Directed Verdict

by Randy Singer

  They faced each other awkwardly as Brad seemed to vacillate between a quick hug and shaking hands. Leslie stuck out her hand as further punishment, and Brad took the cue. She immediately felt silly. She decided to put him at ease. Her poker face disappeared, replaced by a bright smile. She followed the handshake with a quick hug. She congratulated herself on her studied act of spontaneity.

  “Don’t worry about it. For the first time in weeks, I’ve got no deadlines.” She was keenly aware of her unenthusiastic tone and wondered if Brad noticed. “But I am starving. Let’s see if they’ve still got a table for us.”

  “I really am sorry,” he repeated as they walked into the restaurant. Brad opened the door and placed a gentle hand on Leslie’s shoulder as she passed through. The spontaneous touch sent chills through Leslie’s entire body. The ghosts of Bill again. The gentle hand on the shoulder as she entered a restaurant, the soft spontaneous touch—these mannerisms belonged to Bill. Leslie had never realized how much she missed them, these little habits, until this moment.

  “We should have something in about twenty minutes,” the maître d’ promised.

  Brad leaned close to the man and whispered intently, as if the two were lifelong friends. Two minutes and twenty bucks later, the host seated Leslie and Brad at a remote window for two that overlooked Dog Street.

  The conversation started slowly, weighed down by Leslie’s melancholy. But before long, her queasiness began to melt away in the face of Brad’s relentless determination to have a good time. He put his personality on overdrive. He had quips and stories galore, and he even managed to strike up a nice conversation with the waitress, whom Leslie suspected of trying to hit on her date. But that was one of the things she liked most about Brad—his ability and desire to put people at ease. To make them feel good about themselves.

  Despite her formidable defenses, Leslie found the Carson charm working. The conversation flowed more easily through dinner, time disappeared, and suddenly the server asked if they wanted dessert. Brad allowed the flirting waitress to talk him into Death by Chocolate. Leslie passed.

  Brad didn’t mention the Reed case until after his first bite of the life-threatening dessert.

  “I talked to Mack Strobel today,” he said out of the blue.

  “You know how to ruin a perfectly good meal.”

  “He’s going to file Rule 11 sanctions against us.” Brad said it matter-of-factly, then took another bite of the rich, dark chocolate cake with chocolate icing and smothered in chocolate sauce. “Wants to give me another taste of jail food.”

  “Speaking of which, how’s Nikki?”

  “Bella didn’t call you?” Brad pushed the dessert toward her. Leslie started to push the plate back, then caught herself. She shook her head in answer to his question and sliced off a small piece with her fork. No telling what this one small bite would cost her—probably three pounds, directly to the hips. But it tasted great . . . actually, beyond great, though the guilt of the calories hit before she swallowed.

  She pushed the plate back.

  “Four hours in jail, and we pleaded her out on misdemeanor trespass. I did the whole thing over the phone. Six months’ probation—no time. I think the prosecutor actually thought it was funny.”

  Leslie eyed the chocolate. It was disappearing fast.

  “But then this assistant U.S. attorney gets involved,” Brad continued. “Angela Bennett—colder than ice—and threatens to file charges for assaulting a foreign dignitary.”

  “What’d you do?”

  “You mean after I peeled Nikki off the ceiling?”

  Leslie grinned at the thought of Nikki’s reaction.

  “Bennett was in our conference room, making these accusations face-to-face.” A smirk curled across Brad’s lips as he recalled the scene; then he chased the smirk away with another bite of chocolate. “So Nikki flashes her bruises, then stomps over to the phone and starts dialing a friend at a local television station. ‘Let’s just give the media a call,’ she says, ‘and let them know that this foreign dignitary beat me up, threatened me, and now you’re going to pile on by filing charges.’”

  Brad smiled broadly. He held his fork up with another bite of dessert, as if toasting Nikki’s brilliance.

  “Case dismissed,” he said, then devoured the forkful.

  “Was she hurt?” Leslie asked.

  “She’s pretty bruised, still threatening a lawsuit, but she’ll be fine. She said that jerk from Saudi Arabia threatened her, but Nikki doesn’t scare easy.”

  “She’s got to be more careful.”

  Brad suspended his fork in midair and seemed to ponder this offhand comment.

  “No,” he said, looking serious. “The practice of law is the art of taking risks. You prepare and calculate the best you can, but at the end of the day, you just roll the dice, and your client’s entire life is changed by what comes up. You can’t be effective if you’re not comfortable with risk.”

  Leslie thought about this as she watched Brad devour the remaining dessert. Risk was not her thing. Perhaps it was just Brad’s style, or perhaps he was right. She would force herself to take a few more risks. She would start now.

  She picked up her fork, thought about the calories again, and set it back down. She wondered what risk-taking Nikki would do with this dessert.

  And the thought of Nikki behind bars suddenly struck her as funny.

  “Did you ever think about doing lawyer ads featuring you and Nikki in jail?” Leslie reached out her hands and grabbed the imaginary bars. “Carson & Associates, it takes one to spring one.”

  “Very funny,” Brad said. But he couldn’t help smiling.

  * * *

  An hour later they walked in silence down Dog Street, enjoying the brisk night and basking in the tradition of Colonial Williamsburg. Brad had stopped his running commentary, sensing a comfort between them that did not need to be broken with makeshift conversation.

  While they strolled, Brad quietly fought his own inner war. He had mixed business and pleasure before with disastrous results—including devastated feelings and a lost case. The pressures of litigation had ways of forging romances that never lasted under normal circumstances. He had long ago established a hard-and-fast rule that he would never again date a lawyer involved in one of his cases.

  Besides, his lifestyle left little time for meaningful relationships. At times he regretted that fact. More often, he realized he was still not ready to trade the thrill of pursuing the big case for the mundane life of a suburban husband and dad. But tonight his heart told him he should allow himself a loophole for a romance with this beautiful law student, a loophole that seemed particularly compelling as he glanced at Leslie’s auburn hair shimmering in the soft moonlight. What made her even more beautiful, Brad decided, was that Leslie had no idea how pretty she was.

  * * *

  Her earlier anxieties entirely gone, Leslie desperately wished the night had just begun. She stood in the shadows of Dog Street, facing Brad, inches apart. Brad reached down and took her hands in his.

  “I had a great time,” he said. “I really wish you weren’t going to England. It could be a long two months.”

  “I know,” Leslie said, surprised by the intensity of her inward response to the warmth and strength of his hands. She could not move or think; she could only shudder.

  “Can we do this again when you get back?” Brad asked. He released one hand and gently brushed her hair back over her shoulder.

  She hadn’t felt this way in so long. “I’d like that.”

  Brad gently drew her close, and she did not resist. The warmth of being held by him, the security of his arms—she had forgotten how special the nearness could feel. She breathed deeply, filling her lungs with the presence of Brad Carson. And then, suspended in time, she closed her eyes and gracefully tilted back her head. Their lips gently touched. Dog Street spun; the passion flowed. It was, in Leslie’s considered opinion, an awesome kiss. One that lasted longer than she intended.
One that surprised her with the intensity of her own passion, the tingling of her skin, the release of pent-up emotions. It was at once tender and exhilarating. It was only a few seconds, but it completely carried her away.

  Dog Street was indeed magical.

  But for Leslie, it was also confusing. She pulled slightly away from Brad, thoughts racing through her mind too fast to process, a jumble of emotions and feelings from past and present colliding.

  “I can’t do this, Brad. I’m not ready; it’s still too fresh.” Even to Leslie, it sounded crazy. How could she not be ready to move on after three years? When would she be?

  But it was also true. She needed more time. The emotions she had just felt, that she hadn’t felt since she lost Bill, she had believed she would never feel them again. It was just too raw. Too overpowering. And Leslie cared too much for Brad to tell him anything but the truth.

  “I lost a husband to cancer three years ago,” she whispered. “I’m sorry.” She took a half step back, looked down, and shuffled her feet. Her guilt was magnified by the knowledge of what she was doing to Brad.

  “Leslie, I didn’t know . . . I would have never . . .” He paused and gently took her hands. “You’ve got nothing to apologize for.”

  His kindness only made her feel worse. She could think of nothing to say, completely embarrassed by the unfolding events she was powerless to change.

  “Do you want to talk about it?” he asked gently.

  Leslie shook her head.

  “If you ever do, just let me know.”

  She nodded.

  “C’mon,” Brad said. “I’ll walk you to your car.”

  14

  HIS THREATENING OVERTURES to Brad Carson aside, Mack Strobel was a sensible lawyer and would not file a Rule 11 motion lightly. He wanted nothing more than to see Carson taken out to the proverbial legal woodshed with a whipping stick, humiliated by the sanctions. But since the courts used the Rule 11 woodshed sparingly, Mack would have to exercise caution to prevent his request from blowing up in his own face. As he always did when he needed advice, Mack summoned the other members of the firm’s informal brain trust.

  Though Kilgore & Strobel had an official executive committee, everyone knew it was the four men assembled this day at the Norfolk Golf and Country Club who called the shots. They gathered informally to plot strategy on every major case or business deal the firm ever handled. It was their way of rewarding each other with easy billable hours at the expense of clients who would never notice the difference. Today, after a grueling eighteen holes in the heat of a May afternoon, they were paying off bets and throwing down a few cold ones to lubricate their brain cells.

  Mack polished off his second glass, surveyed the group, and found himself silently shaking his head. If this is the A team, he thought, it’s a wonder that our firm can function at all.

  Seated directly across from Mack was a wrinkled man with sad, droopy eyes, stooped but still vigorous, with a pointed face and tufts of gray hair on the sides of his head. Nothing grew on top and had not for as long as Mack could remember. His name was Theodore “Teddy” Kilgore, the grandfatherly patriarch of the firm and the only lawyer who outranked Mack. He no longer actively practiced law, but he was still the firm’s premier “rainmaker,” snagging well-heeled clients so the young bucks could work on their cases.

  To Mack’s right at the small table was Melvin Phillips, a brilliant Harvard graduate and a first-rate tax attorney with no social graces. The boys at Kilgore & Strobel valued his big brain and frequently came to him with their thorniest problems, but they also kept him well hidden from the clients. He never combed his thick gray hair, and he wore ill-fitting suits that looked like hand-me-downs from a traffic court lawyer. Melvin housed his huge cranium inside a round head, precariously perched on a round body with not one discernible muscle. He had an enormous chin and small beady eyes, shrunk further by the magnification of thick glasses, so that he always sported an out-of-touch look.

  On Mack’s other side was the member of the brain trust with the best pedigree, a man whom Mack personally despised because of his genteel arrogance and condescending ways. Winsted Aaron Mackenzie IV came from good stock. His father was a prominent Virginia politician, his grandfather an appellate court judge, and his great-grandfather, the original Winsted Aaron Mackenzie, fought for the Confederacy. “Win” was the pretty boy of the firm—tailored suits and monogrammed shirts, silk ties and wavy brown television-evangelist hair that never moved, even in the stiffest breeze. Win was fifteen years younger than Mack, but already he had a reputation for hard-nosed trial tactics that rivaled Mack’s folklore. There was no small amount of professional jealousy between the two.

  “The issue I need this group’s help on,” Mack finally announced, “is whether we should file for Rule 11 sanctions against Carson.”

  “I would,” Win said predictably. “This is one of the most outrageous claims I’ve ever seen. We aren’t aggressively serving our clients if we don’t go after Carson. It’s a no-brainer.”

  Melvin Phillips nodded his approval, then raised his hand to flag down a waitress. “What’s the deal? All the waitresses on strike? I’m dying of thirst here!” Everyone in the room, including the waitresses, ignored him.

  “I don’t know,” Teddy said. “This whole Rule 11 business is bad for lawyers. We file against Carson on this case, some other lawyer will file against our firm on the next one. Pretty soon cases just become personal wars between attorneys. We oughta be able to disagree on a case without getting personal.”

  Mack knew the old man would be cautious and reluctant to file. In many ways, Teddy still lived in a bygone era inhabited by gentlemen lawyers. He was not in touch with the age of Rambo litigation.

  “Teddy, things have changed,” Mack said dispassionately. “Carson would slit our throats in a heartbeat if we gave him the chance, and so would half the other lawyers in Tidewater. Litigation is not a gentleman’s game anymore; it’s war. And in war, you take no prisoners.”

  “I agree, Teddy,” Win said. “If we don’t file Rule 11, we’re just enabling guys like Carson to file more junk lawsuits.”

  Melvin finally flagged down a waitress. “Anybody need another?” he asked. He replenished his drink, and the skull session continued. This time Melvin was engaged.

  “What are the chances?” Melvin asked.

  “What do you mean?” Mack countered.

  “Exactly what I said. What are the chances that you’ll win on Rule 11? To my thinking, it’s purely a tactical call. If you have a fair chance of winning, file the motion. It will send a signal to the judge that you really believe this case is nonsense. It makes it more likely that the judge will throw the case out. It also gives the judge a compromise. He can deny your Rule 11 motion, thus throwing a bone to Carson, but then grant your motion to dismiss and get rid of the case. Judges like to play Solomon and split the baby like that, and you like it because you get what you are really after—a dismissed case.” Melvin stopped for a long gulp of beer.

  “But if your chances are bad,” he continued, “the judge will just hammer you, because judges hate Rule 11 motions. What’s more, you’ll encourage Carson to make all kinds of other frivolous motions. Like Win just said, you become the enabler of his conduct.”

  The others thought about Melvin’s comments. For a long time nobody spoke.

  “I think Carson’s claim against Saudi Arabia is totally bogus and Rule 11 has a good shot,” Mack said, sensing that the others were waiting on his analysis. “But his claims against Aberijan and the individuals are based on a different set of laws and may have some merit. At the very least, he could avoid Rule 11 on those claims.”

  Melvin finished another long gulp and set his glass down hard on the table, as if banging a gavel. “That’s your answer then. You file Rule 11 but limit it to Carson’s frivolous claim against Saudi Arabia.”

  “Makes sense,” Mack conceded, though he was actually hoping for a broader and more aggressive fi
ling.

  “Let’s not make this a common practice of the firm,” Teddy said. “I don’t want a reputation as the firm that always files Rule 11.”

  The other partners nodded their approval. Mack would humor the old man for a few more years. Even Mack was not willing to take on Teddy just yet.

  “Let’s talk about Sarah Reed for a minute,” Melvin said, rolling his huge head around to survey his audience. “Have you looked at the case from her perspective? If her allegations are true, what are her weaknesses and how can they be exploited?”

  “Of course I’ve considered that,” Mack said. Of course he had not, but he could not concede as much to this bunch. “We’ve looked at this from every possible angle.”

  “Since our last session, I’ve been putting myself in Sarah Reed’s shoes,” Melvin continued, as if Mack had never spoken. “There’s one thing she fears worse than losing this case.” He paused, apparently trying to create a little mystery. He took another long swallow of his beer. This was one of Melvin’s annoying habits that Mack particularly despised. Start a sentence, then take a bite or a drink while others sit in suspense. “And that is revealing the names of the church leaders in Saudi Arabia. According to her own allegations, her husband died rather than reveal those names. She would undoubtedly dismiss this suit, rather than expose these people, for fear they would be persecuted. That’s her weakness; figure out a way to exploit it.”

  I waited for that? “That’s a great theory,” Mack scoffed, “but impossible to implement. I intend to push for those names in discovery, but Carson will object. The judge will probably not think they are relevant to our defense of the case.”

  Melvin smiled, squinting his beady eyes. “Figure out a way to make them relevant, Mack. You’re the litigator. Make them a central issue in the case. Force her to chose between revealing the names and dropping the case. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got to take a little trip.”

  With that, Melvin staggered off toward the rest room, leaving the others shaking their heads.