John Grisham - The Litigators

“I do.”

David was watching Nadine Karros, who with little effort could have excluded any and all expert opinions from Borzov on numerous grounds. She seemed to have no interest in doing so.

“And what is that opinion?” Wally asked.

“My opinion, based on a reasonable degree of medical certainty, is that Mr. Klopeck died of acute myocardial infarction, or heart attack.” Borzov offered this opinion slowly, his English much clearer.

“And do you have an opinion as to the cause of his heart attack?”

“My opinion, based on a reasonable degree of medical certainty, is that the heart attack was caused by an enlarged left ventricle chamber.”

“And do you have an opinion as to what caused the enlargement of the left ventricle chamber?”

“My opinion, based on a reasonable degree of medical certainty, is that the enlargement was caused by the ingestion of the cholesterol drug Krayoxx.”

At least four of the jurors were shaking their heads. Two others looked as though they wanted to stand and yell obscenities at Borzov.

At 6:00 p.m., the witness was finally excused and the jury sent home.

“Adjourned until nine o’clock in the morning,” Judge Seawright said.

Riding back to the office, Wally fell asleep in the passenger’s seat. Stuck in traffic, David checked his cell phone, then went online to check the market. Varrick’s stock had jumped from $31.50 to $35.00.

News of the company’s imminent victory was spreading fast.

During her first two months on earth, little Emma had yet to sleep through the night. Down by eight, she was usually up by eleven for a quick snack and a clean diaper. A lengthy session of floor walking and chair rocking knocked her out by midnight, but by 3:00 a.m. she was hungry again. At first, Helen gamely clung to the plan of breastfeeding, but after six weeks she was exhausted and introduced the bottle. Emma’s father was not sleeping much either, and they usually had a quiet chat during the predawn meals while Momma stayed under the covers.

Tuesday, around 4:30 a.m., David gently placed her back in the crib, turned off the light, and eased from the room. He went to the kitchen, made coffee, and as it brewed, he went online to check the news, weather, and law blogs. One blog in particular had followed the Krayoxx litigation and the Klopeck trial, and David was tempted to ignore it. But he could not.

The headline read: “Mauling in Courtroom 2314.” The blogger, known as the Hung Juror, obviously had too much time on his hands, or perhaps he was one of the Rogan Rothberg grunts. He wrote: “For those with a morbid sense of curiosity, hustle on over to Courtroom 2314 in the Dirksen Federal Building today for round two of the world’s first, and probably only, Krayoxx trial. For those of you who cannot attend, it’s like watching a train wreck in slow motion, and a helluva lot of fun to boot. Yesterday, opening day, the jurors and spectators were treated to the gruesome sight of the widow Iris Klopeck testifying by video. Supposedly, she cannot attend the trial for medical reasons, though one of my spies saw her shopping for groceries yesterday at the Dominick’s on Pulaski Road (click here for photos). This gal is one heavy woman, and when her face hit the screen yesterday, it was quite a shock. At first she seemed, well, rather stoned, but as the deposition wore on the drugs seemed to wear off. She even managed a few tears when talking about her beloved Percy, who died at forty-eight years and 320 pounds. Iris wants the jury to give her a truckload of cash and she tried her best to evoke sympathy. Didn’t work. Most of the jurors were thinking the same thing I was thinking — if you people weren’t so big, you wouldn’t have so many health problems.

“Her dream team, now minus its leader, who had a heart attack of his own last week when he came face-to-face with a real jury, has made only one brilliant move so far, and that was to keep Iris out of the courtroom and away from the jury. No more brilliance is expected from these two lightweights.

“Their second witness was their star expert, a certified quack from Russia who has, so far, after fifteen years in this country, failed to master the most rudimentary elements of the English language. His name is Igor, and when Igor speaks, no one listens. Igor could easily have been bounced by the defense on the grounds that he is unqualified — his deficiencies are too numerous to mention — but it seems as though the defense has adopted a strategy of allowing the plaintiff’s lawyers all the room they need to prove they have no case whatsoever. The defense wants Igor on the stand — he helps their side!”

Enough! David closed his laptop and went for the coffee. He showered and dressed quietly, kissed Helen good-bye, peeked in on Emma, then headed out. When he turned onto Preston, he noticed the lights were on at Finley & Figg. It was 5:45, and Wally was hard at work. Good, thought David, maybe the junior partner had discovered some new theory they could spring on Nadine Karros and Harry Seawright and reduce some of the humiliation. But Wally’s car was not parked behind the building. The rear door was unlocked, as was the front. AC was prowling around the first floor, agitated. Wally was not in his office; he was not to be found. David locked the doors and went to his office upstairs, followed by AC. There were no messages on his desk, no e-mails. He called Wally’s cell and got voice mail. Strange, but then Wally’s routine often varied. However, neither he nor Oscar had ever left the office unlocked and the lights on.

David tried to review some materials but couldn’t concentrate. His nerves were edgy because of the trial, and now there was a nagging sense that something else was wrong. He walked downstairs and had a quick look around Wally’s office. The wastebasket next to his credenza was empty. David hated to do it, but he pulled open a few drawers and found nothing of interest. In the kitchen, next to the narrow fridge, there was a tall round wastebasket where the coffee grounds were dumped along with food containers and empty bottles and cans. David removed the white plastic liner, opened it wide, and found what he was afraid he might find. To one side, lying on top of a yogurt container, was an empty pint bottle of Smirnoff vodka. David removed it, rinsed it in the sink while he washed his hands, and took it upstairs, where he sat it on his desk and stared at it for a long time.

Wally had a few beers during lunch, then spent part of the night at the office, drinking vodka, and at some point decided to leave. Evidently he was drunk, because he left the lights on and the doors unlocked.

They had agreed to meet at 7:00 a.m. for coffee and a work session. By 7:15, David was worried. He called Rochelle and asked if she had heard from Wally. “No, is something wrong?” she asked, as if a bad phone call about Wally was never unexpected.

“No, just looking for him, that’s all. You’ll be in at eight, right?”

“I’m leaving the apartment now. I’ll run by and check on Oscar, then come to the office.”

David wanted to call Oscar but could not bring himself to do so. His triple bypass had been six days earlier, and David was not about to upset him. He paced the floor, fed AC, and tried Wally’s cell again. Nothing. Rochelle arrived promptly at eight with the news that Oscar was doing okay and had not seen Wally.

“He didn’t come home last night,” she said.

David pulled the empty pint bottle out of his back pants pocket and said, “I found this in the kitchen wastebasket. Wally got drunk last night, here, and left the doors unlocked and the lights on when he left.”

Rochelle stared at the bottle and wanted to cry. She had nursed Wally through his previous battles and she had cheered him on through his rehabs. She had held his hand, prayed for him, cried for him, and celebrated with him as he joyfully counted the days of sobriety. One year, two weeks, and two days, and now they were looking at an empty bottle.