to control his frustration. “Larry, it's better to get flustered here and now rather than in front of a jury, so don't be defensive. Just listen to me and try to learn. This preparation is critical. Let's break for today and try again later in the week. But here's what you need to do in the meantime. Pretend like you're an actor, preparing for the biggest performance of your life. Think about every detail of your story, over and over again. Relive it in your mind every waking second between now and the trial, so it comes out naturally in front of the jury. Think about any possible holes in your story, and how the other side may try to use them to cast doubt on you, and make sure you have an answer that comes out as natural and convincing.”

  Larry looked worn out and irritable. “Okay, I hear you. I'll work on it.” He paused and turned to a more appealing subject. “So Rick, realistically, how much do you think I could win here?”

  “Goddammit, Larry,” Rick exploded. “We're not going to win shit the way this is going! To be honest, I was hoping we'd never have to go to trial with this. I did everything I could to pressure this guy into settling. I got the EEOC after him. I got the press involved. I took depositions of his employees and got them all stirred up. His business is hurting, and his reputation has been demolished, but the stubborn son of a bitch won't settle. I've done more than most lawyers would have or could have done for you, but now it looks like we’re going to trial, and it's all going to be up to you. You've got to sell this story to twelve strangers. If they don't believe you, we lose. It's that simple.”

  “I can do this,” Larry said, sounding defensive and unconvincing.

  Rick ignored him. His own words were sinking in, and he did not like his predicament. He hated the fact that his chances of winning rested almost entirely on the credibility and persuasiveness of this lowlife sitting before him. He looked hard at Larry. “Right now, all we have is your word against Quinn's. It's a credibility contest. You know what we really need here?” he asked rhetorically. “We need to tip the scales in our favor. We need a witness. Someone the jury will believe. Someone whose testimony will bury this guy. Someone other than you.”

  “But there were no witnesses, I've told you that.”

  Rick looked at him coldly. “Then you better find one. Do what it takes. It doesn't have to be someone who saw him harass you. There's got to be someone out there who has some other dirt on this guy, someone else who wants a piece of him. We find that person and I like our chances. We could score big. If we don't, we're sunk. Go find that person, Larry. Get me a witness.”

  As they walked to the elevator, Rick put his hand on Larry’s shoulder and said in a gentler voice, “Look Larry, I don’t mean to be hard on you. I just want to win this case – for you. I’d like to see you able to buy some nice things, improve your lifestyle a bit.” Rick opened his wallet and pulled out five crisp $100 bills. “Here, take this. Go buy yourself a decent suit. And take your girl out for a nice dinner. I’ll see you soon.”

  On Saturday evening, two days before the trial was to begin, Jake met Johnny at Riley’s for a beer.

  “Did you see the Review this morning?” Johnny asked.

  “I saw it,” Jake replied, disgust in his voice. “They just won’t let up. They act like this is a sporting event. They couldn’t care less about the damage their stories are causing Mickey. They didn’t have anything new to report, other than that the trial starts on Monday. It’s just a rehash of the same old sordid allegations.”

  “Your old pal Larry was in here last night, acting smug and confident,” Johnny informed his cousin. “He had pictures of the Porsche he plans on buying with his winnings, and was talking to a real estate agent, asking her to keep an eye out for high-end homes going on the market. He isn’t really going to win, is he?”

  “Not unless he draws a really gullible and incompetent jury. Larry has the burden of proving his case, and he’s got no proof. It’s just his word against Mickey’s. Who would you believe, a pillar of the community like Mickey or a scumbag like Larry?”

  “Seems like a no-brainer to me.”

  “It should be. I’m just worried about the mismatch between the lawyers. Larry’s lawyer is really smart and really smooth. The jury will like him. And Mickey’s got Vern. That concerns me.”

  At that moment, Johnny looked toward the door, and said, “Well, well, look who’s here.”

  Jake followed his gaze. It was Larry Doyle.

  For the next thirty minutes, Jake did his best to keep his mind off the trial, yet he found himself repeatedly glancing at Larry across the crowded bar.

  “Did you hear what I just said?” Johnny was speaking, but Jake’s eyes and mind had wandered.

  “Huh? Oh, sorry Johnny. I just can’t stop thinking about that guy,” Jake replied, nodding in Larry’s direction. He took a deep breath and drained his beer mug in one gulp. “I’ll be right back,” he said, standing up and walking purposefully across the bar.

  Larry was seated with two companions, and the three of them were attempting to flirt with a group of college girls sitting nearby. Their attention turned to Jake as he stopped at their table and glowered at Larry. “We need to talk.” Jake spoke directly to Larry and ignored his companions.

  “Hi Jake. Nice to see you too.”

  “Can you guys give us a minute?” Jake asked. It was more of a command than a question.

  One of Larry’s companions looked at Jake defiantly. He was a big guy, with bulging, tattooed forearms showing beneath a Chicago Bears football jersey. “I’m pretty comfortable right here,” the big guy replied.

  Jake glared at him. For an instant, he thought about getting into the guy’s face, but quickly decided not to let himself get distracted from his mission. He looked back toward Larry. “My business with Larry is private. Let’s take a walk, Larry,” Jake said, gesturing toward the men’s room.

  Larry got up hesitantly. “What’s on your mind?” Larry asked as he followed Jake into the dark, narrow corridor leading to the restrooms.

  “The trial.”

  Larry stopped just outside the men’s room door. “I got nothing to say to you about that.”

  Jake shoved Larry against the thin plywood wall, thrusting his forearm across Larry’s throat. “Then I’ll do the talking,” he said through clenched teeth. “Mickey Quinn is a friend of mine. He’s a good man, and what you’re trying to do is despicable. If you ask me, it’s criminal, and you ought to be behind bars. I don’t believe a word of your bullshit story, Larry. If you have any conscience at all, you’ll drop this charade right now before any further damage is done. If this goes forward, and by some miracle you convince a jury to believe you, think about this—you’re a goddamn liar. You know it, and I know it. And I won’t let it go. Not for a second.”

  Larry’s eyes were wide with fear, and he was shaking. Jake released him just as his two comrades hurried to
his aid. The big guy in the Bears jersey yelled, “You looking for trouble, pal?” Jake took a step toward him, fists clenching. Suddenly, Johnny was at his side, and Jimmy the bartender came racing toward them.

  “Not in here, guys! Knock it off!” Jimmy ordered.

  Jake and Johnny stood shoulder-to-shoulder, facing Larry’s pals. Jimmy inserted himself in between. “Don’t be stupid, fellas. Larry, tell your friends to cool it.”

  “We were just minding our own business until this asshole started harassing me,” Larry shouted, his confidence returning now that reinforcements had arrived.

  Jake took a step in Larry’s direction and pointed a finger at him. “Remember what I said, Larry!”

  “Screw you, McShane! I’m going to win this case. We’ll see who has the last laugh.” Then, looking at his drinking buddies, he said. “Come on, let’s get out of this dump.” He strode away quickly, looking at the floor. His companions glared at Jake and Johnny, shouted a few obscenities, and then followed Larry out the door.

  CHAPTER 27

  Monday morning, Jake arrived at the federal courthouse twenty minutes early. Although he had been laboring under a crushing workload, he was determined to sit through the entire trial, which was not likely to last more than a few days. Vern had thus far declined his offer to provide assistance, but now that the battle had moved into the courtroom, Jake felt confident that he could offer Vern observations and suggestions as the trial proceeded. Even if Vern was not interested in his help, he would be there to support Mickey.