J.D. Trafford - Michael Collins 02 - No Time to Die

by J. D. Trafford

  “Cold,” he said, and then he slowly made eye contact with the remaining jurors.

  “Callous,” he said, “and calculating.”

  Michael took a breath, and then he just let the words come out. He channeled everything he had seen since coming to Jesser. The harsh working conditions, the trailers, the hot fields under a low chemical haze, and the dead body parts of Tommy Estrada spread out on a metal cart.

  “We eat every day,” he said. “Most of our kids think that vegetables are grown in the grocery store. Most of us live in cities. We don’t go out to the farms. We don’t grow our own food. We don’t know and don’t really care where this food comes from. We just look in the newspaper every week. We read the ads, find a coupon, and then go and buy what we need. The grocery business is cutthroat. The profit margins are thin, and we all want the cheapest possible food we can get. … And that’s where Jolly Boy comes in.”

  Michael took a step back. He looked over at Harrison Grant and Brian McNaughten sitting at the defense table. Michael shook his head in disgust, and then he looked back at the jury.

  “So we have a company that cuts corners. But you heard that they don’t just bend the rules. They don’t just skirt regulations. … No, they have killed people. To Jolly Boy, my client Tommy Estrada wasn’t a person. He was a machine made out of human flesh, designed and built to pick our fruit and vegetables for a few dollars a day. But we’re not here to render a verdict on how we grow and purchase our food. We’re here to decide whether Jolly Boy was so reckless that its actions killed my client. To that end, the evidence is overwhelming.”

  Michael recounted the testimony of Miggy and the former Jolly Boy employees, and then he spent 10 minutes reciting the testimony of Dylan McNaughten.

  “My client isn’t here. He died and left a family behind. The defendant took a job farther away from his wife and children. Nobody knows what Tommy Estrada’s future would be, but we do know that Jolly Boy profits every day by mistreating and abusing its workers. We know that it has grown into the second largest agribusiness in Florida. It had $750 million in profits last year, after Brian and Dylan McNaughten were paid millions in stock options and performance bonuses.”

  Michael paused.

  “$750 million,” he repeated. “$750 million a year in profits, which works out to be just over $2 million a day or $14 million per week.”

  Michael scanned the jurors again. He wanted to make sure they were listening.

  “One week.” He nodded. “One week. That seems about right.” Michael pointed at Brian McNaughten. “One week to force them to give Tommy Estrada and his family some justice. As punishment for taking Tommy Estrada’s life, as punishment for mistreating its workers, as punishment for being cold, callous, and calculating, I think it’s appropriate to dock Jolly Boy one week’s pay.”

  Michael paused. He caught his breath.

  “I ask you to award Tommy Estrada and his family one week of Jolly Boy’s profit as punishment for its conduct. When you fill out the verdict form, there is a blank space for you to write the amount of the punitive damages award. I’m asking you to write down $14 million in that space. That’s just one week’s profit.” He paused. “One week.”

  Michael turned away from the jury, concluding. He looked at Harrison Grant and Brian McNaughten. He did not shout. He did not point. He just lowered his voice to an audible whisper, and closed.

  “Show them that, as jurors in this case, you now know where your food comes from. Tell them to respect the people who bring that food to market. The people like Tommy Estrada.”

  Michael closed his eyes, nodded, and then slowly walked back to his seat.

  His hands were sweaty. His heart pounded, and he sat down in a daze. Michael was sure that he had blown it. He immediately started to second-guess himself. He started to think he had sounded preachy. He had sounded too much like a radical. He should have focused more on Jolly Boy’s conduct.

  Michael picked up his pen and started to write on his pad of paper, just to do something. Although he wasn’t taking notes, he wrote nonsense as a way to channel the adrenaline.

  Then, Elana Estrada’s hand reached out and covered his. She calmed him.

  Michael’s hand stopped shaking, and he accepted that the decision was now out of his control. All he could do was listen to Harrison Grant, and then wait.

  CHAPTER FIFTY-EIGHT

  Harrison Grant wasn’t going down without a fight. His closing argument focused on the numbers. He didn’t really address the liability, because he didn’t have anything to say. His client hadn’t told him the truth, and so Grant had been blindsided. So he didn’t argue that Jolly Boy had nothing to do with Tommy Estrada’s death, nor did he argue that Jolly Boy treated their workers in accordance with the law. Instead, Grant focused on the money. He wanted to limit damages.

  “In polite society,” he said, winding his way to summation, “we don’t talk about money. Discussing the value of a life is crass and inappropriate. I agree, but unfortunately, that is the task that you all have been assigned.”

  Harrison Grant turned to Michael, and then back again. “He asked you for over …” Grant pretended he didn’t remember the amount. “What? Fourteen million dollars?” Grant shook his head. “This isn’t a lottery. This is a court of law. And while I grieve for Mrs. Estrada and her loss, we have to be realistic.”

  Harrison Grant put his hand on his heart. He played the role of the sage advisor, a sharp contrast to Michael’s passionate closing argument.

  “I do not believe that the plaintiff proved causation. We have the testimony of a man accused of murder, Dylan McNaughten, who is inherently not credible. We also have the stories of men who were flown here from Mexico, put up in a fancy hotel, and allowed to tell their tales.”

  Ignoring the recorded jail conversations between Dylan and Brian McNaughten, Grant then shaded the truth. “None of these stories were corroborated or backed up with hard evidence.”

  Harrison Grant stepped closer to the jury box. He lowered his voice.

  “But, if you do find liability, let us be reasonable. Tommy Estrada was dying of cancer. The plaintiff’s own doctor testified that he was not going to live more than a year. The plaintiff’s own doctor admitted that he could not conclusively pinpoint how or what caused Mr. Estrada’s cancer. So, how much did Tommy Estrada make per year? The answer is about $10,000 per year, which assumes he continued to work for Jolly Boy. If Tommy Estrada had stayed in Mexico – and had not come here illegally – then his yearly wage in Mexico would be about $4,000.”

  Grant continued with his math lesson.

  “That means that Mr. Estrada’s lost wages would be about $10,000 on the high side. And if you ignore the cancer, and think that Mr. Estrada would live a full life, say another 20 years, then, adding up those lost yearly wages, the damages would be $40,000. Such a verdict would still be a windfall for Mrs. Estrada, but we would avoid the unseemly act of transforming our legal system into the Florida State Lottery.”

  Michael watched the jurors as Harrison Grant concluded. He noticed a few of the men nod their heads, and it concerned him. Juror Number 5, the engineer, actually looked at Michael and laughed.

  “That’s all I ask. Respect the system.” Harrison Grant turned and walked away from the jury box and back to the defense table.

  Judge Delaney waited for Grant to sit down, and then Delaney looked at the jurors.

  “All right,” he said. “Now that the closing arguments are completed, I will give you some final instructions.”

  Judge Delaney continued, reminding the jurors of their obligations and the standards that they should apply in evaluating the evidence and testimony that had been presented. Michael’s mind drifted while the judge spoke, wondering if he had made a mistake by asking for $14 million. He wondered if the jurors now viewed him and his client as too greedy.

  Michael looked over at Elana Estrada. Her eyes were squinted as she tried to understand all of the words being spoke
n, and then Michael looked behind him. The gallery had more people in it, but it wasn’t full. Of course, there was still Agent Vatch sitting in the back, staring at him. There were also a few reporters, and various law clerks, students, and courthouse gadflies who had come to watch the show.

  Michael looked at the jurors one last time before they were released to begin deliberations. They were all focused on Judge Delaney, listening attentively. If anybody had won the case, it was Judge Delaney. All of the jurors loved him, and they would do whatever he said. But Judge Delaney kept his remarks level and objective. He had probably given the same speech hundreds of times, but he still managed to make it sound fresh.

  “Ladies and gentleman, in considering this case, remember that you are not partisans or advocates, but that you are judges of the facts. The final test of the quality of your service will lie in the verdict that you return to the Court, and not in the opinions any of you may have as you retire from this case. Have it in mind that you will make a definite contribution to efficient judicial administration if you arrive at a just and proper verdict.” Judge Delaney paused, and then finished. “This concludes my final instruction. You are now in deliberations.”

  Judge Delaney motioned for the bailiff, and the bailiff led the jurors silently out of the room.

  Once the jurors were gone, Judge Delaney looked at Michael and Harrison Grant.

  “Anything further that either of you would like to put on the record?”

  Harrison Grant stood.

  “No, Your Honor.”

  Grant sat down, and then Michael stood.

  “No, Your Honor.”

  “Very well,” Judge Delaney said. “Then this court stands in recess. Please make sure that you are both available via cell phone in case the jury has a question that requires your presence or the jury has reached a final verdict.” Judge Delaney rapped the gavel.

  “The court is adjourned.”

  After the judge left, Michael and Elana Estrada stood. She gave Michael a hug. “What should I do?” she asked.

  “Go to the hotel,” Michael said. “Order room service – whatever you want. I’m paying for it. And then wait. I’ll call if you need to come back.”

  “Thank you,” she nodded.

  Michael watched her walk out of the courtroom. Near the door, Pace joined her. Pace put his arm around his mother, and then they both walked the rest of the way down the aisle and into the hallway together.

  As they left, Kermit entered the courtroom. He wore Bermuda shorts and a loud Hawaiian-print shirt.

  “I got some cold ones waiting for us on the boat, mi amigo.” Kermit’s voice filled the room, and Michael saw Agent Vatch’s face turn sour.

  Michael picked up his battered briefcase.

  “Sounds great. I’m exhausted.”

  CHAPTER FIFTY-NINE

  The suit and tie came off within a few minutes of stepping on board the yacht. Michael changed into his swimsuit, rubbed a little sun block on his nose, and then settled into the plush leather chair on the back deck.

  By the time Michael sat down, Kermit was already a half-mile from shore and far out into Miami’s Biscayne Bay. Michael checked his cell phone. He had three bars on the top of his display. He called information. When a robot recording prompted him to say what he was looking for, Michael hung up. The phone was working and he was available. All he had to do was try to relax while waiting for the phone call from the judge’s law clerk.

  Michael located the old sunglasses and put them back on.

  “Drop anchor here.” He called back to Kermit. “I don’t want to get out of cell phone range.”

  Kermit said that he would, and, a few seconds later, Kermit cut the engine and dropped the anchor.

  Michael sat in the back of the yacht. His feet were up. His eyes were closed, and he listened to the waves pulse against the side of the boat.

  Bobbing in the water, Michael rocked to sleep.

  ###

  The phone woke him. Michael opened his eyes, orienting himself. He picked up the cell phone on the fifth ring, pressed a button, and answered.

  It was Judge Delaney’s law clerk. She told Michael that the jurors were going home for the day. They would continue deliberating in the morning.

  Michael thanked her, hung up the phone, and sat up in his chair.

  There was a slight chill in the air as the sun set. An orange light bathed the distant Miami skyline, and the water leading to the shore alternated between ripples of deep blue and black.

  “Kermit, are you up?” Michael heard some pots clang below him. He got up out of the chair and walked down the steps to the yacht’s galley.

  Kermit was in the kitchen. He looked up when Michael entered the dining area.

  “Hey, boss.” Kermit held up a stock pot. “I found some pasta, a jar of sauce, and two bottles of vino. What do you think?”

  “Sounds perfect.” Michael sat down at the narrow counter that separated the kitchen and dining areas. He watched Kermit fill the pot with water and put it on the stove. “Got a call from the judge’s clerk. Looks like we’re free for the night. The jurors went home.”

  Kermit smiled.

  “Then we got no excuse. We gotta open up these bottles of wine.” Kermit put a lid on the pot, and then opened a cabinet by the refrigerator. He found two wine glasses, and then he put them on the counter in front of Michael.

  He used a corkscrew to open a bottle of Pinot and poured some in each of the glasses.

  “You done good, mi amigo, no matter what happens.” Kermit raised his glass.

  Michael picked up his glass, and the two clinked.

  “I don’t know. I think I may have overplayed my hand. I think I sounded shrill. My voice was too high. I had too much emotion.”

  Kermit took a sip of wine, shook his head, and then set the glass down on the counter.

  “Bull crappy,” he said. “You were you. I was there, man. The jurors paid attention. They understood where you’re coming from. You had heart.”

  “Maybe.” Michael swirled the wine in his glass, replaying his closing argument in his head.

  “Well, you ain’t gonna be zeroed out, man,” Kermit said. “I can guarantee that, and anything is going to be more money than Elana and Pace have ever seen in their life. Don’t forget that. If it wasn’t for you and Jane –” Kermit caught himself when he said her name. He ticked his head to the side.

  “Well you know what I mean. There weren’t exactly hundreds of esquires beating down Elana’s door to take the case.”

  Kermit turned to the stove and started looking for a sauce pan.

  “You can say her name, you know.”

  Kermit nodded.

  “I know, I just figured I’d avoid it.”

  He crouched down on the floor, and rummaged through the cooking utensils and pots.

  Michael took a big sip of wine, and reached for the bottle to refill his glass.

  “You think I should go see her? Go see Jane?”

  Kermit stood up. He was holding a small saucepan that he had found. He set the empty pan on the stove, and he put his hands on his hips. His gray dreadlocks dangled as he thought.

  “Depends,” he said. “Is she your friend or enemy?”

  Michael shrugged.

  “Don’t know.”

  CHAPTER SIXTY

  Michael slept hard. The only place that he had slept better in the past five years was Hut No. 7, and hopefully, he’d be back at the Sunset within a week.

  Michael swung his legs over the edge of the bed and put his feet on the yacht’s polished oak floor. He found a pair of pants, stepped into them, and then walked out of the cabin.

  Michael heard Kermit walking around above him, and so he went up the steps to the top deck. Earlier in the morning, Kermit had lifted anchor and brought the boat back to the marina.

  The yacht was tied to a large wooden dock that jutted out into the bay.

  “Morning,” Michael said.

  Kermit looked over at
Michael. He was sitting on a built-in bench at the front of the yacht.

  “Figured spaghetti wouldn’t be good for breakfast, so I brought us ashore.” Kermit smiled. “Hope you don’t mind.”

  Michael shook his head.

  “Not at all.”

  “Any word from the court?”

  Michael looked down at his cell phone.

  “No calls and no messages.”

  “How long do you think the jury will take?”

  Michael shrugged.

  “No idea. Supposedly, if they take longer it’s better for the defendant, but I don’t know if that’s just a tall tale told by old lawyers or if that’s true.”

  “Do you want to go grab a bite, get some groceries and go back out for the day?”

  Michael thought for a moment.

  “Sounds good,” he said. “But I need to change into my suit, just in case the court calls and wants us to come in.”

  “Oh-ka-lee-doke-a-lee.” Kermit got up. He started picking up some of the extra ropes and moving them to better secure the yacht while they were gone.

  “Kermit,” Michael said. “One more thing.”

  Kermit looked up after finishing a complex knot.

  “What is it?”

  “I want to stop by the hospital while we’re out,” Michael said.

  ###

  Jane was at the Ryder Trauma Center at Jackson Memorial Hospital. Michael got her room number from a young girl at the front reception desk. He took the elevator to the fifth floor, and then started down the hall toward room 520.

  He didn’t know what to expect, and he didn’t ever come up with an answer to Kermit’s question. He didn’t know whether Jane was a friend or an enemy. Michael just knew that she was hurt. He wanted to see her. He wanted to tell her about the trial, and he also wanted to say goodbye.

  When he found it, the door to Jane’s room was open.

  He knocked a few times on the door frame, and then he walked in

  Jane laid in bed. She was conscious, but her head had a thick gauze bandage wrapped around it. Her eyes were bruised black and blue, but they were open. She was watching CNN on the television mounted in the corner of the room.