Between Black and White (McMurtrie and Drake Legal Thrillers #2)(11)
8
Thomas Jackson McMurtrie winced as the cell phone vibrated in his pocket. He had silenced the phone at the beginning of the mediation but had forgotten that the damn thing would start vibrating if a call came through. His bladder had been scoped yesterday afternoon, and though the news was good—he was clean as a whistle—the procedure was still uncomfortable and made him stiff and sore. Being seventy years old probably didn’t help much either, a fact his urologist and longtime friend, Bill Davis, teased him with every time Tom complained. “Cancer-free for a year, old man,” Bill had said, slapping Tom on the back at the end of yesterday’s appointment. “That peace of mind is worth a little ‘torture,’ isn’t it?” “Torture” was Tom’s word for the scope, the chemo washes, and pretty much everything Bill had done to treat the masses that had popped up in Tom’s bladder last year. But his friend was right. A clean scope was worth a little pain.
Tom tried to remind himself of this fact as the vibration from the phone caused his stomach and pelvis to tighten, which sent a shot of pain through his groin. His right foot had also fallen asleep, and he wiggled his toes in his loafers to increase the circulation.
Tom was curious about the call—few people had his cell number—but he could not answer it. The mediator was making his final plea.
“Tom, I think everyone agrees that the driver of the rig was negligent when he pulled out in front of Mr. London. Jameson just believes you guys should come off the policy limits to account for your client’s”—he paused—“possible contributory negligence in not being able to stop or avoid the collision.”
Before responding, Tom glanced to his right. Next to him, his partner, Rick Drake, leaned forward in his seat, elbows on the table, looking ready to pounce. Their eyes met, and Tom nodded at him to take the lead, stifling a smile. That boy is always itching for a fight, he thought.
“Jerome London was a sixty-two-year-old grandfather of three who was on his way to pick up his granddaughter from preschool at the time of this accident,” Rick said, his voice sharp and edgy. “Mr. London had a perfect driving record—no tickets and only one accident in his whole life—and his pickup truck was in mint condition, having been serviced just one week earlier. The two eyewitnesses at the Waffle House on McFarland, who were sitting in booths with an unobstructed view out their window when the collision occurred, both say that Mr. London hit the brakes immediately once the 18-wheeler pulled onto the road. The only person in the world who says different is Jameson’s accident reconstructionist, Eugene Marsh, who has never given an opinion that a commercial truck driver was negligent. We took Jameson to verdict last year in the Willistone case in Henshaw County, and the jury came back with a verdict of ninety million dollars. I’m sure Jameson remembers that case very well. Marsh was Jameson’s expert in Willistone, and the jury’s verdict shows just how impressed they were.” Rick paused, licking his lips and placing his hands palms down on the table. “George, Mr. London lost his life in this accident. The policy limits here are one million, and if you ask us the defendant is getting a bargain. Mr. London’s son, Maurice, wants this to be over, so he has agreed to accept the limits today at this mediation, but there is no way on God’s green earth that we are going to let him take less.” Eyes burning with intensity, Rick held up his index finger. “One last thing, and it has to be said. This case is pending here . . . in Tuscaloosa, Alabama. You know, George, the home of the Crimson Tide. My partner was a member of Bear Bryant’s 1961 national champions, and a video clip of him sacking the quarterback in the Sugar Bowl is shown every fall Saturday on the Jumbotron at Bryant-Denny Stadium as a hundred thousand fans go crazy. He was a law professor for forty years at the University of Alabama, and every judge and lawyer in this state, including you, George, has a copy of his Evidence hornbook in their office.”
Rick snorted and stood from his chair. “The bottom line is that we have the facts, and no jury in Tuscaloosa, Alabama is going to find against us. Jameson would have better luck getting a jury of elves to convict Santa Claus at the North Pole.”
Rick began to pack up his briefcase, his face red and his hands trembling slightly. Tom also stood, placing his hands in his pockets and eyeing the mediator.
George McDuff Jr. rubbed his neck and smiled. “Rick, I know all about the Willistone case in Henshaw County. I think every lawyer in the state of Alabama has heard about that verdict. And you don’t have to tell me about the Professor’s accomplishments. I think I was ten when Tom left my dad’s practice to be a law professor.” He looked at Tom, his eyes turning sad. “I think it was one of Dad’s biggest regrets that he couldn’t get you to stay.”
Tom nodded, looking past George out the window of the conference room. In the distance he could see the lights to Bryant-Denny Stadium. “I believe your father knew that I had to come to the university,” Tom finally said, meeting George’s eye. “That I . . . was made an offer I just couldn’t refuse.”
“He said Coach Bryant asked you to come.”
Tom nodded.
“Well . . .” George clasped his hands together and looked from Tom to Rick. “I can’t say I blame y’all for not backing down from the policy limits. I’ll pass the word on to Jameson. Did you want to stick around to see—?”