Randy Singer - The Justice Game

“Have a seat,” Jason said.

“Why? You got your buddy Prescott waitin’ under the table? You want to embarrass the old man again?” Jason’s dad spread his arms. “I’m right here. Anything you’ve got to say to me-say it right here.”

“It’s not about that, Dad. I need your help.”

His dad reached into his pocket and pulled out a wad of bills. “Here. You want my help. This is all I got left.” He walked over to Jason and slapped the money on the table. “You already took everything else,” his dad said, his words slurred. “It wasn’t enough for you to hate me, you had to get Jules on your side too-make her hate me.”

Jason shook his head. He stood and tried to hand the money back to his father. “All right. Let’s not talk about this now.”

“Yeah. That’s right,” said his dad, rejecting the money. “Walk away from it, Son. That’s what you always do.” His father stepped closer, and the stench of his breath just about knocked Jason over. “All I ever wanted was a son with a little bit of backbone.” He paused, his mind evidently working hard to stay on track. “And all I ever got was a son who just turns tail and runs.”

Jason told himself his father didn’t mean it. The alcohol was talking, not his dad. But the tears welled up anyway, though Jason fought them back and kept them from spilling over.

“That’s right,” his dad said. “Let’s just have a good cry. That’s what real men do.” He patted the outside of Jason’s arm, shook his head in disgust and turned to walk away.

“Wait,” Jason said. He reached out and grabbed his father’s arm, almost knocking him off his feet. “I love you, Dad.” The words had slipped out before Jason knew what he was saying. “I don’t care if you hate my guts. You’re my father, and you’re all I’ve got.”

His father stood there for a moment, as if trying to make the slightest bit of sense out of what he had just heard. To Jason he looked pitiful-confused and at a total loss for words. If Jason had thrown a punch, his dad could have handled it. Somehow, drunk or not, he would have instinctively fought back.

But for this the man had no response.

He lowered his gaze and brushed Jason’s hands from his arm. “I’m going to sleep.” He staggered toward the elevator.

Jason watched until his father disappeared from sight.

“Good night, Dad,” he said.

In the packed courtroom Friday morning, Jason had an unsettling sense of deja vu. He had made these same arguments before, and this same judge had rejected them.

Kelly Starling quoted liberally from Farley v. Guns Unlimited for the proposition that proximate cause is a jury issue in these types of cases. This time, she reinforced her arguments with quotes from Judge Garrison’s own ruling on the earlier Motion to Dismiss.

As before, Jason tried to argue that this case was prohibited by the Protection of Lawful Commerce in Arms Act. But Garrison quickly brushed that argument aside. “We’re dealing with an exception to the Act, Counselor. The issue is whether your client’s conduct aided or abetted the illegal activities of Peninsula Arms.”

Garrison’s questions were so one-sided that when Kelly Starling was arguing, Jason leaned over and whispered to Case, “I thought your boys in the state legislature were going to straighten him out.”

Case just shrugged.

Garrison let the lawyers argue their positions for nearly two hours as the squat little judge enjoyed his turn in the spotlight. At eleven o’clock he took a short recess and fifteen minutes later returned to announce his ruling. He admonished the spectators that he would not tolerate any emotional outbursts, as if he believed his decision would be so controversial that the courtroom would erupt.

He read his opinion from the bench, alternately looking down at his notes and glancing up so the television cameras could enjoy a view of something more than the top of his bald head. He said he was duty-bound to follow the law. He didn’t write the laws, and in fact many times he didn’t even approve of the laws, but his job was to interpret them as written. A judge who attempts to rewrite laws is working for the wrong branch of government, Garrison said. He paused after that line, appearing confident that every evening news broadcast would use it as their lead.

“It is clear,” he concluded, “that the plaintiff has presented a viable case under the law as it now stands. Accordingly, I am overruling the defendant’s Motion to Strike.”

Kelly Starling’s relief at surviving the Motion to Strike was short-lived. After lunch, Jason called his first witness to the stand. He didn’t waste any time on supporting actors.

“The defense calls Melissa Davids,” he announced.

The CEO of MD Firearms apparently had decided to take the Joe Six-pack approach. She wore jeans, boots, and a white blouse. She held her hand up, head erect, and proudly took the oath.

“Do you swear to tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth, so help you God?”

“Absolutely.”

The jury eyed her suspiciously. The pretrial publicity and her deposition had already made the diminutive woman infamous in their minds.

Kelly was no expert in body language, but if Osama bin Laden had climbed into the witness seat, she doubted the expressions on the jurors’ faces would have been much different.

Jason stood and smiled at the witness. “Good afternoon, Ms. Davids.”

“You can call me Melissa,” she said. “As much as my company’s paid you, we should be on a first-name basis by now.”

Kelly rolled her eyes, hoping a few jurors were watching.

The next two hours made Kelly feel like throwing up. Jason did a good job of personalizing Davids and, by association, her company. Over Kelly’s objections, Davids was allowed to talk about getting raped at age sixteen and trying to protect herself by learning jujitsu. She talked about another sexual assault that occurred two years later and how that second life-shattering experience had driven her to purchase her first gun.

She also talked about her struggles as a small-business owner. There were protestors to deal with and harassment by the ATF and all the normal personnel issues. When Jason mentioned that she must make a lot of money as the CEO of a large gun manufacturer, Davids laughed. She talked about mortgaging her house and borrowing from her 401(k). Sometimes she had to borrow from her husband’s family and friends so she could make payroll. She regularly received death threats and hate mail, and once someone had tried to set her factory on fire.

And worst of all, of course, there were plaintiffs’ attorneys. She had been sued a dozen times or so; frankly, she had lost track. But MD Firearms had never lost a case.

“You must have good lawyers,” Jason said.

“Not really. We like to hire kids fresh out of law school. Give ’em a chance to learn.” She smiled, and to Kelly’s chagrin some of the jurors smiled with her. “We win because we’re right.”

At least twice, she corrected Jason in his terminology about guns. She turned to the jury when she talked about why they sold guns to anybody with a federal firearms license.

“My job is to make the best guns possible,” she said. “And to pay my taxes so the government can monitor gun dealers for safety violations. Think about it in the context of air safety. Boeing makes the planes, but the federal government licenses the pilots. If a plane goes down due to pilot error, you don’t sue Boeing.

“Gun dealers are the same way. The ATF decides who gets to sell guns and who doesn’t. Our job is to supply them with the best-made guns possible.”

After two hours, Jason checked his notes and looked at the witness. “Did I forget anything?” he asked.