“If you use that tape machine and get caught, I promise I won’t defend you.”
We go up to a large room. It’s apparently where the settlement conference is to be held. I spot Claire Woodman in the hall outside. She’s knitting. She looks up as if she doesn’t know me, but then grudgingly shakes hands.
“What’s the matter, Claire? How’s the family?”
“They’re all fine, considering.”
“Considering what?”
She shrugs and goes back to her work. Maybe she’s catching “law,” a contagious and dangerous disease. Mona comes over and urges me to follow her into the big room. Everybody’s beginning to settle down. It’s quite a crowd.
There’s the main seating area, where I imagine visitors will sit. Then, along the right side, some plush swivel chairs. I count. Thirteen. It must be for the jury. Up front are some tables and chairs, and on a platform behind them is a large desk. It looks like a courtroom from any movie, only huge.
It’s three o’clock. I’m thinking about that peanut-butter sandwich. I can smell it through the Saran wrap and the leather of the briefcase. Just then, a door opens on the left, behind the big desk. This must be Murphy, although he’s dressed in civilian clothes, more like golfing togs, with checkered trousers, a shirt open at the top and a long-sleeved, loose sweater.
He crosses his legs tightly, left over right, and puts his hands up behind his head, fingers interlaced. He starts to speak. He speaks in a very soft, lyrical, lilting voice so we all lean forward to hear.
“I’m Judge Murphy, and I’m in charge of this settlement conference. We are going to settle all suits arising from the I-5 tragedy. We are not going to leave this building until every suit has been settled. I hope all of you understand that.”
There isn’t a voice of dissent.
“I am going to stay here twenty-four hours a day, working this out. And all of you are, too. I know we can come to compromises and reach agreement. This will not be easy for any of us. But I warn you that whatever the hour of my summons, day or night, you’re to be in my chambers within five minutes—or I shall hold you in contempt of court.”
At this, he looks around the room, hoping to find someone he can hold in contempt, I suppose.
“This is going to be a long session, as long as it has to be, as long as you make it. We could easily be here several days.
“Now, would each of you please stand one at a time, give your name, the reason you are here, and if it is appropriate, whom you are representing.”
Again silence. I’m already feeling slightly claustrophobic. We’re actually prisoners of this man. How can all these trained, educated people just sit there?
“We’ll start with you, Mr. Stears.”
Mr. Stears is on the extreme left of the room, but not in the jury box. He’s up in the last row. He stands, says his name and that he represents a particular insurance company. We have a “thank you” from Judge Murphy, and he points to the next person in line.
This is going to take forever; there must be at least fifty people in the room. I’m between Mona and Ted Mitchell. Clint is on the other side of Mitchell. Danny is beside Clint. I was watching Judge Murphy so closely I didn’t see Danny come in.
The lawyers, meanwhile, are already sounding as if they’re tired of the whole thing. The plaintiffs or defendants are generally nervous. When the judge finally gets to my row, I’m surprised to find myself anxious as well. At my turn, I stand up.
“My name is William Wharton, father of Kathleen Wharton Woodman, grandfather to Dayiel and Mia Wharton Woodman, father-in-law to Bert Woodman, all of whom were killed in the accident on highway I-5 in this state. I am standing in for my wife as family representative. I am here under threat of being charged with contempt of court if I did not make the long voyage from France to this place. I have no intention of making settlement outside of court and resent having been forced to come here against my will.”
So now it’s out in public. I sit down. Ted Mitchell rises and identifies himself as lawyer to the plaintiffs, the Billings and Wharton families. He doesn’t look happy.
After everyone has said their piece, Judge Murphy calls on the Assistant District Attorney for the state of Oregon, a heavy-set man wearing glasses.
“I am instructed as Assistant District Attorney to the state of Oregon to inform you that Judge Murphy, as settlement judge for this conference, has suggested to me, representing the state, that the maximum amount of money available from the state in these settlements for all claims relating to this accident is $300,000 as per the law.”
There are no objections. I can’t believe it. I look over at Mona; she puts her fingers to her lips to shush me. The judge takes over again.
“Also available for this settlement will be various amounts of insurance monies from different defendants. All of these have been entered into a general fund from which settlements will be allocated at your suggestion and my discretion.
“I suggest you gentlemen representing plaintiffs and defendants sit down and work out settlement amounts, proportionate to the general fund, which you feel appropriate to your particular case. I shall be calling you and your clients into my chambers a few at a time to see how well you are progressing with this difficult task. No one is to reveal to any client the total money in the general fund, nor the amounts of the settlements when they are made. This is an official injunction and violation of it will be dealt with severely.”
On that note, he stands, turns, and walks back through the door by which he entered.
At first, there’s not much movement or comment. Then, gradually, like birds searching for nesting places, lawyers, plaintiffs, defendants, drift into various corners, angles, or groups of chairs and, honest to God, pull out those innocuous, yellow, lined, legal pads. Mitchell, Mona, and Clint drift off together. Mona motions me to stay where I am. This is where the professionals get separated from the clients. Danny stays a while, then sees a newspaper on a table down at the front of the room and goes for it.
I’m still numb. I can’t believe this is happening. It’s like a kangaroo court, or secret fraternity initiation meeting. I’m furious.
After about ten minutes sitting alone, I pick up my briefcase and head for the door on the other side of the main desk, a matching door to the one the judge went through. I want a private place for myself. I have two ninety-minute tapes which were “accidentally” in my inside jacket pocket. If Mona wants to make an arrest, here’s her chance. I want to get down some of my thoughts, and feelings.
The door, I find, leads into a relatively large room. It has a long table and comfortable chairs. There’s another door at the other end which looks as if it might lead toward the judge’s chambers. I settle myself with my back to the window. I put my briefcase on the table, slip a cassette into my recorder, pull out some papers and a pencil to look as if I’m writing, prop the edge of the top of the briefcase open with a ball-point pen, push the proper buttons on the recorder and start recording. I get down most of what’s happened so far and how I’m feeling about it. This takes maybe ten minutes.
I go out again. I need to find our lawyers. How can they make decisions without the client?
It takes me half an hour to find them; actually, they find me. That is, Ted Mitchell does. He motions me to a chair.
“We’ve been thinking it over and we feel we should present our case against the trucking company, Sampson, first.”
“Why not the state of Oregon? They’re most responsible.”
“You heard what’s happened. We can’t get much from the state by suing them; probably Judge Murphy won’t even allow us to file suit.”
“How about Thompkins? He lit the fire.”
“He’s filed for bankruptcy and has only $100,000 insurance available; the rest is protected by his bankruptcy, a special form of Chapter Eleven, for farmers. Everybody’s going to be suing him and we’d only manage a limited portion of the whole. It wouldn’t be worth it. Sampson’s definit
ely our first choice.”
“I don’t want to settle. You know that, don’t you?”
He doesn’t answer at first.
“Yes, I know. But when Judge Murphy calls us in, he’s going to put heavy pressure on us to settle. I, personally, think the case is worth close to a million dollars.”
“But we won’t settle.”
He doesn’t respond.
The day drags on. The few toilets are always occupied. There’s only one phone on the courtroom floor. People keep being called in by Judge Murphy and coming out, still arguing with each other.
Meanwhile, I, at the insistence of my lawyers, have become involved in a terrible legal maneuver.
The van Bert was driving had been borrowed from his best friend Doug; it was insured for half a million dollars. This is because Doug has a garage and apparently insures all the vehicles on one policy. Another attorney wants us—that is Danny and me—to sue Bert, our Bert, for his involvement in the accident, so that this half-million can go into the “pot,” this general settlement fund. Mona says Danny won’t resist the idea.
I should be suing Bert, who was killed trying to save our family? And I should also be suing Doug because he was kind enough to lend Bert his van?
My lawyers point out that it’s only the insurance company that loses, not Bert, who is dead, and not Doug. I don’t care. There must be some line between right and wrong. For an hour, these lawyers keep badgering me: to them it is incomprehensible that I would keep this money out of the “pot.” They act as if I’m robbing them.
Now I understand why Claire Woodman was so incommunicative: she thought I was going to sue her son. It’s what her lawyer probably told her.
I go out and hunt for Claire Woodman’s lawyer. I explain what has happened and confirm that there will be no suit coming from me, even at the cost of everyone’s potential profit. The lawyer doesn’t believe me at first, but then smiles and leads me over to Claire. She explains. Claire reaches up over her knitting, and we hug. I feel much better. She’s crying. She has been sitting here, thinking the worst of me and not saying a thing. Very Oregonian, very John Wayne-ish, very lawyerish.
I walk along, looking out the windows into the courtyard. It’s starting to get dark and I’m starved. Ted Mitchell and Clint say they’ll cover for us while Mona and I go eat. There’s a restaurant in the Hilton Hotel just down the street. We don’t talk much. I bitch; she explains. I still want a jury trial, a chance to make the issue public again.
The food is expensive and isn’t much good. I can see we’re not going to see the judge today. I don’t intend to spend the night sleeping on that courtroom floor and so, before leaving, I go to the front desk and reserve a room. I’ll stick around in the courtroom till ten or so, but after that, I’m taking off. I’m pooped. I’ll ask one of the team to phone me if the judge calls us to his chambers.
Mona isn’t too happy with this idea. I tell her I can make it back in under ten minutes. Murphy’s not going to cite me on contempt for five minutes.
When we return, neither Ted Mitchell nor Clint is there. Mona drifts around, trying to find out the latest. I see Danny and tell him what I’ve done concerning the suit against Bert. He doesn’t seem too happy, either. I tell him if he wants to eat, I’ll stand guard. I have the phone number of the restaurant at the Hilton.
I feel gritty. I’m sensing more and more that our lawyers want to settle as quickly as possible. A trial means higher costs to them, and they don’t want to risk a jury.
The one phone in the court-house has a long line in front of it, educated men and women with hourly rates of a hundred and $200. The guy on the phone is screaming into it, at, I presume, his wife.
“But I’ve got to have at least a clean shirt. I’m beginning to smell like a sick dog.”
At ten I leave. I give Mona the room number and ask her to phone me if the judge calls for us. I’m dead tired. I don’t know how these people do this for a living. I close the door to my room, take my shoes, shirt, and pants off, and go right out.
And then the phone rings. I don’t know where I am. Then I realize, it’s probably someone phoning to tell me the judge has called for us. It’s Mona. She’s in her room and wants to know if we can have a drink downstairs.
We meet in the lobby. She’s in an alcove, drinking a beer, an ordinary one. I slide into the chair across from her. She’s watching me, lawyer fashion. She’s smoking. There’s a glass on the table but she’s drinking from the bottle.
“What’d you think of today?”
“You mean, really? Or is this some lawyer ‘lead-up-to-something’ talk?”
“Really. I’d like to know. I watched you. I know you’re not happy.”
“Mona, would you be happy if you’d been dragged away from your work at a critical section, forced to spend $800 to fly to a place you did not want to go to, sitting in an airplane for more than ten hours, plus two hours in an airport, all because you want to live where you want to live, do what you want to do, and not go to jail?
“Then I arrive and am told I’m in the wrong town and am about 200 miles from where I’m really supposed to be. Next, I learn that the judge has pulled an end run on our lawyers, that I can’t do what I want to do, that is, bring to court the state of Oregon and anyone else who was responsible for killing our daughter and practically her whole family. Then these assholes want me to sue my son-in-law just to grab his best friend’s insurance money.”
I break down. I put my forehead on the table and my tears splash on it. Just then, the waiter comes with another bottle of beer for Mona. When he leaves, I lift my head. He probably thinks we’re lovers having some kind of quarrel, the pretty young lady leaving the bald-headed old man. Being angry and crying at the same time reminds me of when I was a kid getting beaten up in a fight. Swinging, ducking, bleeding, fighting, and crying all at once.
“Then this Judge Murphy tells us we can’t sue anybody, and I’m beginning to see that nobody, not even our own lawyers, wants to go to court. They’re afraid of this judge and don’t trust juries, the basis of our judicial system. Judge Murphy has our hands tied, and I don’t understand how he’s done it, and I’m not getting an explanation. He has locked us into a courtroom that we can’t leave for any reason for more than five minutes. I can’t even take a crap in five minutes. And there aren’t enough crappers in the whole place, if I needed to. And you ask me why I’m looking unhappy. Think about it! Are you happy?”
I spread my hands flat on the glass table, then reach for one of the little napkins which had come with the beer. I start wiping up the tears and the ring of moisture from the beer bottles. Mona reaches out and takes hold of both my hands.
“No, I’m not happy. I think a good part of what you say is true and I’m sorry to admit I’m part of it. But I have my job to keep and I’m the low woman on this particular totem-pole. There were things I wanted to tell you, warn you about, but I couldn’t. I work for a large firm; Ted Mitchell is a partner in that firm. I’d like to become a partner myself, I think. This is the year I could make partner if everything goes right.”
She lets go of my hands. I look her in the eyes.
“If you think it’s so bad, then why don’t you quit? I sure as hell would.”
She looks me right back in the eyes.
“So, I feel guilty about some of these things. I don’t think any of the plaintiffs’ lawyers expected this. You’re right: we were outmaneuvered by Judge Murphy, the state of Oregon, Thompkins’s attorney, Sampson’s attorney, and who knows who else. I’m sorry. That memory of your daughter and her family is being dragged through a travesty of justice. It’s a trite phrase, but it seems to be what’s happening.”
She lights another cigarette and takes a gulp from her beer. She’s pinning me down with her green-blue eyes.
“The reason I asked you to come down is that Ted Mitchell is convinced we’ll be called into Judge Murphy’s chambers tomorrow and has a pretty good idea of what is going to be offered
us. He thinks it’s too low. He doesn’t want you to accept it. He’ll probably say the same thing to Danny Billings. You should get together with Danny before we go see the judge.”
She stops again.
“Please don’t tell anyone I talked to you about this. I wasn’t supposed to. Go to bed. We’ve worked out a watch just in case Judge Murphy decides to check out his power in the middle of the night. Do you know Murphy’s law?”
“Yes, if anything can go wrong, it will.”
“Keep it in mind, please. Don’t shoot off your mouth tomorrow, if you can help it.”
“I can’t promise anything. Let me get the bill for your beers.”
“No, don’t bother. It’ll be on the bill.”
I don’t ask if it’s her bill, or my bill. Is this considered a legal consultation and the two beers part of my expenses?
“You go to bed yourself, Mona. Thanks for giving me some of the scoop. You should be sharp tomorrow; that’s what you’re paid for. By the way, what’s with Ted Mitchell? He acts like a man whose mind isn’t on what he’s doing here.”
“That’s something I can’t talk about either. But I tell you Ted Mitchell has a reputation as one of the best trial lawyers in the state of Oregon.”
With that, we shake hands across the table and I turn away. As I’m standing at the elevator I look back and she’s still sitting and is lighting another cigarette. Maybe she has another appointment, maybe with Danny.
I get upstairs to my room, undress completely, put on my pajamas, and drop off into the red blur of sleep.
CHAPTER 14
I PULLED the drapes before I went to sleep, so it’s eight-thirty when I wake. I shower, dress, and walk across to the court-house to see what’s going on. It looks as if everybody’s there, but I don’t see Mona, Clint, or Ted Mitchell. I hang around a few minutes, then go back to the hotel for breakfast. I order the continental style and rush it a bit. There’s no telling with a guy like this Judge Murphy. Mona spots me and rushes up. Ted Mitchell is behind her.
Ever After Page 18
