Directed Verdict

by Randy Singer

  “Yes, Your Honor, and thank you for your indulgence,” Strobel responded. Then he took his place behind the podium and turned to Leslie.

  “Did you ever speak with the Saudi Arabian minister of public safety about this case?”

  “No.”

  “Or anyone else from Saudi Arabia for that matter, other than Mr. Aberijan?”

  “Yes, I spoke to Mr. el Khamin.”

  “Anyone other than Mr. el Khamin? What I mean is, did you ever speak with officials from the Saudi Arabian government?”

  “No.”

  “And have you even seen an authentic signature of the minister of public safety, to compare with the purported signature on the document provided by Mr. Aberijan?”

  “No.”

  Strobel nodded solemnly, as if he had just elicited a stunning admission.

  “Then isn’t it possible that the same Ahmed Aberijan whom we just heard on the tape casually order the deaths of two people and talk about bribing jurors, isn’t it just possible that this deceitful man might have forged the signature of the minister of public safety? Couldn’t this all just be a fraud perpetrated by Mr. Aberijan himself, with absolutely no authority or sanction from the Saudi government?”

  It doesn’t take Strobel long to turn on a former client, Brad thought.

  “No, I don’t believe that’s possible,” Leslie said confidently.

  “Not even possible?” Strobel asked, emphasizing the last word and raising his eyebrows. “Why not?”

  “Because I didn’t believe then, and I don’t believe now,” Leslie answered coolly, “that Mr. Aberijan had access to a hundred million dollars of his own. I believe that Mr. Aberijan’s higher-ups are very much aware of what he did to Charles Reed and very much involved in this case. Where else could money for this trust account come from? Your client, the nation of Saudi Arabia, is every bit as much to blame as Mr. Aberijan.”

  “But you have no proof that any money is sitting in that Swiss account. Do you, Ms. Connors?”

  Brad couldn’t help but flinch. He noticed Leslie quickly scratch at the base of her neck. Then calmly, precisely, she steadied her gaze. “Mr. O’Malley is sitting right there in the first row, sir. Why don’t you call him to the stand and ask him?”

  Beautiful.

  Brad glanced at Strobel and, for the first time in the case, saw something other than confidence in the man’s eyes. Strobel had been hit with so much, so fast, that he never saw that answer coming. It was a rookie error, asking a question like that. Now Brad could tell that Strobel was instantly recalculating the case, assessing the danger of this witness, forming the desire to get done with this cross-examination quickly and gracefully—before more damage could be done.

  “And even though you never talked to anyone, never met anyone, and never communicated with anyone from the nation of Saudi Arabia about this case, except for Mr. Aberijan himself, you somehow think that the nation of Saudi Arabia is responsible for Mr. Aberijan’s conduct?”

  “That’s absolutely right,” Leslie said.

  “Then if that’s plaintiff’s case,” Strobel noted derisively, “I renew my motion for a directed verdict on behalf of the nation of Saudi Arabia. The plaintiff has no proof whatsoever that Mr. Aberijan did not simply forge the signature of a Saudi official and embezzle the money for the trust account himself.”

  Before Brad could speak in opposition, Ichabod responded. “Isn’t that a motion that should be more properly considered outside the presence of the jury?”

  “Absolutely, Your Honor,” Strobel replied.

  “Then the witness may step down. Bailiff, please excuse the jury for a few moments so I can announce my ruling,” she ordered.

  Leslie breathed a huge sigh of relief, held her head high, and stepped down from the witness box. As she walked past the counsel table, most eyes in the courtroom were on the jury members, particularly juror number four, as they shuffled out of the box. Brad took advantage of this momentary distraction and grabbed Leslie’s hand as she passed. He pulled her next to him and whispered in her ear.

  “Does the witness have plans for this evening?” he asked.

  Leslie placed a hand on his shoulder and whispered, “Spending time with my former co-counsel, if he’ll let me.”

  She pulled back, but her look lingered. He winked, and she nodded, then thrust her chin out and walked elegantly down the aisle, taking a seat in the back of the courtroom.

  * * *

  Within minutes, the jury had exited, and all eyes turned to Judge Cynthia Baker-Kline.

  “Do you have any evidence of your own, Mr. Strobel, any live witnesses or documentary evidence that would suggest this trust agreement signature is a fraud?” she asked.

  “Not at this time,” Strobel answered. “But if we could have a twenty-four-hour continuance—”

  “Nonsense,” Baker-Kline interrupted. “We’ve been doing nothing but continuing and delaying this case since we started. Either put up or shut up.” She knew her comment was rude, almost childish. But she had heard enough about continuances and delays. She glanced toward Brad Carson, who had folded his arms and leaned back in his chair, apparently enjoying the sight of somebody else getting chewed out for a change.

  “Mr. Carson,” the judge snarled. Brad practically jumped out of his seat. “Do you have a motion to make?”

  “Um, yes, Your Honor,” he stuttered, obviously unaware of what she meant. Then a look of recognition gleamed in his eyes, followed by a look of skepticism and a look of hope. It was almost as if he didn’t trust her, or couldn’t believe what he thought he was hearing.

  Finally, he cleared his throat. “We also move for a directed verdict, but in favor of the plaintiff, not the defendant.”

  “Thank you, Counsel,” Baker-Kline said. “You may both be seated.”

  The judge intended to savor this moment of high drama in the courtroom as she considered her ruling. She jotted a few notes down on her legal pad—2 percent milk, English muffins, laundry detergent, chips—keenly aware that every eye was watching every scratch of her pen.

  She thought about Win Mackenzie, smugly perched in the front row, convinced that she would never do anything to jeopardize her chances for an appellate court nomination. She allowed herself to dwell just briefly on the years of hard work—the drug cases, the asbestos cases, the pure junk that marched through her courtroom every day. How sweet it would be to sit on the court of appeals and hear only the interesting cases being argued by top-flight lawyers. One step below the Supremes!

  She glanced up from her scribbling and looked straight into the eyes of Win Mackenzie. Confident eyes. Presumptuous eyes. He knew how badly she wanted it.

  “Gentlemen, I have never, in all my years on the bench, seen a case where both sides showed such little respect for the judicial system.” She knew vintage scolding was her strong suit. “Plaintiff’s counsel has tried every trick in the book to goad me into losing my composure so he can have a mistrial. At the same time, his co-counsel has breached the professional rules of responsibility for lawyers and recorded a conversation with an adverse party in the case. Her conduct was clever, and her plan was bold, but it hardly comported with model conduct for an officer of the court.”

  Baker-Kline glared at Brad. She looked for Leslie and spotted her in the back. Leslie’s face was bright red.

  “On the other hand, her plan did shine much light on some of the most reprehensible conduct I have ever witnessed in all my years on the bench. Suffice it to say there is clear and convincing evidence that the defendant will do whatever it takes to win, including bribing jurors and intimidating witnesses.”

  Baker-Kline paused again for effect and watched as Leslie’s face regained some of its natural color.

  “After what I have heard today, I can only conclude that this jury panel is so tainted, including at least one member who has been bribed, and possibly more, that the panel itself is of no further use in this case. If I allowed this jury to decide the case, t
heir verdict would surely get reversed on appeal, and we would all be right back here all over again.

  “But fortunately, we have available a procedural mechanism called a directed verdict. Any trial judge may dismiss a jury and decide the case herself if she is convinced that no reasonable jury could ever render a verdict different from the one she is prepared to render. After hearing the testimony of Ms. Connors, whom I find to be very credible—” another glance at Leslie, this time accompanied by the slightest hint of a smile—“and after hearing the recording of Mr. Aberijan, and after considering the signed trust agreement introduced into evidence, I have concluded that a reasonable jury could only decide this case one way.”

  The judge stared sternly at Brad Carson through the glasses perched on the end of her long nose. She knew she was about to make him a multimillionaire, and she hated every second of it. But she also thought about Sarah Reed and her children. And she thought about her own immense and growing disdain for Ahmed Aberijan. And she knew in her heart that justice demanded this verdict.

  She shifted her gaze to Winsted Mackenzie. Her one satisfaction would be watching the look on his face as she forfeited her career for the sake of justice.

  “Accordingly, I am hereby denying defendant’s motion for a directed verdict and granting plaintiff’s motion for a directed verdict against both Mr. Aberijan and the nation of Saudi Arabia.”

  Mackenzie’s head shot back, his eyes wide.

  “I am setting the damages at nine hundred thousand dollars for compensatory damages and fifty million in punitive damages.”

  * * *

  Brad could not breathe; the ruling sucked the air right out of him. He was not alone. For a fleeting moment, the courtroom was dead silent, stunned by a judge who had taken justice into her own hands, dispensed with closing arguments and jury deliberations, and brought this case to a swift and merciful close. The words sunk in. Brad caught his breath.

  And pandemonium broke lose.

  Sarah reached over and hugged Brad’s neck. Reporters rushed for the exit. Excited spectators raised a clamor, struggling to be heard. And the defense team slumped back in their chairs, unable even to scribble the enormous number on their legal pads. All the while, as the noise crescendoed, Ichabod furiously banged her gavel.

  After a few minutes, the noise abated on its own. The judge took advantage of the lull to issue her last speech.

  “I have issued a bench warrant for Mr. Aberijan. When he is found, assuming that he has not escaped this country’s jurisdiction, I want him brought back into my court to personally answer to me. I expect the assistant district attorney will also be issuing indictments against him. Because those indictments arise out of this trial, I am assigning Mr. Aberijan’s criminal case to my docket so that I can preside over that matter as well. Is that clear, Ms. Bennett?”

  Bennett stood and assured the court that she understood.

  “Good,” Ichabod said. “And one more thing, Ms. Bennett.”

  “Yes, Your Honor?”

  “I had better have indictments on my docket within a week for any jury members who accepted a bribe or violated their oath in any way. Is that also clear?”

  “We’ve already issued subpoenas for every juror’s bank records, Your Honor.”

  “Very well.”

  It was a well-known tradition in the Eastern District of Virginia federal court for the judges to conclude cases by telling the lawyers, in front of their clients, what kind of service they had provided to their clients. Even Ichabod was duty bound by this tradition. She turned first to Mack Strobel.

  “Mr. Strobel, as usual, you have tried an exemplary case. I have no reason to believe that you were engaged in or responsible for any of your former client’s misconduct. You were thrown some curves in this case that no one could have foreseen, and you handled them with tact and diplomacy. If, God forbid, I am ever in need of legal services for a high-stakes trial, I think I would give you a call.”

  “Thank you, Your Honor,” a pale Mack Strobel replied. Brad could barely hear his baritone voice.

  “And, Mr. Carson,” she said, turning to Brad. “While I do not sanction your occasional theatrics and unorthodox conduct in the courtroom, I will say that you are an effective advocate and a tenacious trial lawyer. Congratulations.”

  It was a backhanded compliment, and Brad knew it was the best he could ever hope for from her. It didn’t bother him. He knew it was unprofessional, but he couldn’t wipe a silly grin off his face. He had been wearing it since Ichabod announced her verdict.

  “Thank you, Your Honor,” he said sincerely. Fifty million could change his mind about someone in a hurry. “And I want to thank the court for handling this difficult case fairly and evenhandedly in the midst of some very tense moments.”

  Ichabod looked down again at Brad, one last time, over her annoying wire-rimmed glasses. She gave him the familiar scowl. “That’s kind of you, Mr. Carson, but also easy to say when you’ve just won a big case. I would love to hear that same kind of comment from you sometime after you have just lost a case in my court.”

  Brad’s grin disappeared.

  He wanted to respond in the worst kind of way. Her comment was unfair and untrue. He got along with fair-minded judges, he would tell her, but not with tyrants. She needed to learn how to take a compliment, he would tell her, because with her personality, they would be few and far between. He had a million things to tell her, but he bit his tongue and said nothing. After all, this was federal court, and Brad knew the unwritten rules. One of them was that a federal court judge always has the last word.

  “Case adjourned,” Ichabod said, striking her gavel.

  EPILOGUE

  BRAD’S TEAM MEMBERS accomplished little in the days immediately following the directed verdict. They were too busy granting interviews, basking in the limelight, and dreaming about ways to spend their money. Not until Friday of that week did the office return to any semblance of normalcy. Even Bella, always the workhorse, found it hard to get motivated.

  She arrived at the office at 9:15 and was not surprised to be the first one there. She turned on the lights, made some coffee, and resisted the urge to grab a smoke. It was her third day of trying to quit. The prior two had ended in glorious flameouts right after lunch.

  She settled in at the front desk and let the phone ring while she finished an intriguing novel about a dreamy hunk named Brandon. She didn’t feel the least bit guilty. Brad had told everyone to take the week off.

  At 10:30, Nikki waltzed through the door and acted surprised to see Bella.

  “Couldn’t stay away.” She shrugged.

  “Me either,” Bella said. She held up a check. “The Johnson money came in today.”

  “Better check to make sure it doesn’t have an extra million bucks,” Nikki said on her way through the reception area. “I’d get fired for sure then.”

  Bella felt the heat rising in her cheeks. Typical Nikki. You try to be nice; you get rewarded with sarcasm. She would tell Nikki a thing or two. She stood, scowled . . . then sat back down and started counting. She made it to ten, then twenty . . . fifty . . . a hundred. She could feel herself calming down.

  She needed a Camel. She stood again, her body screaming for a quick trip to the kitchen.

  It would calm my nerves. I could finish the book. Nikki isn’t going anywhere.

  Instead, she turned down the hallway and headed for Nikki’s office. She stood in the doorway and waited for her to look up.

  “Um . . .” Bella rubbed her hands together. She had practiced this speech so many times. How does it start again?

  “What’s up?” Nikki asked. It was more of a “why don’t you hurry up and say what’s on your mind” tone than it was a question.

  “Well,” Bella said, looking at her hands, “I’ve tried t-to . . . um, come down and say this about a hundred times in the last few weeks, b-but I . . . I dunno . . .”

  Nikki put down her pen and gave Bella her undivided attention. “T
ried to say what?”

  Okay. There’s no easy way to do this. Just blurt it out. “I’m sorry, Nikki.” She looked up and saw the blank look on Nikki’s face. “That’s it. . . . I’ve just been meaning to apologize for the way . . . for the way I’ve treated you . . .” She paused and shrugged. This is really starting to seem like a dumb idea, even if it was Sarah’s. “From day one.”

  That was it. Her whole speech. She glanced again at Nikki, expecting . . . well, truthfully, she didn’t know what to expect.

  “Don’t worry about it.” Nikki shrugged.

  That’s all! No “Gee, I’m sorry too.” No “Man, that’s really big of you, Bella.” No “Great, let’s be friends now.” Just a simple “Don’t worry about it” and a blank stare. After all I put myself through, that’s the best she can offer?

  A crestfallen Bella turned to walk out the door. There was no sense pushing this any further. She had tried, given it her best. Some things just weren’t meant to be. She would tell Sarah that confession and reconciliation were highly overrated.

  “Wait,” Nikki called. Bella turned back around and saw Nikki coming out from behind her desk. “Can you give me a hand for a minute?”

  “Huh?”

  Nikki pointed to the pictures hanging on her wall. “You know . . . getting rid of these things. It’s starting to feel like an aquarium in here.”

  * * *

  It was Brad’s idea to celebrate at the Lynnhaven Mariner. He would never forget the first time he and Leslie came to this place. It seemed like an eternity ago. She had charmed him with her beauty and poise. He had regaled her with his stories of the law. And this was the spot where the Reed case was born, where Brad and Leslie decided to make new law.

  But that was months earlier, and their naive idealism about the case had been shattered by the emotional scars of battle. The beautiful spring day on which they had launched their plan had yielded to this cold and drizzly November day that forced them to enjoy lunch inside rather than on the deck.