Prologue

 

The large man stood over the table, hands placed on the surface to support his massive frame. An aide sat quietly in a chair to the side, patiently waiting for instruction. He knew better than to disturb the powerful man when he was thinking. The large man placed a hand on the map and began to move a fat finger up from the Gulf of Mexico to Choctaw Crossing. He moved it slowly down again to I-10 and then up to I-20. He traced I-59 all the way to Chattanooga and then stepped back, eyes moving from one end of the country to the other.

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He pulled another map from the side of the table and placed it over the original map. The aide leaned forward slowly and saw that the Governor was studying a map of the routes of all the railroad lines in the United States. He moved the fat finger to and fro on the map and began to mumble under his breath.

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The Governor stood suddenly erect and looked at the aide. He turned and went to the window and looked out on Capitol Street. “Tell me again about Choctaw Crossing.”

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The aide smiled and began his recitation.

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Chapter 1

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“All rise.”

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Wesley rose as the judge strode quickly into the courtroom. This was going to be dicey. Judge Hale had never liked him but he was a stickler for correct procedure so this could go either way. He or the other attorney were about to be skewered in open court and most likely in a condescending, venomous manner. Judge Hale’s famous temper might be unleashed or he might embrace both the respite Wesley’s tactics would offer and the opportunity for an early tee time.

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Wesley glanced over at opposing counsel. Michael Potter stood expectantly, almost excitedly, finally able to cross-examine Wesley’s client, and Wesley imagined it wouldn’t be pretty. He had endured the string of expert witnesses Wesley had already called to the stand, had tried to limit their effectiveness, to somehow discredit them, but it was difficult and sometimes downright dangerous to attempt to parry and thrust with an expert. They knew more than you. That’s why they were experts. Michael Potter had had no luck with them, and now his entire case lay in trying to take apart Wesley’s client, to show that her injuries weren’t anywhere as severe as the orthopedic expert had testified and that the figure the economist had given as to loss of income and future loss of income was simply conjecture and based on the assumption that his client was industrious when, in fact, she was always getting high and watching TV all day with her drug-dealing boyfriend.

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Wesley stood alone at the counsel table and waited as Judge Hale sat ramrod straight in his chair, a large unkempt mane of white hair over a thin, long nose and eyed the courtroom with small, piercing blue eyes. He swiveled around towards the bailiff, nodded, and turned and glared at the lawyers.

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The court reporter sat under the judge’s bench, poised over her machine and shook her head slightly as she smiled nervously. Wesley had told her what he might do as they lay in bed last night at his house and now the empty chairs at the counsel table confirmed his decision. She tensed, waiting for the judge’s reaction to what was about to happen.

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Wesley looked again at Michael Potter who was standing and smiling at the judge. There was an insurance adjuster sitting at his table who had flown in from Atlanta specifically for this trial and a young blonde female attorney he hadn’t seen before. She wore a grey dress that had a small slit up the side and shapely legs that distracted Wesley momentarily, and, as he looked from them, she smiled at him.

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He smiled back. I better start concentrating, he thought. He saw Michael Potter look at him, then scan the counsel table with a look of puzzlement on his face. Wesley moved quickly to the podium situated between the tables. Better to be ready and move quickly before Michael Potter had time to gather himself.

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“Mr. Williams, who’s your next witness?” Judge Hale asked loudly.

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“We rest, Your Honor.”

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“You’re not calling your own client as a witness, Mr. Williams?”

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“No sir, as the only issue in this case is damages, we feel that the testimony of the treating physician, the vocational expert and the economist are enough to show Ms. Richard’s damages, and that testimony by her is not only unnecessary but a waste of the court’s time.”

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“You proceed at your own risk, Mr. Williams.” The court reporter inhaled and waited. Maybe there would be no demonstration of Judge Hale’s explosive temper. The judge turned to Michael Potter. “Mr Potter, you may call your first witness.”

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“Your honor, we would call Reagan Richards.”

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“Mr. Williams, where is your client?” the judge asked.

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“I’m not sure, Your Honor.”

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Judge Hale scowled and looked at Wesley for a long moment. “What do you mean, Mr. Williams?” he said slowly, his voice becoming louder. “Where is your client?”

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“She’s not here, Your Honor. I think she had to go.”

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Judge Hale glared at Wesley. “Is she coming back, Mr. Williams?”

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“I don’t know, Your Honor, but I don’t think so.”

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There was a long silence in the courtroom, and the court reporter tensed again. This was the moment of truth. Judge Hale turned to Michael Potter. “Mr. Potter, do you have Ms. Richards under subpoena?”

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“No, Your Honor. She’s been here for two days, and I assumed she would be available to testify.”

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“Mr. Potter, Mr. Williams can determine who he wants to call in his case in chief, and he apparently has chosen not to call his own client. Now, I might differ with him on trial tactics but I can’t compel him to call his own client to testify. And,” the judge said acerbically, “apparently, if you have not been diligent enough to subpoena her, then you cannot compel her to testify either.”

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“Your Honor, if I may have a moment?” Michael Potter was suddenly searching for a way out. He had a two hour cross-examination planned for Reagan Richards and not much more. The dissection of Reagan Richards had been his whole case. He expected to pay her some money—- just not what the experts had projected that she was owed. He shuffled papers, tried to think, and then turned to the adjuster and the blonde attorney and whispered with them. He panicked. “Your Honor, may we look for Mr. Williams’ client in the hall?”

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The judge snickered and almost laughed. “If you find her, what are you going to do to compel her attendance, Mr. Potter? Drag her back by her hair?” The bailiff and the court clerk began to laugh among themselves as Michael Potter turned a shade of crimson.

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“No sir, I just…”

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“Go, Mr. Potter. Go on your little hunting expedition but don’t be long.”

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“Yes sir.”

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“And be ready to proceed when you return.” The judge motioned to the bailiff.  The bailiff moved quickly to the bench, and they began to talk in a hushed tone.

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Michael Potter rose and walked quickly out through the double doors at the back of the courtroom. Wesley swiveled in his seat and looked to the table where the adjuster and blonde attorney sat. The adjuster glared at him, a sullen look on a pale drawn face, while the blonde twirled the end of a pen in her mouth as she looked at him smiling. He looked at the court reporter who shook her head and rolled her eyes.

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Michael Potter walked slowly back into the courtroom, a look of desperation on his face. He could already envision the scathing rebuke from the adjuster that would follow the hearing, the probable loss of a client and how he might explain this to the senior partners of the firm. There was also the possibility of a Bar complaint and the notification to the insurance carrier of a possible malpractice claim. He moved to the podium, still trying to think of a way out. “Your Honor, I’d like to move for a continuance.”

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“Denied,” the judge barked loudly. “Call your first witness.”

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Michael Potter looks as if he has shriveled in appearance, Wesley thought. Those defense attorneys from big firms always came in arrogant and with an attitude and a comeuppance, especially in front of their client. That was almost reward enough. Wesley smiled. Well, almost.

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“May I request a recess and have a subpoena instanter issued for Ms. Richards, Your Honor?”

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“Denied, Mr. Potter. Call your witness.”

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“Just a second, Your Honor.” Michael Potter returned to the defense table, shuffled some documents, and whispered quietly with the adjuster and the blonde attorney.

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“Mr. Potter?” the judge asked sharply.

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“Your Honor, I’d like to offer Reagan Richard’s deposition testimony into evidence.”

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“Mr. Williams, any objection to your client’s deposition being offered into evidence?”

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“We would object Your Honor. That was a discovery deposition taken over a year ago and not for trial purposes. It is rife with hearsay and has many other objectionable items in it so that we would almost have to go line by line through it to determine what’s admissible and what’s not. Further, besides being a waste of the Courts’ time, a deposition in itself is only admissible into evidence if it’s a medical expert or someone who is deemed to be “unavailable” to the court. I don’t think Mr. Potter has shown any of the elements necessary for a witness to be deemed “unavailable” or will be able to do so.”

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“Judge, she is unavailable. She’s not here.”

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“She’s not here, Mr. Potter only due to your lack of diligence. You have not demonstrated any of the necessary elements of unavailability to which a discovery deposition might be admitted into evidence. And I’m certainly not going to spend an entire afternoon of the Court’s time going through a deposition line by line to determine the admissibility of each statement.” Especially, thought Wesley, when an early tee time might be available. “Your motion is denied, Mr. Potter.”

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Michael Potter looked around the room, back at the double doors in the back of the courtroom and then at his counsel table. He looked futilely at the empty table where Reagan Richards had sat only thirty minutes before. He looked at Wesley who was staring at him and swore at him silently. He looked back to the Judge who was leaning forward in his chair and seemed as if he was about to come over the bench at him. “We rest, Your Honor,” he said meekly.

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“Very well. I’ll take this matter under advisement. You may expect a decision shortly.”

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The judge bounded off of the bench before the ‘All Rise,’ was out of the mouth of the bailiff.

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Wesley went to Michael Potter, shook a listless, clammy hand. “We’ll talk later,” he said, as Michael Potter mumbled something back. He shook the weak, less than enthusiastic hand of the adjuster who didn’t smile and moved quickly away from him and then the firm grip of the blonde. “Good job,” she said quietly as she smiled openly at him.

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Wesley grabbed his briefcase, paused to wave at the court reporter who smiled back and walked down the steps and out of the courthouse. His client was waiting for him back at his office, and she would be eager to hear what happened.

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Chapter 2

 

 

Those damn bells. It was those damn bells again. Not six hours ago the last of the champagne had found its way down his throat, and now he had to deal with those damn bells.  Every Sunday morning those bells. Like people didn’t know it was Sunday. Wesley rose slightly from his bed, grabbed a bottle of water from the floor and drank deeply. He lay back down and tried to reconstruct the night. He thought for a moment and then sat straight up in bed. He rose, walked softly from his room and peered quietly into the den. A  figure lay on the couch under a comforter that covered everything but a mop of blonde hair. 

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