Directed Verdict (5 page)

Brad knew the fix he was in when he got to Ichabod’s office on time and discovered that the judge and the ADA were already meeting. Such ex parte meetings were technically improper—a judge should never discuss a case with only one lawyer present—but when Brad entered the office, the two women started chatting aimlessly about everything but the law. The message was clear: we were not discussing the case, so don’t even bother complaining.

Ichabod pretended not to notice his jumpsuit. But Brad sensed a perpetual smirk on the lips of Bennett, who seemed to be enjoying herself way too much.

“How’s it going?” she asked snidely.

“Better if I’d remembered to bring my toothbrush with me to court on Friday.”

Ichabod did not smile. She began laying out a proposal that Brad was sure she had already discussed with ADA Bennett. It was damage control and face-saving time for Ichabod. She clearly did not want this case appealed. Now that she had calmed down, read Brad’s brief, and seen the name of Jay Sekulow, she was apparently willing to do everything within her power to keep the appeals court in Richmond from considering the case and evaluating her conduct.

“This is a no-win situation,” Ichabod was saying, her elbows on her desk, fingertips tented together. She was looking back and forth at Brad and Angela Bennett. “I’ve been giving this a lot of thought. Mr. Carson’s ill-advised actions have escalated the emotional nature of this highly charged case and created a difficult situation for everyone.”

Brad suddenly noticed there was no court reporter present to record their conversation.

“I have every right, and half a mind, to keep you in jail for as long as you stubbornly refuse to apologize for your childish conduct,” she continued, giving Brad her holier-than-thou look.

Brad spread his palms—
bring it on
.

“But I won’t,” Ichabod announced, “because I refuse to let counsel drag me down to his level.”

Bennett’s smirk widened.

“Instead, I want to propose an agreement that could turn this into a win-win situation.” Ichabod shuffled her papers and began reading from some notes.

“I strongly suggest that counsel consider a plea bargain in this case, and I have given some thought to the types of terms I would accept. Let me be frank with you, Mr. Carson. Your client has no chance of being found innocent.”

She said it and paused, as if it were some shocking pronouncement. In truth, Brad knew this from the moment he drew Ichabod to hear the case. Years earlier, when she first ascended to the bench, some pro-life senators had delayed her confirmation hearings for more than eighteen months, digging for dirt they never found. It was common knowledge around the courthouse that Ichabod had a long memory and painted those responsible with a broad brush.

Brad had spent a long time kicking himself for suggesting to his client that they waive their right to a jury trial and take their chances with a judge.

“I assume the Reverend Bailey’s conscience would not allow him to plead guilty to this charge, so I would be willing to accept a plea of ‘no contest.’ It would have the same effect, of course, except he wouldn’t have to admit guilt. You will withdraw any defense and any rights to appeal, and I will find the reverend guilty. I will sentence him to serve only four days in jail, to be done on four consecutive Saturdays. No overnight stays. I will also sentence him to a total of six months in jail but will suspend that part of his sentence conditioned on good behavior for the next year, including no more protests or prayer meetings within one hundred feet of any abortion clinic.”

Ichabod quit reading and looked at Brad. He sat absolutely stone-faced, determined not to give her the satisfaction of a reaction. It
was
a good deal. And he knew it was motivated by Ichabod’s desire to avoid looking bad in front of the appellate judges in Richmond. But he didn’t want to look too anxious to jump on it. Better to make the judge sweat a little.

“I’ll have to discuss it with my client,” Brad said, thoughtfully rubbing his unshaven face.

“Judge, I don’t know if I can agree to this,” Bennett blurted out. “It’s very lenient. But this case is getting out of hand, and I would love to put this matter behind us.” She paused for effect.

All part of a carefully choreographed show—with me as the audience,
Brad thought. He was flattered.

“I’ll agree to it,” Bennett finally said, trying to sound reluctant, “but only if we can wrap it up by 5 p.m. I’m not willing to spend all weekend wondering about what we’re going to do. I’ve got a closing argument to prepare for this trial . . . assuming, that is, that Mr. Carson will find the good sense to apologize.”

“Oh, that’s another thing,” Ichabod said, looking back at her notes like she just remembered something. “If we can all agree to this plea bargain, I will release Mr. Carson from custody on Monday morning.”

What a surprise.

“So, Mr. Carson, what’s it going to be?”

He was tempted to say “whatever” again. He was tempted to tell Ichabod how much he liked jail, and how much the marshals liked him because he had stood up to her. Instead, he just stared down at his flip-flops. It really was a good deal for his client, and he didn’t want to say anything to jeopardize it.

“My client is a man of strong convictions,” Brad said solemnly. “And I’m not sure he’ll go for it. But I’ll talk to him, and I’ll recommend it. And I’ll let you know by five o’clock.”

“Thank you, Mr. Carson,” Ichabod said, sounding both sincere and smug at the same time. Then she looked at Bennett. “I’d like a moment alone with Mr. Carson, please.”

The government lawyer quickly excused herself. Brad studied his flip-flops some more, knowing what was coming. No court reporter, no witnesses. Ichabod was going to lower the boom.

“Mr. Carson,” she began, her voice low and even as she measured each syllable, “you may think that you are clever. And, I will admit, you have done well for your client by your little stunt in this case. But the most important thing any lawyer brings into my courtroom is his or her own credibility. And once you lose it, you can never, ever, reclaim it. You have lost every ounce of your credibility with this judge, Mr. Carson. In my courtroom, you are a marked man. And I have a very long memory.”

Brad felt a deep breath leave his body, and with it went some of the pride of his cunning achievement. He had indeed done well for his client, but at what cost to his own career? Did he really want to be known as a lawyer who couldn’t be trusted, even by someone as petty as Ichabod?

He began to carefully choose the words for his response, but Ichabod didn’t give him a chance. She simply pushed a button under her desk, and a marshal appeared at the back door.

“Clarence,” she said, “give Mr. Carson a half-hour leave from his contempt sentence so that he can go buy a toothbrush.”

Brad stood and flashed Ichabod a puzzled smile. He waited for her to look up so he could offer to shake hands.
No hard feelings?

But Ichabod began reading some more papers, not bothering to stand or extend her hand or even look at him.

“Good day, Mr. Carson,” she said without taking her eyes from the page in front of her.

* * *

“What did he say?” Bella asked.

She was sitting in the muggy, dank jailhouse conference room with Brad. He had recounted the plea bargain offered by Ichabod, then called the Reverend Bailey on a cell phone that Clarence allowed Bella to bring into the conference room.

“He said if I recommend it, he’ll take it.”

“The man is clearly a poor judge of character,” Bella offered.

Brad ignored her sarcasm and pensively stared at the floor. He was pretty sure he had won this case. He just didn’t think winning would feel this bad.

* * *

Sarah Reed tried to open her eyes, encountered blinding lights, and closed them again. Her head was throbbing, and she could not seem to get out of the haze. She heard voices in the distance but couldn’t make out the words. She tried to speak, tried to scream and tell someone about the pain, but the noises just tumbled out of her throat, making no sense.

She tried to sleep, but sleep would not come. Her mind swung in and out of consciousness, while nightmares blurred the lines between reality and dreams. She tried to reach out and grab something real, to get her bearings, but her arms would not respond.
Where am I? Where is Charles?
Then the haze became darker, and she floated away, voices mocking her in the distance.

“Sarah?”

A disembodied voice cut through the thick fog engulfing her. A touch on the arm, an insistent shaking, then the same kind voice.

“Sarah, do you hear me?”

It was a man’s voice.
Maybe Charles?

She reached out for him, finding comfort in the soft and understanding tone. He moved closer, bringing a peace and order to her thoughts. Without even knowing why, she took comfort in his presence, pictured his face. She couldn’t remember what had happened, but she had a feeling of great danger and great loss. And then . . . he changed. The face hardened before her eyes, transforming into the leathery image of the Muttawa leader, the eyes turning rabid. Sarah heard his heinous laugh . . . She recoiled, fear wracking her.

“Sarah.”

Another gentle touch. This time she opened her eyes, then squinted to protect them from the lights’ harsh glare. She could make out the silhouette of a figure standing over her.

“Sarah, my name is Dr. Rydell,” the soft voice said. “Do you know where you are?”

Sarah nodded her head ever so subtly. At least she tried to. She didn’t know if she actually succeeded. She tried to focus. She could feel the sleep coming back and somehow knew she didn’t have long to get an answer about Charles.

“You’re in a naval base hospital outside of Riyadh. You took a pretty nasty blow to the head, but you’re going to be all right. You’re going to need some rest.”

Even as the haze started closing in, Sarah felt the images cascading around her. The Muttawa. Charles. Blood dripping from his face. The men coming at her. She closed her eyes and felt a stream of tears running down her face and toward her pillow.

She had to know.

She struggled to form the words, to fight off the fog for one last critical moment, but her tongue was thick and uncooperative. Still she managed to mouth a single word, inquiring with her eyes and lips.

“Charles?”

The doctor reached out and touched her arm again, bending forward and nearly whispering. “I’m afraid we weren’t able to save him,” the man said. “We tried everything we could, but he passed away a few hours ago from massive heart failure.” He paused for a beat as the awful news penetrated the fog and pierced her heart. “I’m sorry, Sarah.”

No!
she wanted to scream.
Bring him back! It can’t end like this! Not for those who love God and are called according to His purpose . . .

More images flashed into her mind—unheeded—of their last struggling moments together. She remembered now. Vividly. The way Charles courageously refused to give up the names of other pastors. The brutal reaction of the Muttawa. The pain and the blood.

She needed to hold her husband one more time . . . say her good-byes . . . tell him how much she loved him . . . how hard it would be without him . . . how much he had taught her about the love of Christ.

But Charles was not there, and even in her drug-induced state she understood with awful certainty that he would never return. She found herself clutching the arm of this doctor, her lips forming one final haunting question as she slipped back into the darkness.

“Why, God? Why?”

5

Six months later

LESLIE CONNORS LOOKED DOWN
at her watch and could hardly believe it was already 11:30. The law library would close in thirty minutes. As usual, she had run out of time before she ran out of work.

She leaned back in her chair and stole a quick look around. Not surprisingly, she was the only one left on the basement floor. Most students avoided the loneliness and despair that seemed to linger in these parts of the catacombs. No windows, no noise, no socializers, no distractions. Just the way Leslie liked it.

She put in her time at this same carrel night after night, grinding away and chasing her dream. She owned this carrel, not in a legal sense, but through the personal effects she had scattered around the small cubicle and her chastisement of any intruders. After all, she was a second-year law student and already a bit of a legend. She was on track to graduate second in her class. That feat alone would take her one step closer to her goal of becoming one of the top international law practitioners in the country. The world was shrinking, and the global village was becoming a reality. Leslie loved the thought of the travel, the prestige, the intellectual challenge, and yes, the money. For a girl who grew up in a double-wide trailer, a career representing multinational corporations seemed like the perfect ticket to a better life.

There was no sacrifice she was not willing to make.

Her carrel was lined with law books across the back. Pictures, yellow Post-it notes, and to-do lists filled the sides. One of the faded color photos reflected the happier times in her life. It was a picture of Leslie and Bill, her late husband, with their arms around each other, standing on the steps of the U.S. Supreme Court.

At the age of thirty-three, Bill had been diagnosed with an aggressive form of prostate cancer that had already metastasized. In the bittersweet nine months that followed, a nostalgic Bill made Leslie promise to pursue the legal career that she had sacrificed in the real-life compromises made by a young couple trying to make ends meet. And so, at the age of twenty-eight, and without Bill for the first time in eight years, Leslie enrolled at William and Mary Law School. She had been tearing the place up ever since.

“Ready for Friday?”

Leslie jumped and turned quickly around. Her friend Carli was smiling. “Little edgy tonight, aren’t we?”

Leslie shook her head and returned the smile. “Didn’t know you were sneaking up on me.”

“Just stopping by to see if maybe you had died down here or needed a sleeping bag or something.”

“Very funny.”

Carli surveyed the casebooks and legal briefs scattered around the carrel. “So . . . you ready?”

“Not yet, but I will be.”

“Right,” Carli teased. “No pressure, but the law school bookies have you as a five-to-one underdog. They’re sayin’ you’ll wilt under Strobel’s withering questions.”

“And what do you say?”

“That Strobel will be so amazed, he’ll offer you a plum job in his international law practice on the spot.”

“Just in case,” Leslie said, “you might want to put down a few bills against me.”

Carli laughed and gave Leslie a playful push as she walked away. “You kidding?” she said over her shoulder. “I already did.”

Leslie’s thoughts lingered for a moment on Maximillian Strobel, the managing partner of the largest law firm in southeast Virginia. Strobel was one of three moot court judges who would hear and decide the finals in two days. More important, he also headed the only thriving international law practice outside of Washington, D.C., New York, and Los Angeles. Because Leslie had promised herself that she would never live in those mammoth cities, Strobel was her only chance at a serious career in international law with a quality of life she could tolerate.

She glanced again at her watch. It was now fifteen minutes until midnight. Six in the morning would come quickly. She reached into her backpack and popped a couple of sleeping pills. They would kick in about the time she got back to her little studio apartment. In the meantime, she would use fifteen minutes wisely. She picked up a brief and began reading through it for the third time.

* * *

The next morning, Sarah Reed walked into the law offices of Carson & Associates, not at all confident she was doing the right thing. She had a nagging conviction that Christians should avoid lawyers in general and lawsuits in particular. Still, the insulting letter she now carried in her purse had overridden her feelings, and the Reverend Jacob Bailey, her pastor in Chesapeake, suggested she come here. She knew of no other attorney she might be able to trust.

But as she got off the elevator at the fifth floor of the Tidewater Community Bank building on the outskirts of a Virginia Beach shopping mall, she started to have second thoughts. She had never been in a law office before. She would rather be going to the dentist.

She followed the signs for Carson & Associates to the end of the hallway. She hesitated in front of the oak door with the name of the firm emblazoned in gold letters. Then she took a deep breath, said a quick prayer, and entered the waiting area.

The receptionist did nothing to put her at ease.

“Yeah,” the squat woman said. She didn’t bother to pause her typing. The nameplate on the desk identified her as Bella Harper. Smoke wafted upward from the ashtray next to her, where a half-gone cigarette smoldered.

“I’m here to see Mr. Carson,” Sarah said timidly.

“Do you have an appointment?” Bella asked.

Sarah immediately felt stupid. She knew she should have called and scheduled in advance. But that would have locked her in. She needed the freedom to bolt if she got cold feet. Like right now.

“No. Reverend Jacob Bailey referred me. I was hoping I could get just a minute of Mr. Carson’s time. I’ll come back later.”

“Honey,” Bella said, finally deigning to look up, “we don’t take drop-ins. I can get you an appointment, but it’ll probably be about three weeks before Mr. Carson can see you. He’s in court this morning on a trial that will last a week. Then he’s got back-to-back appointments for two weeks after that.”

Three weeks!

Legal matters were something Charles would have handled. The thought of it made Sarah’s eyes fill with tears, which made her feel even more self-conscious. It didn’t help that Bella was eyeing her up and down. Sarah had become so emotional since Charles died, and waves of grief would wash over her at the most inopportune times.

“I’ll just make an appointment some other time if I can’t get this resolved on my own,” she said to Bella, swallowing hard and forcing a plastic smile.

“Suit yourself.” Bella resumed her typing.

Sarah stared at Bella for a moment, dumbfounded.
No wonder lawyers have such a bad reputation.

This was obviously God’s way of telling her to drop the matter. She shouldn’t have come in the first place.

As she turned to leave, a slender, well-dressed man burst through the thick oak door and nearly ran over her.

* * *

“Sorry,” Brad said, stopping just short of a collision. He gave the woman a quizzical look. “Do I know you?”

She shrugged her shoulders. “I don’t think so.”

“I’m Brad Carson,” he said, sticking out his hand.
She looks so familiar.

“Sarah Reed,” she said softly.

Even her name sounds familiar.
Brad noticed a trail of smoke from the ashtray where Bella had just stabbed out her cigarette.

“What happened?” Bella called out. “I thought you were in trial.”

“We settled.”

Then it hit him. He had seen this lady on the news. The missionary whose husband had died in Saudi Arabia. CNN had run live coverage of her testimony before the Senate Foreign Affairs Committee. The government of Saudi Arabia had denied Sarah’s allegations of murder. They claimed her husband died from a heart attack unrelated to the injuries he received from resisting arrest on drug charges.

In the end, the importance of the vast Saudi oil reserves won out over the testimony of a missionary. The committee authored a scathing report but avoided any real sanctions against the government of Saudi Arabia, and the Saudis agreed to conduct an internal investigation and punish any renegade police officers. The Senate placed the Saudis on probation for a while, and the Saudis agreed to diligently protect human rights.

The oil kept flowing.

“I remember now. I’m sorry about your husband,” Brad said earnestly. “And I’m sorry about the way your case was handled by the government.”

Sarah shrugged and seemed to relax just a little. “Thanks. I’m just trying to move on. One day at a time.”

“Can we help you with anything?” Brad asked.

Bella shot him a look. “She was referred by Reverend Bailey,” Bella said, as if that explained everything. Reverend Bailey’s church members had not given up on their abortion protests, and many had tried to solicit Brad’s representation.

Once had been enough.

But Brad could sense that Sarah had not come for that reason. He saw something else etched in the soft lines of her face. She looked tired, older now than she had seemed just a few months before when he saw her on television.

“Well,” Brad said, “as fate would have it, my day just cleared up. Come on back to the conference room, and we’ll talk.” He turned to Bella with a playful smile. “Bella, could you get a couple cups of coffee?”

Bella grunted and stalked down the hallway to the kitchen. Brad ushered Sarah into the conference room.

* * *

“This is ridiculous,” Brad said, slapping the letter down on the large oak table. “Unbelievable.”

The letter came from Charles’s life insurance company and denied Sarah’s claim for one hundred thousand dollars in death benefits. Brad glanced down to the operative paragraph:

The investigation of Trust Indemnity has revealed that, according to tests performed at the hospital and during the autopsy, the Insured had a lethally high dosage of cocaine in his bloodstream on the night of his demise, and the Insured’s heart attack was precipitated in part by this self-induced overdose of cocaine. Accordingly, Trust Indemnity cannot honor your claim for insurance proceeds in light of Exclusion 4 Section A(2).

Brad stood and began to pace, still holding the letter. To line their own pockets, the insurance company had chosen to disregard Sarah’s version of the facts and to conclude that Dr. Reed had died from a self-inflicted drug overdose. And, Brad knew, this was par for the course with Trust Indemnity. He had sued them twice in the last year alone for bad faith.

He looked at Sarah’s expectant expression. She was just sitting there, engulfed by the deep leather swivel chair, her hands folded on the table, concern etched deeply into her brow.

“We’ll sue,” Brad promised. He said it with that air of authority that clients loved. “This is outrageous. We’ll sue for every penny of the hundred thousand; then we’ll sue for bad faith and punitive damages. I’ve had lots of run-ins with these folks, but this is the worst.” He paused for emphasis. “It’s time to teach these guys a lesson.”

Brad was surprised that the look on Sarah’s face did not change. He didn’t get the same sparkle in the eyes, the you-tell-’em look he was used to receiving from other clients when he uttered the magic words “punitive damages.” If anything, the creases of concern on Sarah’s forehead burrowed deeper.

“Couldn’t you just send a letter and see if we could handle it that way?”

“A letter won’t do any good, Sarah. The boys at Trust Indemnity understand two things: lawsuits and punitive damages. Nothing else gets their attention.”

Sarah shifted uncomfortably and looked down at her hands. “I don’t want to file for punitive damages, Mr. Carson.”

Brad tried not to look at her as if she were some kind of freak.
Doesn’t want to file for punitive damages? Does God still make people like this?

Still looking down, Sarah continued softly. “I really don’t want to even file a suit. But I’ve got two kids to think about, and the money . . .” Her voice quivered, then broke off.

Brad leaned forward on the table, looked directly at Sarah, and lowered his voice to its most comforting tone, perfected by years in front of the jury box. “Okay, Sarah, listen to me.” She looked up, and Brad continued. “There’s nothing wrong with filing a lawsuit.” He said it with real conviction, his voice comforting and steady. “Sometimes it’s the only way in our society to obtain justice. These guys owe you a hundred thousand. To let them get away with that is to admit that Charles committed suicide and died from a self-inflicted overdose of cocaine. And I know you don’t want that.”

Sarah forced her lips into a thin smile and shook her head.

“Then here’s what I’m going to do. I’ll draft a lawsuit and have it served on Trust Indemnity. My guess is that they’ll pay immediately once they know you’ve got a lawyer involved. If not, we’ll talk about a fee agreement at that stage. I won’t charge anything for drafting and sending the lawsuit.”

It was not good business, but every once in a while Brad believed he owed it to the profession to take on a case pro bono. If ever there was such a case, this one was it. At least that’s the way he saw it; Bella probably wouldn’t speak to him for a week.

“Reverend Bailey said it would be just like you to take this case for free,” Sarah said. “I don’t want that. I want you to take your normal fee. In fact, I insist on it, and I’ll go to another lawyer if you refuse.”

Brad gave Sarah another sideways look. Where did she come from? It was hard not to be charmed by this lady. “I seldom see clients so insistent on giving me their money. But if you insist, I’ll sic Bella on you, and we’ll have you sign our retainer agreement.”

Sarah paused before answering. “If I’ve got to deal with her again, maybe I’ll reconsider.” She smiled, and her moist blue eyes lit up for the first time.

Brad laughed politely, struck by the warmth of her smile. He stood and shook hands with his new client, walked around the table, put an arm around her shoulder, and gave her a squeeze. They chatted for a few moments; then he ushered her out of the conference room and into the clutches of Bella.