John Grisham - The Rainmaker

“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?”

“Yes sir,” I say. “It was June. Do you know when the language of the policy was changed to include the exclusion of bone marrow transplants?”

“No. I do not. I’m not involved in the writing of the policies.”

“Who writes your policies? Who creates all this fine print?”

“It’s done in the legal department.”

“I see. Would it be safe to say that the policy was changed sometime after this lawsuit was filed?”

He analyzes me for a moment, then says, “No. It might have been changed before the suit was filed.”

“Was it changed after the claim was filed, in August of 1991?”

“I don’t know.”

His answer sounds suspicious. Either he’s not paying attention to his company, or he’s lying. It really makes no difference to me. I have what I want. I can argue to the jury that this new language is clear evidence that there was no intent to exclude bone marrow from the Blacks’ policy. They excluded everything else, and they exclude everything now, so they got nailed by their own language.

I have only one quick matter left for Keeley. “Do you have a copy of the agreement Jackie Lemancyzk signed on the day she was fired?”