It’s amazing what the truth can do. This guy probably earns a million bucks a year, and he is instantly disarmed by my candor. I see pity in his eyes. He hesitates for a second, maybe he thinks of Donny Ray and the frustration of being unable to help, maybe he feels sorry for me. Who knows?
“I’ll send you a bill, okay? Pay whenever you can.”
“Thanks, Doc.”
“Get with my secretary and pick a date. Can we do it here?”
“Certainly.”
“Good. Gotta run.”
DECK HAS A CLIENT in his office when I return. She’s a middle-aged woman, heavyset, nicely dressed. He waves at me as I walk by his door. He introduces me to Mrs. Madge Dresser, who wants a divorce. She’s been crying, and as I lean on the desk next to Deck he slides me a note on a legal pad: “She has money.”
We spend an hour with Madge, and it’s a sordid tale. Booze, beatings, other women, gambling, bad kids, and she’s done nothing wrong. She filed for divorce two years ago and her husband shot out the front window of her lawyer’s office. He plays with guns and is dangerous. I glance at Deck when she tells this story. He won’t look at me.
She pays six hundred dollars in cash and promises more. We’ll file for divorce tomorrow. She’s in good hands with the law firm of Rudy Baylor, Deck assures her.
Moments after she leaves, the phone rings. A male voice asks for me. I identify myself.
“Yes, Rudy, this is Roger Rice, attorney. I don’t think we’ve met.”
I met almost every lawyer in Memphis when I was looking for work, but I don’t remember Roger Rice. “No, I don’t think so. I’m new.”
“Yeah. I had to call directory assistance to get your number. Listen, I’m in the middle of a meeting with two brothers, Randolph and Delbert Birdsong, and their mother, Birdie. I understand you know these people.”
I can just see her sitting there between her sons, grinning stupidly and saying, “How nice.”
“Sure, I know Miss Birdie well,” I say as if this call has been expected all day.
“Actually, they’re next door in my office. I’ve sneaked off to the conference room so we can talk. I’m working on her will, and, well, there’s a pot full of money involved. They said you’ve tried to do her will.”
“That’s true. I prepared a rough draft several months ago, but, frankly, she hasn’t been inclined to sign it.”
“Why not?” He’s friendly enough, just doing his job, and it’s not his fault they’re there. And so I give him the quick version of Miss Birdie’s desire to leave her fortune to the Reverend Kenneth Chandler.
“Does she have the money?” he asks.
I simply cannot tell him the truth. It would be terribly unethical for me to divulge any information about Miss Birdie without her prior consent. And the information Rice is after was obtained by me through dubious, though not illegal, means. My hands are tied.
“What has she told you?” I ask.
“Not much. Something about a fortune in Atlanta, money left by her second husband, but when I try to pin her down she gets real flaky.”
Certainly sounds familiar. “Why does she want a new will?” I ask.
“She wants to leave everything to her family—kids and grandkids. I just want to know if she has the money.”
“I’m not sure of the money. There’s a probate court file in Atlanta that’s been sealed, and that’s as far as I’ve been.”
He’s still not satisfied, and I have even less to say. I promise to fax over the lawyer’s name and phone number in Atlanta.
THERE ARE EVEN MORE rental cars in the driveway when I arrive home after nine. I’m forced to park in the
street, and this really ticks me off. I sneak through the darkness, and go unnoticed by the party on the patio.
It must be the grandkids. From the window of my small den, I sit in the dark, eat a chicken pot pie and listen to the voices. I can distinguish Delbert’s and Randolph’s. Miss Birdie’s occasional cackling rips through the humid air. The other voices are younger.
It must’ve been handled like a frantic 911 call. Come quick! She’s loaded! We thought the old biddy had a few bucks, but not a fortune. One call led to another as the family was tracked down. Come quick! Your name’s in the will, and it’s got a million dollars next to it. And she’s thinking of redrafting it. Circle the wagons. It’s time to love Granny.
Thirty-one
P
URSUANT TO JUDGE KIPLER’S ADVICE, and with his blessing, we gather in his courtroom for Dot’s deposition. After Drummond had scheduled it for my office without consulting me, I refused to agree on either the date or place. Kipler stepped in, called Drummond, and the matter was settled within a matter of seconds.
When we deposed Donny Ray, everyone got an eyeful of Buddy sitting in the Fairlane. I’ve explained to Kipler, and also to Drummond, that I don’t think we should depose Buddy. He ain’t right, as Dot put it. Poor guy is harmless, and he knows nothing about the insurance mess. Throughout the entire file, there is nothing to indicate Buddy has been remotely involved. I’ve never heard him utter a complete sentence. I can’t imagine him surviving the strain of an extended deposition. Buddy might erupt and maul a few lawyers.
Dot leaves him at home. I spent two hours with her yesterday preparing for Drummond’s questions. She’ll be around to testify at trial, so this will be a discovery depo,
not an evidentiary one. Drummond will go first, ask virtually all the questions, and for the most part have free rein to explore. It will take hours.
Kipler wants to sit through this one too. We gather around one of the counsel tables in front of his bench. He orchestrates the video operator and the court reporter. This is his turf, and he wants it done just so.
I honestly believe he’s afraid Drummond will run over me if I’m left alone. The friction between these two is so profound they can barely look at each other. I think it’s wonderful.
Poor Dot’s hands are shaking as she sits alone at the end of the table. I’m close by, and that probably makes her even more nervous. She’s wearing her best cotton blouse, and her best jeans. I explained to her that she did not have to dress up because the video will not be shown to the jury. At trial, however, it will be important for her to wear a dress. God knows what we’ll do with Buddy.
Kipler sits on my side of the table, but as far away as possible, next to the video camera. Across is Drummond and only three assistants—B. Dewey Clay Hill the Third, M. Alec Plunk Junior, and Brandon Fuller Grone.
Deck’s in the building, down the hallway somewhere, stalking unsuspecting clients. He said he might drop by later.
So there are five lawyers and a judge staring at Dot Black as she raises her right hand and swears to tell the truth. My hands would be trembling too. Drummond flashes a toothy grin, introduces himself to Dot, for the record, and spends the first five minutes in a warm explanation of the purpose of a deposition. We’re looking for truth. He won’t try to mislead or confuse her. She’s free to counsel with her fine lawyer, and on and on. He’s in no hurry. The clock is ticking.
The first hour is spent on family history. Drummond,
typically, is impeccably prepared. He moves slowly from one subject to the next—education, employment, homes, hobbies—and asks questions I could never dream of. Most of this is mindless drivel, but it’s what good lawyers do in discovery depositions. Ask, dig, peck away, dig some more and who knows what you’ll find. And if he found something incredibly juicy, say, a teenage pregnancy, it would be of absolutely no benefit. He couldn’t use it at trial. Totally irrelevant. But the rules allow such nonsense, and his client is paying him a truckload of money to plunder in the darkness.
Kipler announces a recess, and Dot makes a mad dash for the hallway. The cigarette is between her lips before she gets through the doors. We huddle near a water fountain.
“You’re doing fine,” I tell her, and she really is handling it well.
“Sumbitch gonna ask me about my sex life?” she growls.
“Probably.” An image of Dot and her husband in bed doing it flashes before me, and I almost have to excuse myself.
She’s puffing rapidly as if this one might be the last.
“Can’t you stop him?”
“If he gets out of line, I will. But he has the right to ask almost anything.”
“Nosy bastard.”
The second hour is as slow as the first. Drummond gets into the Blacks’ finances, and we learn about the purchase of their home and the purchases of their cars, including the Fairlane, and the purchases of the major appliances. Kipler has had enough at this point, and tells Drummond to move on. We learn a lot about Buddy, his war injuries and his jobs and his pension. And his hobbies, and how he spends his days.
Kipler acidly tells Drummond to try and find something relevant.
Dot informs us she has to go to the rest room. I told her to do this whenever she was tired. She chain-smokes three cigarettes in the hall as I chat with her and dodge the fumes.
Halfway through the third hour, we finally get around to the claim. I have prepared a complete copy of every document relating to the file, including Donny Ray’s medicals, and these are in a neat stack on the table. Kipler has reviewed these. We are in the rare and enviable position of having no bad documents. There is nothing we’d like to hide. Drummond can see it all.
According to Kipler, and also to Deck, it’s not unusual in these cases for the insurance companies to hide things from their own lawyers. In fact, it’s quite common, especially when the company has really dirty laundry and would like to bury it.
During a trial procedure class last year, we studied, in disbelief, case after case where corporate wrongdoers got nailed because they tried to hide documents from their own lawyers.
As we move to the paperwork, I’m terribly excited. So is Kipler. Drummond has already asked for these documents when he filed his written discovery, but I have another week before they’re due. I want to watch his face when he sees the Stupid Letter. So does Kipler.
We’re assuming he’s already seen most, if not all, of what’s on the table in front of Dot. He got his documents from his client, I took mine from the Blacks. But many are the same, we think. In fact, I’ve filed a written request for production of documents identical to his request. When he answers my request, he’ll send me copies of documents I’ve had for three months. The paper trail.
Later, if things go as planned, I’ll be introduced to a fresh batch of documents at the home office in Cleveland.
We start with the application and the policy. Dot hands it to Drummond, who reviews it quickly, then hands it to Hill; then it gets passed to Plunk, then, finally, to Grone. This takes time as these clowns flip through each page. They’ve had the damned policy and application for months. But time is money. Then the stenographer makes it an exhibit to Dot’s deposition.
The next document is the first letter of denial, and it gets passed along the table. The same procedure is repeated for the other letters of denial. I’m trying desperately to stay awake.
The Stupid Letter is next. I’ve instructed Dot to simply hand this to Drummond without commenting on its contents. I don’t want to tip him off in case he’s never seen it. It’s difficult for her because the letter is so inflammatory. Drummond takes it, reads it:
Dear Mrs. Black:
On seven prior occasions, this company has denied your claim in writing. We now deny it for the eighth and final time. You must be stupid, stupid, stupid!
Having spent the last thirty years in courtrooms, Drummond is a superb actor. I know instantly that he’s never seen this letter. His client didn’t include it in the file. It hits him hard. His mouth falls slightly open. Three large wrinkles across his forehead instantly fold together. His eyes squint fiercely. He reads it a second time.
Then he does something that he later wishes he could have avoided. He raises his eyes above the letter and looks at me. I, of course, am staring at him, a rather sneering type of glare that says, “Caught you, big boy.”
Then he worsens his agony by looking at Kipler. His Honor is watching every facial move, every blink and
twitch, and he catches the obvious. Drummond is stunned by what he’s holding.
He recovers nicely, but the damage is done. He passes the letter to Hill, who’s half asleep and unaware that his boss is handing him a bomb. We watch Hill for a few seconds, then it hits.
“Let’s go off the record,” Kipler says. The stenographer stops and the video camera operator clicks off the machine. “Mr. Drummond, it’s obvious to me that you’ve never seen this letter before. And I have a hunch it won’t be the first or last document your client tries to conceal. I’ve sued insurance companies enough to know that documents have a way of getting lost.” Kipler leans forward and begins pointing at Drummond. “If I catch you or your client hiding documents from the plaintiff, I’ll sanction both of you. I’ll impose severe penalties which will include costs and attorney fees at an hourly rate equal to what you bill your client. Do you understand me?”
The sanction route is the only way I’ll ever earn two hundred and fifty bucks an hour.
Drummond and crew are still reeling. I can only imagine how the letter will be received by a jury, and I’m sure they’re thinking the same.
“Are you accusing me of hiding documents, Your Honor?”
“Not yet.” Kipler is still pointing. “Right now, I’m just warning.”
“I think you should recuse yourself from this case, Your Honor.”
“Is that a motion?”
“Yes sir.”
“Denied. Anything else?”
Drummond shuffles papers and kills a few seconds. The tension subsides. Poor Dot is petrified, probably
thinks she did something to set off these sparks. I’m a bit stiff myself.
“Back on the record,” Kipler says, never taking his eyes off Drummond.
A few questions are asked and answered. A few more documents are passed along the assembly line. We break for lunch at twelve-thirty, and an hour later we’re back for the afternoon. Dot is exhausted.
Kipler instructs Drummond, rather severely, to speed things up. He tries, but it’s difficult. He’s done this for so long, and made so much money in the process, that he could literally ask questions forever.