Sparring Partners(60)
He stood at a large whiteboard and held a blue marker. “Now, according to our experts, Trey has a life expectancy of fifteen years. That’s pretty sad for a young man who’s twenty-three years old and was racing dirt bikes before he encountered GateLane Hospital. So, give him fifteen years. To properly care for Trey, he needs to be in a facility with round-the-clock monitoring. His parents can no longer do it. That’s plain and simple. I mean, how much more convincing could a witness be than Jean Brewster? The poor woman is exhausted and cannot go on. So, let’s put Trey in an adequate facility, one with nurses, orderlies, housekeepers, technicians, plenty of medicine and that formula that somebody calls food. The average rate for such a place in the metro St. Louis area is forty thousand dollars a month, half a million a year, for fifteen years.”
Rusty masterfully scrawled on the whiteboard, tallied it all up, and showed the number of $7,500,000. But he wasn’t finished.
“Factor in inflation at three percent a year over fifteen years and the figure comes to…” In bold numbers he wrote and said, “Nine million dollars.”
He paused and walked away to allow that number to rattle around the courtroom. He took a drink of water from a paper cup at his table, then took his time returning to the podium. “Nine million dollars just to take care of Trey.”
The courtroom was silent because everyone knew bigger numbers were on the way.
(9)
Kirk said, “The old man called last night.”
“Whose phone?” Diantha asked.
“His. He has another cell phone.”
“I thought he was in solitary because they caught him with a cell phone.”
“They’ve caught him with several. He bribes the guards and they sneak in cell phones. Evidently it’s a big business in prison.”
“I’m sure he’s bribing everyone.”
“No doubt. One minute he’s playing poker with the warden, the next minute he’s in solitary, phoneless.”
“Why’d he call?”
“You know Bolton. I think he just wanted me to know that he has another cell phone. And, he’s expecting me tomorrow. It’s my turn to visit. We talked about that. We talked politics. We talked about his chances for parole next year.”
“He’s only served five years.”
“Yes, but he’s dreaming.”
“I like him better in prison.”
“Don’t we all?”
“What’s his plan?”
“He wouldn’t say over the phone, but I’m sure it involves bribery and politics.”
(10)
Rusty stood at the podium and aimed a red laser pointer at a large whiteboard. He looked at the jurors, then the whiteboard, and said, “Now, before Trey made the fateful decision to have routine surgery at GateLane Hospital, he was pursuing a rewarding career as a software designer and earning eighty thousand dollars a year. That career is gone. That salary is gone. Everything is gone, except your verdict. Under our laws, he is entitled to recover his lost income. Eighty thousand dollars times fifteen years comes to one point two million. Inflation will take it to two million. Add that to the future cost of his care, and his pain and suffering, and our total becomes seventeen million dollars.”
He put away the red laser, took a black marker, and carefully added the sum of $2,000,000 to $9,000,000 for “Care” and $6,000,000 to “Pain and Suffering.” He totaled it up nicely at $17,000,000.
All six jurors stared at the amount. It was a shocking sum of money, but seeing it in bold print lessened the impact. Rusty was making a case that the money was justified.
He walked to his table, found a report half an inch thick, and flipped pages as he returned to the podium. “According to its own financials, last year GateLane Hospital System had six hundred million more dollars in revenue than expenses. We don’t dare refer to the difference as ‘profits,’ because we know that GateLane is proud of its nonprofit status. That means it doesn’t pay any state or federal income taxes. So, after all of its expenses, including the seven million dollars it paid its CEO and the five million dollars it paid its chief operating officer, after all the fat salaries were paid, GateLane had six hundred million more dollars in the bank than when the year started. What does it do with all that extra cash? It buys other hospitals. It wants to be a monopoly so it can continue to raise prices.”
Luther Bancroft stood, shaking his head. “Objection, Your Honor. This is not an anti-trust case.”
“Sustained. Move along, Mr. Malloy.”
Without so much as a glance at the two, Rusty continued, “The only way to get the attention of a defendant like GateLane Hospital System is to slap it in the face with punitive damages.”
He paused for dramatic effect and stepped to the side of the podium. “Punitive damages. Damages imposed to punish a corporation, for-profit or otherwise, for wrongdoing. For gross negligence. How much would it take to get the attention of a mammoth hospital system like GateLane? One percent of its annual profit? Oops, sorry, can’t use that word, can we? Let’s call it something else. Let’s call it the ‘cushion.’ One percent of the cushion would be six million dollars. That’s a lot of money but it probably wouldn’t bother the CEO because he makes more than that. Two percent would be twelve million. You know what? I think three percent sounds better because that’s eighteen million bucks, and I’ll bet you that when you hit ’em with eighteen million bucks in punitive damages they’ll get the message. They’ll feel the pain. They’ll be more cautious about who they hire and keep on staff.”