* * *
Jonathan’s lead foot made no difference this morning. Panting loudly after a mad dash from the parking garage off Lafayette Square, he raced across Camp Street and up the steps of the Federal Courthouse. He scurried through security, took the elevator to the fourth floor and sprinted to the courtroom. He quickly straightened his tie and walked in as discreetly as possible, complete with a bow of deference to the judge that was more akin to prostrating to the Pope. Under the stolid gaze of the dinosaur, Jonathan made his way to the plaintiff’s table feeling not much larger than an ant.
Judge Breaux shook his head but said nothing.
Jonathan took a seat next to his colleague and lead counsel, Gary Green, and waited to be scolded. After all, Gary—who possessed all the colorful traits of a sagacious Cajun—was the firm’s sixty-five-year-old managing partner and thus was entitled to say anything he damned well pleased.
“Nah hear me, Johnny boy,” Gary began, his pungent coffee breath hitting Jonathan like a blunt instrument. “If for once you were early, I would hand you ma wife.”
She was well-endowed, vivacious and half his age, with a self-proclaimed addiction to aphrodisiacs. The insult, Jonathan mused, was either in being called Johnny—which he detested—or the chance of catching a nasty bug from a woman who used to twirl around a brass pole in a fine establishment off Bourbon Street.
His other co-counsel at the table, Allen Cledeau, appeared unfazed by Jonathan’s tardiness. But he was always less everything. Less energetic, less colorful—a bit like lunar rock. But he possessed one notable skill: an extreme attention to detail, not unlike a watchmaker’s.
Gary leaned into Jonathan. “We’re waiting for their witness, Captain Tucker.” He then nodding in the direction of defense counsel, Bernard Peyton. “Look at him, that scoundrel. He’s avoiding the judge.”
Jonathan didn’t know the guy, but he could tell a lot by a man’s suit: fitted by a blind tailor; purchased in a discount store; and worn by a short lawyer with the physique of a baboon.
“Did I ever tell you he was once one of our own?” whispered Gary.
“What do you mean?”
“He practiced here years ago, until he was seduced by a Texas firm for twice the pay. So he dumped his wife and handicapped son and moved to Houston. And now he’s got the balls to show his face around here again.”
“You don’t say.” Jonathan gave Peyton the evil eye, then turned his gaze to the judge.
Senior United States District Judge George P. Breaux was not the kind of man one should keep waiting. His black robe, inflated by his broad shoulders and barrel chest, amplified his harsh stature. He checked his watch and adjusted his mic before letting his deep voice send a cavernous echo across the courtroom. “Well, Mr. Peyton, is your witness on Central Time?”
Peyton stood up. “I apologize, Your Honor.”
The judge was unimpressed. “It may not matter to be late when you’re at sea, counselor, but it is in my courtroom,” the judge said and then turned his viperous eyes at Jonathan. “Isn’t that right, Mr. Brooks?”
“Of course, Your Honor,” Jonathan replied in his native N’awlins accent, a melody that could swoon anyone with nostalgia for the Old South. Anyone but the judge.
“I apologize,” Peyton said again. “Our witness must be stuck in traffic—something you don’t have at sea.”
Peyton’s jest might as well have been in another language. Judge Breaux kept a stern gaze, his lips as straight as a hyphen.
“If you were pretty little ladies, I wouldn’t mind waiting. But you’re not.” He pulled his chair back and got up. “I’ll be in my chambers,” the court heard him say as he stormed out through a side door.
His impatience was understandable. Though the trial was in its eighth day, the first had been almost five weeks ago. The proceedings were interrupted so often, it was a miracle the jury still remembered where to sit. First, key witnesses were not available. This was followed by a death in the judge’s family, and then the bailiff’s epileptic seizure during opening arguments, a juror’s drunk-driving arrest on her way to court and a power blackout hitting all of Orleans Parish.
“Another full house,” Jonathan said lightheartedly to Gary as he glanced at the back of the courtroom, finding an audience of only five people, aside from their clients.
Gary chuckled. “Insomniacs looking for a cure.”
The slow pace frustrated Gary, but he’d been uncharacteristically patient through it all. Perhaps because the trial was his baby from the start, since he was the most senior admiralty lawyer in town. There was nothing new to him about a shipping company suing its insurer for refusing to pay under the policy. He knew the law, the shipping business, the judges, courtroom politics, and he knew how to take insurance companies to the mat.
Gary had asked Jonathan to join the case three months earlier, mostly to depose the defendant’s witnesses. Jonathan had a knack for bringing out the truth, or, if that didn’t work, sniffing out the bullshit that often spewed from the mouths of witnesses. He had left an indelible impression on Gary in an earlier trial, having grilled a Port of New Orleans inspector with such zealousness that the man confessed on the stand to receiving a kickback. Gary was eager to use him again. And now that Jonathan’s caseload had lightened a bit, Gary felt it was the right time to bring in his prizefighter.
“All right, now,” Gary said, resting his hand on Jonathan’s shoulder, “don’t dilly-dally on trivial points with that fella. He didn’t become a naval officer by being stupid. You heard him in direct; he’ll be just as tough in cross. If you get stuck, I’ll jump in.”Jonathan nodded, but he sensed Gary’s warning served another purpose. Gary wasn’t about to cede control of this litigation to a younger gun, and his words were a roundabout way to delineate the turf.
Gary leaned into Jonathan again. “You’ve carefully reviewed the transcripts, right?”
“Yes, till three in the morning.”
“Good, there’s no sense in getting sleep when we’re about to lose our largest case,” Gary whispered within earshot of his client’s CEO—the other Gary—seated immediately behind him with his eyes opened wide.
No, Jonathan thought, not again. He had often warned Gary, who wore a hearing aid of questionable quality, that trying to whisper was not a good idea. But then again, Jonathan’s call earlier that morning had been an equally humiliating faux-pas.
The door to the courtroom opened and a stocky, brown-haired man dressed in a white naval uniform, his hat tucked under his left arm, walked down the center aisle. He sat down on the bench behind Peyton, who then quickly signaled the clerk to summon the judge.
The fossil threw a hostile gaze at the officer when he reentered the courtroom. He looked ready to spit out one of his notoriously spiteful rebukes—preciously rationed for such moments—when Peyton preempted him.
“Your Honor,” Peyton said, “I appreciate your courteous patience. Our witness is ready to take the stand.”
“Yep,” returned Judge Breaux from the side of his mouth. “Let’s get the jury in here and get this trial goin’.”
The naval officer stood up and headed to the witness stand as the jurors sluggishly proceeded to their chairs.
Jonathan, now at the podium, reviewed his notes, which were filled with important salvos for the battle that lay ahead. He looked up at the officer’s bright uniform, decorated with rows of colorful patches and wide black epaulets, each embroidered with four yellow bands. Jonathan knew he faced a hardened opponent, and juries tended to look highly on military men. He had to purge his mind of all wishful premonitions that this man would in any way capitulate under cross-examination.
Jonathan waited purposefully for the air of authority to dissipate and for the jury to gather the real role this uniformed buck was to play: that of a mere civil servant at the mercy of cross-examination in a case that had nothing to do with supporting the troops but rather a multi-million dollar melee between a shipping company and a powerful ma
ritime insurance carrier.
“Good morning, Captain,” Jonathan greeted. “Please state your full name and profession for the record.”
“Captain Donald Tucker, sir, commander of the USS Meecham, a U.S. Navy recovery vessel based in Norfolk, Virginia.”
“How long have you been in the service, Captain?”
“About eighteen years, sir.”
“Explain your role as captain.”
“I’m responsible for the crew’s safety and the vessel’s ability to fulfill its missions.”
“What is the pennant number of your vessel?”
“RS-56.”
Allen walked behind Jonathan and placed a poster-sized photograph on an easel.
“Please take a look at this, Captain,” Jonathan said, “and tell the court if this is a photo of your ship.”
“Yes, it appears to be.”
“And it shows the pennant number RS-56 in white letters on the starboard bow of the ship, correct?”
“Yes, sir.”
“And when did you take command of the ship?”
“In December, 1988.”
Jonathan glanced at the jurors. One woman in the first row fought to keep her eyes open. The man next to her stared at the floor, perhaps hoping he could lay on it and not wake up until deliberations. Then again, most of the jurors looked like patients awaiting euthanasia.
“Captain, are you aware that two experienced sailors have testified that your ship collided with their vessel, the Cajun Star?”
“Yes.”
“Are you aware that they testified that after the collision your vessel took off, ignoring their call for help?”
“I’m aware of their mistaken claims.”
“So you deny that your ship was anywhere near the Cajun Star that Sunday night of March 19, 1989?”
“Correct.”
“Can your ship be in two places at the same time?”
“Of course not.”
Allen again walked around Jonathan, carrying another large display. He placed it on the same easel.
“Do you recognize this map?” asked Jonathan.
“It’s a map of northern Europe—the North Sea and the Baltic, Scandinavia, as well as the Netherlands, northern Germany, Denmark and the east coast of England.”
“And the place you claim to have been that night is here?” Jonathan asked, pointing to a large dot in the North Sea, between Scotland and the Norwegian coast. The spot had been marked in prior testimony.
“Yes, around there.”
“How are you so sure?”
“My own recollection and my ship’s log.”
Jonathan drew a circle around the dot with his marker so the jury could see it well. To the jurors sitting ten feet away, the location the captain claimed to have been and the alleged collision site seemed fairly close—an advantage for Jonathan—but they were about a hundred miles apart. They also represented differently trafficked routes in the North Sea. The alleged collision site was in an area used by ships headed to or from the Baltic Sea through the Skagerrak and Kattegat straits, while the captain claimed to be farther west, in an area dense in north-south traffic, much associated with oil platforms.
“Why were you there, Captain?”
“A training mission.”
“Why would you pick such a busy area for training?”
“It’s as good as any other place in the North Sea.”
“Uh huh.”
Jonathan did his best to be confident, but he had an impossible task. Somehow he had to show that the Meecham was closer to the alleged collision site than the captain claimed, and to best do that, he had to find some connection to Baltic-related traffic, but he had seen no evidence of it in anything he had read or heard.
“Have you ever taken the Meecham into the Baltic?”
“Objection, Your Honor,” Peyton said, springing from his chair as if his seat were suddenly on fire. “As stated in your ruling this spring, Judge, that issue is irrelevant and delves into matters of national security.”
The judge reclined in his chair, the squeaking of stressed leather echoing loudly. “Overruled. The witness can answer, but tread lightly, Mr. Brooks.”
The captain looked at the judge as if he had called him a dirty name. “Yes, I’ve been there.”
“Did the USS Meecham sail into the Baltic in 1989?”
“Objection.”
“Overruled, Mr. Peyton,” the judge said loudly. “I think you’re being trigger-happy with your objections.”
Jonathan tried hard to contain himself. Raw energy was buzzing inside him like a power line. He had Peyton on edge.
“We sailed into the Baltic later that year.”
“And when you did, did you pass by where the Cajun Star was located on the night of March 19, 1989?”
“You’d have to.”
“And why did you head to the Baltic?”
“Objection!” Peyton blurted out. “Your Honor, this is irrelevant and restricted subject matter under—”
“Sidebar!” the judge said, interrupting Peyton. “I need to straighten you boys out, I guess.”
Jonathan knew it was time for punishment, though he hoped to leave ground zero less bruised than his opponent. And anything was possible with this feisty judge.
The two lawyers stood shoulder to shoulder below Judge Breaux’s warm breaths. The judge pushed aside his mike and leaned forward, his pointy nose taking on the attributes of a bazooka. “You two are gonna stop these shenanigans. Mr. Brooks, your questions regarding Navy operations must only relate to the alleged collision. Neither the captain nor the Navy are defendants in this case, remember?” The judge then turned his gruff stare at the defense counsel. “And you, show me you can do more than yell ‘objection’ like a nutty parrot. And your demeanor is awful these days. During our lunch recess I suggest you go find a pleasant personality and return to my courtroom wearing it. Now, get going.”
Jonathan always made it a point to leave sidebars with a smile, no matter what. It would dispel any notion that he may have been admonished. Peyton, however, looked as if he’d been sodomized by a linebacker.
The caution had shaken Jonathan. It was his nature to play fair, no matter how tempting it was to stray across boundaries when faced with opportunity. One thing was clear: he was not to delve into facts that could reveal naval intelligence sources and methods. But this wasn’t the first time the bench had articulated this point.
The issue had raised its ugly head long before that morning. A litany of briefs and memoranda had passed under the judge’s eyes in the preceding months. Even as far back as 1990, when the first trial began in a German court, the plaintiff’s prior lawyers had requested in discovery every imaginable document relating to the Meecham. The same demands were made after the case was moved to New Orleans. If the Meecham had indeed collided with the Cajun Star, there was little evidence to show it. Without it, the jury would certainly believe the defendant’s claim that there was no collision and that the damages were caused by the reckless conduct of the Cajun Star’s captain, in which case the insurer could count on the policy exclusions to avoid indemnifying a single penny.
Peyton wasn’t alone to restrict discovery of Navy records. He had been helped by a Judge Advocate General attorney named Joe Tillerman. Together, they did everything possible to curtail Gary’s access to the Meecham’s sailors, its deployment records and electronic data, like radar tracks and electronic messages. As a result, Judge Breaux allowed access to only a handful of government documents, many of them with large portions redacted. And to make matters worse for Jonathan’s side, the Judge allowed only one sailor—Captain Tucker—to be subpoenaed.
“Your Honor,” Jonathan said, “I would like to rephrase my prior question, as you suggested.”
“That wasn’t what I said,” the judge retorted.
Peyton stood up and pointed his finger at Jonathan. “Your Honor, he’s aiming for irrelevant information again,” he protested.
Jon
athan and Peyton quickly began talking loudly over one another.
“Mr. Peyton, please be quiet!” Judge Breaux yelled as he hammered the gavel several times. “Mr. Brooks, is it your wish to wait for the captain to retire before you ask your next question?”
“You should retire,” Jonathan mumbled to himself, but he instantly realized that the microphone had picked up his words, shattering all forms of deference. “I’m joking, Your Honor.”
The courtroom fell dead silent. The judge stared at Jonathan, no doubt weighing the responses available in his ferine arsenal.
“Counselor, I’m sanctioning you five hundred dollars for that remark. Give a check to the bailiff today.”
“But my comment was—”
“Please resume your questions!”
Jonathan returned to his map, taking in a deep breath.
An entire minute passed in silence.
“Captain, how far do you think your vessel was from the Cajun Star at around 19:00 local time that night?”
The Judge allowed the witness to get a closer look at the chart, which the captain did.
“About a hundred nautical miles.”
“And what’s the Meecham’s normal cruising speed?”
“About eighteen knots,” he said, returning to his seat.
“So it should take your ship approximately five or six hours to cover that distance, right?”
“Yes, about that,” the captain murmured.
Before moving to the next question, Jonathan glanced at his client, Gary Moore, CEO of Victory Lines, the owner of the Cajun Star. Moore sat with his arms crossed, staring blankly at the jury. He was a pedantic loser who showed off the attributes of an undeserving tycoon while also leading the once vibrant shipping line onto a path of financial destruction. How he was still head of the company left Jonathan dumbfounded and pondering the question lawyers often ask themselves at some point in any trial: does this client deserve my effort?
Perhaps most lawyers would have answered no. Moore was not only a reckless executive, he was a jerk. Not worthy of Jonathan’s time or intellect. But Jonathan’s ardent advocacy wasn’t aimed at saving Moore’s ass. What mattered was saving the hundreds of local jobs that hung on the line as a result of the litigation. And one man in particular—Captain Mitch Glengeyer—had struck Jonathan as the poster child of this noble effort.
Tranquility Denied Page 2
