Maggie took her hand from her pocket and flashed our engagement ring. I thought my mother would faint. She hugged Maggie and so did my father.
“You’re looking at the future Mrs. Maggie Blake. Soon I’ll call you mom and dad.”
***
But there will never be a Mrs. Maggie Blake. Maggie’s dead.
Chapter 5
After graduation I applied to the FBI. This wasn’t something done lightly. Maggie and I had scheduled our wedding for the following May, and I wasn’t about to make a career move without her full agreement.
While going through the lengthy FBI application process, I went to work at my dad’s law firm, Blake & Randolph on LaSalle Street. My father is a former federal judge. He decided not to wait for retirement but returned to his old practice of personal injury litigation. He analyzed his decision simply: “more excitement, more fun, and a lot more money.” Blake & Randolph was one of the most successful personal injury firms in Chicago. Dad’s a tall man, 6’4,” the same height as me. He has light brown hair with streaks of gray and deep brown eyes. People often comment on the strong resemblance between my father and me.
He often tried to talk me into making a career with the firm. Following in the old man’s footsteps is common in law firms, but he understood my desire to join the FBI.
I’d seen my father try a lot of cases, and I admired him as a man and as a professional. He had a way of communicating with people, especially jurors. James Blake was a master of his craft. He also made a ton of money.
“You think there‘s something crude about personal injury law, don’t you, Matt? I know that people call us ambulance chasers and worse, but it’s a serious profession, and an honorable one. We get to help people, people who need it. We stand between injured people and financial destitution. And the money is great. Wouldn’t you want to treat that beautiful bride-to-be to some of the finer things in life?”
“Dad, there’s nothing crude about what you do. Maybe in the hands of some shysters it can be a flaky racket, but you give it class. I’ve seen you in the courtroom. You’re a pro. Everybody respects you, including me. But what really impresses me, and I’m not blowing smoke, is that you honestly care about your clients. I’ve seen you in action. You give a shit about these busted up victims. A lot of people in your specialty think of a client as a file with a dollar sign on it. Nothing more, nothing less. But you treat your clients like friends, like family.”
I meant it when I told my father I was proud of him, but I wouldn’t admit to him that I did find personal injury a specialty that had an odor about it. Some people think of “PI” law as something between running a collection agency and representing slumlords. Yes, Jim Blake had class, but a lot of his fellow practitioners are nothing but joke fodder for late night comedians. My father really does care about his clients. He sees what he does as a calling, a way to use the law to set things straight. I admire him for that. Sure, he makes a load of money, but when you’re at the top of any business or profession you get paid for it. And my father does a great job. Should a TV weatherman make more money than a guy who saves people from financial ruin?
Blake & Randolph is a different kind of law firm, and it’s mainly because of my father. Most personal injury practitioners see their work as a business. But he really cares about the firm’s clients. We have two full-time social workers on staff to help families navigate through tough times and deal with the problems caused by their injuries. We don’t charge a fee for their services. It’s free, courtesy of Blake & Randolph. We even have an investment advisor to counsel plaintiffs who receive a large settlement or verdict. My dad often tells the story of one of his first clients for whom he got a verdict of $1.5 million. The guy went through the money in less than two years and had nothing to show for it other than a bunch of shiny things. From that point on, Jim Blake made sure that our clients got financial counseling before they received the check.
That’s the kind of firm that Blake & Randolph is, and it’s because of one guy. My father.
Chapter 6
I took the Illinois State Bar Exam in July, and expected to hear the results in October. I wasn’t worried. I knew how to cram, and Maggie took time away from her own studies to help me. She was smart as hell, and the time she spent with me didn’t hurt her grades.
I had started work at Blake & Randolph in June, but only worked part time while I was studying for the big test. In July, after the exam, I was given a small windowless office matching my lofty title as law clerk.
My job was to conduct intake interviews with potential clients. Although I still had a lot to learn about the practical aspects of legal work, my father thought I had enough insight about people to tell a solid client from a flake.
One sultry Monday morning in August, I interviewed Mrs. Adele Jackson about her husband’s case. The matter was referred to our firm by a local lawyer who didn’t handle litigation. This is a common way that specialty personal injury firms gets clients—referrals from other lawyers. The process is similar to the solicitor/barrister arrangement in England. Because the fee is contingent on the outcome, it’s split between the referring attorney and the PI firm that takes over. The typical contingent fee is one-third of the amount recovered, either by settlement or by judgment after a trial. One-third of the one-third goes to the referring attorney. The majority of Blake & Randolph’s cases come from referrals by other lawyers, people who know their clients will be well taken care of. They also know that they’ll rake in a big fee for doing essentially nothing except referring a case to us.
My father has an evenly balanced emotional makeup. I’ve seldom seen him angry. But one thing pisses him off so much he always goes into a rant whenever the subject comes up: lawyer advertising.
“I saw a new TV ad last night from that schmuck who calls himself Ernie-the-Attorney,” dad said, “promising you a goldmine for your injury. It cheapens the profession and makes us all look like a bunch of hustlers.”
At Blake & Randolph, we wouldn’t have to advertise even if Jim Blake allowed it. The cases pour in, and they come because of one reason—the reputation of Blake & Randolph.
***
Adele’s husband, Philip Jackson, age 38, was a skilled machinist who worked on precision instruments that would fabricate metal into parts for medical equipment. He earned a good salary of $125,000 a year. Six months ago, while Jackson waited at a traffic light, a truck drove across the road and collided head-on with his car. Jackson suffered a severely fractured skull, multiple fractures to both arms and legs, and was still hospitalized. I was scheduled to visit him that afternoon at Stroger Hospital.
Mrs. Jackson cried. Her tears were real and not for my benefit, I could tell. The poor woman was upset. Her handsome young husband will never totally recover from his injuries, according to the medical reports. He had already lost his job because his employer couldn’t afford to keep a high- salaried employee on staff who couldn’t produce work. Her two daughters were with her, age six and ten. They were crying too.
The defendant, a guy named John Russo, was convicted of driving while intoxicated, his second conviction for that offense. The company he worked for, Midwest Shipping, was a large and diverse trucking firm.
This case is worth a fortune, I thought.
With his lost income and medical bills alone, the case had a settlement value of over eight figures. Lost income and medical bills are known as pecuniary damages, the actual money-loss caused by an injury. We always hired an economist as an expert witness, who would calculate the pecuniary damages numbers into the future, a future with large dollar signs. Then there was his pain and suffering, known in the law as non-pecuniary damages. In the hands of a skilled trial lawyer like Jim Blake, this number could hit the moon. His job, like that of any trial lawyer, was to sell the case to the jury, to get as much sympathy for the injured plaintiff as possible, and to get a large verdict.
Adele continued to cry. “I’m sorry Mr. Blake, but since Phil got injured our
lives have been turned upside down. Poor Phil didn’t even recognize me when I saw him yesterday.”
I was beginning to see why my father took such a personal interest in his clients. These nice people, the Jacksons, were going through hell because some asshole decided he’d get drunk before getting behind the wheel of his truck. I wanted to punch the bastard who did this, but our system of justice is more civilized. We make the offender, or his insurance company or employer, pay for what he did. It seems cold and mathematical, but is there a better way of righting a wrong? Unless people have a way to get some sort of compensation for somebody’s negligence, what’s left? Revenge? I started to see that money damages provide a more civilized way to settle disputes. Of course I learned that in law school, but at Blake & Randolph I felt it in my gut.
My father’s work was beginning to look different to me.
***
As the date of the bar exam results approached I started to get jitters, just like any recent law graduate. The results were due in two weeks. What if I didn’t make it? The idea of slogging through all of the bullshit of another cram course started to haunt me. What about the embarrassment of flunking? How could I face my father and Bill Randolph? How could I face Maggie? I called a few of my friends from law school to say hello. I didn’t really want to say hello; I wanted to find out if they were going through the same jitters as me. I’m glad I made the calls. Of the six guys I talked to, they were all going through the same crap. Then I had breakfast with Maggie, the woman who was starting to be the most important part of my life. Maggie had always helped me sort out whatever shit I was going through. Our wedding can’t come soon enough, I thought.
***
But the wedding will never happen. Maggie died three days after that breakfast.
Chapter 7
On my father’s suggestion, I went to the Pierce home the week after Maggie’s funeral to be with the people who were supposed to become my in-laws.
“Matt, I don’t know if you have any idea how much Maggie loved you,” Marilyn said. I knew that she meant it to be kind, but it did nothing to stop my pain. Yes, I did know how much she loved me, and God knows how much I loved her. We sat and wept and reminisced about the loss of our Maggie.
I had asked my father and Bill Randolph to take the Maggie Pierce wrongful death lawsuit without a fee and they both readily agreed. These guys have class. Although I wasn’t sure it was a good idea, they assigned the case to me. As a fiancé, I had no standing to sue for the loss of Maggie—not that I wanted any part of the money—so there was no ethical problem with my representing them in a lawsuit.
It was the most upsetting client interview I had ever experienced. It drained me emotionally and mentally. I felt like a fucking train wreck.
***
The case of The Estate of Margaret Pierce, and John and Marilyn Pierce vs. John Russo settled within 12 months for $850,000 even though Maggie had no physical pain or suffering. I felt good about the amount, and both my father and Bill Randolph thought it was an excellent result. I personally delivered the check to Jack and Marilyn Pierce. Normally the plaintiffs would have to sign the check and the law firm would deposit it in an escrow account and cut the net proceeds after the fee. But, because we didn’t charge a fee, the entire check was for them. My father and
Bill Randolph even refused to take out the expenses, such as the economist’s fee. In any personal injury case, it’s normal for a law firm to deduct any expenses laid out to build the case. But Bill and my dad wouldn’t hear of it.
“Matt, we’re going to donate this money to the Victim’s Compensation Fund,” said Maggie’s father.
It depressed me to think that I could have had these classy people as my in-laws. After our meeting, the only thing I looked forward to was a Scotch or two. Maybe three.
***
It had been over a year since Maggie died, and I still couldn’t get her out of my mind. I kept thinking about our first date, lunch overlooking the Chicago River, and the day we made love at the lake house. I kept remembering every moment of our brief time together. My father suggested that I sit down with Bill Randolph, who was becoming a real friend. Bill’s a good guy. Tall, at 6’1” with a bald head, he could stand to lose a few pounds. He’s 54 years old, just a year younger than my father.
Bill had lost his wife to cancer five years before, and from what I’ve heard they had a great and loving relationship.
“When does this shit go away, Bill? When do I just suck it up and get on with my life?”
“Matt, the only thing I can tell you is that time itself is God’s gift to helping us move on. It’s been over a year, and you’re still hurting, but answer something for me. Is it getting any better?”
“Yes, a bit. But I still have dreams about her. I still have nightmares about a car hitting her. Shit, I still miss her.”
“Matt, there will come a time when somebody mentions her name and you won’t feel the need to cry. There will come a time when you’ll be able to remember the good times you had with Maggie. When that time comes, you’ll know you’re over it.”
“Thanks, Bill. That time hasn’t come yet.”
Chapter 8
Bill Randolph was the unofficial managing partner of Blake & Randolph. Trying the big cases was for my dad, the master of the courtroom. Bill and my father were as good a partner team as I could imagine. Their personalities complemented each other. Bill was the organizer and kept the firm running like a serious business, which it was. Blake & Randolph was large for a plaintiff personal injury firm, with 10 associates and a support team of 25 clerks and paralegals. Bill and my father were the only partners, although they’ve discussed opening up a partner track to hold onto talented associates. Water cooler talk has it that I would soon become a partner, even though I haven’t even tried a case yet.
That would soon change.
***
Bill called me to his office. Bill likes to keep things simple. He has only one assistant, Florence Smith, who doesn’t tolerate a messy office, and she rides herd on Bill to keep it that way. Although Bill maintains a hectic schedule, his desk stays free of any paper except for whatever file he is working on.
“Matt, the Andres case is going to trial. You’ve done a great job of working the file, but we’re confronted with some solid bullshit. Frank Bartholomew, the chief adjuster at Featherstone Insurance Company has retired. Frank was a pro. He knew when he was up against a tough case, and he knew when he had to settle. Frank was replaced by a guy named Peter Shea, who’s a complete asshole. He just doesn’t understand when the cards are stacked against him, and the cards in the Andres case are just that. The liability part of the case is solid, as you know. The defendant made a left turn across traffic and hit our client head-on. “If we didn’t have such a great investigator like Woody we wouldn’t have five eyewitnesses who are ready to testify that they saw defendant suddenly swerve into Andres’ lane of traffic. Drop-dead cold liability in our favor. Miguel Andres’ injuries are horrible. Although the guy didn’t make much money at his job, his pain and suffering will shock the shit out of any jury. He suffered a wicked complex fracture to his right shoulder, his dominant side, permanently disabling him from his work as a carpenter and sheetrock installer. He also got whacked with a trimalleolar fracture to his left ankle; that’s three fractures in one joint. The poor guy can’t even drive a car without pain from keeping his foot on the accelerator. To make matters worse, our client suffered a herniated lumbar disc which required surgery. Miguel is 48 years old, and the medical records show that he’s already suffering from arthritis at both fracture sites as well as inflammation to his lower spine from the herniated disc. Miguel and his wife are hurting for money and he wants to settle the case as soon as possible. So I tried.”
“But Bill,” I said, “our demand, unless something has changed, is only $1.5 million, the limit of the insurance policy. It’s chump change for injuries like Miguel suffered. As you can see in the file, I sent them a Bad F
aith letter a month ago. What have they offered?”
A Bad Faith letter tells an insurance company that if they don’t settle for the limit of the policy, the plaintiff will bring a “Bad Faith” lawsuit. In a Bad Faith lawsuit, if the jury agrees that defendant negotiated in bad faith, then the insurance company is on the hook for whatever the jury awards, policy limit or not.
“You won’t believe this Matt, but this Peter Shea guy, the new chief adjuster, won’t come up with more than $500,000. Frank Bartholomew would have jumped at a demand of only $1.5 million. Shea recently transferred here from Oklahoma, a state that isn’t known for large jury verdicts. Wait till he sees what can happen in a big city like Chicago. I tried to politely explain to Shea that we’ll kick his ass from one end of the Loop to the other, but he’s firm on half a mil. So we have to try the case to a jury, not to the dickhead Shea.”
Chapter 9
In early November, I spent two full days before the trial at the home of Miguel and Juanita Andres. As my father coached me, it’s important to get inside the lives of your clients, so that you can show the jury that they’re flesh and blood people. I personally experienced what Miguel and Juanita went through every day. These two are a solid couple, and I began to like them a lot. Miguel’s pain was no bullshit. The poor guy hurts like hell every day.
***
“Picking a jury,” as it’s known among trial lawyers, is formally known as voir dire, a French phrase meaning “to see, to speak.” It’s a process where the attorneys for each side question the potential jurors to try to see if they’re biased. One of my key witnesses was a cop who responded to the accident scene. He was also an eyewitness to the accident itself. So one of the questions I had for each potential juror involved police. If a man blurts out that “all cops lie,” I bounce the guy from the panel. This is known as a “challenge for cause.” As the plaintiff’s attorney, I also try to get a sense whether the prospective juror has a problem with the very idea of a lawsuit. Some people think that personal injury lawsuits are bullshit, and that injured people should pay for their own damages. Sorry, Charlie, you’re not serving on my jury.
Sideswiped: Book One in the Matt Blake legal thriller series Page 2
