The Subway ; The Debt ; Catastrophic

by Dustin Stevens

  Sandy Laszlo’s favorite way of doing that was by analyzing the way opposing counsel was dressed. Courtroom etiquette mandated that men wear suits, but there was still a lot that could be gleaned. If a man wore a black suit, he was aiming for reserved, stoic, almost unapproachable. Grey gave the appearance of neutrality, blue of loyalty.

  Even more telling was the tie someone chose, where there was a lot more room for personal choice and interpretation. Red was the penultimate power color, the obvious go-to for a man wanting to assert his presence in a room. Blue was the yin to red’s yang, a statement of being trustworthy and approachable. A man choosing brown was opting to convey a sense of down-to-earth, while someone that chose green had money on the brain.

  On the first morning of trial, Shane found himself standing in front of the closet of his rented room, dressed only in his briefs and undershirt, remembering those extensive lessons of courtroom fashion. Whether they were a conscious choice on her part or the unavoidable spillover from her professional life into their personal life Shane could never be sure, though he hung on every word just the same.

  “What do you think Molly?” Shane asked, shifting his gaze over to stare at the cat as she took her customary spot atop his pillow. The red digits of the bedside clock burned bright beside her, announcing that it was six minutes after six. A small smirk slid from Shane as he realized he had already been up for hours, his entire night’s sleep consisting of fitful dozing and nothing more.

  Molly didn’t bother to even turn his way as she lay on the pillow, instead rolling onto her back and stretching, her light gray belly flashing up at him.

  “Good call,” Shane said, pulling down a gray two-button suit, a gray and blue design pattern tie to match. He moved fast in the half-light of the room and was gone fifteen minutes later, a mountain of folders tucked under his arm.

  There was no traffic as he angled his way back to the law school, even beating rush hour onto the streets by well over an hour. He parked in the first spot in the lot and was at his customary spot in the library well before seven, reading and re-reading the notes from Prescott about the voir dire process.

  Abby was the first of his team to show up, arriving two minutes past eight, dressed in a skirt suit and blouse. Just a couple of minutes later Heath arrived, wearing khakis and a blue blazer. Both looked pale and nervous, their first foray into a world they’d only been hearing about for the last eight months.

  “Relax guys,” Shane said, offering them a smile that relayed confidence he wasn’t sure he possessed. “At this point, your heavy lifting is done. You get paid to sit and watch me sink or swim.”

  The remark had its effect on his assistants, color returning to their faces as they each took deep breaths and began to go through the notes in front of them. The words had the opposite effect on Shane, calling again to mind the harsh reality of his situation.

  Tyler Bentley was short a leg because of something SynTronic had done to him. If he was ever going to be made whole, financially if not anatomically, it was going to come down to the as-yet-unknown quantity that was Shane’s courtroom skills.

  Twenty minutes before nine, Prescott joined them and all three people gathered up their papers and everybody headed outside. They made the short walk to the courthouse together in silence, all deep in thought, ignoring the glorious morning sunshine that painted the sidewalks or the handful of pedestrians that offered sideways glances at the four severe looking people in suits walking together.

  A single man in wrinkled khakis and a plaid shirt was sitting on the front steps of the courthouse as they approached, a miniature microphone in one hand, a Steno pad in the other. Upon seeing them he jumped to his feet and descended the stairs, falling in step as they headed into the courthouse.

  “Shane Laszlo? Hanson Byers, Columbus Herald. Is it true that you are the counsel of record for former Charging Knights running back Tyler Bentley in the case set to begin here this morning?”

  Of all the things Shane had considered, from his opening remarks to the color of his tie, the press was one thing he had overlooked. The thought hit him hard in the pit of his stomach, bringing with it the undeniable fear of what else he might be forgetting.

  “Yes, I am,” Shane said, giving Byers a sideways glance as he ascended the stairs, his pace picking up.

  “Shane, how do you like your chances here today, going up against the heavy hitters SynTronic has been known to trot out for cases like this in the past?”

  The question gave Shane pause for a moment, a small smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. He paused at the top of the stairs and half turned to Byers, looking once at each of his companions, all of whom seemed a bit confused by his stopping.

  “Lucky for us, we don’t have to worry about that here today. This morning we’re here to select a jury of Tyler’s peers, starting tomorrow they’ll be the ones deciding that. Good day, Mr. Byers.”

  Byers nodded a farewell, his face a bit disappointed, no doubt seeking something a little juicier for the afternoon run.

  The enormous double doors of the courthouse opened wide as they entered, the polished oak smooth to the touch. Inside, the cavernous interior of the courthouse spread out in every direction, white marble comprising the floors and crawling halfway up the walls. Above it hung row after row of vintage photographs, former judges and magistrates stretching back over a hundred years. A pair of marble staircases rose and twisted up to the second floor on either side, a handful of employees going in various directions on them.

  Right in front of them was a second set of doors, made of solid wood with a square black sign with gold letters inlaid on them.

  United States District Court – Southern District of Ohio.

  A buzz already hung in the air, a conglomeration of small talk and nervous energy that seemed to reverberate through the space. Clusters of people were gathered around the foyer, some standing with shoulders hunched, trying to avoid eye contact, others turning to stare at Shane and his team.

  Two matching benches were pushed against the wall on either side of the door, both simple affairs of solid wood and straight backs. On the right sat a young man and woman, both shuffling through stacks of handwritten pages. On the left sat Margie Bentley, Tyler in his wheelchair parked beside her. Both looked sullen and subdued, staring at Shane.

  “You guys go ahead and go in,” Shane said, turning over his shoulder to speak to his team. “I’m going to talk to Tyler and Ms. Bentley for a moment, be right in behind you.”

  All three departed without a word, the sole reaction of any kind being a small nod from Heath. Shane waited until they passed through the heavy doors before approaching the Bentley’s, hand outstretched in front of him.

  “Ms. Bentley, I didn’t realize you were coming in already. Nice to meet you in person.”

  She returned the shake with a surprising grip, squeezing Shane’s hand as she regarded him with watery blue eyes. “I took leave until further notice. Decided I needed to be here for every minute of the trial.”

  “We appreciate it,” Shane replied, “but today won’t be trial. This morning we pick the jury that will be hearing the case, which some people say is eighty-five percent of the battle.”

  “No pressure,” Tyler interjected, a half smile on his face.

  “Thanks,” Shane said, matching the face and motioning towards the courtroom. “We should head inside now.” He leaned in and lowered his voice, casting a sideways glance to make sure nobody was listening. “Also, I know this is going to kill you Tyler, but it wouldn’t be a bad idea to let your mom wheel you in and out every day.”

  Tyler’s face broke into an immediate rejection of the idea, but Margie beat him to it.

  “I agree, that sounds like a fine idea,” she said, rising and grabbing the handles of his chair before he had a chance to react.

  Shane stepped inside first and held open the door, standing off to the left as the Bentleys entered. He waited until they were through and on their way down th
e aisle towards the front of the room before letting the door close, taking in the scene around him.

  The largest courtroom Shane had ever seen stretched out around him, line after line of benches spread in both directions from the aisle. A waist-high wooden barrier split the room in half, separating the benches from the actual proceedings. In front of it was a pair of counsel tables, Reed and Ramirez already present at the one on the right, Margie positioning Tyler on the left.

  The front end of the room was a wooden stage, the judge’s seat, witness chair, and court reporter’s chair each allotted their own compartments. The left side was comprised of the jury box, over fifty polished wooden chairs that would soon be filled.

  Shane’s eyes slid closed for just a moment as he drew in a deep breath, his shoulders rising and falling with the effort. The words of Byers came back to mind, the question about how he, a country rube from Ohio Tech, felt to be going up against major judicial heavyweights.

  A sense of calm seemed to settle in over Shane, the wide-eyed shock fading from his features, replaced instead by resolve. His entire legal career had been defined by being the scrappy underdog, the one that always gave worse than he got. It was the reason he had earned that position with Webster, Banks & Cohen, it was the reason Rex Hartman was still standing somewhere in Boston with his jaw hanging open.

  These guys, Connor Reed, William Ramirez, whoever else they trotted out against him, were in for a fight.

  Shane walked the length of the aisle and passed through the barrier, laying his briefcase down. He went straight over to the opposing table with hand extended, gaze unwavering.

  “Gentlemen, good morning,” he said, shaking first Reed’s hand, followed by Ramirez. Both mumbled a good morning back to him, trying their best to stare him down, Ramirez even going as far as to try and crush his hand in his meaty paw.

  Shane ignored all of it, focused only on trying not to laugh at the black pinstriped suits and red ties they both wore.

  Ten quick minutes passed as Shane settled in, spreading his notes out on the table, a blank pad in front of him. Behind him Abby and Heath were both poised and ready to go, sitting in a row with Prescott and Margie.

  Five minutes before the hour, a door beside the jury box opened and the bailiff, an aging black man with a ring of curly gray hair stepped into the room, his uniform neat and pressed. He shuffled forward to the jury box and held it open, extending a hand as a row of potential jurors filed in.

  Shane kept his gaze averted as they entered the box, casting only occasional glances over. From what he could tell, it was just the kind of mixed bag the system was designed to bring in, with individuals ranging in age from their twenties to mid-sixties, clothing choices running the gamut from ties to flip-flops.

  At nine o’clock, the bailiff closed the panel door to the jury box and turned to face the room. “All rise, the Honorable Judge Richard Lynch presiding.”

  The words still hung in the air as a walrus of a man waddled into the room, the effect accentuated by the billowing black robe and oversized mustache he wore. His thin brown hair was heavily oiled and combed straight to either side from the middle, a pair of wire-rimmed glasses rested on his nose. He shuffled over into his chair and swung his considerable bulk down into it, the springs on it wheezing for all to hear.

  “Good morning everyone, please be seated,” he announced, his voice a bit higher than expected, his tone a bit sharper. “We are here this morning to begin the jury selection process for Bentley v. SynTronic, docket number 000216. Would the respective counselors please rise and introduce themselves, those seated at their table.”

  His gaze shifted back to the papers in front of him as Shane stood, the slightest bit of moisture reaching his forehead and the small of his back. Beside him, Tyler lifted himself to his foot, using the table for leverage.

  “Good morning Your Honor, my name is Shane Laszlo, counsel for the plaintiff, along with my client, Mr. Tyler Bentley.”

  “Good morning,” Lynch said, still reading the document before him.

  “Your Honor, I apologize for speaking out of turn, but I would like to ask that if it pleases the court my client be allowed to remain in his wheelchair from this point on in the proceedings?”

  Lynch’s mouth opened to respond as he turned to face Shane, though no words came out as his attention focused on Tyler and the single leg he stood on, the wheelchair behind him. “Yes, of course.”

  “Thank you, Your Honor,” Shane said, he and Tyler both retaking their seats.

  Across from them Reed rose, scowling at Shane already. “Good morning Your Honor, Connor Reed, my co-counsel William Ramirez, here on behalf of SynTronic Corporation.”

  “Good morning,” Lynch said, shifting his attention to the jury box. “And good morning to each of you, all of whom have been summoned here as prospective jurors. This case concerns a medical malpractice claim of negligence against the defendant.

  “I am now going to ask you a series of questions. If the answer to any of these questions is yes, I ask that you raise your hand and wait to be dismissed. Once I am done with this, respective counsel will begin individual questioning until we have fifteen chosen jurors, twelve permanent and three alternates. Is everyone clear? Please raise your hand.”

  All fifty hands went up at once, punctuated by a handful of nods.

  “Okay,” Lynch said, continuing to read from the documents before him. “Has anyone talked with you about this case, or discussed this case in your presence?”

  Not a single hand went up. Lynch paused and swept his gaze twice over the box before pushing forward.

  “Okay, are any of you familiar with the facts of this particular case?”

  This time, a small number of hands went up, belonging to a few middle-aged men and one young woman. The proceedings paused as Lynch dismissed them, thanking them for their time as they went.

  “Have any of you formed or expressed an opinion, whether from newspapers, televisions, or other source, on this case?”

  A trio of hands went up around the table, all belonging to middle aged women. Shane let the slightest of grunts pass through his nose as the women were excused, taking with them a piece of the demographic he was hoping to capture.

  The general questioning continued for almost an hour, Lynch covering everything from possible blood relations to past employment status. Most of the questions were met without a single hand raised, the cumulative effect of his effort taking the pool down from fifty to thirty-eight. When he reached the end of his script, he flipped the stapled pages back to the beginning.

  “That concludes the questions for the entire panel. From this point forward, counselors will begin their voir dire process, asking you individual questions. Answer them full and honest, as they will have a direct bearing on the outcome of this case.”

  He paused another moment to add a bit of gravitas to his statement before shifting his attention back to the counsel tables.

  “Counselors, you may each strike eight jurors without cause. If at the end of voir dire an excess of jurors remains, you may be awarded more to get the pool down to the required fifteen.

  “Mr. Reed, you may proceed.”

  Shane cast a sideways glance to Reed, who sat with shoulders hunched forward as he stared down at a paper in front of him. He remained that way for several moments before turning his head towards Ramirez and whispering something, which was responded to with a curt nod of agreement.

  After almost a full minute he rose, straightening his tie and fastening both buttons on his suit coat, the effect accentuating just the smallest beginning of a paunch. He walked from behind his table and over in front of the jury box, standing for several long moments with his fingers interlocked in front of him.

  “How many of you are Ohio Tech football fans?”

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  The hours for the Ohio Tech law library were posted as nine to nine six days a week, ten to six on Sundays. During those hours either one of the staff li
brarians or a student on work study was guaranteed to be around, unlocking the doors and retrieving reserve materials for overeager first year students. The hours never changed, save for a retraction the week of Christmas and expansions twice a year for finals. Otherwise, they were one of the few constant things that took place in the building.

  Just two days into Shane commandeering his own corner of the library and making it his de facto office, the head librarian saw that those hours weren’t going to cut it. Already familiar with the long and insomnia-riddled schedule of Shane after three years of staring at him in that same corner, she knew better than to even try suggesting he find someplace else to work or worse yet, just telling him to leave.

  On a Thursday night, just over a month before, she waited until all the other students had left before approaching him, sitting in the corner alone, pretending not to know what time it was. There was no reprimand, no disapproving look, instead she just walked over and slid a single brass key onto the corner of the desk.

  The move shocked Shane, pulling his head away from the notes and towards her already retreating towards the door, staring back at him through thick framed glasses. The two locked the pose for several long moments, her growing further away, until Shane smiled and offered a silent thank you, dipping his head in appreciation. She returned the gesture, neither of the two ever mentioning the incident again.

  That same key now sat on the ring atop a stack of case files, sharing space with his car key, room key, and a Red Sox keychain he didn’t care for but kept because it held everything together. Shane leaned back in his chair and stared down at it, the sole reason he and Abby were now still parked in the corner of the library, an hour after everybody else was gone.

  “You can go home, Abby,” Shane said, throwing his pen down on the stack of papers in front of him and lacing his fingers behind his head. His sleeves were rolled to the elbow, his hand chosen blue tie long since discarded. “It’s getting late, there have to be things you’d rather be doing.”