Directed Verdict

by Randy Singer

  “And you should tell Strobel of this information, but do not tell him of the source.”

  “Understood,” Barnes said.

  19

  “IF LITIGATION IS WAR, then depositions are hand-to-hand combat,” Mack told one of his young associates as they drove to the offices of Carson & Associates for the second day of Worthington’s deposition. “There is no judge and few rules, so the name of the game is intimidation and persistence. Get the witness talking long enough, and he’s bound to make some mistakes. He’ll either contradict something he’s already said or forget some minor detail. Your job is to turn that minor detail into a federal offense.”

  The associate listened intently. He had watched the great man in action yesterday. He had now been given a rare invitation to ride with Strobel from their office in Norfolk to Carson’s office in Virginia Beach. Strobel, the motion to dismiss now a part of the distant past, was in one of his mentoring moods.

  “Take one of two approaches, depending on the witness. If it’s a neutral witness, try to charm him. Get him relaxed and talking and keep him relaxed and talking. Find out everything you can about his testimony, and get some quotes you can use to trip him up at trial. That’s easier to do if he’s relaxed. If the witness is hostile, browbeat him into submission. Establish who’s boss. Ask your questions with a sarcastic tone, stare him down, laugh at the lawyer if she makes objections. Drag out the deposition until you wear him down. Tired witnesses make mistakes.”

  “Will you finish with Worthington today, or are you going to stretch this out all week?” the young associate asked.

  Mack just drove on in silence. A man of his stature did not have to acknowledge the question of a lowly associate. He would finish today. But he had a few fireworks planned first.

  * * *

  The chore of defending the Worthington deposition fell to Leslie and the Rock. She had prepared the expert carefully and was in the best position to guard against his weaknesses.

  On this second day of Worthington’s deposition, the Rock showed up an hour late, and by then Strobel was in a foul mood. Strobel started hammering on Worthington right from the start, and Leslie couldn’t provide Worthington much cover from Strobel’s bullying tactics. The Rock might as well have stayed home.

  By midafternoon, the stale air in the conference room was thick with tension. The unflappable Worthington held his own in the face of Strobel’s relentlessness, which only seemed to frustrate Strobel and make him more obnoxious and cantankerous than ever.

  “Mr. Worthington, have you discussed this case with Ms. Connors or the other lawyers for the plaintiff?”

  “I object,” Leslie said. “Those conversations are attorney work product.”

  “Don’t mind her,” Strobel said to Worthington, as if Leslie were an annoying child. “She doesn’t know the rules for a deposition yet; she’s just learning. Now answer the question please.”

  “Don’t answer that question,” Leslie said, seething at the arrogance of Strobel. “He’s just being argumentative.”

  “That’s a first,” Strobel mocked. “Instructing your witness not to answer the question on the grounds that it is argumentative. Read the rules someday before you finish law school.”

  Strobel’s associate smirked at Leslie.

  “Mr. Worthington, as I said, don’t bother answering that question.”

  “Grow up,” Strobel said. It came from deep in his throat—a guttural threat. Then he looked at the Rock and smiled. “Mr. Davenport, you’ve taken a few depositions in your day. Tell your little protégé that she can’t just instruct the witness not to answer if she thinks the question is argumentative. Otherwise, we’ll call the judge, and I’ll ask for sanctions. This is ridiculous.”

  The Rock was sweating profusely. He had a nervous twitch in his left eye that was acting up noticeably. “Go ahead and answer the question,” he said to Worthington.

  Leslie stared at the Rock and frowned. The Rock pretended not to notice.

  “I don’t remember the question,” Worthington said.

  “That’s because your counsel insists on littering the record with frivolous objections,” Strobel said. “And I want the record to reflect that in my more than thirty years of trial practice, I have never heard more unfounded objections interposed in bad faith than I have today.”

  The court reporter, who worked frequently for Strobel, smiled as if she could type that line from memory. Leslie suspected Mack used it in every case.

  “And I want to say for the record,” Leslie responded, “that I have never seen a lawyer be more obnoxious and rude than I have today.” Her hands were shaking, partly from nerves and partly from anger.

  “Okay,” Strobel said, turning his attention back to Worthington, “tell me everything you and your lawyers talked about.”

  For the next ten minutes, Worthington recounted in detail numerous conversations he had with Leslie, giving a full account of all discussions they had regarding why the Saudi Arabian government should be found liable in this case. When Worthington was finished, Strobel just smiled and asked, “Aren’t you leaving something out?”

  “Like what?” Worthington asked defensively.

  “Like whether you’ve ever been convicted of a felony or misdemeanor involving moral turpitude.”

  Leslie knew this was coming. She had prepared Worthington for this type of question. All he had to do was follow the script.

  “No, I have not been.”

  “Have you ever been accused of a felony or misdemeanor involving moral turpitude and pleaded guilty to a lesser offense?”

  “Objection. That is not relevant or admissible and not likely to lead to admissible evidence.” Leslie scooted to the edge of her seat.

  “Are you instructing him not to answer the question, Counsel?” Strobel asked with mock incredulity. “Does he have something to hide?”

  “Of course not, but we both know the question is improper.”

  “Let me tell you what I know, Ms. Connors. And let’s go off the record.” Strobel turned to the court reporter he had hired for the deposition. She quit typing.

  “I know that your wonderful expert witness is actually a wife beater with a real anger problem. I know that he likes to lecture juries about abuse of innocent victims overseas and then go home and inflict a little abuse himself on the missus. After this deposition, I’ll add to my witness list the names of two police officers who will testify that Mrs. Worthington looked like a punching bag the night she finally summoned the courage to press charges. I know that our little choirboy here pleaded no contest to the charges and that a judge eventually let him off.

  “I also happen to know that your Mr. Worthington has plans to run for political office again or at least get a plum political appointment. And finally, I know that if he takes the stand in this case, I will ask about these allegations, even if technically your objection will be sustained. The jury will hate this man, and his career will be over. Now, if you don’t withdraw him as a witness, I’m willing to go back on the record today and ask these questions right now. If you are willing to withdraw him as a witness, we can let this deposition record be silent on the matter. And may I remind you that this deposition record must be made available to the press.”

  Leslie looked at the Rock, who stared at Worthington as if the man had some type of communicable disease. She looked at Worthington—the blood had drained from his face.

  “I’ll need a minute to confer with Mr. Worthington,” she said.

  “Request denied,” Strobel responded, as if he were the judge. “This is an easy issue. Either you tell me today, right now, that you are withdrawing him as an expert, or I’ll start interrogating him on the record about the fact that he beats his wife, and I’ll release the transcript to the press.”

  “That’s blackmail!” Leslie shot back, her voice rising. “And I will not be part of it. I’ll move to seal the transcript and file an affidavit with the court explaining that you are trying to use inad
missible evidence to blackmail an expert witness. I’ll also file a complaint with the state bar. You’ll be lucky if they don’t pull your ticket.”

  Leslie stood and prepared to march out of the conference room with Worthington in tow. She would show Strobel she could not be intimidated. “C’mon,” she said to Worthington as confidently as possible. “This deposition is over.”

  But Worthington remained seated. “No, it’s not,” he said, without looking at Leslie. “I’m withdrawing myself as an expert.”

  “What?!” Now Leslie turned on her own witness. “You can’t do that. We’ve retained you.”

  “You’re a free man,” Strobel said. “They can only force fact witnesses to testify. They can’t force you to testify as an expert if you have no firsthand knowledge of the facts.”

  Worthington looked sheepishly at Leslie, then across the table at the expressionless Strobel.

  “I’ve got to do what’s right for me and my family,” Worthington said. “Sorry, Leslie.”

  “Let’s go back on the record,” Strobel said.

  “I don’t want any part of this,” Leslie said. “You two deserve each other.” She threw her papers and legal pad into her briefcase and stalked out of the room. She slammed the door as she walked out, leaving behind her stunned co-counsel and her former star witness.

  * * *

  “He did what?!” Nikki screamed into the phone. “Why didn’t you threaten to reveal his secret to the press if he didn’t testify for us? That would at least give him a little incentive to do the right thing.”

  “Really, Nikki,” Leslie said, “what kind of expert will he make if I have to object every time Strobel asks him if he ever beat his wife?”

  “The guy is scum. What now?”

  “Pray for a lenient judge who will not require that we provide direct testimony on how the government of Saudi Arabia sanctions the techniques of the Muttawa. We have plenty of circumstantial evidence against the government even without Worthington. It’s just that he’s the one guy who could have pulled it all together.”

  When Nikki hung up, she immediately dialed a friend at the local paper. Worthington would pay for his cowardice with a headline tucked away in the next day’s local section. It would read: “Attorneys fire expert witness over abuse allegations.” The story, citing unnamed sources, would detail the charges against Worthington and praise the law firm of Carson & Associates for boldly dismissing their own expert witness in light of his checkered past.

  * * *

  Rasheed knew his brother, Hanif, had a gift for teaching God’s Word. He harbored no jealousy. The church would soon be led by Hanif, just as Rasheed had hoped. He sat back in the meetings and marveled at God’s hand of anointing on his younger brother.

  The crowd became so large on Friday night that Hanif told Rasheed he had decided to add another weekly service. With each new convert, though, the circle of danger broadened. Rasheed could not know whether each new member represented the blessing of another sinner saved by grace or the curse of a government informant. He always assumed the former.

  Rasheed savored each night with the church, knowing his time was short. His deposition would take place in two weeks. He knew what he had to do, but he also knew it wouldn’t be easy. No man should be put in a position of choosing between his God and his family.

  * * *

  Friday night, after a string of sixteen-hour days, Brad and Leslie hit the town with a vengeance. They gorged themselves at an Italian place, enjoying each other’s company and temporarily forgetting the case that had brought them together.

  They tried to burn off a few calories with a long stroll down the boardwalk, taking time to admire the paintings of local artists and the trinkets of local artisans. Brad, ever observant, slyly took note of Leslie’s admiration for a painting of the Cape Hatteras lighthouse. A little farther down the boardwalk, as Leslie stood watching another artist dab at his canvas, Brad doubled back to pay for the painting under the guise of going to the men’s room. He ran with the painting to a hotel across the street and left it, along with a substantial tip, with the concierge. He returned in a few minutes to Leslie, still mesmerized by the amateur painter and entirely unfazed by Brad’s insistence that the nearest bathroom was half a mile away.

  They completed their evening with a late movie. Brad wanted a thriller, but Leslie talked him into a chick flick. Brad slept through the last hour and was newly energized when the movie finally let out at 11:45. Leslie, however, fell sound asleep in the car within five minutes of leaving the theater.

  Brad silently vetoed the original plan of taking Leslie back to her car at the office and instead drove directly to his home in Virginia Beach. He pulled into the circular drive in front of his large house and turned off the motor. He reached over and gently touched Leslie on the shoulder. She started and jerked straight up in her seat.

  “What the . . . where are we?” she demanded, as her eyes popped open.

  “Calm down, girl. You’re in good company. You were sleeping so soundly I decided to bring you to my place to crash.”

  Leslie relaxed and rubbed both eyes. “I’m sorry, Brad. I was just having these nightmares—”

  “Hey. After a week like this week, you’re entitled to a few nightmares.”

  Leslie’s eyelids looked heavy. She shook her head to clear her senses and fought back a yawn. To Brad, this woman who couldn’t get the sleep out of her eyes, whose hair was darting out in different directions from static electricity, had never looked more beautiful.

  “I’m fine, really. Just get me a little caffeine, and I’ll hit the road.” She gave him a sleepy smile.

  “Yeah, right. Let’s go.” Brad got out of the car and went around to open Leslie’s door. She got out and stretched.

  “No, really, Brad, I’m fine.”

  “Look, I’ve got a guest room suite upstairs that never gets any use. I’d feel better if you wouldn’t try to head up to Williamsburg without getting some sleep.”

  Brad was already on his way to the front door. Leslie protested as she followed.

  “I’ll just crash on the couch for a few hours.”

  “Leslie—”

  She held up her palm, her eyes half-closed. “It’s the couch or nothing.”

  Brad shook his head. “All right, at least let me get some blankets, sheets, and a pillow.”

  After fixing a place for Leslie while she crashed in one of the chairs, Brad leaned down, gently brushed her thick auburn hair out of her beautiful face, and kissed her ever so softly. He was dizzy with emotion.

  “I had a great time tonight,” he whispered. His face was just inches from hers. He couldn’t take his eyes from hers. He didn’t dare blink.

  “Thanks,” she said and flashed a soft smile under heavy eyelids that lit up the room. “Me too.”

  “I put one of my T-shirts on the couch, if you want something comfortable to sleep in. There are towels and washcloths in the bathroom. And a spare toothbrush.”

  “A toothbrush?” Leslie smiled. “I won’t even ask.”

  He kissed her again on the forehead, brushed his hand softly against her cheek, then turned and headed for the stairs.

  “We make a pretty good team,” he said as he walked away.

  He meant it in a lot of different ways.

  * * *

  Brad set the alarm for 6 a.m. and resisted the strong urge to go back downstairs before then. He slept fitfully, but he slept smiling. He woke up on his own a few minutes before the alarm and rose quickly to fix breakfast.

  The couch was empty. Though the T-shirt was gone, Leslie left the sheets and blankets neatly folded on top of the pillow along with a note of thanks. Brad shook his head in disbelief. She must have called a cab. He would never understand that woman.

  Later that morning, Brad drove a half hour from his house to the beach to pick up the painting and then another hour to Williamsburg to deliver it. He left the artwork carefully leaning against the outside door of the garage
that housed Leslie’s apartment.

  * * *

  One of Barnes’s men, increasingly bored with his uneventful surveillance of Brad, decided to have a little fun. As Brad drove away down the long dirt road that led from Leslie’s home, the man slipped out of his car and placed the painting in the trunk. His wife would love it. One of the perks of an otherwise unrewarding job.

  20

  MACK STROBEL PERSONALLY COUNTED no fewer than eighteen empties scattered around Teddy Kilgore’s private yacht by the time he joined the brain trust. Teddy had docked across the street from the office, in a reserved slip at the Waterside Marina, to pick up Mack so the brain trust could plot Carson’s defeat. The heat and stickiness of the mid-September day clung to Mack like a leech. He’d been working on the case all day while his cohorts hit the links and floated the waterways, drinking, eating crab, and billing their time to the Reed file. And what had they accomplished?

  “Where’s Phillips?” he asked without bothering to greet anyone.

  “Gone below.” Mackenzie gestured below deck with a low chortle.

  Strobel leaned over the stairway and bellowed. “Mel! Let’s get on with it.”

  Mackenzie slapped a hand on Strobel’s shoulder. “No, I mean he’s gone below.” Mackenzie tipped his hand like a bottle to his lips, indicating that Phillips had downed more than his share of brew and would not be participating in this evening’s meeting. Mack cussed. Mackenzie laughed, nearly giddy.

  After delivering a scathing piece of his mind, a tirade that had no discernible impact on his partners, Mack kicked back in a lounge chair himself and opened his first brew. If he couldn’t beat them, he would join them, and at least salvage what remained of this miserable autumn day.

  Elbow deep in crab legs and failing miserably in his attempt to pry some meat out of the pesky bones, Teddy Kilgore played his usual role of conciliator.

  “Mack, my man. The way I see it, you’re just working too hard. That’s why we’ve got associates. Let them take all those depositions. Conserve your strength, that’s what I say.”