William Bernhardt: Blind Justice

Ben found his client, Amy Simmons, sitting at plaintiff’s table by herself. She wore a tense, forlorn expression. Amy had been rear-ended in a car accident several months earlier. She brought a negligence action against the driver of the car that hit her, Tony Lombardi, seeking damages for her injuries. Reynolds was representing Lombardi and the insurance company that carried his policy.

“Morning, Amy. Sorry I’m late.”

She smiled faintly. “It’s all right. That legal assistant on the other side told me you were practicing your closing argument.”

Another favor he owed Christina. “Do you feel secure about your testimony? Are there any other questions you wanted to ask me?”

Amy’s face tightened. “Do I really have to go up there in front of the judge and everybody?”

“I’m afraid so.” He patted her hand. “Don’t worry about it, Amy. I’ll be here the whole time. You’ll do fine. Promise.”

“I hope so,” she said nervously. “I really do.”

After Judge Helen Hart entered the courtroom, she reassembled the jury and resumed the trial. Judge Hart was in her mid-forties and had been on the bench long enough to approach her work with a sense of grace and humor Ben found extremely refreshing. A good judge could make a tense trial like this one much more bearable.

Ben’s only remaining witness was Mrs. Simmons; she was the make-or-break witness for their case. The medical witnesses were perfectly convincing, but if Amy didn’t persuade the jury she had been injured in the auto accident and was still suffering resultant damage, the jury would never enter a verdict in her favor.

After she took the stand, Ben steered Amy gently through the direct examination they had prepared and practiced countless times in advance of trial. She was extremely nervous, but her answers were solid, and she appeared sincere. She discussed her neck injury and the symptoms she experienced periodically: the sharp, stabbing pain, the uncontrollable spasms, the inability to hold her head erect. Her doctor said she had a severe soft tissue injury and, after performing some minor surgery, he prescribed medication and physical therapy for the rest of her life.

After they completed their prepared questions, Ben stepped away from the podium. Amy’s testimony had been fine, but it hadn’t really captured the jurors’ heartstrings. It was a little too canned, too pat. Ben knew he needed to depart from the script and ask some zingers artfully designed to elicit jury sympathy.

“Amy, are you able to enjoy the same quality of life you had before the accident?”

Amy looked down at her hands. “Oh, you know. I do all right.”

Hardly a stirring response. “Amy, are you still able to play tennis?”

“Well, you know, Mr. Kincaid, I never really enjoyed tennis that much.”

“What about your golf game?”

“Well, now that I have grandchildren, I don’t heed to be out chasing a little ball all over the green.”

Ben took a deep breath. “Amy, are you embarrassed when your neck starts to twitch in public?”

“Oh, my. You know, I don’t give much thought to what other people think.”

Sheesh. This called for drastic action. Ben approached the stand and leaned over the rail. “Amy. I know you’re trying to be brave and uncomplaining, but you must be honest with the jury. I can see your neck trembling. It hurts, doesn’t it? It hurts right now.”

She pressed her hand against her neck. “Yes,” she whispered.

Good girl. He was leading the witness, of course, but Reynolds was probably too dim to notice. “It hurts every day, doesn’t it? So badly you can barely tolerate it?”

Her entire head was shaking. Her nod was barely perceptible.

“And if you can’t afford to pay for the medication and the physical therapy, that pain is going to continue unabated for the rest of your life, isn’t it?”

Her eyes were welling up with tears. “I-I guess so,” she said.

“Thank you. No more questions, your honor.”

Ben returned to plaintiff’s table, pleased. It was a struggle, but Amy finally managed to tell the jury what they needed to know. Just let Reynolds try to take her apart on cross. If he got rough with her, the jury would hate his effete little guts.

Reynolds walked slowly to the podium. He obviously saw the dilemma as clearly as Ben, and as a result, wasn’t sure how to begin. “Mrs. Simmons, my name is Quinn Reynolds.” He stood for a moment, poised in thought. “I represent the defendant, Mr. Lombardi.”

“And his insurance company,” Amy added.

“Move to strike,” Reynolds said, without missing a beat.

“Granted,” Judge Hart said. “The jury will disregard the witness’s last remark.”

“And I move for a mistrial,” Reynolds said.

“Don’t you wish,” the judge replied. “Proceed with your questions, counselor.”

“Mrs. Simmons, you claim you have suffered a soft tissue injury to your neck. Is that correct?”

“That’s what the doctor told me.”

“But Mrs. Simmons, isn’t what the doctor actually said—” Reynolds flipped through his notebook, then turned it over and flipped through it again. “Now where did I put that?” He walked back to defendant’s table and began burrowing through his huge stash of documents.

Ben smiled. There was nothing better than seeing a sleaze-meister’s dirty tricks backfire. Early in the case, Reynolds had issued a huge request for production of documents. Reynolds was obviously hoping to bury Ben, the sole practitioner, under a morass of paperwork, and to make the litigation as expensive for Amy as possible. Now Reynolds was unable to find the document he needed because it was lost somewhere in the morass of documents he brought into existence. Sweet irony.

Unfortunately, Christina, a far better legal assistant than Reynolds deserved, walked unobtrusively to the front of the courtroom, went directly to the proper file folder and retrieved the document he needed. Reynolds snatched it from her without so much as a nod and returned to the podium.

“As I was saying, Mrs. Simmons. Isn’t it true your doctor referred to your injury as ‘probably minor and easily removed’?”

“Easily removed?” A puzzled expression crossed her face. “May I see that?”

Reynolds didn’t want to, but Judge Hart gestured at the witness stand, indicating she wanted the witness to examine the document. He passed it to the bailiff, who handed it to Amy.

“Probably minor and easily removed,” Amy repeated, perusing the medical record. “Oh, I see now. This isn’t about my neck injury. This is about a wart.”

Reynolds blinked. “A wart?”

“Yes. See, at the top of the page, the doctor refers to my verruca vulgaris. That’s a wart.” She looked up at Reynolds. “You’re right; that was minor and easily removed.”

Ben covered his smile with his hands. This cross couldn’t be better if he had scripted it himself. He could see the jury verdict crystalizing before his eyes; dollar signs were flashing like neon lights.

Reynolds flipped a few more pages in his notebook. At least he had the sense to know when to start over. “You say your neck causes you pain on a regular basis?”

“That’s true.”

“That you experience disorientation and dizziness.”

“I’m afraid so.”

“And that you are subject to sudden uncontrollable neck seizures.”

“Yes. Particularly when I’m tired.”

What softballs, Ben thought. Reynolds must’ve given up trying to win the case and decided just to act sympathetic and hope for the best.

“And you’ve testified that the neck spasms are interfering with your work.”

“Well, as a nurse, I’m in contact with patients on a regular basis. A violent neck twitch doesn’t make for good bedside manner.”