Sparring Partners(59)
(6)
Under the steady gaze of everyone—lawyers, parties, spectators, clerks, bailiffs, and Judge Pollock—the six jurors filed in and took their seats. The seventh, an alternate, sat next to the jury box. There were no smiles, only the stressed looks of people who wished they were somewhere else.
The plaintiff’s table was closer to the jury box than the defense’s, and throughout the trial the jurors had been forced to look at Trey Brewster. He was positioned on their side by his lawyer, who, of course, wanted him exposed as much as possible. Trey was twenty-three years old but age didn’t matter anymore. Birthdays came and went and he had no clue. His eyes were always closed, his mouth perpetually opened, his head propped awkwardly on his left shoulder. One tube with oxygen ran to his nose. Another, with formula, ran down his throat. He had a feeding portal in his stomach, but Rusty wanted the jurors to see all tubes possible. As brain-damaged as he was, Trey could still breathe on his own, so there was no noisy ventilator to grate on the jurors. He weighed 120 pounds, down 80 since his surgery two years earlier. He was nothing more than a shriveled shell of a young man, and there was absolutely no chance his condition would ever improve.
His mother sat to his right with her hand always on his arm. She had the hollow-eyed, fatigued gaze of a defeated caregiver who could never give up. His father, to his left, stared blankly ahead, as if detached from the proceedings.
Judge Pollock pulled his mike closer and said, “Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, we have now made it to the end, or something very close to it. You’ve heard all the witnesses, seen all the exhibits, listened to the law as I have instructed you. This has been a long trial and it’s almost over. Again, I thank you for your service and patience. Both sides will now be allowed to make their closing arguments, and then you will retire for your deliberations. For the plaintiff, Mr. Malloy.”
Rusty stood and walked to the podium with great confidence. He looked at the six jurors and offered them a businesslike smile. Three met his gaze. Three looked away. Number two appeared to be ready to cry. He began without looking at notes.
“When my client, Trey Brewster, was admitted to GateLane Hospital for a routine appendectomy, no one in his family, no one on his medical team, no one in the world could have predicted that he would never regain consciousness, that he would spend the rest of his life paralyzed, brain-dead, in a wheelchair, fed by a tube, his bladder drained by catheters.”
Rusty’s voice was rich and heavy, his cadence dramatic. He was the only actor on the stage, and relished the moment. His opening was powerful. The courtroom was still and silent.
On the third row of the gallery, Carl Salter looked in the general direction of Rusty, but he was really watching all six faces, all twelve eyes.
And he didn’t like what he saw.
During the trial, Bancroft did a masterful job of passing the buck. The negligent party was not in the courtroom. An anesthesiologist with emotional and financial problems had been asleep at the switch. No, worse than that: he wasn’t even present for most of the routine surgery. He administered three times the customary level of ketamine, knocked the kid out, then failed to monitor anything during the thirty-minute operation. A week before, he had allowed his medical malpractice insurance to lapse. A week after, he filed for bankruptcy and fled the area. The hospital could be blamed for hiring him, but for his first eight years his work had been stellar. A terrible divorce ruined him, and so on. The bottom line was, he wasn’t in the courtroom. GateLane Hospital was, and it had done nothing wrong.
Carl knew the jurors were sympathetic—who wouldn’t be? But Rusty had proven a weak case of liability against the hospital.
(7)
For the second time in an hour, Diantha barged into Kirk’s office with hardly a knock. She announced, “The hospital withdrew the offer. They’re doing closing arguments.”
As always, Kirk was buried in paperwork. He shoved some of it away and threw up his hands. “What happened?”
“How am I supposed to know? Just a quick text. No deal, offer withdrawn, closing arguments.”
She fell into a leather seat on the other side of his desk and shook her head.
Kirk said, “So, let’s keep things clear. The offer came late last night and Rusty, drinking as always, rejected it. Said no, or something to that effect. He did not inform his client. So, if he loses again, then the client will have a beautiful lawsuit against Malloy & Malloy. Right?”
“That’s pretty clear, isn’t it?”
Kirk exhaled in defeat and frustration and slid lower in his chair. He shook his head at Diantha, who looked just as irritated.
Kirk said, “Well, maybe Rusty can win one for a change.”
“Maybe so. A win would be nice. We could pay off some of his litigation loans.”
“I think you should go watch the trial. It’s just around the corner.”
Diantha actually laughed at this. “You couldn’t pay me to get near that courtroom.”
“I wasn’t serious. This is probably catastrophic, don’t you think?”
“Probably, yes. I got a bad vibe in the meeting early this morning. The jury is not with him.”
(8)
The jurors watched him closely. About half seemed convinced. The other half, skeptical.