Over dinner, he poked at his food as he replayed everything for Helen.
“How many attorneys are on the other side?” she asked.
“I don’t know, too many to count. At least six, with another row of paralegals packed behind them.”
“And you’ll be alone at your table?”
“That’s the scenario.”
She chewed on a bite of pasta, then said, “Does anyone check the credentials of the paralegals?”
“I don’t think so. Why?”
“Just thinking. Maybe I should be a paralegal for the next few days. I’ve always wanted to watch a trial.”
David laughed for the first time in hours. “Come on, Helen. I’m not sure I want you, or anyone else, to witness the slaughter.”
“What would the judge say if I showed up with a briefcase and a legal pad and started taking notes?”
“At this point, I think Judge Seawright would cut me a lot of slack.”
“I can get my sister to keep Emma.”
David laughed again, but the idea was gaining momentum. What was there to lose? It could well be the first and last trial of his career as a litigator, why not have a little fun? “I like it,” he said.
“Did you say there are seven men on the jury?”
“Yes.”
“Short skirt, or long?”
“Not too short.”
CHAPTER 41
The Hung Juror blogged on: “A brief day in the Klopeck-Krayoxx trial as the dream team had trouble getting itself together. Word on the street is that the lead lawyer, the Honorable Wallis T. Figg, failed to answer the bell, and his rookie sidekick was sent to look for him. Figg wasn’t seen in the courtroom just before 9:00 a.m. Judge Seawright sent the jury home with instructions to return this morning. Repeated calls to the Finley & Figg office went straight to voice mail; none returned by the staff, if the firm does indeed have a staff. Wonder if Figg is on a bender? Fair question in light of the fact that he’s had at least two DUIs in the past twelve years, the last one a year ago. My records show that Figg has been married and divorced four times. I tracked down wife number 2, and she recalled that Wally’s always battled the bottle. When contacted at her home yesterday, the plaintiff, Iris Klopeck, who is still allegedly too sick to come to court, replied, ‘I’m not surprised,’ when told that her lawyer had failed to show. Then she hung up. Noted legal malpractice lawyer Bart Shaw has been seen sneaking around the courtroom—rumor is that Shaw might pick up the pieces of the Krayoxx mess and go after Finley & Figg for botching the cases. So far, the Klopeck case has not been botched, in theory. The jury has not decided. Stay tuned.”
David scanned other blogs as he ate a granola bar at his desk and waited for Wally, though he really didn’t expect him. No one had heard a word—Oscar, Rochelle, DeeAnna, a couple of lawyer buddies from his former poker club. Oscar had called a pal at the police station for an informal inquiry, though neither he nor David suspected foul play. According to Rochelle, Wally once disappeared for a week without a peep, then called Oscar from a motel in Green Bay, pickled. David was getting a lot of Wally the Drunk stories, and he found them odd because he had known only the sober Wally.
Rochelle arrived early and climbed the stairs, something she rarely did. She was concerned about David and offered to help in any way. He thanked her and began packing files in his briefcase. She fed AC, got her yogurt, and was arranging her desk when she looked at her e-mails. “David!” she yelled.
It was from Wally, dated October 26, 5:10 a.m., sent from his iPhone: “RG: Hey, I’m alive. Don’t call the police and don’t pay the ransom. WF.”
“Thank heavens,” Rochelle said. “He’s okay.”
“He doesn’t say he’s okay. He just says he’s alive. I suppose that’s a good thing.”
“What does he mean by ‘ransom’?” she wondered.
“Probably his effort to be funny. Ha-ha.”
David called Wally’s cell phone three times as he drove downtown. His voice mail was full.
In a room filled with somber men in dark suits, a beautiful woman attracts far more attention than she would by simply walking down a busy street. Nadine Karros had used her looks like a weapon as she had risen to the top of the elite courtroom advocates in the Chicago area. On Wednesday, she had some competition.
Finley & Figg’s new paralegal arrived at 8:45 and, as planned, went straight to Ms. Karros and introduced herself as Helen Hancock (maiden name), one of the part-time paralegals at Finley & Figg. Then she introduced herself to several of the other defense lawyers, causing all of them to stop whatever they were working on, stand awkwardly, shake hands, smile, and be nice. At five feet eight inches and wearing four-inch heels, Helen was a few inches taller than Nadine, and she looked down on some of the others as well. With her hazel eyes and chic designer frames, not to mention the slender figure and skirt six inches above the knees, Helen succeeded in slightly disrupting the pregame rituals, if only for a moment. The spectators, almost all men, looked her over. Her husband, who was ignoring all of this, pointed to a chair behind his and said in a lawyerly fashion, “Get me those files.” Then, in a lower voice, he said, “You look spectacular, but don’t smile at me.”
“Yes, boss,” she said, unfastening a briefcase, one of several in his collection.
“Thanks for coming.”
An hour earlier, from his desk, David had e-mailed Judge Seawright and Nadine Karros with the news that Mr. Figg had been heard from but would not be in court. They did not know where he was or when they might actually see him. For all David knew, Wally could be back in Green Bay, in a motel, comatose and pickled, though he kept this to himself.
Dr. Igor Borzov was reintroduced to the proceedings and took the stand with the look of a leper about to be stoned. Judge Seawright said, “You may cross-examine, Ms. Karros.”
She walked to the podium in another killer outfit—a lavender knit dress that fit snug and did an outstanding job of showcasing her shapely and quite firm backside, and a thick brown leather belt that was pulled tight to announce “Yes, I’m in a size 4.” She began by offering the expert a lovely smile and asking him to speak slowly because she had trouble understanding on Monday. Borzov mumbled incoherently in return.
With so many obvious targets, it was impossible to predict where she might attack first. David had been unable to prepare Borzov, not that he wanted to spend another minute with the man.
“Dr. Borzov, when was the last time you treated a patient of your own?”
He had to think for a moment and eventually said, “About ten year.” This led to a series of questions about what, exactly, he had been doing for the past ten years. He had not been seeing patients, nor teaching, nor researching, nor doing all the things one would expect a doctor to do. Finally, when she had excluded virtually everything, she asked: “Isn’t it true, Dr. Borzov, that for the past ten years you have worked exclusively for various trial lawyers?” Borzov squirmed a bit. He wasn’t so sure about that.
Nadine was. She had the facts, all gleaned from a deposition given by Borzov in another case one year earlier. Armed with the details, she took him by the hand and led him down the path of destruction. Year by year, she went through the lawsuits, the screenings, the drugs, and the lawyers, and when she finished an hour later, it was clear to everyone in the courtroom that Igor Borzov was nothing but a rubber-stamper for the mass tort bar.