Joel Goldman - Motion to Kill

Mason picked up the belt, the metal cold in his hand. He worked the action on the safety hook just as he had in front of the jury, demonstrating how the slightest pressure caused it to slide open and how easy it was for Tommy to fall. He wondered again what he could have done differently to win Tommy’s case.

Immediately after the accident, Tommy’s employer gave the belt to Warren Philpott, the owner of Philpott Safety Systems, to examine it for defects. Philpott, to no one’s surprise, claimed there was nothing wrong with it.

The expert safety engineer Mason hired said there was nothing wrong with the way the belt was made. It worked as it was supposed to. But the expert said the design was defective because it didn’t have a lock to prevent the hook from opening and separating from its anchor.

Mason’s lawsuit against Philpott was based on the unsafe design. A tough case to win since Philpott’s experts said the lock wasn’t necessary if the hook was used properly. Philpott had sold hundreds of thousands of the hooks. When a hook failed and Philpott was sued, he did what many manufacturers tried to do: settle if he could, the cheaper the better, and win the cases that went to trial.

Philpott’s lawyers claimed the accident was Tommy’s fault because he did a lousy job of securing his hook. They offered to settle because they were afraid that the jury would be sympathetic to Tommy’s injury-especially with his wife testifying about life with a paraplegic.

“Two million bucks is a lot of money,” Mason told Tommy the day before the trial. “After attorneys’ fees and case expenses, you’ll net close to a million-two. Between what your wife makes and what you can earn on that money, you’ll be able to take care of your family.”

Tommy didn’t hesitate with his bitter answer. “It’s not enough, Lou. Not after what those bastards did to me.”

“Those bastards aren’t paying you a penny. Philpott’s insurance company will write the check. This isn’t about revenge, Tommy. It’s about taking care of your family. You can’t take the chance that the jury will send you home empty-handed.”

Tommy glared at Mason from his wheelchair. “I’m willing to take that chance, Lou. If you don’t have the guts, get one of your partners to try the case.”

Mason stiffened at his friend’s challenge. “Tommy, this isn’t double dare like when we were kids. It’s not about my guts. It’s about your brains. Take the money.”

“Screw the money. Just win my damn case!”

Tommy didn’t tell Mason that his partner, Stephen Forrest, had convinced him to roll the dice for a bigger payday. LeAnn, Tommy’s wife, wheeled him out of the courtroom after the trial. They hadn’t spoken since.

Mason put the safety belt back in the box and sat at his computer. Although it had been only four months since the trial, he wanted to know if there had been anything new in the press about Philpott Safety Systems. The only hit was an article in the Kansas City Star about the verdict.

Mason searched Warren Philpott’s name. Again there was only one hit, a newspaper article published a week ago about a domestic disturbance at the Philpotts’ home.

Ellen Philpott had thrown her husband out the front door and his belongings out a second-story window, both during a wind-lashed thunderstorm. Warren responded by pounding on the front door and throwing a rock through a window when she refused to let him back in. A neighbor called the police.

Ellen explained to the police that she kicked her husband out for cheating on her and that she threw his clothes out because she was doing her spring cleaning. When she added that they were getting divorced and that the judge had granted her exclusive possession of the house, the police ushered her husband away, leaving his clothes to soak in the rain.

When it stopped raining, she collected Warren’s clothes on the patio, where she said they would remain until they rotted. Mr. Philpott declined comment.

Mason remembered Ellen Philpott, sitting in the courtroom for five days, first row behind the rail, far side from the jury box, a flexed smile fixed on the back of her husband’s neck. Her own neck, thin-skinned and thick veined, bobbing and weaving with the testimony. She nodded at Mason each morning as they assembled, as if they shared a secret. Mason wanted to ask her what the secret was but knew that Philpott’s lawyer wouldn’t let him talk with her. That was then. Mason decided to work a visit to Ellen into his schedule, hoping to make an angry, wronged spouse his new best friend.

Mason spent the rest of the day talking to clients. His secretary called at five fifteen to tell him that Kelly Holt was waiting to see him.

“Sorry, I’m late,” she said as she sat across from him.

“No problem. I couldn’t stand another sympathy call. Your timing was perfect. I apologize for acting like a jerk yesterday. It’s not every day that I get to identify my senior partner’s body.”

Mason couldn’t decide if she looked better in or out of uniform. She was wearing an indigo suit, an open-necked, lime blouse, and a ruby and jade striped scarf. A gold clip held her hair snugly in back. It was a toss-up. Better yet, she wasn’t wearing a gold band to match her gold earrings and choker chain.

“Forget it. I never get used to the bodies either.”

“Last night you said that Sullivan was murdered. How do you know?”

“Sorry, Counselor. It’s my turn to claim confidentiality.”

“Why? Am I still a suspect?”

“What do you think?”

“That everybody’s a suspect until you catch the killer.”

“Exactly. You can either confess or tell me who did it.”

“I can’t do either. But I doubt that someone would try to kill me if I was the killer.” Mason told her about his drive back from the lake. “I’m parked in space number 110 in the parking garage. You can check the damage to my car and I can show you the place where I went off the road.”

“I’ll do that. Why would Sullivan’s killer want to kill you?”

“Maybe the killer thinks I know something that would identify him or her. Or maybe the killer thinks Sullivan told me something he doesn’t want anyone else to know. Or maybe it was just road rage.”

Kelly answered with professional neutrality. “I can’t protect you up here. Do you want me to ask the local cops to put somebody on you?”

Mason didn’t know whether to be pleased or frightened that she made the offer. If she believed him, she might not suspect him. But if she thought he needed protection, he might be in real danger. He was used to fighting through a pile of muddy rugby players battling over a slippery football. But he’d never played against a killer, and the prospect now didn’t seem real. And he didn’t like asking someone to take care of him.

“Not yet,” he hedged. “I’m defending O’Malley. I’ve got to deal with a difficult client and a U.S. attorney who wants to put us out of business. I won’t have credibility with either if I’ve got a bodyguard following me around. Do you have any better suggestions?”

“Just one. This is not amateur hour. Get someone else to represent O’Malley and someone else to represent your firm. I don’t want to pick up the paper and read that you’ve been fished out of the lake or sent up the river.”

Before Mason could respond, Cara Trent knocked and opened his door, carrying O’Malley’s bills in one hand and a coffee mug in the other. She was a lighter blonde than Kelly, soft where Kelly was sinewy, fragile where Kelly was tough.

“Oh, sorry, Lou, I didn’t know you had someone in here. Angela said you wanted these. She had to leave and I’m right behind her.”