“My wife goes there too,” Dexter added. “I think we should leave her on if we can. I hear she’s scatterbrained.”
“From the way she talks at the salon, I think she’ll form an opinion and stick to it,” Parker said. “That will be great if she’s for us but could be a disaster if she’s not.”
Greg quickly made another note on his legal pad. “I’ll make that call if she’s still on the panel when we reach her,” he said. “Let’s get back to Mr. Foxcroft, the gas company manager.”
“I have him as a coin flip,” Parker said.
“What does that mean?” Greg asked.
“He’ll go with the majority so he can get out of here as soon as possible.”
“That makes sense to me,” Dexter said. “Remember, he asked the judge what constituted a legal excuse to avoid serving.”
“Yeah,” Greg grunted. “I’d forgotten about that.”
“What about Donovan, the pretty photographer?” Dexter asked. “Parker wants to keep her.”
“I’m going to cut her if I have a strike left when we get to her,” Greg said. “I can tell by the look in her eyes that she’s an airhead.”
“I disagree,” Parker said, rising to the young woman’s defense.
“Why?” Greg shot back. “Did she offer to give you a discount on a glamour portrait in return for getting a chance to serve on our jury?”
Parker couldn’t come up with an appropriate, nonsarcastic response. “No,” he replied. “But I think she looks smart.”
Thirty minutes later the judge brought the jurors back into the courtroom for the winnowing process. Twenty minutes after that, twelve men and women took their seats in the jury box. Mr. Foxcroft wasn’t among them, but Ms. Hamrick, the beautician whose hair featured three subtle shades of highlighting, was juror number eight, and Layla Donovan, the blond photographer with bright red fingernails, squeaked by as juror number twelve.
“Gentlemen,” the judge said to the lawyers, “is that your jury?”
“Yes, Your Honor,” Greg said as he rose to his feet.
“Yes, sir,” responded the defense lawyer, a young man from a large firm in Raleigh.
“We’ll take a ten-minute break before we begin with opening statements,” the judge said.
The judge and jury left. Parker glanced over his shoulder and saw a distinguished-looking man in his early fifties with a full head of carefully groomed gray hair sitting on the opposite side of the courtroom.
“Who’s that?” he asked Greg, pointing. “I don’t recognize him as one of their witnesses.”
Greg turned in his chair. His eyes widened.
“That’s Thomas Blocker, the trial lawyer from Wilmington. He must have something he needs to talk to Judge Murray about.”
“Then why didn’t he follow the judge into his chambers?”
“I don’t know.” Greg shrugged. “But he’s not here to help us try this case. Go back to the office and double-check the outline I prepared for my cross-examination of Buck Jenkins, the corporate representative for the defendant. We won’t get to him until midafternoon at the earliest. Make sure I didn’t miss anything.”
“Could I stay and listen to the opening statements first?”
“Why? You’ve already heard mine five times.”
“I’d like to see the jury’s reaction.”
“Okay.”
The judge returned to the courtroom and everyone stood. Parker glanced over at Thomas Blocker. The trial lawyer caught his eye, nodded, and smiled. Parker quickly looked away.
“Proceed for the plaintiff,” the judge said to Greg.
Greg stepped forward and began his opening statement. Even though Parker had never delivered an opening statement in a real case, he’d been a member of his law school’s mock trial team. In that role, he’d spent hundreds of hours focused on how to be effective in the courtroom, and he’d drawn on some of that experience to circumspectly critique his boss’s opening statement. He wanted to see how it went.
One of the first things Greg did was place a large aerial photograph of Mr. Nichols’s property on an easel and position it in front of the jury. Hiring a pilot to take the photo had been Parker’s suggestion. He’d argued it would transport the jury away from the courtroom to the formerly beautiful tract of land ruined by the actions of the defendant. Greg had barely begun to describe the land when the defense lawyer objected, a rare occurrence during the normally benign opening-statement phase of a trial.
“Use of a demonstrative aid whose admissibility at trial will be in dispute is not proper during an opening statement,” the lawyer said.
Greg was startled and so was Parker, who’d made two trips to a local print shop to make sure the photo was the right size and mounted on a sturdy foam board.
“The appearance of the property is not in issue,” Greg responded. “This case has to do with a dispute over what rights were granted to the defendant by the plaintiff and whether the defendant made false representations about those rights that resulted in damages to our client.”
“That’s very succinct, Mr. Branham,” the judge observed wryly. “And you don’t need a disputed exhibit to tell that to the jury. If the photograph is ultimately admitted into evidence, you may refer to it during closing argument.”
Greg picked up the photo and put it behind Dexter at the counsel table. In the process, he glared at Parker, who knew that as soon as Greg had a chance he would chew him out. Parker listened to a few more sentences, but there was no question Greg had lost his rhythm. It was a painful performance to watch. Parker slipped from his seat and walked quickly up the aisle. As he did, he noticed that Thomas Blocker was no longer in the courtroom.
Built in 1883, the Craven County Courthouse, with its mansard rooflines and ornate decorative ironwork, was one of the best remaining examples of French Second Empire architecture in the southeastern United States. Parker walked west down Broad Street toward the firm’s office on Metcalfe Street.
Even if he would later be ripped by Greg for the fiasco with the photograph, Parker was happy. Landing a job in his hometown of New Bern, North Carolina, after graduating from law school had been a dream. It didn’t matter that his salary was less than that of Creston Keller, his best friend, who taught math at a local high school. Parker had wedged his foot in the legal door, and the certificate on his wall made him just as much a lawyer as the most senior partner in the biggest firm in Charlotte.
Branham and Camp occupied the second floor of a Victorian-era residence turned into office space. The first-floor tenant was a mortgage company that specialized in refinancing. The law firm and the mortgage company shared a conference room on the first floor. When the mortgage business was booming, it was hard to schedule a time for the lawyers to use the converted dining room, which often forced Greg and Dexter to meet with clients upstairs.
Parker climbed a narrow wooden staircase that creaked with each step. The firm’s reception area was at the top of the stairs. Greg’s office was in a former bedroom to the right, and Dexter’s office was in an identical room on the left. The partners shared a secretary whose desk was crammed into a former linen closet that had just enough room for Dolly Vargas, a petite, attractive brunette in her midtwenties, to squeeze into a small chair and face her computer screen.
“How’s the trial going?” asked Vicki Satterfield, a stocky woman in her late fifties who served triple duty as the law firm’s receptionist, bookkeeper, and office manager.
Parker repeated what he’d seen and heard. Vicki had worked in several law offices during the past thirty-five years. Landing someone with her experience had been a coup for Greg and Dexter.
“He’ll bounce back,” Vicki replied, jutting out her jaw. “A trial is like a fistfight. Once the first blow lands, you don’t feel anything that follows.”
Parker wasn’t so sure about her comparison, but after eight months at the firm, he’d learned that an argument with Vicki should be undertaken only when the stakes were high an
d worth the pain.
“He wants me to look over his cross-examination questions for Mr. Jenkins,” Parker said.
Vicki nodded. “Good idea. I’ve known Buck Jenkins for years. He’s so pompous he’ll self-destruct if Greg keeps him on the stand for more than half an hour.”
“Then I’ll try to pad the first section of his questioning.”
“Make me a copy of his notes, and I’ll jot down a few ideas too.”
Having worked in law offices her whole career, Vicki fancied herself a pseudolawyer. Dolly rolled her eyes while Parker waited for Vicki to photocopy the notes. Dolly had a steady boyfriend, which took the pressure off Parker to decide whether it would be smart to date her.
Parker’s office was in a smaller bedroom across the stairwell and shared a common wall with Greg’s office. Occasionally he could hear the senior partner shouting at someone on the phone. It was a shock the first time he heard Greg launch into a screaming rant. Parker had stepped from his office and glanced at Vicki, who didn’t seem to be fazed by the yelling. Greg emerged seconds later, handed something to her, and politely thanked her in a normal tone of voice. When Greg returned to his office, Vicki looked up and saw Parker staring wide-eyed at her.
“Did you hear him talking to that insurance adjuster?” Vicki asked.
Parker nodded. “Yes. Although I wouldn’t describe it as talking.”
“Don’t worry, it’s all for show,” Vicki said and shrugged. “Greg wants to make sure he gets his point across.”
“Will he ever yell at me like that?”
“Possibly,” Vicki said. “Just consider it part of your training. But if he did that to me, he knows I’d quit.”
“Me too,” Dolly chimed in.
“And I can’t quit?” Parker asked.
Vicki smiled. “You’ll have to decide that for yourself when the time comes.”
Vicki was already revising the cross-examination notes for Buck Jenkins as Parker turned toward his office. On the credenza behind his desk was a photograph of his parents taken at the beach on Ocracoke Island a month before they were killed in an automobile collision with a drunk driver. Parker was seventeen at the time of their deaths and spent his senior year of high school living with his paternal grandfather, a retired commercial fisherman. Leaving New Bern for college had been an escape from indescribable pain, returning to work in his hometown eight years later an act of courage.
Parker’s desktop computer was positioned so he could see out his office window. An older couple lived in the house next door, and Parker often enjoyed watching the antics of their small dog that ran around a fenced-in backyard. After Parker mentioned his interest in the dog to the woman, she came over to the office a few days later and gave him a small bag of fresh tomatoes that tasted better than candied apples.
Parker read through Greg’s cross-examination questions. His boss’s strength was homing in on the important facts, but he often rushed there too quickly and didn’t take time to lay possible traps for a hostile witness. Vicki was right. Buck Jenkins needed time to become impatient on the witness stand. The trick would be whether Greg could be patient enough to make that happen.
Two hours later, Parker put the finishing touches on the supplemental questions and printed them off. He’d incorporated them into Greg’s outline but also retained the original list. It was 11:45 a.m. Knowing he’d be in court that day, he’d worn his best suit.
“Here are my notes for the cross-examination,” Vicki said when she saw Parker.
He’d forgotten that the receptionist was going to prepare something and casually held out his hand. She gave him three sheets of paper.
“I’ll pass them along to Greg.”
“No, he’ll trash them if he knows they’re from me. It would be better if you work them into your memo.”
Parker checked his watch.
“They never break exactly at noon,” Vicki continued in anticipation of his objection. “Judge Murray always likes to finish a major witness at the end of the morning session even if it runs over. You’ve got time.”
“Okay,” Parker replied, tight-lipped.
He trudged back into his office, catching a smirk on Dolly’s face. He sat down and began reading. Vicki’s ideas weren’t bad. In fact, she’d suggested a line of additional questions identical to one Parker had come up with. He reopened the file and inserted a smattering of her input in appropriate spots. It was exactly noon when he finished.
“That was helpful,” he told Vicki when he emerged. “Especially about allowing Jenkins to build himself up before Greg tears him down. I had the same thought.”
“It won’t take much to encourage Buck to brag about what an awesome manager he is, and then Greg can show he’s a crook who’ll lie to make extra bucks,” Vicki said with a short laugh. “Get it? Buck is only interested in bucks. What do you think about that as a tag-line for the closing argument?”
Parker managed a wry smile. “That sounds like something Greg would say.”
Vicki’s face fell. Parker left.
It was early fall, and the stifling hot, humid heat that pressed down like a sizzling waffle iron on the North Carolina coast from May to September was gone. It was a pleasant return trip to the courthouse. On his way, Parker passed two of the ubiquitous, brightly painted, ceramic black bears that inhabited virtually every corner of the city. Inspired by the famous bears of Bern, Switzerland, New Bern had adopted a much tamer version. There was Captain Black Beared, Brier Bear, and the favorite of the local bar association—Bearly Legal.
Parker eased open the rear door of the courtroom as the judge stood and left the bench. Greg and Dexter immediately huddled with Mr. Nichols and continued to talk as Parker approached. Greg glanced up and saw him.
“The case is going faster than anticipated,” he said. “Jenkins could be the first witness after lunch.”
Parker handed him the folder. “Here are some suggestions.”
“I’ll look them over at the restaurant.”
Parker waited in the hope that he’d be included in the tactical discussion.
“Anything else?” Greg asked.
“I’d be glad to go over my ideas during lunch.”
“Not necessary.”
Parker wasn’t going to retreat so easily. “How’s the trial going?” he asked.
“Better after we were able to get the aerial photograph admitted. You should have anticipated an objection if I tried to use it during the opening statement.”
Parker didn’t point out the obvious truth that Greg had been trying cases for eight years; Parker had been practicing law for eight months.
“Yeah,” he said. “I blew it, but I’m glad it got in.”
Dexter and Nichols began moving away from the table.
“Go ahead,” Greg said to Dexter. “I’ll meet you at the Franklin House. Order the Wednesday special for me—meat loaf with mashed potatoes and candied carrots. I don’t want to pass out from hunger during my cross-examination of Jenkins.”
Greg waited until the other two men were out of earshot before he turned to Parker. “But I can’t figure out the defense strategy,” he said. “Except for a couple of easy questions, he virtually gave our client a free pass.”
Parker listened as his boss summarized the testimony.
“Maybe he’s trying to come off nice and make you look like—” Parker stopped.
“A jerk?” Greg bristled. “All I’m doing is fighting for my client.”
“I know, I know,” Parker quickly backpedaled. “Are you getting any sense of how the jury is responding to the evidence?”
“Not really. As soon as we started the case, the blond photographer put on a pair of glasses and has been constantly scribbling ever since. Ms. Donovan is either a compulsive note taker or she’s working on her next novel.”
“Will you give the closing arguments today?”
“Probably. Judge Murray will push through with the evidence and make us finish even if the jury comes ba
ck in the morning to begin deliberation.”
“I’d like to come back and listen to the arguments.”
“Not unless you finish the memo I need in the Bontemps case. Remember, I’m meeting with the client on Friday,” he said.
Parker cringed. It was a massive project that required evaluation of several hundred pages of documents for business transactions in several states with conflicting local laws.
“That will take the rest of the day and all day tomorrow.”
“Then get to it. And don’t forget to bill every second. That’s not a contingency case, and the client can pay the freight.”
Greg began packing up his briefcase. Parker turned and walked up the aisle. As he reached the door, another thought about Buck Jenkins’s testimony hit him. He stopped and started to go back and tell Greg, but his boss had already disappeared through the exit door used by lawyers near the judge’s bench.
Parker could swing by the restaurant that was three blocks in the opposite direction from the office. But he knew his uninvited appearance would only irritate Greg at a moment when a trial lawyer didn’t need it. Parker returned to the office and ate a sandwich he’d brought from home.
With each bite, he fought the feeling that he’d made a big mistake not talking to Greg.
CHAPTER 5
The Bontemps file had more twists and turns than a law school exam question prepared by a sadistic professor. It combined complex conflict-of-laws principles with interpretation of ambiguous contract provisions. Greg had warned Parker that the client didn’t want an opinion letter that sounded like a politician avoiding a direct answer to a question. But it was hard turning play dough into bricks. By 5:00 p.m., Parker had settled on a strategy that gave percentages to different scenarios and would give the practically minded client a quick way to assess his risks without binding the law firm to a specific recommendation that might come back to bite them.
Glancing out his office window, he saw Greg, Dexter, and Mr. Nichols walking down the sidewalk. Parker couldn’t tell anything about how the day had gone from their facial expressions. He cracked open his door so he would hear them when they reached the top of the stairs. Whatever the status of the trial, Greg would broadcast the news to Vicki.
The Witnesses Page 4
