Sure, or maybe I should just grab a sword and mutter a hara-kiri chant.
"I don't know where to begin, there's so much to say," she said, obviously knowing exactly where she would begin. I wanted her to say: He was boffing half the stewardesses in town while his first wife lay dying; he made millions bribing county commissioners to grant zoning variances; and if it weren't for high-placed friends in Washington, he would have been indicted for tax evasion.
What she said was: "Phil was the most giving man I've ever known. The way he cared for his first wife when she was terminally ill, if you could have seen that, if you all could have seen it." Then she turned to the jury, an actress facing her adoring audience. "He never thought he could love again, but I brought something to his life. And to me, he was everything—a lover, a friend, even the father I never had. Then for him to die like this, in his prime."
Clever. Very clever. So well rehearsed it didn't look rehearsed. Explaining how a twenty-six-year-old woman marries a fifty-five-year-old man. A father, for crying out loud. No mention that the champagne corks were popping only six weeks after he buried his beloved first wife. And if I bring it out on cross, I'm a cad. It was a virtuoso performance. Even Judge Leonard was listening, practically a first. He had been in a fine mood at motion calendar in the morning, as well he should after Hot Touch paid $10.40, $5.40, and $4.80.
When Dan Cefalo turned to me and said, "Your witness," he was smiling so broadly I almost didn't notice that his fly was half undone and he had buttoned his shirt into his suitcoat.
The occasion called for brilliance. Roger Stanton looked at me as if I were his last friend in the world. I approached the witness stand with a solicitous smile. I still hadn't made up my mind. Behind those tears I saw a flinty toughness that I would love to bring out. But make a mistake, reduce her to tears or hysterics, and the jury would lynch me and nail enough zeroes on the verdict to buy an aircraft carrier. She looked straight back at me. The full lips lost a bit of their poutiness and set in a firm line. It's there somewhere, I knew. But my investigators couldn't find it in six months and my pretrial deposition came up empty. I couldn't risk it now.
I turned to the judge. "Your Honor," I said, as if seeking his approval, "I believe it would be unfair for us to keep Mrs. Corrigan on the stand to discuss this painful subject. We have no questions." Roger Stanton sank into his chair looking hopeless and abandoned. Men on Death Row have brighter futures.
"Very well," Judge Leonard said, aiming a small smile in my direction. "Mr. Cefalo, call your next witness."
"The plaintiff rests," Dan Cefalo said, a note of triumph in his voice.
"Any motions?" the judge asked. We approached the bench and the judge sent the jurors out to lunch.
"At this time, the defense moves for a directed verdict," I said without a great deal of conviction.
"On what ground, Mr. Lassiter?" the judge asked.
"On the ground that there's insufficient evidence of proximate cause, first that the surgery caused the aneurysm, and second that the aneurysm caused the death."
"Denied," the judge said before Cefalo even opened his mouth. "The plaintiff's expert testified to that. C'mon, Jake, it's a jury question at least."
I knew that. Somewhere between his Bloody Marys and his White Russians, Dr. Watkins had stuck us on proximate cause, at least sufficiently to beat a directed verdict, but I was giving the judge a little preview of our defense. Oh Dr. Charles W. Riggs, I need you now.
The judge looked over the courtroom, which was emptying, and waved us closer to the bench. With a hand, he signaled the court stenographer to take a hike. "You boys talk settlement?"
A practical enough question. If he could clear us out of the courtroom, he could spend the rest of the week at the track.
"Judge, we offered the policy," I said apologetically. "A
"I don't know where to begin, there's so much to say," she said, obviously knowing exactly where she would begin. I wanted her to say: He was boffing half the stewardesses in town while his first wife lay dying; he made millions bribing county commissioners to grant zoning variances; and if it weren't for high-placed friends in Washington, he would have been indicted for tax evasion.
What she said was: "Phil was the most giving man I've ever known. The way he cared for his first wife when she was terminally ill, if you could have seen that, if you all could have seen it." Then she turned to the jury, an actress facing her adoring audience. "He never thought he could love again, but I brought something to his life. And to me, he was everything—a lover, a friend, even the father I never had. Then for him to die like this, in his prime."
Clever. Very clever. So well rehearsed it didn't look rehearsed. Explaining how a twenty-six-year-old woman marries a fifty-five-year-old man. A father, for crying out loud. No mention that the champagne corks were popping only six weeks after he buried his beloved first wife. And if I bring it out on cross, I'm a cad. It was a virtuoso performance. Even Judge Leonard was listening, practically a first. He had been in a fine mood at motion calendar in the morning, as well he should after Hot Touch paid $10.40, $5.40, and $4.80.
When Dan Cefalo turned to me and said, "Your witness," he was smiling so broadly I almost didn't notice that his fly was half undone and he had buttoned his shirt into his suitcoat.
The occasion called for brilliance. Roger Stanton looked at me as if I were his last friend in the world. I approached the witness stand with a solicitous smile. I still hadn't made up my mind. Behind those tears I saw a flinty toughness that I would love to bring out. But make a mistake, reduce her to tears or hysterics, and the jury would lynch me and nail enough zeroes on the verdict to buy an aircraft carrier. She looked straight back at me. The full lips lost a bit of their poutiness and set in a firm line. It's there somewhere, I knew. But my investigators couldn't find it in six months and my pretrial deposition came up empty. I couldn't risk it now.
I turned to the judge. "Your Honor," I said, as if seeking his approval, "I believe it would be unfair for us to keep Mrs. Corrigan on the stand to discuss this painful subject. We have no questions." Roger Stanton sank into his chair looking hopeless and abandoned. Men on Death Row have brighter futures.
"Very well," Judge Leonard said, aiming a small smile in my direction. "Mr. Cefalo, call your next witness."
"The plaintiff rests," Dan Cefalo said, a note of triumph in his voice.
"Any motions?" the judge asked. We approached the bench and the judge sent the jurors out to lunch.
"At this time, the defense moves for a directed verdict," I said without a great deal of conviction.
"On what ground, Mr. Lassiter?" the judge asked.
"On the ground that there's insufficient evidence of proximate cause, first that the surgery caused the aneurysm, and second that the aneurysm caused the death."
"Denied," the judge said before Cefalo even opened his mouth. "The plaintiff's expert testified to that. C'mon, Jake, it's a jury question at least."
I knew that. Somewhere between his Bloody Marys and his White Russians, Dr. Watkins had stuck us on proximate cause, at least sufficiently to beat a directed verdict, but I was giving the judge a little preview of our defense. Oh Dr. Charles W. Riggs, I need you now.
The judge looked over the courtroom, which was emptying, and waved us closer to the bench. With a hand, he signaled the court stenographer to take a hike. "You boys talk settlement?"
A practical enough question. If he could clear us out of the courtroom, he could spend the rest of the week at the track.
"Judge, we offered the policy," I said apologetically. "A
Similar Books
Dead Right
Brenda Novak
Dear Irene
Jan Burke
The Reveal
Julie Leto
A Night to Surrender
Tessa Dare
Wish 01 - A Secret Wish
Barbara Freethy
Tales of Arilland
Alethea Kontis
Vermilion Sands
J. G. Ballard
Flashback
Michael Palmer