Sideswiped: Book One in the Matt Blake legal thriller series

by Russell Moran

  In Illinois, both civil and criminal trials are heard before 12 jurors, so the voir dire process took the better part of a full day. There’s a bill before the legislature to limit civil trials to only six jurors, as it is in many other states, but for now it’s 12 people.

  After we selected our jury, I decided to have a chat with the defense attorney, a tall thin woman named Georgina Rice, whom I’d met a few times before.

  “I want to remind you, Georgina, that I’ve filed a Bad Faith demand on this case. You know as well as I do that the jury could ring a big bell in this suit, and Featherstone Insurance Company will wind up paying it all, way more than our policy demand of $1.5 million.”

  “I know, I know,” she said. I had the feeling that she thought her chief adjuster was a jerk, but of course she wouldn’t admit it. At this stage of the game, actually at every stage of the game, lawyers fuck with each other’s heads. It’s the way the sport is played.

  ***

  As the plaintiff’s attorney, I gave my opening statement first. I was nervous, I’ll admit. With all of the crap I saw in Iraq, you’d think I’d be tough as nails. Marine Captain Blake, reporting for duty. Bullshit. Every lawyer, especially on his first case, is in fear of blowing it. My job was to do the best for my clients, but I had a serious case of stomach butterflies. Time to lock and load, I thought, somehow hoping my military training would toughen me up for this new type of combat. Good luck with that.

  “Ladies and gentlemen of the jury,” I began.

  Some trial lawyers think that such an opening is corny and simply a formula. Some like to begin with a folksy, “Good morning, my friends,” or “A pleasure to meet you folks.”

  I prefer to take advice from my father, and who better. “Ladies and gentlemen of the jury,” my father would say, “brings the drama of the courtroom right into their faces. They’ve heard that opening countless times on TV and in the movies, and they think of it as somehow sacred. It’s the best way to make them feel the importance of the law and the courtroom.”

  “On October 18th, 2011,” I said, “Miguel Andres’ life changed.”

  “Objection!” Georgina Rice shouted. “Please advise counsel to restrict himself to the evidence and not to make conclusory statements.”

  Perfect, I thought. She walked right into a trap my father had taught me. Try to get opposing counsel to make a fool of him or herself by making a technically accurate objection, but over a minor bullshit matter. It annoys the jurors, who really want to hear what the case is all about. It’s well known that jurors get pissed off at impolite lawyers.

  “Overruled,” said Judge Amanda Watkins, a bit loudly. “I allow some leeway in opening statements. Please continue, counselor.”

  I gave a 45-minute opening statement, previewing both liability and damages. I sprinkled my presentation, as I was required to, with the phrase, “the evidence will show.” I noticed Georgina taking a lot of notes, a good idea on her part. It’s a good idea for two reasons: First, I damn well better put on a case like I promised in my opening statement, or she’ll attack me about it when she sums up at the end of the trial. “You heard Mr. Blake say that he’d prove such and such, but he didn’t do what he promised.” Another reason it’s a good idea for opposing counsel to take a lot of notes is that it gives the jury the idea that you may be full of shit, and that opposing counsel knows something the jury doesn’t. Furiously scribbling notes sends out that signal.

  For my first witness, I called the cop who responded to the accident, and who also saw the impact occur. He was a well-trained officer and answered every question with simple professionalism and no drama. After him, I called five other eyewitnesses. The cop, as well as the other five, all testified to one thing: they saw the defendant with his cell phone to his ear before he turned his car across traffic.

  It’s rare to have six eyewitnesses in an auto accident case, and I had them on my witness list for one reason—Woody Donovan. Woody is the full-time private investigator for Blake & Randolph. He retired at age 45 from the Chicago Police Department where he had risen to Deputy Chief of Detectives. His full-time salary at Blake & Randolph is more than his generous pension. He’s a legend on La Salle Street. Woody knows the secret to good investigation—hard work, thoroughness, and a skeptical mind. When Woody canvasses a neighborhood for eyewitnesses to an accident, he doesn’t stop until he’s rung every doorbell, and he keeps coming back until somebody answers. Woody, as usual, helped make an airtight case.

  Next, I called my damages witnesses, not only the doctors but nurses and physical therapists. Attending physicians nail down the actual medical evidence for the plaintiff’s injuries. In Miguel’s case it was pretty gruesome stuff. The point I got from each of the doctors can be summed up in one word—permanent. I wanted the jury to know that Miguel will never be the same, that he’s permanently injured.

  I then called four nurses and two physical therapists. The nurses and therapists gave me what the doctors couldn’t, a day-by-day, blow-by-blow account of the shit that poor Miguel went through. Gracie Estrada, one his physical therapists, who still works with him, hit the ball out of the park. She described Miguel’s pain and how he expressed it, through his screams or occasional fainting. When I prepared her for her testimony, she kept apologizing to me for crying. “No,” I told her. “Let the jury see your honest feelings.”

  Every single juror, each of 12 people, was crying by the end of Gracie’s testimony. I looked at the judge as she wiped away a tear. I then looked at Georgina Rice, defense counsel, as she blew her nose. Any rational insurance adjuster would have kicked in the entire policy of $1.5 million at that point. I began to hope that it wouldn’t happen. I wanted to score a gigantic verdict and sue Featherstone for Bad Faith in the full amount of the jury award. This trial isn’t over yet, I thought.

  The judge called a 20-minute recess.

  Georgina Rice walked over to me and said, “In case you’re wondering, counselor, our chief adjuster is a flaming asshole. After you’re done kicking my ass I want you to buy me a drink. You’ll be able to afford it.”

  ***

  I called plaintiff Juanita Andres to the stand. An injured person’s spouse has her own legal claim for the services that her husband can no longer perform. Although Juanita, a shy woman, felt reluctant to discuss their sexual relationship, I impressed on her during my preparation that it’s an important subject for the jury to hear. I tread lightly in questioning her. When I asked about their love life, Juanita wept gently and said, “My Miguel is always in so much pain. Sometimes we just hold hands.” I also asked about the normal chores that a married spouse performs, simple stuff like taking out the garbage or doing small repairs around the house. “Miguel can’t do things like he used to,” Juanita said. “Young boy from next door take out our garbage. I fix things around the house myself because Miguel is always in so much pain.”

  Next, I called my main witness, Miguel Andres himself. Miguel was a handsome guy but extremely thin. His English was almost perfect, spoken with a Spanish accent from his native Ecuador. I had made sure to get into evidence that both Miguel and Juanita are American citizens. I didn’t want anybody on the jury to think that the Andres may have been illegal immigrants here to pump the American justice system for money.

  Miguel took the stand and showed me that either I’m a good coach or he’s a good listener. He was the eighth witness to testify that the defendant was holding a cell phone as he drifted across traffic. On damages, I spent over two hours questioning Miguel about what the nurses and therapists said, but I went deeper. We discussed how it felt for him to perform simple everyday chores, including driving. I asked the judge if I could have Miguel sit in a chair facing the jury. He mimicked placing his right foot, the one with the mangled ankle, on the accelerator of a car. I held up his shoe extender, which I had gotten admitted into evidence. He said that it helped, but his ankle still hurts.

  Georgina Rice then cross-examined Miguel. I didn’t envy her beca
use she had one tough job to do. She had stepped into the trap I laid for her at my opening statement, and she wasn’t about to piss off the jury any more. She asked a few simple questions to try to rattle Miguel’s recollection. She was no match for my client, and she knew it. After a few minutes of polite questioning, she said, “Defense has no further questions, your honor.”

  I took an hour for my summation and Georgina spoke for only a half-hour. Both sides rested, and the judge “charged” the jury, giving them detailed instructions on what their duties were.

  At 1:30 on Friday afternoon the jury retired to deliberate. Miguel, Juanita, and I walked into the hallway and sat on a bench. “How long you think it will take, Meester Matt?” said Juanita. “No lawyer knows how to answer that question, so I won’t try, Juanita.”

  “Do you think it went well?” asked Miguel.

  “Yes, I do, but it doesn’t matter what I think, it matters only what the jury thinks.” I thought back to the testimony of Gracie Estrada, the physical therapist. I recalled how there wasn’t a dry eye in the courtroom. I started to feel confident, which is really stupid, as my father often warned me. Dad wanted to attend the trial as a spectator, but thought it best not to put the added pressure of pleasing the old man on top of the normal stress of a first trial.

  We heard a buzzer go off as a court officer walked into the hallway. “The jury has returned to the courtroom.”

  The jury had been deliberating for four hours, longer than I expected. The length of a jury deliberation is something that drives lawyers nuts. You always think they had been out too long or not long enough. In reality, it’s simply a case of how 12 separate individuals react to one another and to the evidence

  The jury foreman read from a verdict sheet the judge had prepared for him. The butterflies in my stomach now felt like a colony of bats.

  “In the matter of Miguel and Juanita Andres v. James Lawrence

  Do you find that defendant James Lawrence was negligent in the operation of his motor vehicle?

  Answer - Yes

  What percentage of negligence do you find defendant guilty?

  Answer - 100%

  Do you find that Plaintiff Miguel Andres suffered the injuries complained of?

  Answer - Yes

  In what amount do you find total damages in favor of plaintiff Miguel and Juanita Andres?

  Answer - $12,000,000.”

  I hugged Miguel and Juanita Andres, my two new friends.

  Georgina Rice walked over the plaintiff’s table. She also hugged the Andres.

  “Tienen un abogado maravilloso,” (You have a wonderful lawyer.) she said, in perfect Spanish.

  Georgina followed me down the hallway as I headed for the door.

  “Hey counselor,” she yelled. I stopped and turned to her, smiling.

  “Didn’t your mother ever tell you not to beat up girls?”

  “Georgi, your company gave you such a piece-of-shit file, my clients could have handled it by themselves. You did as good a job as you could.”

  “Well, Matt, you may get a kick out of this. I know I did. The vice president of claims just texted me. They fired that asshole Shea.”

  Chapter 10

  It’s been over two years since Maggie died. Bill, my father’s partner, told me that one day I’d be able to think about Maggie without crying. I realized that it was time to move on, to get my shit together and live my life. Since she died I worked like a robot. I threw myself at every file assigned to me, hoping that the work would occupy my mind. I’d cancelled my application to the FBI, opting instead to stay on at Blake & Randolph. The work challenged my brain, and,

  God knows, it paid well. The emotional satisfaction I got from helping those nice people, the Andres, helped with my decision. My big verdict in the Andres case put me on the Chicago legal map as a serious litigator. I also drank a lot of Scotch. A lot.

  It was late January, a typical cold and snowy Chicago January. Years ago I had undergone surgery to my left leg for the wounds I got in Iraq. It hurt like a bitch, despite the physical therapy that I religiously underwent and still undergo. Fortunately the wound didn’t involve a joint, just muscle damage with nerve involvement. After work I stopped at my favorite bar—well I had a few favorites—overlooking Lake Michigan. A foxy young thing walked up to me and said, “Don’t I know you?” Shit, I’m only 33 years old, I thought. I should be the one coming up with pick-up lines. “I don’t think so,” I said, as I got up and excused myself to head to the men’s room. I didn’t have to pee—I just wasn’t in the mood for flirting. I was in the mood for only one woman, but she’s dead.

  Since Maggie’s death, the idea of dating wasn’t high on my agenda. My dad jokingly suggested that I wear a black clerical habit if I chose the life of a monk. He was probably right. But for some reason, I only think about one woman, the woman I no longer have. I’d had a few dates, but I can barely remember them.

  After I left the bathroom I walked down to the other end of the bar, away from Ms. Foxy. I got into a conversation with a couple of lawyers I knew. I had to regale them with my first verdict, my gigantic verdict, two months earlier. Yes, I was still talking about it. After about my third Scotch, I realized that I had probably bought a few too many rounds already.

  “Hey Matt,” I heard a guy yell, “Matt fucking Blake.”

  It was Jimmy Escobedo, an old friend from college. Jimmy was nuts, in a good way. He was the funniest person I ever knew, and just seeing him made me laugh. He walked over to me, more like ran, and gave me a bear hug as I downed my next Scotch, almost spilling it. Jimmy was a character, the kind of guy who was a typical class clown. He was also bright as hell, and had his choice of job offers after Northwestern. He looked good, except he was a lot skinnier than I remembered.

  “I bumped into Jack Greenberg last month in Florida,” said Jimmy. “You remember Jack? He told me about your fiancée’s death a couple of years ago. I’m sorry, Matt. I meant to get in touch, but I didn’t know what to say. But I’ll say it now, I’m sorry buddy. Sometimes life is a bitch.”

  “Thanks, Jimmy. Hey, what are you doing here in our beautiful climate? I’d heard that you live in Florida, Delray Beach if I recall. So what are you up to?”

  “Nothing as classy as being a big-time lawyer like you, but it pays the rent. I own a recording studio. My life is surrounded by rock and rollers, and would-be rock and rollers. Hey listen, I own a nice house with a guest room overlooking the ocean. Why don’t you bag this bullshit weather for a while and come down to visit me?”

  “Won’t your wife mind?” I said. “You’re married I assume.”

  “Me, married? Come on Matt, you know me. I still live in the fast lane, too fast for any woman to put up with for more than a weekend. No, the guest room is all yours. I have to catch a morning flight, so let’s plan on when you can come down.”

  The idea of spending some time in the sun with my crazy old pal suddenly sounded perfect. Laughter is the best medicine, right? With Jimmy Escobedo you can’t go two minutes without laughing, so I agreed. I told him I’d check my schedule and call him on Monday to make arrangements.

  “Gotta run, pal. My flight is at 6:30 in the morning. I’m really looking forward to catching up on old times with you.”

  Jimmy put on his coat and walked for the door, pausing to swap jokes with a couple of strangers on his way. I ordered another Scotch, number four, I thought, or was it five?

  ***

  I woke up feeling like shit as usual. I didn’t remember leaving the bar, which is only a couple of blocks from my apartment. I looked at the clock. Oh my God, 8:30 a.m. Then I realized it was Saturday. I got out of bed to pee. As I stood there I tried to remember who I saw at the bar the night before. Couldn’t remember shit. I must have drank alone, not an unusual evening. I picked my pants up off the floor and reached into the pocket, the one where I keep money. Still there, thank God. Occasionally I would forget and leave a wad of cash on the bar. Sometimes, Mickey the bartender would
have it tucked away for me. Other times it was just gone. Maybe I drink too much, I thought as I brushed my teeth. Bullshit, it was a Friday night. A man’s got to relax sometimes, right? I found a business card nestled in the cash from my pocket. “Delray Recording Studio,” the card read, “James Escobedo, President.”

  Wow, Jimmy Escobedo, of course. I started to recall seeing him the night before, but I couldn’t remember what we spoke about. Probably just old times, I thought. I walked into the kitchen and made myself a Bloody Mary. Good old hair of the dog. I thought about going to the gym upstairs, but my leg was bothering me. Maybe I’d just relax and catch up on some reading.

  ***

  I woke up, or rather I reawakened, at noon. I had dozed off reading a John Grisham novel. Grisham has a knack for making legal cases exciting, a real talent for draining all the tedious bullshit out of the law. I walked into the kitchen to pour myself some orange juice. I picked up Jimmy Escobedo’s card off the counter and looked at it again. I decided to give Jimmy a call, but first I tried to recall our conversation. Didn’t work. I’d just call and chat, skillfully lying my way around specifics. I definitely recalled seeing him. How else would I have his card? I just couldn’t remember a word of our conversation.

  “Hey, Jimmy, it’s Matt Blake, haya doin?”

  “Matt, buddy. I just got in. My flight was delayed because of your beautiful Chicago weather. I thought you were going to call me this coming Monday after you checked your schedule at the office.”