Dead Peasants
Page 1
DEAD PEASANTS
Larry D. Thompson
STORY MERCHANT BOOKS
BEVERLY HILLS
2012
Copyright © 2012 by Larry D. Thompson. All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the express written permission of the author.
http://www.larrydthompson.com/
Story Merchant Books
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Contents
Copyright
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Chapter 54
Chapter 55
Chapter 56
Chapter 57
Chapter 58
Chapter 59
Chapter 60
Chapter 61
Chapter 62
Chapter 63
Chapter 64
Chapter 65
Chapter 66
Chapter 67
Chapter 68
Chapter 69
Chapter 70
Chapter 71
Chapter 72
Chapter 73
Chapter 74
Chapter 75
Chapter 76
Chapter 77
Chapter 78
Chapter 79
Chapter 80
Chapter 81
Chapter 82
Chapter 83
Chapter 84
Chapter 85
Chapter 86
Chapter 87
Chapter 88
Chapter 89
Chapter 90
1
The tension in the Beaumont, Texas courtroom was as real as that in the Cotton Bowl if Texas and Oklahoma were tied with one minute to go. The parties had been in trial for three weeks and two days. On one side of the aisle were the families of three refinery workers killed in an explosion that had killed or maimed dozens of others. The rest had settled with the oil company. These three families were represented by Jackson Douglas Bryant, a lawyer who in another era would have been a riverboat gambler. He convinced them to turn down million dollar settlements before trial. The loss of their loved one was worth far more than a paltry million dollars. He even turned and walked away when the company lawyer offered five million per family at the close of evidence. He was confident that a Jefferson County jury would take care of their own.
After two days of jury deliberations his clients had exhausted every possible topic of conversation and sat, stone-faced and nervous, on the wooden benches. Several of them wondered if they were making a mistake by rejecting enough money to provide for themselves and several generations of kids and grandkids. Still, they crossed their fingers and followed the advice of Jack Bryant.
On the other side of the rail where the lawyers strutted their stuff as if actors on stage, the company attorneys were huddled with their client, whispering to each other about Bryant’s refusal to even counter their fifteen million dollar offer. Bryant was standing at the bailiff’s desk, resting his hands on his cane and debating whether the Houston Texans would ever make the playoffs. Bryant was a Texans fan, but the bailiff had written them off once the Saints acquired Drew Brees and won a Super Bowl. He was now officially a part of the “Who Dat?” nation. If the tension got to Bryant, he was too good a poker player to let it show. Somewhere in the neighborhood of fifty years old, he was a lean six feet with brush cut brown hair swept back from a widow’s peak, piercing blue eyes and a chin with a Kirk Douglas dimple. He always chose an expensive Western cut suit and Justin cowboy boots for trial. The Justin boots had been his choice since he got his first pair as a kid growing up in Fort Worth. He always carried a cane. For trial it was one with a gold knob on the top to match the gold Rolex on his wrist. Among all of his canes, he liked this one the best. It reminded him of the legendary Bat Masterson, gunfighter and poker player. The entire outfit, including the Rolex, was calculated. He had long believed that jurors would be more inclined to award big money if they saw it up close and personal.
Jack would never have admitted it, but he was getting worried. If anyone looked closely at his eyes, he would see they were bloodshot, a product of tossing and turning the night before as he replayed the trial in his mind and wondered what he might have done differently. They had made their final arguments two days before and now it was approaching five o’clock. Were they going to hang up? I damn sure don’t want to have to try this son of a bitch again, he thought.
Two loud buzzes echoed through the courtroom. One buzz was for lunch or a cigarette break. Two meant they had a verdict. The bailiff rose, and as he walked by Jack, he whispered, “Good luck, man.”
Jack stepped through the swinging gate at the rail to shake hands with his male clients and hug the women. Then he returned to the empty counsel table as the judge came from his chambers. Judge Lucius Benton had a mane of white hair that he tied back in a pony tail. His handlebar mustache was so thick that it appeared as if his voice was muffled by a white buffalo hide. “I understand we have a verdict. Please remain standing for the jury.”
The bailiff opened the jury room door, and the six men and six women filed in. Jack thought he detected one woman smiling slightly as she glanced at him before taking her seat. The bailiff handed the verdict to Judge Benton. Silence filled the room as the lawyers and litigants stared at the judge who slowly flipped through the verdict to confirm it was in order and properly signed. Finally, he turned to the jury.
“Mr. Foreman, am I correct that this is a unanimous verdict?”
“Yes, sir,” a longshoreman on the first row replied.
“Then, with approval of counsel I’ll merely read the answers.”
The first questions dealt with the liability of the refinery. Was the refinery negligent in its maintenance practices? The jury answered, “Yes.” Did that negligence cause the deaths of the three workers? The jury answered, “Yes.” Jack smiled as he looked over to the defense table and saw the dejected looks of the company representative and his cadre of defense lawyers. Now came the important part. The jury awarded each family twenty million dollars in actual damages for losing their loved one. A defense lawyer pitched his pen on the table and leaned back, disgust on his face. The company repr
esentative stared at the jury with hatred in his eyes. Maybe they would tear down their goddamn refinery in Beaumont and move it to a county where the people would appreciate the economic benefit of fifteen hundred jobs.
Next were questions about gross negligence and punitive damages. The jury found the refinery knew its practices were dangerous and should be punished. They awarded ten million dollars in punitive damages per family. Several adult sons of the workers started whooping and hollering. The widows sobbed uncontrollably. Even Jack had tears in his eyes as he realized the total verdict was ninety million. Seeing he was rapidly losing control, the judge banged his gavel until the handle broke. The bailiff shouted for order. Worried that they might be held in contempt of court, Jack turned and motioned to his clients for silence. Slowly they returned to their seats. Some stared at the judge. Others turned to the jury and mouthed, “Thank you.”
Looking around the courtroom to make sure decorum was restored, Judge Benton announced, “Counsel, I’m sending this case immediately to mediation before retired Judge Simon Jefferson. If he has an opening next week, I expect all of you to be there to see if we can get this case resolved before you spend three or four years on appeal. I commend counsel on both sides for a job well done. You are excused.”
Jack took his clients out into the hallway where he huddled with them about the mediation. In Texas all big plaintiff verdicts went to mediation before appeal. The defendant had two shots at reversing the verdict, one before three justices at the court of appeals and one before nine justices at the Supreme Court. The bigger the verdict, the greater the likelihood of a reversal. The process would take at least four years, even if they won. He discussed the concept of a bird in the hand and reminded them that discounting the verdict a few million now would put money in their pockets immediately. A few of his clients looked puzzled. Still, they had put their trust in Jack, and he hadn’t let them down yet.
2
They overflowed Judge Jefferson’s conference room on the following Wednesday. In addition to Jack and his fourteen clients, the defendant found it necessary to fly in two lawyers from New York and a claims representative from London to join the three lawyers who put up the losing defense. They filled the chairs and stood along the walls as Judge Jefferson explained the purpose of mediation was to try to reach a settlement without taking the case through the appellate process and, perhaps, even back to another trial. He alluded to the fact that the Texas Supreme Court was all Republican, Nine justices who, judging from their opinions, thought it their solemn duty to protect big business from juries in Beaumont and certain other plaintiff leaning counties in South Texas. Jack’s clients listened and were uncertain what to make of such remarks. Hadn’t they just scored a giant victory last week?
When the opening session was concluded, the plaintiffs remained in the large conference room and the group of defense lawyers and representatives were led to a slightly smaller one.
After they were gone, Judge Jefferson turned to Jack. “Helluva job you did, Jack. This your biggest?”
“Biggest one in Beaumont. Had one over a hundred million in the valley a few years ago,” Jack replied with a smile on his face.
“You know how this game is played,” the judge said. “Give me a demand and I’ll take it to them.” He turned to look at the clients. “It’s a little like Henry Kissinger’s shuttle diplomacy from years ago. What do you say, Jack?”
“Not my move, Judge. I’ve got the verdict and the whip hand at this point. You’re in the wrong room. You best walk down the hall. Tell them that they better get way north of that fifteen million they offered last week. Otherwise, we’re walking.”
Judge Jefferson nodded his understanding as he excused himself. When he returned an hour later, he again warned of the risks of an appeal in a Republican state before saying he had an offer of twenty-five million. Jack pretended to look at an imaginary hole card. “They’re going the right direction but it’s going to be a long day. Tell them I’ll knock two million off the verdict.”
Jack was right. It was a long day. On two different occasions, once with a counter-offer of forty million dollars and once with sixty million on the table, Jack told all of his clients to get up. They were leaving. Both times Judge Jefferson convinced them to stay. At ten o’clock that night the offer was seventy-five million dollars, payable by wire transfer to Jack’s trust account in thirty days. Jack got up, walked around the table to shake Judge Jefferson’s hand and told him that they had a deal. When the judge left the room to advise the other side, Jack was swarmed by his clients as they laughed, cried and pounded Jack on the back until he begged for mercy.
Jack’s fee was forty percent. After paying expenses and a million dollar bonus to each of his two associates, he would net close to thirty million dollars. That, he thought, is the reason that he moved to Beaumont after law school.
The next day he called his associates into his office. Still a little hung over after celebrating until the Spindletop Bar closed at one in the morning, he was unshaven and wearing jeans and a T-shirt. “Sit down, my friends. I have an announcement. I’m retiring, effective today. The office and all the cases are yours. All I ask is that you send me a third of any fees you recover on our current cases.”
His associates protested, saying they needed him to head the firm. Besides, he was too young to retire. He raised his hands and asked them to stop. His mind was made up. “I’m moving back to Fort Worth, back to where I was born and raised. You guys know my son, J.D., got out of the Marines, enrolled at TCU and is trying out for the TCU football team. I’m going to buy a nice house, kick back, do a little hunting and fishing, and watch J.D. play football. I haven’t been in his life to speak of in near fifteen years. It’s time to change that.”
3
The pool hall wasn’t much, but it was the only one Breckenridge had. Breckenridge was seventy miles west of Fort Worth. A quiet West Texas town of a few thousand people, about its only claim to fame was that it turned out some of the best high school football teams in the state. If Friday Night Lights hadn’t been written about Odessa, it could have been about Breckenridge. Most of the jobs in the area were in the oil fields or on the ranches. Men still gathered at the Dairy Queen every morning to talk about the price of beef, crops, weather and, of course, the football team’s prospects.
The pool hall didn’t really have a name. Instead it had a red neon sign in the window that alternately flashed “beer” and “pool.” It occupied a building close to the railroad tracks a few blocks from the town center. The Baptists would have preferred for it to be out on the edge of the town, or maybe down the road in Caddo or Albany. The big nights at the pool hall were weekends, excepting Sunday when it was closed in deference to the Baptists, and Monday during football season.
The man named Jim always sat at the bar where he could watch the football game as he drank Lone Star from a bottle and smoked Marlboros. If Marlboro had needed another model, he could have been their man. He wore Levis, a blue work shirt with “Jim” on the right chest and a Cowboys cap. He had worked as an auto mechanic for years until the recession hit, and he was laid off. Fortunately, the oil and gas business still had life; so he transferred his skills to repairing oil rigs and pump jacks. Jim was quiet and never had any company. He would reply if spoken to. Otherwise he was content to watch the game, sipping his Lone Star and grunting occasionally if something dramatic occurred.
One Monday night a stranger appeared at the door of the bar. He had brown hair down to his shoulders and a neatly trimmed beard. He wore a black leather jacket over a green golf shirt. Once his eyes had become accustomed to the dim light, he took a seat at the bar next to Jim and ordered a Coors Lite. He tried to strike up a conversation with Jim who answered in monosyllables and continued to watch the game. By the end of the third quarter other customers began to drift out when Tom Brady had put his Patriots up by three touchdowns. Jim and the stranger stayed until the final whistle. That told the stranger what he wante
d to know. He paid his bill and left just as Jim was putting on his coat. The stranger noted Jim’s green Chevy pickup, the only vehicle remaining, was parked along the curb directly in front of the pool hall.
Two weeks later the clock ran down on another Cowboy loss. Jim pitched a twenty on the bar and said, “That’s downright embarrassing. Keep the change, Sam.”
Sam nodded his thanks as Jim put on a windbreaker and walked to the door. Sam followed him, locked the door, and unplugged the sign since the last of his other customers had given up on the Cowboys thirty minutes earlier. When Jim stepped out, he was confronted with driving rain from a storm that had blown in during the game. He pulled the jacket over his head and made a dash for his pickup. He had his keys in his hand as he rounded the rear of the truck and clicked to open the door. With the wind and the rain, he never heard a thing. And with the windbreaker pulled over his head, he never saw what hit him.
A white pickup had been waiting at the corner next to the pool hall, lights out while the driver listened to the last of the Cowboy game. When it was over, he started the engine and waited. He saw Jim’s lean body leave the pool hall and run to his pickup. The driver turned the corner and floored it, accelerating alongside Jim’s pickup, hitting him as he reached for the door handle. The impact knocked Jim fifty feet.
The driver started to leave Breckenridge, then had second thoughts. He had never killed someone this way before. So, he circled the block, and when he got to the corner next to the pool hall, he doused his lights again and looked both ways. The rain was now coming almost sideways from the west as a cold front blew through. Seeing no lights in either direction, he pulled in front of Jim’s pickup, retrieved a small Maglite from the glove compartment and climbed out. Pushing through the wind and the rain, he got to his victim and flashed the light briefly. Blood oozed from Jim’s ears, nose and mouth. His chest was crushed and both legs looked like broken pick-up sticks. The driver bent over and pressed his fingers against the victim’s neck. There was no pulse.
He walked rapidly back to his truck, checked again to confirm there were no vehicles coming from either direction and headed out of town. As he did, he retrieved his cell phone. “Boss, it’s done.”