Alonzo Hodge leaned back in his chair with a slight smile.
That’s what I like to hear. Give it to him, lady. Cut through the bullshit.
“I have to confess to you that with all our training in the law and years of experience, we attorneys don’t know everything. Sometimes we have to learn from our clients, from ordinary folks like yourselves. And I have to tell you I’ve been humbled by Mrs. Riley’s native intelligence and her insight about this case— insight I didn’t have. Because when I told her she didn’t have a case, she said, ‘My husband wouldn’t be dead if Dr. Manin had stayed with him like he did with all his other patients. Instead, he got dressed for a party while my husband bled to death.’ Folks— you could have knocked me over with a feather—
because she’s right. Not only factually, but legally,
”
Nick paused to let his words sink in. Then he started to pace, slowly, as he gathered his thoughts. “The judge will instruct you on the law before you go into that room to decide the fate of the plaintiff and the defendant. He will tell about something called “the standard of care,” the rules that a doctor must follow when he treats a patient. Judge Primavera will give you the law on this standard. As a lawyer, I’m not permitted to give you the law. But
I can suggest to you, one thing I can say to you, is that you heard about Dr. Manin’s personal standard—one he created himself— one which he
always
followed. And that is that he always stayed with his patients after surgery in the recovery room.” Nick stabbed the air with his forefinger to emphasize his words. “He was always available in case something happened. But not this time. Not after Captain Riley’s surgery. You see, folks, he was too busy satisfying a social obligation for his wife.”
Nick spun around and pointed to Victor Manin. “You see, he was more concerned about Mrs. Manin’s feelings than he was about Sean Riley’s life.” He shook his head sadly. “And, folks, Mrs. Riley was right when she told me, ‘If Dr. Manin stayed with my husband, like he did with all the others, he would be alive today.’” Turning to Theresa Riley, he said, “How right you are, Mrs. Riley. Sean
would
be alive today, helping people, doing good deeds, doing his best to serve his community,
if
Dr. Manin had just lived up to his own standard of care.”
Nick took a deep breath and turned back to the jury. “Theresa Riley has a greater sense of justice and fairness than I had. And I’ve learned something from her today. Mr. Asher thanked me today.” He turned to the widow again. “Now, I thank you, Mrs. Riley, for showing us all what justice demands.”
They ducked into a remote corner of the Striped Bass, attempting to separate themselves from the heavy lunch crowd and the tourists interested in eating in the same place where the anniversary scene in the
Sixth Sense
was shot. It was Joe Maglio’s favorite table and it was permanently reserved for him. After his death, Marty Silvio and Harry Levin had dibs. Now it was Nick’s, since it was all over town that Silvio had escaped and was running from the FBI and Levin had escaped permanently by putting a bullet into his brain.
Nick stared over Grace’s head, past the cooks running about frantically in the open grill. He was oblivious to the clatter of pans and food sizzling on the open flames. He ignored the sounds and smells that had been music to his ears and perfume to his nostrils.
She took his hand, hoping to gain his attention, but he withdrew it coldly, continuing to ignore her. He pulled a Marlboro from the pack he had tucked into his coat pocket. Today he deserved a smoke. He lit it, took a deep drag, and blew the smoke over Grace’s head.
“Nick, you’re pissing me off. Stop feeling sorry for yourself,” she said. “The jury’s not even in yet and you’re acting as if you lost the case.”
“Don’t even try to comfort me ,” he snapped, finally looking her in the eye. “I don’t like losing, and no matter what the verdict is, I’ve lost. I fucked up. I should have withdrawn from this case a month ago.”
“You couldn’t have,” she said comfortingly, “Barnes wouldn’t have let you.”
“I should have told him to fuck himself and let him file disciplinary charges. Disbarment would have been better than
this.” He took another drag, inhaling deeply, realizing that he had never lost his taste for toxins.
The muscle in his right jaw twitched as he snapped his fingers rudely at a passing waiter. Normally he had respect for servers and was overly polite to them, but today was not a normal day.
“A double Sapphire with extra olives,” he half shouted as the waiter turned in his direction, “and make it fast. I have to be back in court.”
This was not the Nick Ceratto the server had come to know through Joe Maglio. He nodded, but before he could turn his head Grace put up two fingers. She waved the smoke away from her face. “Make it two,” she said.
To hell with the baby
, she thought. “Nick you can’t help what happened. You tried to help Manin. You tried to clear Joe Maglio’s name. The point is, you tried no matter what happens. You did the right thing. Everyone knows that. Why don’t you?”
“Yeah, but in this business trying doesn’t count. You win or you lose, and that’s it.”
“The case isn’t over yet,” she snapped.
“Yeah, and the jury has two choices. Guilty or not guilty. It’s a lose-lose situation for me, Gracie. If he’s negligent, then I lost because I tried to do the right thing. I worked my ass off to prove this fucker wasn’t careless. If he’s not negligent, I lost Mrs. Riley’s case. She walks away without a penny, and I’m a loser trial lawyer waiting for a malpractice suit. I wanted the judge to take it away from those twelve unpredictable, stupid people charged with dolling out justice when they don’t understand shit about the law and don’t give a shit about justice.” He took a long sip from the flared glass the waiter had just put in front of him, deftly dodging the skewered olives. “Justice isn’t about the law. It’s a game of chance. It’s Russian Roulette, and I just shot myself in the head like Harry Levin.”
“Nick, there’s causation, too, remember?” Grace said, toying with her glass. “Remember, even if they find Manin negligent, they can still find that his negligence didn’t cause Riley’s death. And Manin’s out. No recovery. No money due. Financially, he’s off
the hook. And everybody’s happy, especially Med Pro Insurance Company.”
“You forgot that the asshole wants vindication, not financial relief. He wants a
not guilty
, period. And if he gets that, my ass is in a sling. I’ll be taking his place on the stand. I’ll be the next victim in the Riley case.” He pushed the cigarette down into the ashtray, snuffing it out almost completely, and watched the last puffs of smoke waft across the restaurant toward an annoyed diner who fanned it away with her napkin. “For once in my life I worked against my own sense of greed, my lust for money, my professional ego. I worked for truth, justice, the constitution, the red, white and blue. And what happens, that fucker Manin throws a monkey wrench in the works.”
Grace smiled unsympathetically. “So? What’s the worst that can happen? You lose and you get what you wanted, but your ass is in a sling. You’re sued by the Riley’s for legal malpractice. Big deal, you’re insured,” she paused. “Or do you want vindication, too?” He chuckled, showing her a genuine smile for the first time in a week. She went on, almost yelling, further annoying the nearby diners. “You win, the Rileys are rich and so are you. Manin has no one to blame but himself.”
“It’s blood money.” He took a long sip of the strong martini and winced. “I promised myself when I went to law school I’d go straight. No more hustling, no more bag boy for the bad guys, no more blood money. It’s always on your hands. I promised myself, and I promised Joe, too. And so far I’ve been clean—up till now.”
“Stop with the double bind. Stop with the violins.” She threw up her hands and pushed her untouched drink across the table. “Give it away then.” Her green eyes flashed with anger and then drew up into thin slits of defiance. “Give the fucking money away.”
The cell phone in Nick’s inside coat pocket vibrated. He pulled it out and flipped it open. “Ceratto,” he snapped.
“Mr. Ceratto. This is Judge Primavera’s chambers. The jury has a verdict.”
It was the moment that every trial lawyer worked toward, sweated blood for, and sometimes laid everything on the table for— emotionally, physically, and in the case of the plaintiff’s attorney, financially as well. There would be a winner and a loser, nothing in between. The twelve gods had shuffled into their respective thrones and waited silently for their cue.
“Ladies and gentlemen, have you reached a verdict?” Primavera had asked this question more times than he cared to count. These were the magic words that would unleash the sword that would blindly strike one side down and elevate the other. They would cause agony to one and ecstasy to the other. They would bring tears to one and shouts of joy to the other. Opening Pandora’s box was part of Primavera’s job. It was the part he liked the least. He preferred listening to testimony, the stuff of everyday life—ruling on objections, deciding what testimony and which documents were in and which were out, what the jury should consider and what it shouldn’t. In other words, he liked the academic exercise. He did not care for what it wrought, what laypeople, ordinary citizens, would do with it. People who could not escape their own bias, their own prejudices. People who understood little or nothing about applying the law he so carefully explained, or at least tried to explain, in his charge to them before they retired to the jury room to fight about who was right and who was wrong. In actuality, whom they liked and whom they didn’t. Who was a good dresser and who was a slob. Who had to get the hell out to go home, or to go to a job, and who would stay forever just to prove a point. Primavera knew that there was one certainty in a jury trial, and that was that there was no such thing as impartiality—no such thing as fairness. Flesh and blood by its very nature was tainted at birth. Chips were programmed, even his own as he would fully admit, and there was
nothing he could do about it but preside over a process which he hoped would result in something resembling fair. He had accepted the fact that the half naked, blindfolded woman with a scale in one hand and a sword in the other was simply a mythical creature.
“Yes we have, Your Honor.” It was no surprise that it was Alonzo Hodge who stood as the jury’s foreman to announce the decision, which had only taken forty-five minutes to make. He had dressed for the occasion. He wore a navy blue blazer, charcoal gray pants, a white shirt, and a brightly printed red tie. It was his moment, his fifteen minutes of fame, where all eyes were on him, all ears were tuned to him, and lives, important lives, depended on him. Alonzo liked the feeling, the power he had never had. He liked it a lot.
Judge Primavera glanced nonchalantly at the verdict sheet through his thick glasses, pretending to be completely disassociated from the tension that ricocheted off the walls of the courtroom like a racquet ball. He would read the questions both sides had agreed would be presented to the jury, which the twelve had taken to the jury room to be answered one by one. “Question number one: was the defendant Doctor Victor Manin guilty of negligence?” Primavera intoned.
Alonzo Hodge shifted his weight, squared his shoulders, and cocked his head. His eyes went to Manin briefly, and then back to the judge. “Yes,” he said in a loud, almost defiant tone.
A low moan came from somewhere, but no one knew exactly who was responsible for it. Manin stood stoically, as he had been told to do by his attorney. “Show no emotion. Say nothing.”
Asher took his own advice and willed his shaking knees into a locked position, as well as his jaw.
Primavera appeared unmoved, although he could have been knocked over with a feather. He was a pro at masking his gut feelings. He went on, “Question number two: was that negligence a substantial factor in causing the Plaintiff Sean Riley’s death?”
“Yes,” Alonzo answered with the same conviction, not hesitating for a second.
Nick’s heart leapt. The next question was going to be how much. Every trial lawyer’s dream: to get through these first two questions with a
yes
. Emotionally, he was on a roller coaster ride. He wanted to win. After all, he was a courtroom gladiator. But at the same time he wanted to lose—to have the case go away without a verdict. But it didn’t and it wouldn’t. So he thought he might as well enjoy the ride.
“Question number three: what do you award the plaintiff, Mrs. Riley, under the Wrongful Death Claim?” Primavera asked, following the questions on the verdict sheet. (This was the claim of the widow Riley and her sons for the loss of her husband and their father.)
“Five million dollars.” The sum was announced flatly as flatly, as if it were five dollars.
“Question number four: What do you award the estate of Sean Riley under the survivor’s claim?” (This was the claim that survived Sean Riley’s death to compensate him for his pain and suffering, the legacy to his estate that would be inherited by his widow and sons.) Before the foreman could announce the balance of the verdict, Dr. Manin turned away.
“Five million dollars.” Alonzo Hodge’s voice drowned the sound of the doctor’s chair scraping back as he stood and quickly exited the courtroom. Asher was abandoned to face the pain alone.