E KNEW IT WAS IN THE MAIL, BUT I can tell by the heavy footsteps that it’s here. Deck bounds through my door, waving the envelope. “It’s here! It’s here! We’re rich!”

He rips open the envelope, delicately removes the check and places it gently on my desk. We admire it. Twenty-five thousand dollars from State Farm! It’s Christmas.

Since Derrick Dogan is still on crutches, we rush to his house with the paperwork. He signs where’s he’s told to sign. We disburse the money. He gets exactly $16,667, and we get exactly $8,333. Deck wanted to stick him for a few expenses-copying, postage, phone charges, nitpicking stuff most lawyers try to squeeze from the clients at settlement time-but I said no.

We say good-bye to him, wish him well, try and act a bit despondent over this entire sad little episode. It’s difficult.

We’ve decided to take three thousand each, and leave the rest in the firm, for the inevitable lean months ahead. The firm buys us a nice lunch at a fashionable restaurant

in East Memphis. The firm now has a gold credit card, issued by some desperate bank obviously impressed with my status as a lawyer. I danced around the questions on the application dealing with prior bankruptcies. Deck and I shook hands on our agreement that the card will never be used unless we both consent.

I take my three thousand, and buy a car. It’s certainly not new, but it’s one I’ve been dreaming about ever since the Dogan settlement became a certainty. It’s a 1984 Volvo DL, blue in color, four speed with overdrive, in great condition with only a hundred and twenty thousand miles. That’s not much for a Volvo. The car’s first and only owner is a banker who enjoyed servicing the car himself.

I toyed with the idea of buying something new, but I can’t stand the thought of going into debt.

It’s my first lawyer car. The Toyota fetches three hundred dollars, and with this money I purchase a car phone. Rudy Baylor is slowly arriving.

I MADE THE DECISION weeks ago that I would not spend Christmas in this city. The memories from last year are still too painful. I’ll be alone, and it’ll be easier if I simply leave. Deck has mentioned maybe getting together, but it was a blurry suggestion with no details. Told him I’d probably go to my mother’s.

When my mother and Hank are not traveling in their Winnebago, they park the damned thing behind his small house in Toledo. I’ve never seen the house, nor the Winnebago, and I’m not spending Christmas with Hank. Mother called after Thanksgiving with a rather weak invitation to come share the holidays with them. I declined, told her I was much too busy. I’ll send a card.

I don’t dislike my mother. We’ve simply stopped talking. The rift has been gradual, as opposed to a particular nasty incident with harsh words that take years to forget.

According to Deck, the legal system shuts down from December 15 until after the new year. Judges don’t schedule trials and hearings. Lawyers and their firms are busy with office parties and employee lunches. It’s a wonderful time for me to leave town.

I pack the Black case in the trunk of my shiny little Volvo, along with a few clothes, and hit the road. I wander aimlessly on slow two-lane roads, in the general directions of north and west, until I hit snow in Kansas and Nebraska. I sleep in inexpensive motels, eat fast food, see whatever sights there are to see. A winter storm has swept across the northern plains. Steep snowdrifts line the roads. The prairies are as white and still as fallen cumulus.

I’m invigorated by the loneliness of the road.

IT’S DECEMBER 23 when I finally arrive in Madison, Wisconsin. I find a small hotel, a cozy diner with hot food, and I walk the streets of downtown just like a regular person scurrying from one store to the next. There are some things about a normal Christmas that I don’t miss.

I sit on a frozen park bench, snow under my feet, and listen to a hearty chorus belt out carols. No one in the world knows where I am right now, not the city, not the state. I love this freedom.

After dinner and a few drinks in the hotel bar, I call Max Leuberg. He has returned to his tenured position of professor of law at the university here, and I’ve called him about once a month for advice. He invited me to visit. I’ve shipped to him copies of most of the relevant documents, along with copies of the pleadings, written discovery and most of the depositions. The FedEx box weighed fourteen pounds and cost almost thirty bucks. Deck approved.

Max sounds genuinely happy that I’m in Madison. Because he’s Jewish, he doesn’t get too involved with Christ-

mas, and he said on the phone the other day that it’s a wonderful time to work. He gives me directions.

At nine the next morning, the temperature is eleven degrees as I walk into the law school. It’s open, but deserted. Leuberg is waiting in his office with hot coffee. We talk for an hour about things he misses in Memphis, law school not being one of them. His office here is much like his office there-cluttered, disheveled, with politically provocative posters and bumper stickers stuck to the walls. He looks the same-wild bushy hair, jeans, white sneakers. He’s wearing socks, but only because there’s a foot of snow on the ground. He’s hyper and energetic.

I follow him down the hall to a small seminar room with a long table in the center of it. He has the key. The file I shipped him is arranged on the table. We sit in chairs opposite one another, and he pours more coffee from a thermos. He knows the trial is six weeks away.

“Any offers to settle?”

“Yeah. Several. They’re up to a hundred and seventy-five thousand, but my client says no.”

“That’s unusual, but I’m not surprised.”

“Why aren’t you surprised?”

“Because you got ‘em nailed. They have great exposure here, Rudy. It’s one of the best bad-faith cases I’ve ever seen, and I’ve looked at thousands.”

“There’s more,” I say, then I tell him about our phone lines being tapped and the strong evidence that Drum-mond is listening in.

“I’ve actually heard of it before,” he says. “Case down in Florida, but the plaintiff’s lawyer didn’t check his phones until after the trial. He got suspicious because the defense seemed to know what he was thinking of doing. But, wow, this is different.”

“They must be scared,” I say.

“They’re terrified, but let’s not get too carried away.

They’re on friendly territory down there. Your county doesn’t believe in punitive damages.”

“So what are you saying?”

“Take the money and run.”

“Can’t do it. I don’t want to. My client doesn’t want to.”

“Good. It’s time to bring those people into the twentieth century. Where’s your tape recorder?” He jumps from his seat and bounces around the room. There’s a chalkboard on a wall, and the professor is ready to lecture. I remove a tape recorder from my briefcase and place it on the table. My pen and legal pad are ready.

Max takes off, and for an hour I scribble furiously and pepper him with questions. He talks about my witnesses, their witnesses, the documents, the various strategies. Max has studied the materials I sent him. He relishes the thought of nailing these people.

“Save the best for last,” the professor says. “Play the tape of that poor kid testifying just before he died. I assume he looks pitiful.”

“Worse.”

“Great. It’s a wonderful image to leave with the jury. If it tries beautifully, then you can finish in three days.”

“Then what?”

“Then sit back and watch them try to explain things.” He suddenly stops and reaches for something on the table. He slides it across to me.

“What is it?”

“It’s Great Benefit’s new policy, issued last month to one of my students. I paid for it, and we’ll cancel it next month. I just wanted to get a look at the language. Guess what’s now excluded, in bold print.”

“Bone marrow transplants.”

“All transplants, including bone marrow. Keep it, and use it at trial. I think you should ask the CEO why the policy was changed just a few months after the Blacks

filed suit. Why do they now specifically exclude bone marrow? And if it wasn’t excluded in the Black policy, then why didn’t they pay the claim? Good stuff, Rudy. Hell, I might have to come watch this trial.”

“Please do.” It’d be comforting to have a friend other than Deck available for consultation.

Max has some problems with our analysis of the claim file, and we’re soon lost in paperwork. I haul the four cardboard boxes from my trunk to the seminar room, and by noon the place resembles a landfill.

His energy is contagious. Over lunch, I get the first of several lectures on insurance company bookkeeping. Since the industry is exempt from federal antitrust, it has developed its own accounting methods. Virtually no competent CPA can understand a set of financials from an insurance company. They’re not supposed to be understood because no insurance company wants the outside world to know what it’s doing. But Max has a few pointers.

Great Benefit is worth between four hundred and five hundred million dollars, about half of it hidden in reserves and surpluses. This is what must be explained to the jury.

I don’t dare suggest the unthinkable, the notion of working on Christmas Day, but Max is gung-ho. His wife is in New York visiting her family. He has nothing else to do, and he sincerely wants to work our way through the remaining two boxes of documents.

I fill three legal pads with notes, and half a dozen cassette tapes with his thoughts about everything. I’m exhausted when he finally says we’re through, sometime after dark, December 25. He helps me repack the boxes and haul them to my car. Another heavy snow is falling.

Max and I say good-bye at the front door of the law school. I can’t thank him enough. He wishes me well, makes me promise to call him at least once a week before

the trial and once a day during it. He says again that there’s a chance he might zip down for it. I wave good-bye in the snow.

IT TAKES THREE DAYS to ramble my way to Spartan-burg, South Carolina. The Volvo handles beautifully on the road, especially in the snow and ice across the Upper Midwest. I call Deck once on my car phone. The office is quiet, he says. No one’s looking for me.

I’ve spent the past three and a half years studying long hours to get my law degree and working whenever I could at Yogi’s. I’ve had little time off. This low-budget journey around the country might seem boring to most folks, but for me it’s a luxurious vacation. It clears my head and soul, allows me to think of things other than the law. I unload some baggage, Sara Plankmore for one. Old grudges are dismissed. Life is too short to despise people who simply can’t help what they’ve done. The grievous sins of Loyd Beck and Barry X. Lancaster are forgiven somewhere in West Virginia. I vow to stop thinking and worrying about Miss Birdie and her miserable family. They can solve their own problems without me.

I go for miles dreaming of Kelly Riker and those perfect teeth and tanned legs and sweet voice.

When I do dwell on legal matters, I focus on the looming trial. There’s only one file in my office that could get anywhere near a courthouse, so there’s only one trial to think about. I practice my opening remarks to the jury. I grill the crooks from Great Benefit. I damn near cry as I plead my final summation.

I get a few stares from passing motorists, but hey, nobody knows me.

I’ve talked to four lawyers whoVe sued or are currently suing Great Benefit. The first three were no help. The fourth lawyer is in Spartanburg. His name is Cooper Jack-

son, and there’s something strange about his case. He couldn’t tell me on the phone (the phone in my apartment). But he said I was welcome to stop by his office and look at his file.

He’s in a bank building downtown, a firm with six lawyers in modern offices. I called yesterday from my car phone somewhere in North Carolina, and he’s available today. Things are slow around Christmas, he said.

He’s a burly man, with thick chest and thick limbs, dark beard and very dark eyes that glow and dance and animate every expression. He’s forty-six, and he tells me he made his money in product liability. He makes sure his office door is closed before he goes any further.

He’s not supposed to tell me most of what he’s about to tell me. He’s settled with Great Benefit, and he and his client signed a strict confidentiality agreement that provides severe sanctions if anyone discloses the terms of the settlement. He doesn’t like these agreements, but they’re not uncommon. He filed suit a year ago for a lady who developed a severe sinus problem and required surgery. Great Benefit denied the claim on the grounds that the lady had failed to disclose on her application the fact that she’d had an ovarian cyst removed five years before she bought the policy. The cyst was a preexisting condition, the denial letter read. The claim amounted to eleven thousand dollars. Other letters were swapped, more denials, then she hired Cooper Jackson. He made four trips to Cleveland, in his own plane, and took eight depositions.

“Dumbest and sleaxiest bunch of bastards I’ve ever run across,” he says, talking about the folks in Cleveland. Jackson loves a nasty trial, and plays the game with no holds barred. He pushed hard for a trial, and Great Benefit suddenly wanted a very quiet settlement.

“This is the confidential part,” he says, relishing the idea of violating the agreement and spilling his guts to me.

I’ll bet he’s told a hundred people. “They paid us the eleven thousand, then threw in another two hundred thousand to make us go away.” His eyes twinkle as he waits for me to respond. It is truly a remarkable settlement because Great Benefit effectively paid a bunch of money in punitive damages. No wonder they insisted on nondisclosure.

“Amazing,” I say.

“Yes it is. Me, I personally didn’t want to settle, but my poor client needed the money. I’m convinced we could’ve popped them for a big verdict.” He tells a few war stories to convince me he’s made a ton of money, then I follow him to a small, windowless room lined with shelves rilled with identical storage boxes. He points to three of them, then leans his heavy frame against the shelves. “Here’s their scheme,” he says, touching a box as if great mysteries are contained therein. “The claim comes in and is assigned to a handler, just a low-level paper pusher. The people in claims are the poorest trained, least paid of all. It’s that way in every insurance company. The glamour is over in investments, not claims or underwriting. The handler reviews it, and immediately begins the process of post-claim underwriting. He or she sends a letter to the insured denying the claim. I’m sure you have such a letter. The handler then orders the medical records for the past five years. The medicals are then reviewed. The insured gets another letter from claims saying, ‘Claim denied, pending further review.’ Here’s where it gets fun. The claims handler then sends the file over to underwriting, and underwriting sends a memo back to claims which says something like ‘Don’t pay this claim until you hear from us.’ There’s more correspondence between claims and underwriting, letters and memos back and forth, paperwork builds up, disagreements ensue, clauses and sub-clauses in the policy become hotly in dispute as these two

departments go to war. Keep in mind, these people work for the same company in the same building, but rarely know each other. Nor do they know anything about what the other department is doing. This is very intentional. Meanwhile, your client is sitting in his trailer getting these letters, some from claims, some from underwriting. Most people give up, and this, of course, is what they’re counting on. About one in twenty-five will actually consult a lawyer.”

I’m recollecting documents and fragments of depositions as Jackson tells me this, and, suddenly, the pieces are falling into place. “How can you prove this?” I ask.

He taps the boxes. “It’s right here. Most of this stuff you don’t need, but I have the manuals.”

“So do I.”

“You’re welcome to go through this. It’s all perfectly organized. I have a great paralegal, two actually.”

Yes, but I, Rudy Baylor, have a paralawyer!

He leaves me with the boxes, and I go straight for the dark green manuals. One is for claims, the other for underwriting. At first, they appear almost identical to the ones I’ve obtained in discovery. The procedures are arranged by sections. There’s an outline in the front, a glossary in the back, they’re nothing more than handbooks for the paper pushers.

Then I notice something different. In the back of the manual for claims, I notice a Section U. My copy does not have this section. I read it carefully, and the conspiracy unravels. The manual for underwriting also has a Section U. It’s the other half of the scheme, precisely as Cooper Jackson described it. The manuals, when read together, direct each department to deny the claim, pending further review, of course, then send the file to the other department with instructions not to pay until further notice.

The further notice never comes. Neither department can pay the claim until the other department says so.

Both Section U’s set forth plenty of directions on how to document each step, basically how to build a paper trail to show, if one day necessary, all the hard work that went into properly evaluating the claim before denying it.

Neither of my manuals has a Section U. They were conveniently removed before they were given to me. They -the crooks in Cleveland and perhaps their lawyers in Memphis-deliberately hid the Section U’s from me. It is, to put it mildly, a staggering discovery.

The shock wears off quickly, and I catch myself laughing at the thought of yanking these sections out at trial and waving them before the jury.

I spend hours digging through the rest of the file, but can’t keep my eyes off the manuals.

COOPER LIKES TO DRINK vodka in his office, but only after 6 P.M. He invites me to join him. He keeps the bottle in a small freezer in a closet that serves as a bar, and he sips it straight, no ice, no water. I sip mine too. About two good drops per drink, and it burns all the way down.

After he drains his first shot glass, he says, “I’m sure you have copies of the various state investigations of Great Benefit.”

I feel completely ignorant, and there’s no sense lying. “No, not really.”

“You need to check them out. I reported the company to the Attorney General of South Carolina, a law school buddy of mine, and they’re investigating now. Same in Georgia. The Commissioner of Insurance in Florida has started an official inquiry. Seems as if an excessive number of claims were denied over a short period of time.”

Months ago, back when I was still a student of the law,

Max Leuberg mentioned filing a complaint with the state Department of Insurance. He also said it probably wouldn’t do any good because the insurance industry was notoriously cozy with those who sought to regulate it.

I can’t help but feel as if I’ve missed something. Hey, this is my first bad-faith case.

“There’s talk of a class action, you know,” he says, his eyes glistening and blinking at me suspiciously. He knows I know nothing about any class action.

“Where?”

“Some lawyers in Raleigh. They have a handful of small bad-faith claims against Great Benefit, but they’re waiting. The company has yet to get hit. I suspect they quietly settle the ones that worry them-.”

“How many policies are out there?” I’ve actually asked this question in discovery, and am still waiting for a reply.

“Just under a hundred thousand. If you figure a claim rate of ten percent, that’s ten thousand claims a year, about the average for the industry. Let’s say they deny, just for the hell of it, half of the claims. Down to five thousand. The average claim is ten thousand dollars. Five thousand times ten thousand is fifty million bucks. And let’s say they spend ten million, just a figure from the air, to settle the few lawsuits that pop up. They clear forty million with their little plot, then maybe the next year they start paying the legitimate claims again. Skip a year, go back to the denial routine. Cook up another scheme. They make so damned much money they can afford to screw anybody.”

I stare at him for a long time, then ask, “Can you prove this?”

“Nope. Just a hunch. It’s probably impossible to prove because it’s so incriminating. This company does some incredibly stupid things, but I doubt if they’re dumb enough to put something this bad in writing.”

I start to mention the Stupid Letter, but decide against it. He’s on a roll. He’ll win every battle of one-upsman-ship.

“Are you active in any trial lawyer groups?” lie asks.

“No. I just started practicing a few months ago.”

“I’m pretty active. There’s a loose network of us lawyers who enjoy suing insurance companies for bad faith. We keep in touch, you know. Lots of gossip. I’m hearing Great Benefit this and Great Benefit that. I think they’ve denied too many claims. Everybody’s sorta waiting for the first big trial to expose them. A huge verdict will start the stampede.”

“I’m not sure about the verdict, but I can guarantee there will be a trial.”

He says he might call his buddies, work the network, interface, gather the gossip, see what’s coming down around the country. And he might just be in Memphis in February to watch the trial. One big verdict, he says again, will burst the dam.

I SPEND HALF of the next day backtracking through Jackson’s file, then thank him and leave. He insists that I keep in touch. He has a hunch that a lot of lawyers will be watching our trial.

Why does this scare me?

I drive to Memphis in twelve hours. As I unload the Volvo behind Miss Birdie’s dark house, a light snow begins to fall. Tomorrow is the new year.

Forty

THE PRETRIAL CONFERENCE IS HELD IN the middle of January in Judge Kipler’s courtroom. He arranges us around the defense table, and stations his bailiff at the door to keep wandering lawyers out. He sits at one end, without his robe, his secretary on one side, his court reporter on the other. I’m to his right, with my back to the courtroom, and across the table is the entire defense team. It’s the first time I’ve seen Drummond since Kord’s deposition on December 12, and it’s a struggle to be civil. Every time I pick up my office phone I can see this well-dressed, perfectly groomed and highly respected thug listening to my conversation.

Both sides have submitted proposed pretrial orders, and we’ll work out the kinks today. The final order will serve as a blueprint for the trial.

Kipler was only slightly surprised when I showed him the manuals I borrowed from Cooper Jackson. He’s carefully compared them to the manuals submitted to me by Drummond. According to His Honor, I am not required

to notify Drummond that I know now they’ve withheld documents. I’m perfectly within the rules to wait until the trial, then spring this on Great Benefit in front of the jury.

It should be devastating. I’ll yank down their pants before the jury and watch them run for cover.

We get to the witnesses. I’ve listed the names of just about everybody connected with the case.

“Jackie Lemancyzk no longer works for my client,” Drummond says.

“Do you know where she is?” Kipler asks me.

“No,” This is true. I’ve made a hundred phone calls to the Cleveland area and have not found a trace of Jackie Lemancyzk. I even convinced Butch to try and track her by phone, and he had the same luck.

“Do you?” he asks Drummond.

“No.”

“So she’s a maybe.”

“That’s correct.”

Drummond and T. Pierce Morehouse think this is funny. They exchange frustrated grins. It won’t be so cute if we’re able to find her and get her to testify. This, however, is a long shot.

“What about Bobby Ott?” Kipler asks.

“Another maybe,” I say. Both sides can list the people they reasonably expect to call at trial. Ott looks doubtful, but if he turns up I want the right to call him as a witness. Again, I’ve had Butch asking around for Bobby Ott.

We discuss experts. I have only two, Dr. Walter Kord and Randall Gaskin, the cancer clinic administrator. Drummond has listed one, a Dr. Milton Jiffy from Syracuse. I chose not to depose him for two reasons. First, it would be too expensive to travel up there and do it, and, more important, I know what he’s going to say. He’ll testify that bone marrow transplants are too experimental to be considered proper and reasonable medical treatments.

Walter Kord is incensed over this, and will help me prepare a cross-examination.

Kipler doubts if Jiffy will ever testify.

We haggle over documents for an hour. Drummond assures the judge that they’ve come clean and handed over everything. He would appear convincing to anyone else, but I suspect he’s lying. So does Kipler.

“What about the plaintiffs request for information about the total number of policies in existence during the past two years, the total number of claims filed for the same period and the total number of claims denied?”

Drummond breathes deeply and just looks downright perplexed. “We’re working on it, Your Honor, I swear we are. The information is scattered in various regional offices around the country. My client has thirty-one state offices, seventeen district offices, five regional offices, it’s just hard to-“

“Does your client have computers?”

Total frustration. “Of course. But it’s not a simple matter of punching a few keys somewhere and, Presto!, here’s the printout.”

“The trial starts in three weeks, Mr. Drummond. I want that information.”

“We’re trying, Your Honor. I remind my client every day.”

“Get it!” Kipler insists, even pointing at the great Leo F. Drummond. Morehouse, Hill, Plunk and Grone collectively sink a few inches, but still keep up their scribbling.

We move on to less sensitive matters. We agree that two weeks should be set aside for the trial, though Kipler has confided in me he plans to push hard for a five-day trial. We finish the conference in two hours.

“Now, gentlemen, what about settlement negotiations?” Of course, I’ve told him their latest offer was a hundred and seventy-five thousand. He also knows Dot

Black cares nothing about settling. She doesn’t want a dime. She wants blood.

“What’s your best offer, Mr. Drummond?”

There are some satisfied looks among the five, as if something dramatic is about to come down. “Well, Your Honor, as of this morning, I’ve been authorized by my client to offer two hundred thousand dollars to settle,” Drummond says with a rather weak effort at drama.

“Mr. Baylor,”

“Sorry. My client has instructed me not to settle.”

“For any amount?”

“That’s correct. She wants a jury in that box over there, and she wants the world to know what happened to her son.”

Shock and bewilderment from the other side of the table. I’ve never seen so much head shaking. The judge himself manages to look puzzled.

I’ve barely talked to Dot since the funeral. The few brief conversations I’ve attempted have not gone well. She’s grieving, and angry, and this is perfectly understandable. She blames Great Benefit, the system, the doctors, the lawyers, sometimes even me for Donny Ray’s death. And I understand this too. She neither needs nor wants their money. She wants justice. As she said on the front porch the last time I stopped by, “I want them sum-bitches outta business.”

“That’s outrageous,” Drummond says dramatically.

“There’s gonna be a trial, Leo,” I say. “Get ready for it.”

Kipler points to a file and his secretary gives it to him. He hands a list of some sort to both Drummond and myself. “Now, these are the names and addresses of the potential jurors. Ninety-two, I believe, though I’m sure some have moved or whatever.” I grab the list and immediately start reading the names. There are a million peo-

pie in this county. Do I really anticipate knowing any of these people? Nothing but strangers.

“We’ll pick the jury a week before the trial, so be ready to go on February 1. You may investigate their backgrounds, but, of course, any direct contact is a serious offense.”

“Where are the questionnaire cards?” Drummond asks. Each prospective juror fills out a card, giving such basic data as age, race, sex, place of employment, type of job and educational level. Often, this is all the information a lawyer has about a juror when the selection process begins.

“We’re working on them. They’ll be mailed tomorrow. Anything else?”

“No sir,” I say.

Drummond shakes his head.

“I want that policy and claims information soon, Mr. Drummond.”

“We’re trying, Your Honor.”

I EAT LUNCH ALONE at the food co-op near our office. Black beans and risotto, herbal tea. I feel healthier every time I come in here. I eat slowly, stirring my beans and staring at the -ninety-two names on the jury list. Drummond, with his limitless resources, will use a team of investigators who’ll seek out these people and explore their lives. They’ll do things like secretly photograph their homes and automobiles, find out if they’ve been involved in any litigation, obtain their credit reports and employment histories, dig for dirt on possible divorces or bankruptcies or criminal charges. They’ll scour public records and learn how much these people paid for their homes. The only prohibition is personal contact, either directly or through an intermediary.

By the time we’re all gathered in the courtroom to se-

lect the chosen twelve, Drummond et al. will have a nice file on each of these people. The files will be evaluated not only by him and his buddies, but they’ll also be thoroughly analyzed by a team of professional jury consultants. In the history of American jurisprudence, jury consultants are a relatively new animal. They’re usually lawyers with some degree of skill and expertise in the study of human nature. Many are also psychiatrists or psychologists. They roam the country selling their horribly expensive skills to those lawyers who can afford them.

In law school, I heard a story about a jury consultant hired by Jonathan Lake for a fee of eighty thousand dollars. The jury brought back a verdict of several million, so the fee was peanuts.

Drummond’s jury consultants will actually be in the courtroom as we select the jury. They’ll be inconspicuous as they watch these unsuspecting people. They’ll study faces and body language and dress and manners and God knows what else.

I, on the other hand, have Deck, who’s a study in human nature in his own right. We’ll get a list to Butch and to Booker, and to anybody else who might recognize a name or two. We’ll make some phone calls, maybe check a few addresses, but our job is much harder. For the most part, we’ll be stuck with the task of trying to select people based on their appearance in court.

Forty-one

I GO TO THE MALL AT LEAST THREE TIMES A week now, usually in time for dinner. In fact, I have my own table on the promenade, next to the railing overlooking the ice rink, where I eat chicken chow mein from Wong’s and watch the small children skate below. The table also gives me a safe view of the pedestrian traffic, so I won’t get caught. She’s walked by only once, alone and going nowhere in particular, it seemed. I wanted so desperately to ease beside her, take her hand and lead her off into a chic little boutique where we could hide between the racks and talk about something.

This is the largest mall for many miles, and at times it’s quite crowded. I watch the people bustle about and wonder if any of them might be on my jury. How do I find ninety-two people out of a million?

Impossible. I do the best with what’s available. Deck and I quickly made flash cards out of the juror questionnaires, and I keep a collection with me at all times.

I sit here tonight, on the promenade, glancing at the people walking the mall, then flashing another card from

my stack: R. C. Badley is the name in bold letters. Age forty-seven, white male, plumber, high school education, lives in a southeast Memphis suburb. I flip the card to make sure my memory is perfect. It is. I’ve done this so much I’m already sick of these people. Their names are tacked to a wall in my office, and I stand there for at least an hour a day studying what I’ve already memorized. Next card: Lionel Barton, age twenty-four, black male, part-time college student and sales clerk at an auto parts store, lives in an apartment in South Memphis.

My model juror is young and black with at least a high school education. It’s ancient wisdom that blacks make better plaintiff’s jurors. They feel for the underdog and distrust white corporate America. Who can blame them?

I have mixed feelings about men versus women. Conventional wisdom says that women are stingier with money because they feel the pinch of the family finances. They’re less likely to return a large award because none of the money will go to their personal checkbooks. But Max Leuberg tends to favor women in this case because they’re mothers. They’ll feel the pain of a lost child. They’ll identify with Dot, and if I do my job well and get them properly inflamed, they’ll try to put Great Benefit out of business. I think he’s right.

So, if I had my way, I’d have twelve black women, preferably all with children.

Deck, of course, has another theory. He’s afraid of blacks because Memphis is so racially polarized. White plaintiff, white defendant, everybody’s white here but the judge. Why should the blacks care?

This is a perfect example of the fallacy of stereotyping jurors by race, class, age, education. The fact is, no one can predict what anybody might do in jury deliberations. I’ve read every book in the law library about jury selec-

tion, and I’m as uncertain now as I was before I read them.

There is only one type of juror to avoid in this case: the white male corporate executive. These guys are deadly in punitive damage cases. They tend to take charge of the deliberations. They’re educated, forceful, organized and don’t care much for trial lawyers. Thankfully, they’re also usually too busy for jury duty. I’ve isolated only five on my list, and I’m sure each will have a dozen reasons to be excused. Kipler, under different circumstances, might give them a hard time. But Kipler, I strongly suspect, doesn’t want these guys either. I’d wager my formidable net worth that His Honor wants black faces in the jury box.

I’M SURE that if I stay in this business I’ll one day think of a dirtier trick, but one’s hard to imagine now. I’ve been thinking about it for weeks, and finally mentioned it to Deck several days ago. He went berserk.

If Drummond and his gang want to listen to my phone, then we’ve decided to give them an earful. We wait until late in the afternoon. I’m at the office. Deck’s around the corner at a pay phone. He calls me. We’ve rehearsed this several times, even have a script.

“Rudy, Deck here. I finally found Dean Goodlow.”

Goodlow is a white male, age thirty-nine, college education, owns a carpet cleaning franchise. He’s a zero on our scale, definitely a juror we don’t want. Drummond would love to have him.

“Where?” I ask.

“Caught him at the office. He’s been out of town for a week. Helluva nice guy. We were dead wrong about him. He’s not at all fond of insurance companies, says he argues with his all the time, thinks they need to be severely regulated. I gave him the facts in our case, and, boy, did

he get mad. He’ll make a great juror.” Deck’s delivery is a bit unnatural, but to the uninformed he sounds believable. He’s probably reading this.

“What a surprise,” I say firmly and crisply into the phone. I want Drummond to grab every syllable.

The thought of lawyers talking to potential jurors before the selection process is incredible, almost unbelievable. Deck and I worried that our ruse might be so absurd that Drummond would know we were faking. But who would’ve thought one lawyer would eavesdrop on his opponent by means of an illegal wiretap? Also, we decided Drummond would fall for our ploy because I’m just an ignorant rookie and Deck is, well, Deck is nothing but a humble paralawyer. We just don’t know any better.

“Was he uneasy about talking?” I ask.

“A little. I told him what I’ve told the rest of them. I’m just an investigator, not a lawyer. And if they don’t tell anybody about our conversation, then nobody’ll get in trouble.”

“Good. And you think Goodlow is with us?”

“No doubt. We gotta get him.”

I ruffle some paper near the phone. “Who’s left on your list?” I ask loudly.

“Lemme see.” I can hear Deck ruffling papers on his end. We’re quite a team. “I’ve talked to Dermont King, Jan DeCell, Lawrence Perotti, Hilda Hinds and RaTilda Browning.”

With the exception of RaTilda Browning, these are white people we don’t want on our jury. If we can pollute their names enough, Drummond will try everything to exclude them.

“What about Dermont King?” I ask

“Solid. Once had to throw an insurance adjuster out of his house. I’d give him a nine.”

“What about Perotti?”

“Great guy. Couldn’t believe an insurance company could actually kill a person. He’s with us.”

“Jan DeCell?”

More paper ruffling. “Let’s see. A very nice lady who wouldn’t talk much. I think she was afraid it wasn’t right or something like that. We talked about insurance companies and such, told her Great Benefit’s worth four hundred million. I think she’ll be with us. Give her a five.”

It’s difficult to keep a straight face. I press the phone deeper into my flesh.

“RaTilda Browning?”

“Radical black gal, no use for white people. She asked me to leave her office, works at a black bank. She won’t give us a dime.”

A long pause as Deck rattles papers. “What about you?” he asks.

“I caught Esther Samuelson at home about an hour ago. Very pleasant lady, in her early sixties. We talked a lot about Dot and how awful it would be to lose a child. She’s with us.”

Esther Samuelson’s late husband was an officer with the Chamber of Commerce for many years. Marvin Shan-kle told me this. I cannot imagine the type of case I’d want to try with her on the jury. She’ll do anything Drum-mond wants.

“Then I found Nathan Butts in his office. He was a little surprised to learn that I was one of the lawyers involved in the case, but he chilled out. Hates insurance companies.”

If Drummond’s heart is still beating at this point, there’s only a faint pulse. The thought of me, the lawyer, and not my investigator out beating the bushes and discussing the facts of the case with potential jurors is enough to blow an artery. By now, however, he’s realized that there is absolutely nothing he can do about it. Any

response on his part will reveal the fact that he can listen to my phone calls. This would get him disbarred immediately. Probably indicted as well.

His only recourse is to stay quiet, and try to avoid these people whose names we’re tossing around.

“I’ve got a few more,” I say. “Let’s chase ‘em until ten or so, then meet here.”

“Okay,” Deck says, tired, his acting much better now.

We hang up, and fifteen minutes later the phone rings. A vaguely familiar voice says, “Rudy Baylor, please.”

“This is Rudy Baylor.”

“This is Billy Porter. You stopped by the shop today.”

Billy Porter is a white male, wears a tie to work and manages a Western Auto. He’s a weak one on our scale to ten. We don’t want him.

“Yes, Mr. Porter, thanks for calling.”

It’s actually Butch. He agreed to help us with a brief cameo. He’s with Deck, both probably huddled over the pay phone trying to stay warm. Butch, ever the consummate professional, went to the Western Auto and talked to Porter about a set of tires. He’s trying his best to imitate his voice. They’ll never see each other again.

“What do you want?” Billy/Butch demands. We told him to appear gruff, then come around quickly.

“Yes, well, it’s about the trial, you know, the one you got a summons for. I’m one of the lawyers.”

“Is this legal?”

“Of course it’s legal, just don’t tell anybody. Look, I represent this little old lady whose son was killed by a company called Great Benefit Life Insurance.”

“Killed?”

“Yep. Kid needed an operation, but the company wrongfully denied the treatment. He died about three months ago of leukemia. That’s why we’ve sued. We really need your help, Mr. Porter.”

“That sounds awful.”

“Worse case I’ve ever seen, and I’ve handled lots of them. And they’re guilty as hell, Mr. Porter, pardon my language. They already offered two hundred thousand bucks to settle, but we’re asking for a lot more. We’re asking for punitive damages, and we need your help.”

“Will I get picked? I really can’t miss work.”

“We’ll pick twelve out of about seventy, that’s all I can tell you. Please try to help us.”

“All right. I’ll do what I can. But I don’t want to serve, you understand.”

“Yes sir. Thanks.”

DECK COMES TO THE OFFICE, where we eat a sandwich. He leaves twice more during the evening and calls me back. We kick around more names, folks we allegedly talk to, all of whom are now most anxious to punish Great Benefit for its misdeeds. We give the impression that both of us are out there on the streets, knocking on doors, pitching our appeals, violating enough ethical canons to get me disbarred for life. And all this horribly sleazy stuff is taking place the night before the jurors gather to be examined!

Of the sixty-odd people who’ll make the next round of cuts and be available for questioning, we’ve managed to cast heavy doubts on a third of them. And we carefully selected the ones we are most fearful of.

I’ll bet Leo Drummond does not sleep a wink tonight.

Forty-two

FIRST IMPRESSIONS ARE CRUCIAL. THE JU-rors arrive between eight-thirty and nine. They walk through the double wooden doors nervously, then shuffle down the aisle, staring, almost gawking at the surroundings. For many, it’s their first visit to a courtroom. Dot and I sit together and alone at the end of our table, facing the rows of padded pews being filled with jurors. Our backs are to the bench. A single legal pad is on our table, nothing else. Deck is in a chair near the jury box, away from us. Dot and I whisper and try to smile. My stomach is cramped with frenzied butterflies.

In sharp contrast, across the aisle the defense table is surrounded by five unsmiling men in black suits, all of whom are poring over piles of paper which completely cover the desk.

My theme of David versus Goliath is decisive, and it begins now. The first thing the jurors see is that I’m out-manned, outgunned and obviously underfunded. My poor little client is frail and weak. We’re no match for those rich folks over there.

Now that we’ve completed discovery, I’ve come to realize how unnecessary it is to have five lawyers defending this case. Five very good lawyers. Now, I’m amazed that Drammond does not realize how menacing this looks to the jurors. His client must be guilty of something. Why else would they use five lawyers against only one of me?

They refused to speak to me this morning. We kept our distance, but the sneers and scowls of contempt told me they’re appalled by my direct contact with the jurors. They’re shocked and disgusted, and they don’t know what to do about it. With the exception of stealing money from a client, contacting potential jurors is probably the gravest sin a lawyer can commit. It ranks right up there with illegal wiretaps on your opponent’s phone. They look stupid trying to appear indignant.

The clerk of the court herds the panel together on one side, then seats them in random order on the other side, in front of us. From the list of ninety-two, sixty-one people are here. Some could not be found. Two were dead. A handful claimed to be sick. Three invoked their age as an excuse. Kipler excused a few others for various personal reasons. As the clerk calls out each name I make notes. I feel like I’ve known these people for months. Number six is Billy Porter, the Western Auto manager who allegedly called me last night. It’ll be interesting to see what Drum-mond does to him.

Jack Underhall and Kermit Aldy are representing Great Benefit. They sit behind Drummond and his team. That’s seven suits, seven serious and forbidding faces glowering at the jury pool. Lighten up, guys! I keep a pleasant look on my face.

Kipler enters the courtroom and everybody rises. Court is opened. He welcomes the panel, and delivers a brief and effective speech on jury service and good citizenship. A few hands go up when he asks jf there are valid excuses.

He instructs them to approach the bench one at a time, where they plead their cases in muted voices. Four of the five corporate execs on my blacklist whisper with the judge. Not surprisingly, he excuses them.

This takes time, but it allows us to study the panel. Based on the way they’re seated, we’ll probably not get past the first three rows. That’s thirty-six. We need only twelve, plus two alternates.

On the benches directly behind the defense table, I notice two well-dressed strangers. Jury consultants, I presume. They watch every move from these people. Wonder what our little ploy did to their in-depth psychological profiles? Ha, ha, ha. Bet they’ve never had to factor in a couple of nuts out there the night before chatting with the jury pool.

His Honor dismisses seven more, so we’re down to fifty. He then gives a sketchy summary of our case, and introduces the parties and the lawyers. Buddy is not in the courtroom. Buddy is in the Fairlane.

Kipler then starts the serious questioning. He urges the jurors to raise their hands if they need to respond in any way. Do any of you know any of the parties, any of the lawyers, any of the witnesses? Any of you have policies issued by Great Benefit? Any of you involved in litigation? Any of you ever sued an insurance company?

There are a few responses. They raise their hands, then stand and talk to His Honor. They’re nervous, but after a few do it the ice is broken. There’s a humorous comment, and everybody relaxes a bit. At times, and for very brief intervals, I tell myself that I belong here. I can do this. I’m a lawyer. Of course, I have yet to open my mouth.”

Kipler gave me a list of his questions, and he’ll ask everything I want to know. Nothing wrong with this. He gave the same list to Drummond.

I make notes, watch the people, listen carefully to

what’s said. Deck is doing the same thing. This is cruel, but I’m almost glad the jurors don’t know he’s with me.

It drags on as Kipler plows through the questions. After almost two hours, he’s finished. The vicious knot returns to my stomach. It’s time for Rudy Baylor to say his first words in a real trial. It’ll be a brief appearance.

I stand, walk to the bar, give them a warm smile and say the words that I’ve practiced a thousand times. “Good morning. My name is Rudy Baylor, and I represent the Blacks.” So far so good. After two hours of being hammered from the bench, they’re ready for something different. I look at them warmly, sincerely. “Now, Judge Kipler has asked a lot of questions, and these are very important. He’s covered everything I wanted to ask, so I won’t waste time. In fact, I have only one question. Can any of you think of any reason why you shouldn’t serve on this jury and hear this case?”

No response is expected, and none is received. They’ve been looking at me for over two hours, and I merely want to say hello, give them another nice smile and be very brief. There are few things in life worse than a long-winded lawyer. Plus, I have a hunch Drummond will hit them pretty hard.

“Thank you,” I say with a smile, then I slowly turn to the bench and say loudly, “The panel looks fine to me, Your Honor.” I return to my seat, patting Dot on the shoulder as I sit.

Drummond is already on his feet. He tries to look calm and affable, but the man is burning. He introduces himself and begins by talking about his client, and the fact that Great Benefit is a big company with a healthy balance sheet. It’s not to be punished for this, you understand? Will this influence any of you? He’s actually arguing the case, which is improper. But he’s close enough to the line not to get called down. I’m not sure if I should object. I’ve

vowed that 111 do so only when I’m certain I’m right. This line of questioning is very effective. His smooth voice begs to be trusted. His graying hair conveys wisdom and experience.

He covers a few more areas without a single response. He’s planting seeds. Then it hits the fan.

“Now, what I’m about to ask you is the most important question of the day,” he says gravely. “Please listen to me carefully. This is crucial.” A long, dramatic pause. A deep breath. “Have any of you been contacted about this case?”

The courtroom is perfectly still as his words linger, then slowly settle. It’s more of an accusation than a question. I glance at their table. Hill and Plunk are glaring at me. Morehouse and Grone are watching the jurors.

Drummond is frozen for a few seconds, ready to pounce on the first person who’s brave enough to raise a hand and say, “Yes! The plaintiff’s lawyer stopped by my house last night!” Drummond knows it’s coming, he just knows it. He’ll extract the truth, expose me and my corrupt paralawyer partner, move to have me admonished, sanctioned and ultimately disbarred. The case will be postponed for years. It’s coming!

But his shoulders slowly sink. The air quietly rushes from his lungs. Buncha lying schmucks!

“This is very important,” he says. “We need to know.” His tone is one of distrust.

Nothing. No movement anywhere. But they’re watching him intensely, and he’s making them very uneasy. Keep going, big boy.

“Let me ask it another way,” he says, very coolly. “Did any of you have a conversation yesterday with either Mr. Baylor here or Mr. Deck Shifflet over there?”

I lunge to my feet. “Objection, Your Honor! This is absurd!”

Kipler is ready to come over the bench. “Sustained! What are you doing, Mr. Drummond!” Kipler yells this directly into his microphone, and the walls shake.

Drummond is facing the bench. “Your Honor, we have reason to believe this panel has been tampered with.”

“Yeah, and he’s accusing me,” I say angrily.

“I don’t understand what you’re doing, Mr. Drummond,” Kipler says.

“Perhaps we should discuss it in chambers,” Drummond says, glaring at me.

“Let’s go,” I shoot back, as if I’m just itching for a fight.

“A brief recess,” Kipler says to his bailiff.

DRUMMOND AND I sit across the desk from His Honor. The other four Trent & Brents stand behind us. Kipler is extremely perturbed. “You better have your reasons,” he says to Drummond.

“This panel has been tampered with,” Drummond says.

“How do you know this?”

“I can’t say. But I know it for a fact.”

“Don’t play games with me, Leo. I want proof.”

“I can’t say, Your Honor, without divulging confidential information.”

“Nonsense! Talk to me.”

“It’s true, Your Honor.”

“Are you accusing me?” I ask.

“Yes.”

“You’re out of your mind.”

“You are acting rather bizarre, Leo,” His Honor says.

“I think I can prove it,” he says smugly.

“How?”

“Let me finish questioning the panel. The truth will come out.”

“They haven’t budged yet.”

“But I’ve barely started.”

Kipler thinks about this for a moment. When this trial’s over, I’ll tell him the truth.

“I would like to address certain jurors individually,” Drummond says. This is usually not done, but it’s within the judge’s discretion.

“What about it, Rudy?”

“No objection.” Personally, I can’t wait for Drummond to start grilling those we allegedly polluted. “I have nothing to hide.” A couple of the turds behind me cough at this.

“Very well. It’s your grave you’re digging, Leo. Just don’t get out of line.”

“WHAT’D Y’ALL DO in there?” Dot asks when I return to the table.

“Just lawyer stuff,” I whisper. Drummond is at the bar. The jurors are highly suspicious of him.

“Now, as I was saying. It’s very important that you tell us if anyone has contacted you and talked about this case. Please raise your hand if this has happened.” He sounds like a first-grade teacher.

No hands anywhere.

“It’s a very serious matter when a juror is contacted either directly or indirectly by any of the parties involved in a trial. In fact, there could be severe repercussions for both the person initiating the contact, and also for the juror if the juror fails to report it.” This has a deathly ring to it.

No hands. No movement. Nothing but a bunch of people who are quickly getting angry.

He shifts weight from one foot to the next, rubs his chin and zeroes in on Billy Porter.

“Mr. Porter,” he says in a deep voice, and Billy feels zapped. He bolts upright, nods. His cheeks turn red.

“Mr. Porter, I’m going to ask you a direct question. I’d appreciate an honest response.”

“You ask an honest question and I’ll give you an honest answer,” Porter says angrily. This is a guy with a short fuse. Frankly, I’d leave him alone.

Drummond is stopped for a second, then plunges onward. “Yes, now, Mr. Porter, did you or did you not have a phone conversation last night with Mr. Rudy Baylor?”

I stand, spread my arms, look blankly at Drummond as if I’m completely innocent and he’s lost his mind, but say nothing.

“Hell no,” Porter says, the cheeks getting redden

Drummond leans on the railing, both hands clutching the thick mahogany bar. He stares down at Billy Porter, who’s on the front row, less than five feet away.

“Are you sure, Mr. Porter?” he demands.

“I damned sure am!”

“I think you did,” Drummond says, out of control now and over the edge. Before I can object and before Kipler can call him down, Mr. Billy Porter charges from his seat and pounces on the great Leo F. Drummond.

“Don’t call me a liar, you sonofabitch!” Porter screams as he grabs Drummond by the throat. Drummond falls over the railing, his tassled loafers flipping through the air. Women scream. Jurors jump from their seats. Porter is on top of Drummond, who’s grappling and wrestling and kicking and trying to land a punch or two.

T. Pierce Morehouse and M. Alec Plunk Junior dash from their seats and arrive at the melee first. The others follow. The bailiff is quick on the scene. Two of the male jurors try to break it up.

I stay in my seat, thoroughly enjoying the thrashing. Kipler makes it to the bar about the time Porter is pulled off and L”rummond gets to his feet and the combatants are safely separated. A tassled loafer is found under the

second bench, and returned to Leo, who’s brushing himself off while keeping a wary eye on Porter. Porter is restrained and settling down quickly.

The jury consultants are shocked. Their computer models are blown. Their fancy theories are out the window. They are utterly useless at this point.

AFTER A SHORT RECESS, Drummond makes a formal morion to dismiss the entire panel. Kipler declines.

Mr. Billy Porter is excused from jury duty, and leaves in a huff. I think he wanted some more of Drummond. I hope he waits outside to finish him off.

THE EARLY AFTERNOON is spent in chambers going through the tedious process of picking jurors. Drummond and his gang firmly avoid any of the people Deck and I mentioned on the phone last night. They’re convinced we somehow got to these folks, and somehow persuaded them to remain quiet. They’re so bitter they will not look at me.

The result is a jury of my dreams. Six black females, all mothers. Two black males, one a college graduate, one a disabled former truck driver. Three white males, two of whom are union workers. The other lives about four blocks from the Blacks. One white female, the wife of a prominent realtor. I couldn’t avoid her, and I’m not worried. It takes only nine of the twelve to agree on a verdict.

Kipler seats them at 4 P.M., and they take their oaths. He explains that the trial will start in a week. They are not to talk about the case with anyone. He then does something that at first terrifies me, but on second thought is a wonderful idea. He asks both attorneys, me and Drummond, if we’d like to make a few comments to the |uiy,”off the record and informal. Just tell a little about your case. Nothing fancy.

I, of course, was not expecting this, primarily because it’s unheard of. Nonetheless, I shake off my fear, and stand before the jury box. I tell them a little about Donny Ray, about the policy and why we think Great Benefit is wrong. In five minutes I’m finished.

Drummond walks to the box, and a blind person could see the distrust he’s created with the jury. He apologizes for the incident, but stupidly blames most of it on Porter. What an ego. He talks about his version of the facts, says he’s sorry about Donny Ray’s death, but to suggest his client is responsible is ludicrous.

I watch his team and the boys from Great Benefit, and it’s a scared bunch. They have a rotten set of facts. They have a plaintiffs jury. The judge is an enemy. And their star not only lost all credibility with the jury but got his ass whipped as well.

Kipler adjourns us, and the jury goes home.

Forty-three

SIX DAYS AFTER WE PICK THE JURY AND four days before the trial begins, Deck takes a call at the office from a lawyer in Cleveland who wants to speak with me. I’m immediately suspicious because I don’t know a single lawyer in Cleveland, and I chat with the guy just long enough to get his name. Takes about ten seconds, then I gently cut him off in mid-sentence and go through a little routine as if we’ve somehow been disconnected. It’s been happening all the time lately, I tell Deck loud enough to be recorded in the receiver. We take the three office phones off the hook, and I run to the street where the Volvo is parked. Butch has checked my car phone and it appears remarkably free of bugging devices. Using directory assistance, I call the lawyer in Cleveland. It turns out to be an immensely important phone call. His name is Peter Corsa. His speciality is labor law and employment discrimination of all types, and he represents a young lady by the name of Jackie Lemancyzk. She found her way to his office after she was suddenly fired from Great Benefit for no apparent reason, and together they

plan to seek redress for a multitude of grievances. Contrary to what I’d been told, Ms. Lemancyzk has not left Cleveland. She’s in a new apartment with an unlisted phone.

I explain to Corsa that we’ve made dozens of phone calls to the Cleveland area, but haven’t found a trace of Jackie Lemancyzk. I was told by one of the corporate boys, Richard Pellrod, that she’d returned to her home somewhere in southern Indiana.

Not true, says Corsa. She never left Cleveland, though she has been hiding.

It evolves into a wonderfully juicy story, and Corsa spares no details.

His client was sexually involved with several of her bosses at Great Benefit. He assures me she’s very attractive. Her promotions and pay were given or denied based on her willingness to hop into bed. At one point she was a senior claims examiner, the only female to reach that position, but got herself demoted when she broke off an affair with the VP of Claims, Everett Lufkin, who appears to be nothing more than a weasel but has a fondness for kinky sex.

I concur that he appears to be nothing more than a weasel. I had him in deposition for four hours, and I’ll assault him next week on the witness stand.

Their lawsuit will be for sexual harassment and other actionable practices, but she also knows a lot about Great Benefit’s dirty laundry in the claims department. She was sleeping with the VP of Claims! Lots of lawsuits are coming, he predicts.

I finally pop the big question. “Will she come testify?”

He doesn’t know. Maybe. But she’s scared. These are nasty people with lots of money. She’s in therapy now, really fragile.

He agrees to allow me to talk to her by phone, and we

make arrangements for a late night call from my apartment. I explain that it’s not a good idea to call me at the office.

IT’S IMPOSSIBLE to think about anything but the trial. When Deck’s not at the office, I pace around talking to myself, telling the jury how truly awful Great Benefit is, cross-examining their people, delicately questioning Dot and Ron and Dr. Kord, pleading with the jury in a rather spellbinding closing argument. It is still difficult to ask the jury for ten million in punitive and keep a straight face. Perhaps if I were fifty years old and had tried hundreds of cases and knew what the hell I was doing, then maybe I would have the right to ask a jury for ten million. But for a rookie nine months out of school it seems ridiculous.

But I ask them anyway. I ask them at the office, in my car and especially in my apartment, often at two in the morning when I can’t sleep. I talk to these people, these twelve faces I can now put with names, these wonderfully fair folks who listen to me and nod and can’t wait to get back there and dispense justice.

I’m about to strike gold, to destroy Great Benefit in open court, and I struggle every hour ‘to control these thoughts. Damn, it’s hard. The facts, the jury, the judge, the frightened lawyers on the other side. It’s adding up to a lot of money.

Something has got to go wrong.

I TALK TO JAGKIE LEMANCYZK for an hour. At times she sounds strong and forceful, at times she can barely hold it together. She didn’t want to sleep with these men, she keeps saying, but it was the only way to advance. She’s divorced with a couple of kids.

She agrees to come to Memphis. I offer to fly her down and cover her expenses, and I’m able to convey this with

the calm assurance that my firm has plenty of money. She makes me promise that if she testifies, it has to be a complete surprise to Great Benefit.

She’s scared to death of them. I think a surprise would be lovely.

WE LIVE AT THE OFFICE over the weekend, napping only a few hours at our respective apartments, then returning like lost sheep to the office to prepare some more.

My rare moments of relaxation can be attributed to Tyrone Kipler. I’ve silently thanked him a thousand times for selecting the jury a week before the trial, and for allowing me to address them with a few off-the-cuff remarks. The jury was once a great part of the unknown, an element I feared immensely. Now I know their names and faces, and I’ve chatted with them without the benefit of written notes. They like me. And they dislike my opponent.

However deep my inexperience runs, I truly believe Judge Kipler will save me from myself.

Deck and I say good night around midnight, Sunday. A light snow is falling as I leave the office. A light snow in Memphis usually means no school for a week and the closing of all government offices. The city has never purchased a snowplow. Part of me wants a blizzard so tomorrow will be delayed. Part of me wants to get it over with.

By the time I drive to my apartment, the snow has stopped. I drink two warm beers and pray for sleep.

“ANY PRELIMINARY MATTERS?” Kipler says to a tense group in his office. I’m sitting next to Drummond, both of us looking across the desk at His Honor. My eyes are red from a fitful night, my head aches and my brain thinks of twenty things at once.

I am surprised at how tired Drummond looks. For a

guy who spends his life in courtrooms, he looks exceptionally haggard. Good. I hope he worked all weekend too.

“I can’t think of anything,” I say. No surprise, I rarely add much to these little meetings.

Drummond shakes his head no.

“Is it possible to stipulate to the cost of a bone marrow transplant?” Kipler asks. “If so, then we can eliminate Gaskin as a witness. Looks like the cost is about a hundred and seventy-five thousand.”

“Fine with me,” I say.

Defense lawyers earn more if they stipulate to less, but Drummond has nothing to gain here. “Sounds reasonable,” he says indifferently.

“Is that a yes?” Kipler demands harshly.

“Yes.”

“Thank you. And what about the other costs. Looks like about twenty-five thousand. Can we agree that the amount of the claim for the actual damages sought by the plaintiff is an even two hundred thousand? Can we do this?” He’s really glaring at Drummond.

“Fine with me,” I say, and I’m sure it really irritates Drummond.

“Yes,” Drummond says.

Kipler writes something on his legal pad. “Thank you. Now, anything else before we get started? How about settlement possibilities?”

“Your Honor,” I say firmly. This has been well planned. “On behalf of my client, I’d like to offer to settle this matter for one point two million.”

Defense lawyers are trained to express shock and disbelief with any settlement proposal made by a plaintiffs lawyer, and my offer is met with the expected shaking of heads and clearing of throats and even a slight chuckle from somewhere behind me, where the minions are clustered.

“You wish,” Drummond says acidly. I truly believe Leo is sliding off the edge. When this case started he was quite the gentleman, a very polished pro both in the courtroom and out. Now he acts like a pouting sophomore.

“No counterproposal, Mr. Drummond?” Kipler asks.

“Our offer stands at two hundred thousand.”

“Very well. Let’s get this thing started. Each side will get fifteen minutes for opening statements, but of course you don’t have to use it all.”

My opening statement has been timed a dozen times at six and a half minutes. The jury is brought in, welcomed by His Honor, given a few instructions, then turned over to me.

If I do this sort of thing very often, then maybe one day I’ll develop some talent for drama. That’ll have to wait. Right now I just want to get through it. I hold a legal pad, glance at it once or twice, and tell the jury about my case. I stand beside the podium, hopefully looking quite law-yerly in my new gray suit. The facts are so strongly in my favor that I don’t want to belabor them. There was a policy, the premiums were paid on time every week, it covered Donny Ray, he got sick, and then he got screwed. He died for obvious reasons. You, the jurors, will get to meet Donny Ray, but only by means of a videotape. He’s dead. The purpose of this case is not only to collect from Great Benefit what it should have paid to begin with, but also to punish it for its wrongdoing. It’s a very rich company, made its money by collecting premiums and not paying the claims. When all the witnesses have finished, then I’ll be back to ask you, the jurors, for a large sum of money to punish Great Benefit.

It’s crucial to plant this seed early. I want them to know that we’re after big bucks, and that Great Benefit deserves to be punished.

The opening statement goes smoothly. I don’t stutter or

shake or draw objections from Drummond. I predict Leo will keep his butt in his chair for most of the trial. He doesn’t want to be embarrassed by Kipler, not in front of this jury.

I take my seat next to Dot. We’re all alone at our long table.

Drummond strides confidently to the jury box and holds a copy of the policy. He gets off to a dramatic start: “This is the policy purchased by Mr. and Mrs. Black,” he says, holding it up for everyone to see. “And nowhere in this policy does it say that Great Benefit has to pay for transplants.” A long pause as this sinks in. The jurors don’t like him, but this has their attention. “This policy costs eighteen dollars a week, does not cover bone marrow transplants, yet the plaintiffs expected my client to pay two hundred thousand dollars for, you guessed it, a bone marrow transplant. My client refused to do so, not out of any malice toward Donny Ray Black. It wasn’t a matter of life or death to my client, it was a matter of what’s covered in this policy.” He waves the policy dramatically, and quite effectively. “Not only do they want the two hundred thousand dollars they’re not entitled to, they also have sued my client for ten million dollars in extra damages. They call them punitive damages. I call them ridiculous. I call it greed.”

This is finding its mark, but it’s risky. The policy specifically excludes transplants for every organ transplantable, but doesn’t mention bone marrow. Its drafters screwed up and left it out. The new policy given to me by Max Leuberg includes language that excludes bone marrow.

The defense strategy becomes clear. Instead of soft-pedaling by admitting a mistake was made by unknown incompetents deep within a huge company, Drummond is conceding nothing. He’ll claim bone marrow transplants

are very unreliable, bad medicine, certainly not an accepted and routine method of treating acute leukemia.

He sounds like a doctor talking about the odds against finding a suitable donor, millions to one in some cases, and the odds against a successful transplant. Over and over he repeats himself by saying, “It’s simply not in the policy.”

He decides to push me. The second time he mentions the word “greed,” I leap to my feet and object. The opening statement is not the place for argument. That’s saved for last. He’s allowed to tell the jury only what he thinks the evidence will prove.

Kipler, the beloved, quickly says, “Sustained.”

First blood is mine.

“I’m sorry, Your Honor,” Drummond says sincerely, He talks about his witnesses, who they are and what they’ll say. He loses steam and should quit after ten minutes. Kipler calls time on him at fifteen, and Drummond thanks the jury.

“Call your first witness, Mr. Baylor,” Kipler says. I don’t have time to be scared.

Dot Black walks nervously to the witness stand, takes her oath and her seat and looks at the jurors. She’s wearing a plain cotton dress, a very old one, but she looks neat.

We have a script, Dot and 1.1 gave it to her a week ago, and we’ve gone over it ten times. I ask the questions, she answers them. She’s scared to death, rightfully so, and her answers sound awfully wooden and practiced. I told her it’s okay to be nervous. The jurors are nothing if not humans. Names, husband, family, employment, policy, life with Donny Ray before the illness, during the illness, since his death. She wipes her eyes a few times, but keeps her composure. I told Dot tears should be avoided. Everyone can imagine her grief.

She describes the frustration of being a mother and not

being able to provide health care for a dying son. She wrote and called Great Benefit many times. She wrote and called congressmen and senators and mayors, all in a vain effort to find help. She pestered local hospitals to provide free care. She organized friends and neighbors to try and raise the money, but failed miserably. She identifies the policy and the application. She answers my questions about the purchase of it, the weekly visits by Bobby Ott to collect the payments.

Then we get to the good stuff. I hand her the first seven letters of denial, and Dot reads them to the jury. They sound worse than I hoped. Denial outright, for no reason. Denial from claims, subject to review by underwriting. Denial by underwriting, subject to review by claims. Denial from claims based on preexisting condition. Denial from underwriting based on the fact that Donny Ray was not a member of the household since he was an adult. Denial from claims based on the assertion that bone marrow transplants are not covered by the policy. Denial from claims based on the assertion that bone marrow transplants are too experimental and thus not an acceptable method of treatment.

The jurors hang on every word. The stench is descending.

And then, the Stupid Letter. As Dot reads it to the jury, I watch their faces intently. Several are visibly stunned. Several blink in disbelief. Several glare at the defense table, where, oddly enough, all members of the defense team are staring down in deep meditation.

When she finishes, the courtroom is silent.

“Please read it again,” I say.

“Objection,” Drummond says, quickly on his feet.

“Overruled,” Kipler snaps.

Dot reads it again, this time with more deliberation and feeling. This is exactly where I want to leave Dot, so I

tender the witness. Drummond takes the podium. It would be a mistake for him to get rough with her, and I’ll be surprised if he does.

He starts with some vague questions about former policies she carried, and why she happened to purchase this particular policy. What did she have in mind when she bought it? Dot just wanted coverage for her family, that’s all. And that’s what the agent promised. Did the agent promise her the policy would cover transplants?

“I wasn’t thinking of transplants,” she says. “I never had need of one.” This causes some smiles in the jury box, but no one laughs.

Drummond tries to press her on whether she intended to purchase a policy that would cover bone marrow transplants. She’d never heard of them, she keeps telling him.

“So you didn’t specifically request a policy that would cover them?” he asks.

“I wasn’t thinking of these things when I bought the policy. I just wanted full coverage.”

Drummond scores a weak point on this, but I think and hope it will soon be forgotten by the jury.

“Why’d you sue Great Benefit for ten million dollars?” he asks. This question can produce disastrous results early in a trial because it makes the plaintiff appear greedy. The damages sought in lawsuits are often just figures pulled out of the air by the lawyer with no input from the clients. I certainly didn’t ask Dot how much she wanted to sue for.

But I knew the question was coming because I’ve studied the transcripts from Drummond’s old trials. Dot is ready.

“Ten million?” she asks.

“That’s right, Mrs. Black. You’ve sued my client for ten million dollars.”

“Is that all?” she asks.

“I beg your pardon.”

“I thought it was more than that.”

“Is that so?”

“Yeah. Your client’s got a billion dollars, and your client killed my son. Hell, I wanted to sue for a lot more.”

Drummond’s knees buckle slightly and he shifts his weight. He keeps smiling though, a remarkable talent. Instead of retreating behind a harmless question or even taking his seat, he makes one last mistake with Dot Black. It’s another of his stock questions. “What’re you going to do with the money if the jury gives you ten million dollars?”

Imagine trying to answer this on the spur of the moment in open court. Dot, however, is very ready. “Give it to the American Leukemia Society. Every penny. I don’t want a dime of your stinkin’ money.”

“Thank you,” Drummond says, and quickly gets to his table.

Two of the jurors are actually snickering as Dot leaves the witness stand and takes her seat next to me. Drummond looks pale.

“How’d I do?” she whispers.

“You kicked ass, Dot,” I whisper back.

“I gotta have a smoke.”

“We’ll break in a minute.”

I call Ron Black to the stand. He too has a script, and his testimony lasts for less than thirty minutes. All we need from Ron is the fact that the tests were run on him, he was a perfect match for his twin brother and that at all times he was ready to be the donor. Drummond has no cross-exam. It’s almost eleven, and Kipler orders a ten-minute recess.

Dot runs to the rest room to hide in a stall and smoke. I warned her against smoking in front of the jurors. Deck and I huddle at our table and compare notes. He sits

behind me, and he’s been watching the jurors. The denial letters got their attention. The Stupid Letter infuriated them.

Keep them mad, he says. Keep ‘em riled. Punitive damages come down only when a jury is angry.

Dr. Walter Kord presents a striking figure as he takes the stand. He wears a plaid sport coat, dark slacks, red tie, very much the successful young doctor. He’s a Memphis boy, local prep school, then off to college at Vanderbilt and med school at Duke. Impeccable credentials. I go through his resume and have no trouble qualifying him as an expert in oncology. I hand him Donny Ray’s medical records, and he gives the jury a nice summary of his treatment. Kord uses layman’s terms whenever possible, and he’s quick to explain the medical vernacular. He’s a doctor, trained to hate courtrooms, but he’s very at ease with -himself and the jury.

“Can you explain the disease to the jury, Dr. Kord?” I ask.

“Of course. Acute myelocytic leukemia, or AML, is a disease that strikes two age groups, the first being young adults ranging in age from twenty to thirty, and the second being older people, usually above the age of seventy. Whites get AML more than nonwhites, and for some unknown reason, people of Jewish ancestry get the disease -<tnore than others. Men get it more than women. For the most part, the cause of the disease is unknown.

“The body manufactures its blood in the bone marrow, and this is where AML strikes. The white blood cells, which are the ones in charge of fighting infection, become malignant in acute leukemia and the white cell count often rises to one hundred times normal. When this happens, the red blood cells are suppressed, leaving the patient pale, weak and anemic. As the white cells grow uncontrollably, they also choke off the normal production of

platelets, the third type of cell found in bone marrow. This leads to easy bruising, bleeding and headaches. When Donny Ray first came to my office, he complained of dizziness, shortness of breath, fatigue, fever and flu-like symptoms.”

When Kord and I were practicing last week, I asked him to refer to him as Donny Ray, not as Mr. Black or patient this or that.

“And what did you do?” I ask. This is easy, I tell myself.

“I ran a routine diagnostic procedure known as a bone marrow aspiration.”

“Can you explain this to the jury?”

“Sure. With Donny Ray, the test was done in his hip bone. I placed him on his stomach, deadened a small area of skin, made a tiny opening, then inserted a large needle. The needle actually has two parts, the outer part is a hollow tube, and inside it is a solid tube. After the needle was inserted into the bone marrow, the solid tube was removed and an empty suction tube was attached to the opening of the needle. This acts sort of like a syringe, and I extracted a small amount of liquid bone marrow. After the bone marrow was aspirated, or removed, we ran the usual tests by measuring the white and red blood cells. There was no doubt he had acute leukemia.”

“What does this test cost?” I ask.

“Around a thousand dollars.” f

“And how did Donny Ray pay for it?”

“When he first came to the office, he filled out the normal forms and said he was covered under a medical policy issued by Great Benefit Life Insurance Company. My staff checked with Great Benefit, and verified that such a policy did in fact exist. I proceeded with the treatment.”

I hand him copies of the documents relevant to this, and he identifies them.

“Did you get paid by Great Benefit?”

“No. We were notified by the company that the claim was being denied for several reasons. Six months later the bill was written off. Mrs. Black has been paying fifty dollars a month.”

“How did you treat Donny Ray?”

“By what we call induction therapy. He entered the hospital and I placed a catheter into a large vein under his collarbone. The first induction of chemotherapy was with a drug called ara-C, which goes into the body for twenty-four hours a day, seven straight days. A second drug called idarubicin was also given during the first three days. It’s called ‘red death’ because of its red color and its extreme effect of wiping out the cells in the bone marrow. He was given Allopurinol, an anti-gout agent, because gout is common when large numbers of blood cells are killed. He received intensive intravenous fluids to flush the by-prod-” ucts out of his kidneys. He was given antibiotics and anti-fungus treatments because he was susceptible to infection. He was given a drug called amphotericin B, which is a treatment for funguses. This is a very toxic drug, and it ran his temperature to 104. It also caused uncontrolled shaking, and that’s why amphotericin B is known as ’shake and bake.’ In spite of this, he handled it well, with a very positive attitude for a very sick young man.

“The theory behind intensive induction therapy is to kill every cell in the bone marrow and hopefully create an environment where normal cells can grow back faster than leukemic cells.”

“Does this happen?”

“For a short period of time. But we treat every patient with the knowledge that the leukemia will reappear, unless of course the patient undergoes bone marrow transplantation.”

“Can you explain to the jury, Dr. Kord, how you perform a bone marrow transplant?”

“Certainly. It’s not a terribly complicated procedure. After the patient goes through the chemotherapy I just described, and if he or she is lucky enough to find a donor whose match is close enough genetically, then we extract the marrow from the donor and infuse through an intravenous tube to the recipient. The idea is to transfer from one patient to another an entire population of bone marrow cells.”

“Was Ron Black a suitable donor for Donny Ray?”

“Absolutely. He’s an identical twin, and they’re the easiest. We ran tests on both men, and the transplant would’ve been easy. It would’ve worked.”

Drummond jumps to his feet. “Objection. Speculation. The doctor can’t testify as to whether or not the transplant would’ve worked.”

“Overruled. Save it for cross-examination.”

I ask a few more questions about the procedure, and while Kord answers I pay attention to the jurors. They’re listening and following closely, but it’s time to wrap this up.

“Do you recall approximately when you were ready to perform the transplant?”

He looks at his notes, but he knows the answers. “August of ‘91. About eighteen months ago.”

“Would such a transplant increase the likelihood of surviving acute leukemia?”

“Certainly.”

“By how much?”

“Eighty to ninety percent.”

“And the chances of surviving without a transplant?”

“Zero.”

“I tender the witness.”

It’s after twelve, and time for lunch. Kipler adjourns us

until one-thirty. Deck volunteers to fetch deli sandwiches, and Kord and I prep for the next round. He’s savoring the idea of sparring with Drummond.

I’LL NEVER KNOW how many medical consultants Drummond employed to prepare for trial. He’s not obligated to disclose this. He has only one expert listed as a potential witness. Dr. Kord has repeatedly assured me that bone marrow transplantation is now so widely accepted as the preferred means of treatment that no one but a quack would claim otherwise. He’s given me dozens of articles and papers, even books, to support our position that this is simply the best way to treat acute leukemia.

Evidently, Drummond discovered pretty much the same thing. He’s not a doctor, and he’s asserting a weak position, so he doesn’t quarrel too much with Kord. The skirmish is brief. His main point is that very few acute leukemia patients receive bone marrow transplants compared with those who don’t. Less than five percent, Kord says, but only because it’s hard to find a donor. Nationwide, about seven thousand transplants occur each year.

Those lucky enough to find a donor have a much greater chance of living. Donny Ray was a lucky one. He had a donor.

Kord looks almost disappointed when Drummond surrenders after a few quick questions. I have no redirect, and Kord is excused.

The next moment is very tense because I’m about to announce which corporate executive I want to testify. Drummond asked me this morning, and I said I hadn’t made up my mind. He complained to Kipler, who said I didn’t have to reveal it until I was ready. They’re sequestered in a witness room down the hall, just waiting, and fuming.

“Mr. Everett Lufkin,” I announce. As the bailiff disap-

pears to fetch him, there’s a burst of activity at the defense table, most of it, as far as I can tell, worth nothing. Just papers being pushed around, notes being passed, files being located.

Lufkin enters the courtroom, looks around wildly as if he’s just been roused from hibernation, straightens his tie and follows the bailiff down the aisle. He glances nervously at his support group to his left, and makes his way to the witness stand.

Drummond is known to train his witnesses by subjecting them to brutal cross-examinations, sometimes using four or five of his lawyers to pepper the witness with questions, all of it recorded on video. He’ll then spend hours with the witness watching the tape and working on technique, propping for this moment.

I know these corporate people will be immaculately prepared.

Lufkin looks at me, looks at the jury and tries to appear calm, but he knows he can’t answer all the questions that are coming. He’s about fifty-five, gray hair that starts not far above his eyebrows, nice features, quiet voice. He could be trusted with the local Boy Scout troop. Jackie Lemancyzk told me he wanted to tie her up.

They have no idea she’ll testify tomorrow.

We talk about the claims department and its role in the scheme of things at Great Benefit. He’s been there eight years, VP of Claims for the past six, has the department firmly in control, a real hands-on type of manager. He wants to sound important for the jury, and within minutes we’ve established that it’s his job to oversee every aspect of claims. He doesn’t oversee every single claim, but he has the responsibility of running the division. I’m able to lull him into a boring discussion about nothing but corporate bureaucracy, when suddenly I ask him, “Who is Jackie Lemancyzk?”

His shoulders actually jerk a bit. “A former claims handler.”

“Did she work in your department?”

“Yes.”

“When did she stop working for Great Benefit?”

He shrugs, just can’t remember the date.

“How about October 3 of last year?”

“Sounds close.”

“And wasn’t that two days before she was scheduled to give a deposition in this case?”

“I really don’t remember.”

I refresh his memory by showing him two documents; the first is her letter of resignation, dated October 3, the second is my notice to take her deposition on October 5. Now he remembers. He reluctantly admits that she left Great Benefit two days before she was scheduled to give testimony in this trial.

“And she was the person responsible for handling this claim for your company?”

“That’s correct.”

“And you fired her?”

“Of course not.”

“How’d you get rid of her?”

“She resigned. It’s right here in her letter.”

“Why’d she resign?”

He pulls the letter close like a real smartass, and reads for the jury: “I hereby resign for personal reasons.”

“So it was her idea to leave her job?”

“That’s what it says.”

“How long did she work under you?”

“I have lots of people under me. I can’t remember all these details.”

“So you don’t know?”

“I’m not sure. Several years.”

“Did you know her well?”

“Not really. She was just a claims handler, one of many.”

Tomorrow, she’ll testify that their dirty little affair lasted for three years.

“And you’re married, Mr. Lufkin?”

‘Yes, happily.”

“With children?”

“Yes. Two adult children.”

I let him hang here for a minute as I walk to my table and retrieve a stack of documents. It’s the Blacks’ claim file, and I hand it to Lufkin. He takes his time, looks through it, then says it appears to be complete. I make sure he promises that this is the entire claim file, nothing is missing.

For the benefit of the jury, I take him through a series of dry questions with equally dry answers, all designed to provide a basic explanation of how a claim is supposed to be handled. Of course, in our hypothetical, Great Benefit does everything properly.

Then we get to the dirt. I make him read, into the microphone and into the record, each of the first seven denial letters. I ask him to explain each letter: Who wrote it? Why was it written? Did it follow the guidelines set forth in the claims manual? What section of the claims manual? Did he personally see the letter?

I make him read to the jury each of Dot’s letters. They cry out for help. Her son is dying. Is anybody up there listening? And I grill him on each letter: Who received this one? What was done with it? What does the manual require? Did he personally see it?

The jury seems anxious to get to the Stupid Letter, but of course Lufldn has been prepped. He reads it to the jury, then explains, in a rather dry monotone and without the slightest flair for compassion, that the letter was written by a man who later left the company. The man was

wrong, the company was wrong, and now, at this moment, in open court, the company apologizes for the letter.

I allow him to prattle on. Give him enough rope, he’ll hang himself.

“Don’t you think it’s a bit late for an apology?” I finally ask, cutting him off.

“Maybe.”

“The boy’s dead, isn’t he?”

“Yes.”

“And for the record, Mr. Lufkin, there’s been no written apology for the letter, correct?”

“Not to my knowledge.”

“No apology whatsoever until now, correct?”

“That’s correct.”

“To your limited knowledge, has Great Benefit ever apologized for anything?”

“Objection,” Drummond says.

“Sustained. Move along, Mr. Baylor.”

Lufkin has been on the stand for almost two hours. Maybe the jury’s tired of him. I certainly am. It’s time to be cruel.

I’ve purposefully made a big deal out of the claims manual, referring to it as if it’s the inviolable pronouncement of corporate policy. I hand Lufkin my copy of the manual that I received in discovery. I ask him a series of questions, all of which he answers perfectly and establishes that, yes, this is the holy word on claims procedures. It’s been tested, tried and true. Periodically reviewed, modified, updated, amended with the changing times, all in an effort to provide the best service for their customers.

After reaching the point of near tedium about the damned manual, I ask: “Now, Mr. Lufkin, is this the entire claims manual?”

He flips through it quickly as if he knows every section, every word. “Yes.”

480 JOHNGRISHAM

“Are you certain?”

“Yes.”

“And you were required to give me this copy during discovery?”

“That’s correct.”

“I requested a copy from your attorneys, and this is what they gave me?”

“Yes.”

“Did you personally select this particular copy of the manual to be sent to me?”

“I did.”

I take a deep breath and walk a few steps to my table. Under it is a small cardboard box filled with files and papers. I fumble through it for a second, then abruptly stand up straight, empty-handed, and say to the witness, “Could you take the manual and flip over to Section U, please?” As this last word comes out, I look directly at Jack Underhall, the in-house counsel seated behind Drummond. His eyes close. His head falls forward, then he leans on his elbows, staring at the floor. Beside him, Kermit Aldy appears to be gasping for breath.

Drummond is clueless.

“I beg your pardon?” Lufkin says, his voice an octave higher. With everybody watching me, I remove Cooper Jackson’s copy of the claims manual and place it on my table. Everybody in the courtroom stares at it. I glance at Kipler, and he’s thoroughly enjoying this.

“Section U, Mr. Lufkin. Flip over there and find it. I’d like to talk about it.”

He actually takes the manual and flips through it again. At this crucial moment, I’m sure he’d sell his children if a miracle somehow could happen and a nice, neat Section U materialized.

Doesn’t happen.

“I don’t have a Section U,” he says, sadly and almost incoherent.

“I beg your pardon,” I say loudly. “I didn’t hear you.”

“Uh, well, this one doesn’t have a Section U.” He’s absolutely stunned, not by the fact that the section is missing, but by the fact that he’s been caught. He keeps looking wildly at Drummond and Underhall as if they should do something, like call Time Out!

Leo F. Drummond has no idea what his client has done - to him. They doctored the manual, and didn’t tell their lawyer. He’s whispering to Morehouse. What the hell’s going on?

I make a big production of approaching the witness with the other manual. It looks just like the one he’s holding. A tide page in the front gives the same date for the revised edition: January 1, 1991. They’re identical, except that one has a final section called U, and one doesn’t.

“Do you recognize this, Mr. Lufkin?” I ask, handing him Jackson’s copy and retrieving mine.

“Yes.”

“Well, what is it?”

“A copy of the claims manual.”

“And does this copy contain a Section U?”

He turns pages, then nods his head.

“What was that, Mr. Lufkin? The court reporter can’t record the movements of your head.”

“It has a Section U.”

“Thank you. Now, did you personally remove the Section U from my copy, or did you instruct someone else to do it?”

He gently places the manual on the railing around the witness stand, and very deliberately folds his arms across his chest. He stares at the floor between us, and waits. I think he’s drifting away. Seconds pass, as everyone waits for a response.

“Answer the question,” Kipler barks from above.

“I don’t know who did it.”

“But it was done, wasn’t it?” I ask.

“Evidently.”

“So you admit that Great Benefit withheld documents.”

“I admit nothing. I’m sure it was an oversight.”

“An oversight? Please be serious, Mr. Lufkin. Isn’t it true that someone at Great Benefit intentionally removed the Section U from my copy of the manual?”

“I don’t know. I, uh, well, it just happened, I guess. You know.”

I walk back to my table in search of nothing in particular. I want him to hang here for a few seconds so the jury can hate him sufficiently. He stares blankly at the floor, whipped, defeated, wishing he was anywhere but here.

I confidently walk to the defense table and hand Drum-mond a copy of Section U. I give him a toothy, nasty smile, and give Morehouse one as well. Then I hand a copy to Kipler. I take my time so the jury can watch and wait with great anticipation.

“Well, Mr. Lufkin, let’s talk about the mysterious Section U. Let’s explain it to the jury. Would you look at it, please?”

He takes the manual, turns the pages.

“It went into effect January 1, 1991, correct?”

“Yes.”

“Did you draft it?”

“No.” Of course not.

“Okay, then who did?”

Another suspicious pause as he gropes for a suitable lie.

“I’m not sure,” he says.

“You’re not sure? But I thought you just testified that this fell squarely under your responsiblity at Great Benefit?”

He’s staring at the floor again, hoping I’ll go away.

“Fine,” I say. “Let’s skip paragraphs one and two, and read paragraph three.”

Paragraph three directs the claims handler to immediately deny every claim within three days of receiving it. No exceptions. Every claim. Paragraph four allows for the subsequent review of some claims, and prescribes the paperwork necessary to indicate that a claim might be inexpensive, very valid and therefore payable. Paragraph five tells the handler to send all claims with a potential value in excess of five thousand dollars to underwriting, with a letter of denial to the insured, subject to review by underwriting, of course.

And so it goes. I make Lufkin read from his manual, then I grill him with questions he can’t answer. I use the word “scheme” repeatedly, especially after Drummond objects and Kipler overrules him. Paragraph eleven sets forth a veritable glossary of secret code signals the handlers are supposed to use in the file to indicate a strong reaction from the insured. It’s obvious the scheme is designed to play the odds. If an insured threatens with lawyers and lawsuits, the file is immediately reviewed by a supervisor. If the insured is a pushover, then the denial sticks.

Paragraph eighteen b. requires the handler to cut a check for the amount of the claim, send the check and the file to underwriting with instructions not to mail the check until further word from claims. Word, of course, never comes. “So what happens to the check?” I ask Lufkin. He doesn’t know.

The other half of the scheme is in Section U of the underwriting manual, and so I get to do this again tomorrow with another VP.

It’s really not necessary. If we could stop right now, the jury would give whatever I ask, and they haven’t even seen Donny Ray yet.

We break for a quick recess at four-thirty. I’ve had Lufkin on the stand for two and a half hours, and it’s time to finish him off. As I step into the hall on my way to the rest room, I see Drummond pointing angrily to a room he wants Lufkin and Underhall to enter. I’d love to hear this mauling.

Twenty minutes later, Lufkin is back,on the stand. I’m through with the manuals for now. The jury can read the fine print when it deliberates.

“Just a few more quick questions,” I say, smiling and refreshed. “In 1991, how many health insurance policies did Great Benefit have issued and in effect?”

Again, the weasel looks helplessly at his lawyer. This information was due me three weeks ago.

“I’m not sure,” he says.

“And how many claims were filed in 1991?”

“I’m not sure.”

“You’re the Vice President of Claims, and you don’t know?”

“It’s a big company.”

“How many claims were denied in 1991?”

“I don’t know.”

At this point, perfectly on cue, Judge Kipler says, “The witness may be excused for today. We’re going to recess for a few minutes so the jury can go home.”

He says good-bye to the jury, thanks them again, and gives them their instructions. I get a few smiles as they file past our table. We wait for them to leave, and when the last juror disappears through the double doors^ Kipler says, “Back on the record. Mr. Drummond, both you and your client are in contempt of court. I insisted that this information be forwarded to the plaintiff several weeks ago. It hasn’t been done. It’s very relevant and pertinent, and you have refused to provide it. Are you and your

client prepared to be incarcerated until this information is received?”

Leo is on his feet, very tired, aging quickly. “Your Honor, I’ve tried to get this information. I’ve honestly done my best.” Poor Leo. He’s still trying to comprehend Section U. And, at this moment, he is perfectly believable. His client has just proven to the world that it will hide documents from him.

“Is Mr. Keeley nearby?” His Honor asks.

“In the witness room,” Drummond says.

“Go get him.” Within seconds, the bailiff leads the CEO into the courtroom.

Dot has had enough. She needs to pee and must have a smoke.

Kipler points to the witness stand. He swears Keeley himself, then asks him if there’s any good reason why his company has refused to provide the information I’ve asked for.

He stutters, stammers, tries to blame it on the regional offices and the district offices.

“Do you understand the concept of contempt of court?” Kipler asks.

“Maybe, well, not really.”

“It’s very simple. Your company is in contempt of court, Mr. Keeley. I can either fine your company, or place you, as the CEO, in jail. Which shall it be?”

I’m sure some of his pals have pulled time at the federal country clubs, but Keeley knows that jail here means one downtown with lots of street types. “I really don’t want to go to jail, Your Honor.”

“Didn’t think so. I hereby fine Great Benefit the sum of ten thousand dollars, due and payable to the plaintiff by 5 P.M. tomorrow. Call the home office and get a check FedExed, okay?”

Keeley can do nothing but nod.

“Furthermore, if this information is not faxed in here by nine in the morning, then you’ll be taken to the Memphis City Jail, where you’ll remain until you comply. Plus, while you’re there, your company will be fined five thousand dollars a day.”

Kipler turns and points downward at Drummond. “I have repeatedly warned you about these documents, Mr. Drummond. This behavior is grossly unacceptable.”

He raps his gavel angrily, and leaves the bench.

Forty-four

UNDER NORMAL CIRCUMSTANCES, I might feel silly wearing a blue and gray cap with a tiger on it, along with my suit, and leaning on a wall in Concourse A of the Memphis airport. But this day has been anything but normal. It’s late, and I’m dead tired, but the adrenaline is hopping. A better first day of trial would be impossible.

The flight from Chicago arrives on time, and I’m soon spotted by my cap. A woman behind a large pair of dark sunglasses approaches, looks me up and down, finally says, “Mr. Baylor?”

“That’s me.” I shake hands with Jackie Lemancyzk, and with her male companion, a man who introduces himself only as Carl. He has a carry-on bag, and they’re ready to go. These people are nervous.

We talk on the way to the hotel, a Holiday Inn downtown, six blocks from the courthouse. She sits in the front with me. Carl lurks in the backseat, saying nothing but guarding her like a rottweiler. I replay most of the first day’s excitement. No, they do not know she’s coming. Her

hands shake. She’s brittle and frail, and scared of her shadow. Other than revenge, I can’t figure out her motive for being here.

The hotel reservation is in my name, at her request. The three of us sit around a small table in her room on the fifteenth floor, and go over my direct examination. The questions are typed and in order.

If there’s beauty here, it’s well concealed. The hair is chopped off and badly dyed to some dark red shade. Her lawyer said she was in therapy, and I’m not about to ask questions. Her eyes are bloodshot and sad, not at all enhanced with makeup. She’s thirty-one, two small children, one divorce, and from outward appearances and demeanor it’s hard to believe she spent her career at Great Benefit in one bed and out of another.

Carl is very protective. He pats her arm, occasionally gives his opinion about a particular answer. She wants to testify as soon as possible in the morning, then get back to the airport and get out of town.

I leave them at midnight.

AT NINE Tuesday morning, Judge Kipler calls us to order but instructs the bailiff to keep the jury in its room for a few moments. He asks Drummond if the claims information has been received. At the rate of five thousand bucks a day, I almost hope it hasn’t.

“Came in about an hour ago, Your Honor,” he says, obviously relieved. He hands me a neat stack of documents an inch thick, and even smiles a little when he hands Kipler his set.

“Mr. Baylor, you’ll need some time,” His Honor says.

“Give me thirty minutes,” I say.

“Fine. We’ll seat the jury at nine-thirty.”

Deck and I dash to a small attorney’s conference room down the hall, and wade through the information. Not

unexpectedly, it’s in Greek and almost impossible to decode. They’ll be sorry.

At nine-thirty, the jury is brought into the courtroom and greeted warmly by Judge Kipler. They report in good condition, no sicknesses, no contact last night from anybody regarding the case.

“Your witness, Mr. Baylor,” Kipler says, and day two is under way.

“We’d like to continue with Everett Lufkin,” I say.

Lufkin is retrieved from the witness room, and takes the stand. After the Section U fiasco yesterday, nobody will believe a word he says. I’m sure Drummond chewed on him until midnight. He looks rather haggard. I hand him the official copy of the claims information, and ask him if he can identify it.

“It’s a printout of a computer summary of various claims information.”

“Prepared by the computers at Great Benefit?”

“That’s correct.”

“When?”

“Late yesterday afternoon and last night.”

“Under your supervision as Vice President of Claims?”

“You could say that.”

“Good. Now, Mr. Lufkin, please tell the jury how many medical policies were in existence in 1991.”

He hesitates, then starts to play with the printout. We wait while he searches through the pages. The only sound for a long, awkward gap is the shuffling of paper in Lufkin’s lap.

The “dumping” of documents is a favorite tactic of insurance companies and their lawyers. They love to wait until the last minute, preferably the day before the trial, and unload four storage boxes full of paperwork on the plaintiffs lawyer’s doorstep. I avoided this because of Tyrone Kipler.

This is just a taste of it. I guess they thought they could trot in here this morning, hand me seventy pages of printout, most of it apparently meaningless, and be done with it.

“It’s really hard to tell,” he says, barely audible. “If I had some time.”

“You’ve had two months,” Kipler says loudly, his microphone working splendidly. The tone and volume of his words are startling. “Now answer the question.” They’re already squirming at the defense table.

“I want to know three things, Mr. Lufkin,” I say. “The number of policies in existence, the number of claims on these policies and the number of these claims which were denied. All for the year 1991. Please.”

More pages are flipped. “If I recall correctly, we had something in the neighborhood of ninety-seven thousand policies.”

“You can’t look at your numbers there and tell us for certain?”

It’s obvious he can’t. He pretends to be so engrossed in the data he can’t answer my question.

“And you’re the Vice President of Claims?” I ask, taunting.

“That’s right!” he responds.

“Let me ask you this, Mr. Lufkin. To the best of your knowledge, is the information I want contained in that printout?”

“Yes.”

“So, it’s just a matter of finding it.”

“If you’ll shut up a second, I’ll find it.” He snarls this at me like a wounded animal, and in doing so comes across very badly.

“I’m not required to shut up, Mr. Lufkin.”

Drummond rises, pleads with his hands. “Your Honor,

in all fairness, the witness is trying to find the information.”

“Mr. Drummond, the witness has had two months to gather this information. He’s the Vice President of Claims, surely he can read the numbers. Overruled.”

“Forget the printout for a second, Mr. Lufkin,” I say. “In an average year, what would be the ratio of policies to claims? Just give us a percentage.”

“On the average, we get claims filed on between eight and ten percent of our policies.”

“And what percentage of the claims would ultimately be denied?”

“Around ten percent of all claims are denied,” he says. Though he suddenly has answers, he’s not the least bit pleased to share them.

“What’s the dollar amount of the average claim, whether it’s paid or denied?”

There’s a long pause as he thinks about this. I think he’s given up. He just wants to get through, get himself off the witness stand and out of Memphis.

“On the average, somewhere around five thousand dollars a claim.”

“Some claims are worth just a few hundred dollars, correct?”

“Yes.”

“And some claims are worth tens of thousands, correct?”

“Yes.”

“So it’s hard to say what’s average, right?”

“Yes.”

“Now, these averages and percentages you’ve just given me, are they fairly typical throughout the industry, or are they unique to Great Benefit?”

“I can’t speak for the industry.”

“So you don’t know?”

“I didn’t say that.”

“So you do know? Just answer the question.”

His shoulders sag a bit. The man just wants out of this room. “I’d say they’re pretty average.”

“Thank you.” I pause for effect here, study my notes for a second, change gears, wink at Deck, who eases from the courtroom. “Just a couple more, Mr. Lufkin. Did you suggest to Jackie Lemancyzk that she should quit?”

“I did not.”

“How would you rate her performance?”

“Average.”

“Do you know why she was demoted from the position of senior claims examiner?”

“As I recall, it had something to do with her skills in handling people.”

“Did she receive any type of termination pay when she resigned?”

“No. She quit.”

“No compensation of any kind?”

“No.”

“Thank you. Your Honor, I’m through with this witness.”

Drummond has two choices. He can either use Lufkin now, on direct exam with no leading questions, or he can save him for later. It will be impossible to prop up this guy, and I have no doubt Drummond will get him out of here as soon as possible.

“Your Honor, we’re going to keep Mr. Lufkin for later,” Drummond says. No surprise. The jury will never see him again.

“Very well. Call your next witness, Mr. Baylor.”

I say this at full volume. “The plaintiff calls Jackie Lemancyzk.”

I turn quickly to see the reaction of Underhall and Aldy. They’re in the process of whispering to each other,

and they freeze when they hear her name. Their eyes bulge, mouths open in complete and total surprise.

Poor Lufkin is about halfway to the double doors when lie hears the news. He stops cold, whirls wild-eyed at the defense table, then walks even faster from the courtroom.

As his boys scramble around him, Drummond is on his feet. “Your Honor, may we approach the bench?”

Kipler waves us up where he is to huddle away from the microphone. My opponent is pretending to be incensed. I’m sure he’s surprised, but he has no right to cry foul. He’s almost hyperventilating. “Your Honor, this is a complete surprise,” he hisses. It’s important for the jury not to hear his words or see his shock.

“Why?” I ask smugly. “She’s listed as a potential witness in the pretrial order.”

“We have a right to be forewarned. When did you find her?”

“Didn’t know she was lost.”

“It’s a fair question, Mr. Baylor,” His Honor says, frowning at me for the first time in history. I give them both an innocent look as if to say, “Hey, I’m just a rookie. Gimme a break.”

“She’s in the pretrial order,” I insist, and, frankly, all three of us know she’s going to testify. Perhaps I should’ve informed the court yesterday that she was in town, but, hey, this is my first trial.

She follows Deck into the courtroom. Underhall and Aldy refuse to look at her. The five stiffs from Trent & Brent watch every step. She cleans up nicely. A loose-fitting blue dress hangs on her thin body and falls just above her knees. Her face looks much different from last night, much prettier. She takes her oath, sits in the witness chair, shoots one hateful look at the boys from Great Benefit and is ready to testify.

I wonder if she’s slept with Underhall or Aldy. Last

night she mentioned LufMn and one other, but I know I didn’t get a full history.

We cover the basics quickly, then move in for the kill.

“How long did you work for Great Benefit?”

“Six years.”

“And when did your employment end?”

“October 3.”

“How did it end?”

“I was fired.”

“You didn’t resign?”

“No. I was fired.”

“Who fired you?”

“It was a conspiracy. Everett Lufian, Kermit Aldy, Jack Underhall and several others.” She nods at the guilty parties, and all necks twist toward the boys from Great Benefit.

I approach the witness and hand her a copy of her letter of resignation. “Do you recognize this,” I ask.

“This is a letter I typed and signed,” she says.

“The letter states that you’re quitting for personal reasons.”

“The letter is a lie. I was fired because of my involvement in the claim of Donny Ray Black, and because I was scheduled to give a deposition on October 5. I was fired so the company could claim I no longer worked there.”

“Who made you write this letter?”

“The same ones. It was a conspiracy.”

“Can you explain it to us?”

She looks at the jurors for the first time, and they are all looking at her. She swallows hard, and starts talking. “On the Saturday before my deposition was scheduled, I was asked to come to the office. There I met with Jack Underhall, the man sitting over there in the gray suit. He’s one of the in-house lawyers. He told me I was leaving immediately, and that I had two choices. I could call it a

firing, and leave with nothing. Or, I could write that letter, call it a resignation and the company would give me ten thousand dollars in cash to keep quiet. And I had to make the decision right there, in his presence.”

She was able to talk about this last night without emotion, but things are different in open court. She bites her lip, struggles for a minute, then is able to move on. “I’m a single mother with two children, and there are lots of bills. I had no choice. I was suddenly out of work. I wrote the letter, took the cash and signed an agreement to never discuss any of my claims files with anybody.”

“Including the Black file?”

“Specifically the Black file.”

“Then if you took the money and signed the agreement, why are you here?”

“After I got over the shock, I talked to a lawyer. A very good lawyer. He assured me the agreement I signed was illegal.”

“Do you have a copy of the agreement?”

“No. Mr. Underhall wouldn’t let me keep one. But you can ask him. I’m sure he has the original.” I slowly turn and stare at Jack Underhall, as does every other person in the courtroom. His shoelaces have suddenly become the center of his life, and he’s fiddling with them, seemingly oblivious to her testimony,

I look at Leo Drummond, and for the first time see the look of complete defeat. His client, of course, didn’t tell him about the cash bribery or the agreement signed under duress.

“Why did you see a lawyer?”

“Because I needed advice. I was wrongfully terminated. But before that, I was discriminated against because I was a woman, and I was sexually harassed by various executives at Great Benefit.”

“Anybody we know?”

“Objection, Your Honor,” Drummond says. “This might be fun to talk about, but it’s not relevant to the case.”

“Let’s see where it goes. I’ll overrule for now. Please answer the question, Ms. Lemancyzk.”

She takes a deep breath, says, “I had sex with Everett Lufkin for three years. As long as I was willing to do whatever he wanted, my pay was increased and I was promoted. When I got tired of it and stopped, I was demoted from senior claims examiner to claims handler. My pay was cut by twenty percent. Then, Russell Krokit, who was at that time the senior claims supervisor but was fired when I was, decided he’d like to have an affair. He forced himself on me, told me if I didn’t play along then I’d be out of work. But if I’d be his girl for a while, he’d make sure I got another promotion. It was either put out, or get out.”

“Both of these men are married?”

“Yes, with families. They were known to prey on the young girls in claims. I could give you a lot of names. And these weren’t the only two hotshots who traded promotions for sex.”

Again, all eyes turn to Underhall and Aldy.

r pause here to check something on my desk. It’s just a little courtroom ploy I’ve sort of learned to allow juicy testimony to hang in the air before moving on.

I look at Jackie, and she dabs her eyes with a tissue. They’re both red right now. The jury is with her, ready to kill for her.

“Let’s talk about the Black file,” I say. “It was assigned to you.”

“That’s correct. The initial claim form from Mrs. Black was assigned to me. Pursuant to company policy at that time, I sent her a letter of denial.”

“Why?”

“Why? Because all claims were initially denied, at least in 1991.”

“All claims?”

“Yes. It was our policy to deny every claim initially, then review the smaller ones that appeared to be legitimate. We eventually paid some of those, but the big claims were never paid unless a lawyer got involved.”

“When did this become policy?”

“January 1, 1991. It was an experiment, sort of a scheme.” I’m nodding at her. Get on with it. “The company decided to deny every claim over one thousand dollars for a twelve-month period. It didn’t matter how legitimate the claim was, it was simply denied. Many of the smaller claims were also ultimately denied if we could find any arguable reason. A very few of the larger claims were paid, and, again, only after the insured hired a lawyer and started threatening.”

“How long was this policy in effect?”

“Twelve months. It was a one-year experiment. It had never been done before in the industry, and it was generally viewed by management as a wonderful idea. Deny for a year, add up the money saved, deduct the amount spent on quickie court settlements, and there’s a pot of gold left.”

“How much gold?”

“The scheme netted an extra forty million or so.”

“How do you know this?”

“You stay in bed long enough with these miserable men and you hear all sorts of trash. They’ll tell everything. They’ll talk about their wives, their jobs. I’m not proud of this, okay? I didn’t get one moment of pleasure from it. I was a victim.” Her eyes are red again, and her voice shakes a little.

Another long pause as I review my notes. “How was the Black claim treated?”

“Initially, it was denied like all the rest. But it was a big claim, and coded differently. When the words ‘acute leukemia’ were noticed, everything I did was monitored by Russell Krokit. At some point early on, they realized that the policy did not exclude bone marrow transplants. It became a very serious file for two reasons. First, it was suddenly worth a ton of money, money the company obviously didn’t want to pay. And secondly, the insured was terminally ill.”

“So the claims department knew Donny Ray Black was going to die?”

“Of course. His medical records were clear. I remember one report from his doctor saying the chemo went well but the leukemia would be back, probably within a year, and that it eventually would be fatal unless his patient received the bone marrow transplant.”

“Did you show this to anyone?”

“I showed it to Russell Krokit. He showed it to his boss, Everett Lufkin. Somewhere up there the decision was made to continue the denial.”

“But you knew the claim should be paid?”

“Everybody knew it, but the company was playing the odds.”

“Could you explain this?”

“The odds that the insured wouldn’t consult a lawyer.”

“Did you know what the odds were at the time?”

“It was commonly believed that no more than one out of twenty-five would talk to a lawyer. That’s the only reason they started this experiment. They knew they could get by with it. They sell these policies to people who are not that educated, and they count on their ignorance to accept the denials.”

“What would happen when you received a letter from an attorney?”

“It became a very different situation. If the claim was

under five thousand dollars and legitimate, we paid it immediately with a letter of apology. Just a corporate mix-up, you know, that type of letter. Or maybe our computers were to blame. I’ve sent a hundred such letters. If the claim was over five thousand dollars, then the file left my hands and went to a supervisor. I think they were almost always paid. If the lawyer had filed suit or was on the verge of filing, the company would negotiate a confidential settlement.”

“How often did this happen?”

“I really don’t know.”

I step back from the podium, say, “Thanks,” then turn to Drummond, and with a pleasant smile say, “Your witness.”

I sit by Dot, who’s in tears and sobbing quietly. She’s always blamed herself for not finding a lawyer sooner, and to hear this testimony is especially painful. Regardless of the outcome, she will never forgive herself.

Fortunately, several of the jurors see her crying.

Poor Leo walks slowly to a spot as far away from the jury as he can stand and still be allowed to ask questions. I cannot imagine what he might ask, but I’m sure he’s been ambushed before.

He introduces himself, very cordially, tells Jackie that of course they’ve never met. This is an effort to inform the jury that he hasn’t had the benefit of knowing what in the world she might say. She gives him a blistering look. She not only hates Great Benefit but any lawyer sorry enough to represent it.

“Now, is it true, Ms. Lemancyzk, that you have been committed recently to an institution for various problems?” He asks this question very delicately. In a trial you’re not supposed to ask a question unless you know the answer, but I have a hunch Leo has no idea what’s com-

ing. His source has been a few desperate whispers during the past fifteen minutes.

“No! That’s not true.” She’s bristling.

“I beg your pardon. But you have been receiving treatment?”

“I was not committed. I voluntarily checked into a facility and stayed for two weeks. I was permitted to leave whenever I wanted. The treatment was supposedly covered under my group policy at Great Benefit. I was supposed to be covered for twelve months after my departure. They, pf course, are denying the claim.”

Drummond chews on a nail, stares down at his legal pad as if he didn’t hear this. Next question, Leo.

“Is that why you’re here? Because you’re angry with Great Benefit?”

“I hate Great Benefit, and most of the worms who work there. Does that answer your question?”

“Is your testimony here today prompted by your hatred?”

“No. I’m here because I know the truth about how they deliberately screwed thousands of people. This story needs to be told.”

Better give it up, Leo.

“Why did you go to the treatment facility?”

“I’m struggling with alcoholism and depression. Right now, I’m okay. Next week, who knows? For six years I was treated like a piece of meat by your clients. I was passed around the office like a box of candy, everybody taking what they wanted. They preyed on me because I was broke, single with two kids and I had a nice ass. They robbed me of my self-esteem. I’m fighting back, Mr. Drummond. I’m trying to save myself, and if I have to seek treatment, then I won’t hesitate. I just wish your client would pay the damned bills.”

“No further questions, Your Honor.” Drummond

scoots quickly back to his table. I walk Jackie through the railing and almost to the door. I thank her more than once, and promise to call her attorney. Deck leaves to drive her to the airport.

It’s almost eleven-thirty. I want the jury to ponder her testimony over lunch, so I ask Judge Kipler to break early. My official reason is that I need time to study computer printouts before I can call any more witnesses.

The ten thousand dollars in sanctions arrived while we were in the courtroom, and Drummond has submitted it in escrow, along with a twenty-page motion and brief. He plans to appeal the sanctions, so the money will sit, untouchable, in a court account pending the outcome. I have other things to worry about.

Forty-five

I GET A FEW SMILES FROM THE JURORS AS they file to their seats after lunch. They’re not supposed to discuss the case until it’s officially handed to them, but everyone knows they whisper about it every time they leave the courtroom. A few years ago, two jurors got in a fistfight while debating the veracity of a certain witness. Problem was, it was the second witness in a trial scheduled for two weeks. The judge declared a mistrial and started over.

They’ve had two hours to simmer and boil over Jackie’s testimony. It’s time for me to show them how to rectify some of these wrongs. It’s time to talk about money.

“Your Honor, the plaintiff calls Mr. Wilfred Keeley to the stand.” Keeley is found nearby, and bounces into the courtroom, just itching to testify. He seems vigorous and friendly, in sharp contrast to Lufkin and in spite of the indelible lies already exposed against his company. He obviously wants to assure the jury that he’s in charge, and that he’s a soul to be trusted.

I ask a few general questions, establish the fact that he’s

die CEO, the number-one boss at Great Benefit. He heartily confesses to this. Then I hand him a copy of the company’s latest financial statement. He acts as if he reads it every morning.

“Now, Mr. Keeley, can you tell the jury how much your company is worth?”

“What do you mean by worth?” he shoots back.

“I mean net worth.”

“That’s not a clear concept.”

“Yes it is. Look at your financial statements there, take the assets on one hand, subtract the liabilities on the other, and tell the jury what’s left. That’s net worth.”

“It’s not that simple.”

I shake my head in disbelief. “Would you agree that your company has a net worth of approximately four hundred and fifty million dollars?”

Aside from the obvious advantages, one additional benefit in catching a corporate thug lying is that its subsequent witnesses need to tell the truth. Keeley needs to be refreshingly honest, and I’m sure Drummond has beaten him over the head with this. I’m sure it’s been difficult.

“That’s a fair assessment. I’ll agree with that.”

“Thank you. Now, how much cash does your company have?”

This question was not expected. Drummond stands and objects, Kipler overrules.

“Well, that’s difficult to say,” he says, and lapses into the Great Benefit angst we’ve come to expect.

“Come on, Mr. Keeley, you’re the CEO. You’ve been with the company for eighteen years. You came out of finance. How much cash you got lying around up there?”

He’s flipping pages like crazy, and I wait patiently. He finally gives me a figure, and this is where I thank Max Leuberg. I take my copy, and ask him to explain a particular Reserve Account. When I sued them for ten million

dollars, they set aside that amount as a reserve to pay the claim. Same with every lawsuit. It’s still their money, still being invested and earning well, but now it’s classified as a liability. Insurance companies love it when they get sued for umpteen zillion bucks, because they can reserve the money and claim they’re basically broke.

And it’s all perfectly legal. It’s an unregulated industry with its own set of murky accounting practices.

Keeley starts using long financial words that no one understands. He’d rather confuse the jury than admit the truth.

I quiz him about another Reserve, then we move to the Surplus accounts. Restricted Surplus. Unrestricted Surplus. I grill him pretty good, and I sound rather intelligent. Using Leuberg’s notes, I tally up the figures and ask Keeley if the company has about four hundred and eighty-five million in cash.

“I wish,” he says with a laugh. There’s not so much as a grin from anyone else.

“Then how much cash do you have, Mr. Keeley?”

“Oh, I don’t know. I’d say probably around a hundred million.”

That’s enough for now. During my closing argument, I can put my figures on a chalkboard and explain where the money is.

I hand him a copy of the printout on the claims data, and he looks surprised. I made the decision at lunch to ‘ ambush him while I had him on the stand, and stay away from an encore by Lufkin. He looks at Drummond for help, but there’s nothing he can do. Mr. Keeley here is the CEO, and he certainly should be able to aid us in our search for the truth. I’m assuming they’re thinking I’ll bring back Lufkin to explain this data. As much as I love Lufkin, I’m through with him. I won’t give him the chance to refute the statements of Jackie Lemancyzk.

“Do you recognize that printout, Mr. Keeley? It’s the one your company gave me this morning.”

“Certainly.”

“Good. Can you tell the jury how many medical policies your company had in effect in 1991?”

“Well, I don’t know. Let me see.” He turns pages, holds one up, then puts it down, takes another, then another.

“Does the figure of ninety-eight thousand sound correct, give or take a few?”

“Maybe. Sure, yeah, I think that’s right.”

“And how many claims on these policies were filed in 1991?”

Same routine. Keeley flounders through the printout, mumbling figures to himself. It’s almost embarrassing. Minutes pass, and I finally say, “Does the figure of 11,400 sound correct, give or take a few?”

“Sounds close, I guess, but I’d need to verify it, you know.”

“How would you verify it?”

“Well, I’d need to study this some more.”

“So the information is right there?”

“I think so.”

“Can you tell the jury how many of these claims were denied by your company?”

“Well, again, I’d have to study all this,” he says, lifting the printout with both hands.

“So this information is also contained in what you’re now holding?”

“Maybe. Yes, I think so.”

“Good. Look on pages eleven, eighteen, thirty-three and forty-one.” He’s quick to obey, anything to keep from testifying. Pages rattle and shuffle.

“Does the figure of 9,100 sound correct, give or take a few?”

He’s just plain shocked at this outrageous suggestion. “Of course not. That’s absurd.”

“But you don’t know?”

“I know it’s not that high.”

“Thank you.” I approach the witness, take the printout and hand him the Great Benefit policy given to me by Max Leuberg. “Do you recognize this?”

“Sure,” he says gladly, anything to get away from that wretched printout.

“What is it?”

“It’s a medical policy issued by my company.”

“Issued when?”

He examines it for a second. “September of 1992. Five months ago.”

“Please look at page eleven, Section F, paragraph four, sub-paragraph c, clause number thirteen. Do you see that?”

The print is so small he has to pull the policy almost to his nose. I chuckle at this and glance at the jurors. The humor is not missed.

“Got it,” he says finally.

“Good. Now read it, please.”

He reads, squinting and frowning as if it’s truly tedious. When he’s finished, he forces a smile. “Okay.”

“What’s the purpose of that clause?”

“It excludes certain surgical procedures from the coverage.”

“Specifically?”

“Specifically all transplants.”

“Is bone marrow listed as an exclusion?”

“Yes. Bone marrow is listed.”

I approach the witness and hand him a copy of the Black policy. I ask him to read a certain section. The minuscule print strains his eyes again, but he valiantly plows through it.

“What does this policy exclude in the way of transplants?”

“All major organs; kidney, liver, heart, lungs, eyes, they’re all listed here.”

“What about bone marrow?”

“It’s not listed.”

“So it’s not specifically excluded?”

“That’s correct.”

“When was this lawsuit filed, Mr. Keeley? Do you remember?”

He glances at Drummond, who of course cannot be of any assistance at this moment. “During the middle of last summer, as I recall. Could it be June?”