John Grisham - The Litigators

Oscar walked to the podium, which had been turned to face the jury box. He offered a warm smile and said good morning to the jurors. “I have just a couple of questions,” he said softly, as if he had done this many times.

Since the eventful day David Zinc had stumbled, literally, into the offices of Finley & Figg, Wally had said on numerous occasions that Oscar was not easily intimidated. Perhaps it was his rough childhood, his days as a tough street cop, or his long career representing freaked-out spouses and injured workers, or maybe it was just his pugnacious, Irish composition, but whatever the mix Oscar Finley had a very thick skin. Perhaps, too, it was the Valium, but when Oscar chatted with the twelve potential jurors, he managed to hide the jitters and nerves and outright fear and convey an air of calm and confidence. He asked a few benign questions, solicited a few feeble responses, then sat down.

The firm had taken a first baby step in court without a disaster, and David relaxed a little. He was comforted by the fact that he was third down the line — not that he had much confidence in the two in front of him — but at least they were on the firing line and he was partially hidden back in the trenches. He refused to glance over at the gang from Rogan Rothberg, and they seemed genuinely unconcerned about him. This was game day and they were the players. They knew they would win. David and his partners were going through the motions, stuck with a case that no one wanted, and dreaming of the end.

Nadine Karros addressed the potential jurors and introduced herself. There were five men and seven women in the jury box. The men, ages twenty-three to sixty-three, sized her up and approved. David concentrated on the women’s faces. It was Helen’s theory that the women would have mixed and complicated feelings about Nadine Karros. First, and most important, there would be pride that a woman was not only in charge but, as they would soon realize, also the best lawyer in the courtroom. For some, though, the pride would soon yield to envy. How could one woman be so beautiful, stylish, thin, yet intelligent and successful in a man’s world?

The first impressions were generally good, judging from the faces of the women. The men were all in.

Nadine’s questions were more involved. She talked about lawsuits, the culture of litigation in our society, and the routine news of outrageous verdicts. Did this ever bother any of the jurors? For a few, yes, and so she probed deeper. Number 8’s husband was a union electrician, generally a safe bet for any plaintiff suing a large corporation, and Nadine seemed to take a special interest in her.

The Finley & Figg lawyers watched Nadine carefully. Her striking appearance would probably be the only highlight of the trial for them, and even that would get old.

After two hours, Judge Seawright ordered a thirty-minute recess so the lawyers could compare notes, meet with their consultants, and start making selections. Each side could assert that any juror should be excluded for good cause. For example, if a juror claimed to be biased for some reason, or had once been represented by one of the law firms, or claimed to hate Varrick, then the juror would be excused for good cause. Beyond that, each side had three peremptory challenges that could be used to exclude a juror for any reason, or no reason.

After thirty minutes, both sides requested more time, and Judge Seawright adjourned the proceedings until 2:00 p.m. “I assume you will check on your client, Mr. Figg,” he said. Wally assured him that he would.

Outside the courtroom, Oscar and Wally quickly decided that David would be sent to find Iris and determine if she was able, and willing, to testify first thing Tuesday morning. According to Rochelle, who had spent the morning haggling on the phone with hospital receptionists, Iris had been taken to the emergency room at Christ Medical Center. When David arrived there at noon, he learned that she had left an hour earlier. He raced away, in the direction of her home near Midway Airport, and he and Rochelle called her home number every ten minutes. There was no answer.

The same monstrous orange cat was curled up at the front door, one sleepy eye watching David as he cautiously approached along the sidewalk. He remembered the barbecue grill on the front porch. He remembered the aluminum foil covering the windows. He had made this same walk ten months earlier, the day after his escape from Rogan Rothberg, following Wally and wondering if he’d lost his mind. He now asked himself that again, but there was little time for navel-gazing. He banged on the front door and waited for the cat to either move or attack.

“Who is it?” came a male voice.

“David Zinc. Your lawyer. Is that you, Clint?”

It was. Clint opened the door and said, “What are you doing here?”

“I’m here because your mother is not in court. We’re in the process of picking a jury, and there is a federal judge who’s somewhat upset because Iris skipped court this morning.”

Clint waved him in. Iris was laid up on the sofa, under a stained and tattered quilt, eyes closed, a beached whale. The coffee table next to her was covered in gossip magazines, an empty pizza box, empty bottles of diet soda, and three jars of prescription drugs. “How is she?” David whispered, though he had a general idea.

Clint shook his head gravely. “Not good,” he said, as if she would die any minute.

David backed into a dirty chair covered in orange cat fur. He had no time to waste and despised being there anyway. “Iris, can you hear me?” he said at full volume.

“Yes,” she answered without opening her eyes.

“Listen, the trial is under way, and the judge really needs to know if you plan to show up tomorrow. We need you to testify and tell the jury about Percy. It’s sort of your job as the representative of his estate and spokesman for the family, you know?”

She grunted and exhaled, a painful racket that came from deep in her lungs. “Didn’t want this lawsuit,” she said, her words slurred. “That creep Figg came here and talked me into it. Promised me a million dollars.” She managed to open her right eye and attempted to look at David. “You came with him, now I remember. I was just sitting here minding my own business, and Figg promised me all that money.”

Her right eye closed. David pressed on: “You saw a doctor this morning at the hospital. What did he say? What’s your condition?”

“You name it. Mainly nerves. I can’t go to court. Might kill me.”

The obvious finally occurred to David. Their case, if it could still be called that, would be damaged even more if Iris made an appearance before the jury. The rules of procedure allowed that in the event a witness cannot testify for some reason — death, sickness, imprisonment — the deposition could be edited and presented to the jury. As weak as her depo was, nothing could be as bad as Iris live and in person.

“What’s your doctor’s name?” David asked.

“Which one?”

“I don’t know, pick one. The one you saw this morning at the hospital.”

“I didn’t see one this morning. Got tired of waiting at the emergency room, and so Clint brought me home.”

“That’s about five times in the past month,” Clint said, with an edge.

“Not so,” she fired back.

“She does it all the time,” Clint explained to David. “She’ll walk to the kitchen, claim she’s tired and short of breath, next thing you know she’s on the phone calling 911. I’m pretty sick of it, myself. It’s always me who has to drive to the damn hospital and haul her back here.”

“Well, well,” Iris said, both eyes open, glazed but angry. “He was a lot nicer when all that money was on the way. Couldn’t have been sweeter. Now look at him, beating up his poor sick momma.”