DONE GONE WRONG

by Cathy Pickens

  “Thank you, doctor. No further questions.”

  Standers’s testimony had been dispatched quickly enough—painfully but quickly—so that Jake had time to call Dr. Leslie Mercer before the lunch break. This witness would take some time.

  Calling Leslie Mercer as part of the plaintiffs’ case was a risk. Mercer had once served as Perforce Pharmaceuticals’ chief spokesman. As an adverse witness, a media-savvy scientist might prove a challenge. Jake hadn’t asked the judge to declare the Perforce witnesses hostile, which would have let him ask more leading and aggressive questions. Instead, Jake planned to emphasize their commitment to Perforce, but he took them as his own witnesses. He didn’t want to appear unnecessarily antagonistic in front of the jury, at least not this early in the trial.

  Jake took Mercer through his credentials, which were flashier though not as history-making as Lee Standers’s. Mercer’s appearance also presented a sharp contrast to Standers’s. His peppered gray hair swept back from his forehead in a luxurious peak, his face fleshy and tanned, prosperous-looking.

  “Dr. Mercer, you were involved in the development of Uplift. Is that correct?”

  “Yes.” His voice boomed with self-confidence. “Not as closely as Dr. Standers, certainly. The credit for this breakthrough discovery goes exclusively to him. But I did help shepherd it through testing and the FDA approval process.”

  ‘That’s where your real expertise lies, isn’t it? In, as you say, shepherding new drags?”

  “Yes. I like to think that’s where I make my best contributions.”

  “But you’ve also served as Perforce’s spokesman, haven’t you?”

  “Yes, I have served as both the chief medical officer and as the corporate information officer, dealing with media outlets, shareholders, and other interested parties.”

  Mercer reminded me of a plump, self-absorbed pigeon. The questions and answers droned on. I have to remember, whenever I enter a courtroom, that what happens there moves at its own deliberate, excraciating pace. Question. Pause. Answer. Question. Explanation. Pause. With the subdued lights and voices, somehow it was even quieter than church. No rustling church bulletins or hymnbooks. I always have to take a deep breath and remind myself to go with the flow.

  Of course, moments of intense emotion pop up, raised voices, tears, pounding gavels. Common in made-for-TV dramas—or staged-for-TV California trials—those moments are rare in real courtrooms. Most of the time, it’s quiet, respectful, almost worshipful.

  “—Of course I believe in this drag. We’re in the business to help people. Statistically, fifteen million Americans suffer from depression. They’re not just blue or sad, but truly depressed. As a result, they have problems in their jobs, their families. They can’t get their work done; their sex lives are unfulfilling or nonexistent. Some can’t even go out of the house or get out of bed. It’s a devastating, crippling life.”

  Mercer was wound up, so Jake let him keep going.

  “The most telling fact for me is this. I once watched a patient dying of AIDS, a young mother. Pain wracked her every breath. Her immune system breakdown allowed everything imaginable to attack her body. But she straggled mightily to live. Despite the inevitability of her death and the pain of her life, she straggled heroically. For every last breath.

  “On the other hand, severely depressed patients can appear perfectly normal, but life seems so worthless to them that one in six of them commit suicide. One in six. They don’t fight for life, they don’t value life. They kill themselves.”

  Mercer almost raised himself out of the witness box. With his bouffant hair and the fiery conviction in his voice, he could’ve been a TV preacher. Instead, he was a witness from the other side—and not doing a lot to help Jake’s case.

  Jake stepped in, cutting off any more diatribe. He wanted the jury to know about depression, but he didn’t want to give Mercer a chance to paint Uplift as the miracle cure for desperate people.

  “Dr. Mercer, can you tell us about the FDA approval process for new drags? Just an outline of the steps, so we can better understand it.”

  Jake’s questions effectively sat him alongside the jury. The way he approached witnesses, the jury couldn’t guess he usually knew as much or more than the expert witnesses did. What worried me was what he hadn’t had time to learn in this case.

  With more detail than the jury wanted or needed, judging from their expressions, Mercer tracked through the new drag path, from pretrial testing to full approval. Despite his televangelist zeal, Mercer could be tedious. I watched the jurors and studied the expressions on some of the observers sitting around me. If Jake’s goal was to get the Perforce witnesses to bore the jury stupid, he was succeeding.

  “—Final approval was granted in April. The FDA was so impressed by the thoroughness of our testing, they expressly commended us for it. Needless to say, we were quite pleased with the FDA’s commendation because that’s the level of excellence Perforce strives for.”

  Jake looked like a bird dog on point. A subtle attitude shift, one the jury probably didn’t notice. Mercer was feeding Jake just what he hoped for. Jake fished for more.

  “So it’s uncommon for the FDA to—”

  “I object!” Arthur Vendue had been waiting for a time when it would look like he was objecting to Jake and not to his own company spokesman. He popped out of his seat. “This line of questioning is improper, Your Honor.”

  “Sustained.”

  The jury couldn’t tell how loaded that mild exchange was or how much history it carried with it. Vendue had undoubtedly told Mercer to avoid bragging about the company’s reputation. Talking about commendations from the FDA strayed into the tricky territory of reputation evidence.

  Jake would use any opening the defendants provided as an excuse to push the judge to allow the Tixtill evidence. If a Perforce witness bragged about the company’s reputation for thorough research, the judge might well allow contradictory testimony about its criminal conviction—testimony Jake desperately wanted the jury to hear. At the same time, Vendue had to handle his objections carefully, so the jurors saw him objecting to Jake, not criticizing one of his own people.

  Jake and Mercer continued their give-and-take until Judge Bream finally called an afternoon break. My rump felt flat and square from sitting, my head felt like cotton candy, and my seat-belt braises and battered muscles ached. Jurors can’t concentrate for such long hours, and I knew the lawyers were having trouble.

  After the jury filed out, I sat down next to Jake to give him my impression of how Mercer was coming across.

  “Enough yet to get Tixtill in?”

  I shrugged. ‘Truthfully? I doubt it, but Mercer likes to brag. He may push the door wide enough yet.”

  I felt like a boxing manager, icing my guy down and pepping him up before he went back into the ring to slug it out some more. I left Jake slumped in a chair, flipping through marked copies of Mercer’s deposition.

  Outside, I checked my cell phone and made a return call to my mom.

  “Avery, honey, I don’t mean to pry. But...”

  “Hi, Mom.” Mom doesn’t beat around the bush. “What’s up?”

  “Well, Melvin Bertram. Have you—do you have it worked out to share office space with him, when you get back?”

  “We’re talking about it, Mom. That’s all. Neither one of us knows if that’s—what we want to do yet.”

  “Oh. Well. It is best to walk all the way around something like that before you decide.”

  “So why are you asking?”

  “Just a rumor. That he was offering the old Bertram place for sale. I guess it’s just a rumor. Somebody got something confused, I’m sure.”

  Melvin selling his family home place, the building we’d talked about turning into two offices? For the rumors to be circulating, Melvin must be talking. Just not to me.

  “Any other news from the home front?” I changed the topic. I didn’t want to dwell on the Melvin rumor because I wasn’t sure how I fe
lt about it.

  “—Old Mrs. Waller? Lives in that house at the edge of the city cemetery?”

  “Uh-huh.” I faintly remembered the lady she was talking about.

  “Her husband used to caretake the cemetery. He passed a few years back, but she still lives in the cottage. There’s a big something brewing because she’s fed up with kids hanging out there late at night, drinking and doing who knows what else, to quote her. Of course it scares her, having people lurking about in what amounts to her backyard. So she’s taken to wandering the cemetery at night, dressed in black. She sneaks up on them.”

  “That’s kind of freaky.” I smiled, imagining a frail little lady haunting the graveyard.

  “It gets worse. She sneaks up on them and blasts down on an air horn. You know those loud things? Your dad said it was attached to a little can of compressed air.”

  And banned at high school football games for its risk to eardrums, if I remembered correctly. “An air horn?”

  “Yep. Now the neighbors are complaining. They say it sounds like a runaway semi track squalling through in the middle of the night. The sheriff went out last Saturday and arrested the lot of them, Mrs. Waller and all. Said the judge could sort out which devil started the ruckus.”

  Sheriff L. J.—Lucinda Jane—Peters. A high school classmate of mine who’d have been voted most likely to break the law, until she’d lucked into her real calling—county sheriff.

  “Doesn’t seem fair to be arresting a little old lady who’s just trying to protect her property and her peace of mind. If you ask me, she needs a good lawyer.”

  “Whoa, Mom. No way. I’m busy here—”

  “I know, dear. I know you’re busy right now. I’m just saying there’s folks that have good causes, that need protecting. Here in Dacus, just like in other places.”

  “Mm-hmm.” Nothing more committal than that. I knew she wanted me to do what I felt called to do; she just hoped that meant I’d be back in Dacus. I still wasn’t sure, and the middle of this trial offered no clear space to think very far ahead. Representing demented little old ladies gliding through graveyards deafening pot smokers, randy couples, and Goths—I wasn’t sure that looked like a career path.

  “Gotta go, Mom. I’ll keep you posted.”

  I would have to talk to Melvin. Maybe he’d dug up something helpful for Jake’s cross-examination. And maybe I could learn which way the wind was blowing with him, in case it carried a sign about what I should be planning.

  Mercer was already back on the stand when I slipped into my seat. I tuned part of it out while I watched the jurors’ reactions, like watching TV with the sound muted. My conversation with Jake during the break had reminded me just how exhausting a trial can be, especially when the shots aren’t falling quite right. I realized any commentary I gave Jake would need to be very pointed, very specific. He would be too drained to take in much else.

  Jake stiffened and drew my attention back to Mercer.

  “—Gathered the finest cadre of research scientists in the field. Their attention to detail, their dedication, and the thoroughness of their testing are all hallmarks of a Perforce product. We’re justifiably proud of the extremely high quality of our testing—”

  “I object.” Vendue tried to mask his ire, but his sharp tone startled a couple of jurors. It would’ve startled me too, but I had been watching him to see if he’d heard his chief medical officer straying once again into forbidden territory.

  “Sustained.” The judge didn’t even wait for an explanation from Vendue. He didn’t reprimand Mercer, which would only reinforce his message in the jurors’ minds. Instead, he peered at Mercer over his reading glasses, his lips pursed, trying to convey his disapproval without wasting time sending the jury out.

  Mercer looked unconcerned. I couldn’t figure out why he kept wandering over the edge, touting Perforce’s sterling reputation. His testimony was strong, without bragging about Perforce’s record. Was it a perverse need to make sure people knew what Perforce had accomplished while he was in charge, while his predecessor had gotten the company in trouble with the FDA? Or was he simply so wrapped up in the sound of his own voice and his own accomplishments that he was oblivious to its effect?

  He had skated up to and over the edge several times in his testimony. Jake would now be primed to make another motion before the judge to introduce evidence of Per-force’s Tixtill black eye.

  I still wasn’t convinced the Tixtill evidence had anything to do with Uplift or this case. I also wasn’t sure Mercer’s testimony, with his mentions of Perforce’s good research reputation, opened the door wide enough for Jake. But I could tell from the smirk at the comer of Jake’s mouth and the added bounce in his movements that he was convinced. He knew whatever changes Perforce had put in place to prevent another Tixtill fiasco wouldn’t matter to the jurors. They would likely reduce it to its essence: bad is as bad does. If they’d hidden problems with Tixtill, they might have hidden problems with Uplift.

  Jake kept questioning Mercer but couldn’t lead him into any other missteps. Vendue took Mercer on cross, which lasted until the evening recess at 6:00.

  After the judge sent the jury home, Jake made his move. “Your Honor, based on the testimony yesterday and today, I’d like to renew my motion to introduce testimony related to Tixtill. The company’s own witness has opened the door to reputation evidence—”

  “Counselor, I was quite certain that would be your motion. I’ll take it under advisement and rale later. Court is adjourned.” His gavel cracked and he pushed back his chair.

  Jake would’ve preferred arguing now, while his adrenaline pumped from the points he’d scored with Mercer. He’d have to maintain the fire he felt—difficult, but judging from his face as he turned to me, not impossible. At least the judge hadn’t summarily ruled against a new motion. Yet.

  I declined Jake’s halfhearted offer of dinner. We were both tired and needed some quiet time. Dark had fallen quickly under the gray sky. I was strolling toward East Bay, planning on dinner at Blossom or Magnolia, when my cell phone buzzed.

  “You may have to come up here to get your great-aunt out of jail.” My dad’s voice had a wry edge of mirth. “Grady Phelps is threatening to sue her for, I believe he said grievous bodily harm.”

  Grady was the route mail carrier in downtown Dacus.

  “Don’t tell me she whacked him with somebody’s cane.”

  “Worse. Leon”—her Siamese cat—”jumped off the window ledge and attacked his head.”

  “Oww. That’s gotta hurt. How did Leon manage that?” I pictured the floor-length windows lining the front of the house where my three great-aunts lived.

  “Grady was on the side path and Leon came down from the kitchen window. Right onto his head. Managed to get pretty good purchase and wouldn’t let go.”

  “What was Grady Phelps doing on the side path? The mail slot’s in the front door.”

  “That’s what Aunt Letha wants to know. She claims he’s always lurking about in places he doesn’t belong, gives her the creeps. Grady wants to know where his toupee is. Leon drag it off in the bushes. Grady’s claiming the thing cost three thousand dollars.”

  “Leon stole his toupee?” I had to stop walking and lean against a building. I was laughing so hard, I teared up.

  “It’s really not funny.” My dad chuckled. “Leon scratched him up pretty bad. You know that hurt.”

  “Yep.” Especially on skin pulled taut over a bald head. “That toupee looked like straw sweepings from the Feed & Seed. Where’s he get off saying it’s worth three thousand dollars?”

  “Maybe he’s adding in all the glue he’s had to buy over the years to fasten it down.”

  We both lost it at that. A guy on the other side of the street glanced at me and kept walking.

  “I’d better get over there,” Dad said. “I promised Aletha and your mom I’d crawl around under the shrubs and see if I could find it.”

  “Be careful under the kitchen window, D
ad.”

  “I’ll wear a hat.” He chuckled and hung up.

  Men needed to figure out that lots of women find bald heads sexy. Grady Phelps is no Sean Connery, but that toupee was a joke. At the risk of looking drank and disorderly, I laughed out loud, imagining Grady Phelps wearing Leon as a large, angry toupee.

  24

  TUESDAY MORNING

  Before adjourning court the day before, Judge Bream had made it clear the lawyers had better plan on moving the testimony along. He gave new meaning to “speedy trial.”

  The judge also had ordered the attorneys to report early so he could hear motions once again on the admissi-bility of the Tixtill evidence. Jake came prepared and put up one heck of a fight, but the answer—once again—was no. Judge Bream didn’t shut the door completely, though he’d have to slam Jake’s head in the door—several times—to dissuade him from raising the issue, should future testimony provide a basis. Jake was nothing if not a scrapper.

  Jake then rested his case. Forbidden by Judge Bream’s bifurcation of the trial, Jake wasn’t allowed to introduce details about the shooting victims’ injuries. Even though he couldn’t fully show the jury what had happened that day at Bradt Industries, he’d hammered doggedly on the liability evidence, trying to weave a compelling reason why the jury should blame Perforce for what happened. Ivan Gretel’s testimony that Uplift made some depressed patients agitated, made them unable to control their impulses, had been the cornerstone of Jake’s case. Jake could only hope time would weaken the damaging effect of Vendue’s cross-examination of Gretel. And Jake hoped to inflict some damage of his own, now that Vendue was putting up witnesses.

  Langley Hilliard was the defense’s first witness. I’d somehow let Hilliard grow in my mind, imbued with all manner of ogrelike qualities. On the stand, the ceiling spot overhead shining on his silvery hair, he looked—ordinary. Ordinary height and weight, ordinary sagging old-man face. Predictably ordinary expert witness, with enough gray hair and credentials to convince a jury he knew what he was talking about.