Friction by Sawyer Bennett
Well, I hope not to draw the attention of one person--Leary.
I don't care if anyone else sees me, and to prove it, when Gill Kratzenburg and Garry Summerland hear the doors open, they both look over their shoulders and pin their stares on me. Summerland glares and Gill's eyebrows raise in surprise. I don't spare them but a second and slip into the back row of the gallery seating, behind the plaintiff's side to show them that I don't give a shit what they think. That I'm here, merely as a spectator, and I am clearly choosing the opposite side of the war I was seated on a few days prior.
I'm thankful no one else looked my way. The judge is watching Leary, as is the entire jury, their faces all riveted on what she's saying. I'm a few minutes late getting here, knowing I'd miss part of Leary's closing statements.
Ford texted me midmorning to let me know that Rhonda Valasquez testified on behalf of Jenna and it went fantastically well. It was the first I'd heard from him since we had words in Leary's driveway last Friday. I was surprised that he even bothered but grateful for the update. I had no clue whether my impassioned plea to Rhonda would induce her to seek Leary out, but clearly it worked.
I didn't respond to Ford, but within a few minutes, he sent me another text.
Closing statements starting in twenty minutes if you want to watch.
I stared at my phone for a few minutes, trying to read something into his message. Did that mean Leary wanted me there? Probably not, because no matter what transpired between the two of us, I know Leary well enough to know that her mind was not on me. I know that her sole focus would be on that jury and what she was going to say to them.
It only took me about five minutes to decide to head over to the courthouse and sneak inside so I could see Leary in action. Although I was officially off the case, there was still something that was bugging me about the rebuttal witnesses, and it had everything to do with the conversation I overheard between Gill Kratzenburg and Tom Collier when I handed in my key. Tom had indicated that they sent the investigator back out to push at the witnesses, which means that their testimony must not have been helpful to begin with. Something happened to get those witnesses to change their minds, and because I had their numbers programmed in my phone, I had intended to call all three of them to poke and prod a bit more into their testimony. It just wasn't sitting right with me for some reason, and my insatiable curiosity needed to be appeased. I figured I could do that later this afternoon and would rather watch Leary's argument to the jury.
My chest aches when I first look at her, casually strolling back and forth in front of the jury box as she argues. She chose a conservative dark-gray suit with a pearl-colored blouse. Her hair is pulled back into a low ponytail that hangs sleekly down her back. Of course, she's wearing her sexy-as-shit mile-high black heels that made her legs look even more amazing than I know them to be, but otherwise, she's conveying to the jury by her look and demeanor that this is some serious shit she's discussing with them.
"The evidence is clear. If you want to look at this case boiled down into the finest of black-and-white detail, consider this. All three of our expert witnesses emphatically told you that Dr. Summerland had no business doing this type of surgery. Simply put, he wasn't qualified. Now, you heard Dr. Summerland's own experts--who we know had some personal bias to consider--hem and haw over their opinions. They said they disagreed with my experts, but remember this: The two general surgeons you heard from admitted to all twelve of you"--and here Leary sweeps her hand out toward the jury--"that they had never attempted to do a breast reduction surgery in their careers. They all admitted to you that they would refer those cases out to a plastic surgeon."
I watch the jury, noting that every single one of them is listening avidly to Leary. They're not allowed to take notes, which I find to be a good thing because I often feel like they could miss something important. Several of the jurors are nodding in agreement.
"The medical opinions are clear. Dr. Summerland breached the standard of care by doing an operation he was clearly not qualified to do," Leary says to summarize the causation issue to the jury. She pauses, looks down at the ground, and takes a deep breath. When she looks back up, her face is troubled.
"But I imagine there are many things that aren't so clear to you," she says softly to the jury. "I imagine you have confused feelings over some of the things you've heard over the last few weeks. Things that don't have anything to do with science or medicine or expert opinions."
She pauses, slowly looks at each juror with open honesty. "Salacious things," she says ominously. "Dirty, nasty, sordid allegations."
Leary turns away from the jury, walks over to Jenna, and stands behind her as she sits at counsel table. Placing her hands softly on Jenna's shoulders, she gives a squeeze and looks back to the jury. "What do you see when you look at Jenna LaPietra?" she asks the jury.
She doesn't expect an answer. In fact, they can't give one, but she lets the question lie heavy and pregnant in the air.
"Do you see a whore?" she asks, so quietly I almost have to lean forward to hear her. "Is that what you see?"
Not one of the jurors moves a muscle, and none of them lower their gazes. They all stare right back at Leary.
"That's what the defense wants you to see," Leary says, her voice rising a little in pace and tempo. "They want you to be so sidetracked by their smoke and mirrors that you'll forget all about what you're really here to decide. They hope you get so incensed over their allegations that you'll just happen to overlook what this case is really all about."
The courtroom is so silent you could hear a pin drop. Dropping her hands from Jenna's shoulders, Leary tucks her hands in the pockets at her hips and strolls back up to the jury, her gaze cast downward. When she reaches the center of the jury box, she looks back up at them.
"Let me ask you this," she says, again in a softer voice. "If you do believe the defense experts and you do look at Jenna and think she's a whore, does it even really matter? I mean, in the grand scheme of things, if a woman would go to any lengths to provide for and support her autistic son, would you really hold that against her?"
Leary turns slightly to the left, walks down in front of juror number one, a middle-aged man who, if I recall correctly, is a bank-teller supervisor. She leans in close to him over the box rail and says, "Mr. Vartles, I remember you're married and have two children. Is there anything you wouldn't do for your kids? Is there anything your wife wouldn't do for them?"
Then Leary walks down the entire box and addresses each juror with like questions.
Is there anything you wouldn't do, Mr. Priest?
What about you, Mrs. Cranford? Any line you wouldn't cross for a sick child?
How about you, Mr. Mason . . . I know you don't have children, but what about your mother? Is there anything you wouldn't do for her?
She does this over and over until she's asked every single juror to put himself metaphorically in Jenna's shoes. Not one of the jurors looks away, and several give a slow shake of their head although they can't answer verbally.
When Leary is satisfied she's made her point, she takes a few steps back from the jury, pulls her hands out of her pockets, and holds her hands out to the side.
"I'm here to tell you that the two witnesses who stood up in front of you and said that Jenna prostituted herself are out-and-out liars. They perjured themselves on the stand. Jenna has denied those allegations in her answers to the defendants' request for admissions. But I'm also here to tell you, it doesn't matter one whit if she did or didn't do it. Because I think we are all in agreement here that a mother's love shouldn't be held against her. At least not here, not in this courtroom, when it has absolutely nothing to do with this case. Has nothing to do with Dr. Summerland walking into an operating room and performing a surgery that he was not qualified to do, and while he was intoxicated. Has nothing to do with the fact that Jenna LaPietra was maimed and mangled by a heartless and arrogant man with a God complex, fueled on by alcohol."
Th
As I quietly slide off the bench and stand up, I hear Leary's voice say, "Now . . . let's talk about how you, the jury, can help right this wrong. How you can help make this travesty a little more tolerable for Jenna and her son."
A small smile forms on my face as I walk to the rear courtroom doors, imagining that jury deliberations are going to focus on not if they should give Jenna something but rather how much they're going to give her.
Ford sends me a flurry of texts all afternoon.
11:23 a.m. Jury has been charged and out for deliberations
12:39 p.m. Jury has asked to see the economist report
1:12 p.m. Jury asked for lunch to be brought in rather than stop deliberations
2:07 p.m. Gill upped offer to $1.3 million. Leary refused
2:51 p.m. Jury asked judge to reread instructions on future economic damages
3:02 p.m. Jury has finished deliberations
I don't get another text after that. Instead, at about a quarter past three, Ford calls me. I answer on the second ring. "What did they give her?"
"Three and a half million," he says, his voice bursting with excitement.
A grin spreads across my face as I close my eyes in gratitude. "Fucking awesome."
"Yeah, it is. You should have seen Summerland. He exploded when the verdict was read and started ranting at the jury. Judge Henry was banging his gavel for order. Finally a bailiff had to come over and push him back down in his seat. It was classic."
"I bet," I say in amusement, so very thankful I wasn't sitting there having to endure that douche throwing a tantrum in open court.
"Well, I just thought you'd want to know," Ford says. "I mean, not sure that would have happened without Rhonda Valasquez."
"Would have happened if I hadn't called those rebuttal witnesses," I say, still bitter over having made a terrible choice that cost me the woman I love. Especially now that I know their testimony was manufactured, a fact that I finally verified by talking to the one witness who refused to show up in court that day.
Ford sighs into the phone. "Look, man, I don't know that your choice was wrong. It was ethically the right thing to do. You were following the law and the rules."
"Yeah, well, Leary doesn't think those laws and rules should apply in all circumstances," I remind him. "I let her down."
"You did, but that's also on her. Those are her expectations you failed, but doesn't mean that her bar wasn't set improbably high."
"Maybe," I tell him. "But in hindsight, I still ended up breaching my moral compass by sending her Rhonda Valasquez, so apparently I guess I subscribe to her philosophy that some things are worth the risk. I was just late in figuring it out."
"Maybe not too late," Ford says wisely. "Why don't you come out with us tonight and celebrate? A bunch of the members of our firm are going to get together over at the High Court and toss back a few."
The High Court is a popular downtown bar that caters to a good chunk of the legal community. It's usually jam-packed with lawyers and court personnel on weekends and weeknights and does a brisk happy-hour business, which usually includes lawyers celebrating victories or drowning their sorrows over losses.
"I think I'll take a pass," I say with a laugh, hoping to convey a bit of lighthearted acceptance of my current situation, despite the fact I feel like I'm sunk in a black pit of misery.
"You two need to talk," Ford says.
"Yeah, well, she made it pretty clear that she wanted nothing more to do with me."
"And you're just going to accept that?" Ford asks.
"For now," I say quietly. "Leary doesn't seem the type that's going to let go of that kind of hurt very easily, and frankly, I'm not sure she should. I let her down. Time to pay the consequences."
"I get it," Ford mutters. "Maybe she'll get her head out of her ass at some point."
"Well, I'm not going anywhere," I say. "I'm here when she wants to talk. Unless I move to New York. That's a possibility."
"It is?" Ford asks hesitantly.
"Yeah. I'm licensed there as well. Have a lot of contacts. I don't want to, but I could go there if I don't have any better job prospects here. I'm not in a rush, though. I've got a healthy savings account. I'm not hurting."
My phone starts buzzing and I pull it away from my head to take a quick peek. Muttering a silent curse, I bring it back to my ear. "Look, I've got to go. Gill is calling me."
"Good luck with that," Ford snorts, and then he's gone.
I wait for the line to completely disconnect and then answer Gill's call. "Reeve Holloway."
"It's Gill," he says in a tight voice. "Thought you'd want to know we lost the case and lost big."
"There is no 'we,' Gill. I quit, in case you forgot, and no, I'm not really interested in the outcome."
"You know," he sneers into the phone, "I find it interesting that your cell-phone logs show repeated calls to Rhonda Valasquez over the last several weeks, including one that was made to her Friday afternoon after you quit the firm."
This allegation does not surprise me. In fact, I'd been ready for it ever since I walked out of the firm on Friday, leaving behind my cell phone, which didn't belong to me. The number did, though, so I stopped at an Apple Store on the way home and bought a new phone and had the number ported over. Still, I knew they'd probably go through my logs and see my calls to Miss Valasquez.
"What's your point, Gill?" I ask calmly.
"My point is, I'm betting that you handed Rhonda Valasquez on a platter to Leary Michaels."
"Prove it," I challenge him.
"Oh, I intend to. I've got a call in to Miss Valasquez now," he says, and I can actually envision the smirk on his face.
I have no clue if Rhonda Valasquez will talk to Gill. I never asked her to keep secret that I communicated with her, or more important, that I sent her directly to Leary's house. If she tells Gill that, he's going to report me to the State Bar, and it's a good bet that I'll lose my license. I knew all of this when I made the decision to help Leary out. I knew this could be the ultimate price I end up paying for all of my choices, and yet I still couldn't muster up the energy to care.
What I do now, though, is pull out a bit of an ace in the hole that fortuitously came my way this afternoon. "I know the testimony of the rebuttal witnesses was fabricated," I say softly and am rewarded by a muttered curse from Gill. "I talked to Tammy Rhodes, and she told me everything."
"Everything" being that when our investigator, Marc Stephenson, first interviewed these witnesses, he was told emphatically that they had no knowledge that Jenna LaPietra was prostituting herself. They'd heard rumors that it was going on, but they didn't know anyone involved. Miss Rhodes then told me that the investigator called her back and strongly encouraged her to jog her memory, so to speak, and even offered a bit of a monetary incentive if said memory cleared up to the extent that they miraculously remembered that Jenna had admitted to accepting money for her body. This confirmed my suspicion that Gill Kratzenburg and Tom Collier had those witnesses paid off, and that's a criminal offense.
Gill is silent on the other end of the phone, and I can practically hear the gears in his brain grinding and clicking. I wait for him to say something, to deny it all, but he doesn't. Because he knows damn good and well he can't.
"Listen, Gill," I say with every bit of rationality I can muster, "I think neither one of us is happy with how things played out. My suggestion is we both just let it lie and walk away. Things will get very ugly otherwise."
He knows I have him by the short hairs and that he can't do anything but agree with me. He acknowledges that in a way I find to be typical of the arrogance of the people working at Battle Carnes.
He hangs up on me.
I pull the phone slowly away
Then I start laughing.
CHAPTER 25
LEARY
"Well, I think this house is perfect, except for the fact it needs a new roof," Jenna says as we walk back to my car. "If they'll come down on the price, I think this is the one for us."
Two days after the verdict came in, we're out house hunting for Jenna and Damien. I decided to take a few days off and relax after the trial--well, Midge actually insisted I take a few days off. She lectured me--via e-mail, of course--about how brutal a trial can be on a lawyer's energy and stamina. She ordered me to recharge my batteries, so to speak.
Jenna asked me yesterday if I'd go look at houses with her. Her first order of business is to get out of the apartment I'm paying for and into a particular neighborhood in Raleigh that has a phenomenal charter school providing special education to autistic children.
"It's a great house," I concur. "I have a friend who's a contractor. I'll call him to find out what it would cost for a new roof, and that will give you a basis for how much to offer on the house."
We get in my car, buckle up, and pull out of the driveway, Jenna throwing a wave to the real estate agent, who's locking the house up. "Want to go get a late lunch before you have to pick up Damien?"
"Sure," she says with a smile and then leans over to pat me on my knee. "And since I'm still technically broke until the money comes in, you'll have to pay."
I laugh and pat her hand in return. "My pleasure."
Jenna is silent a moment and then she says, "But I want to pay you back for everything you've done for me and Damien over the last several months. I know you refuse to take a fee on the verdict, but I want to pay you back for the apartment, food, and clothes."
"That's not--" I start to say, but she cuts me off.
"With interest," she says firmly.
I grit my teeth and don't say anything. I know it's going to be pointless to argue with her, so I decide to change the subject. "I think you need to reconsider the reconstructive surgeries."
"What?" she asks in surprise.
"I get not wanting them done when they were only offering five hundred thousand, but with this verdict, there's more than enough for you to have the surgeries done to correct the problems."