Family Counsel (The Samuel Collins Series Book 2) (21 page)

Mendoza looked at me like I was stupid; like he couldn’t
believe he was having to explain it. A second earlier, I had been brilliant.  He
set his bottle down, apparently so he could use his hands for effect.  He waved
them in the air, as if to say, “
Hello
?
Is there a brain in there?
”
I looked at him with a blank expression.  Hey, maybe I
was
dumb.

“Do you think for one minute that if the feds can place me at
the scene, they’re not going to charge me with murder?  It doesn’t work that
way.  It doesn’t matter if I did it or not.  They’ll have a dozen eye witnesses
who’ll say I pulled the trigger.”

“You mean like Al Capone?  If you can’t get ‘em one way, get
‘em for something else?  Like tax evasion?”

“The exact same thing.  The perfect analogy, Counselor.”

“Only, Capone was guilty of the crime they charged him with; it
wasn’t trumped up.  You’re saying that they would charge you with a murder that
they know you didn’t commit.”  I thought about it for a second.  “I don’t think
the Feds are smart enough to pull that off.”

“They don’t have to be smart.  They have to be corrupt.  Like I
told you, everyone’s corruptible. They’ve been trying to take down my family
for 20 years.  You want something bad enough, you make it happen. They’ve got
me at the scene.  You mark my words.  They’ll charge me with murder.”

“Where’s Felicia?”

“I told you we’d get to that.”

“Let’s get to it now.  Do you know where she is?”

“I have a pretty good idea.”  He reached into his back pocket
and pulled out his wallet, then he handed me a folded up piece of paper.

“What’s this?” I asked, but the question answered itself.  It
was a check made out to me for a quarter of a million dollars.  “What the hell
is this?”

“That’s your retainer.”

“My retainer.”  He was beginning to piss me off.  “Listen Mendoza, and get this straight.  There’s no way I will
ever
be your lawyer.  I have
a family, and if you think I’d jeopardize their safety by representing some organized-crime
fuck, think again.  And if your assistance in finding Felicia hinges on me
representing you, then fuck you.  I don’t need your help.  Because, you know
what?  Nothing, and I mean nothing, not Felicia Armstrong, not a quarter of a
million dollars, is worth endangering my family.  I don’t want to be anywhere
near you or your family, and I sure as hell don’t want to be known as the
lawyer for some mafia organization.  I don’t want my name mentioned in the same
breath as yours.  Now you either help me get Felicia back or you get the hell
out of my house.”

“That’s the passion I’m looking for!” Mendoza exclaimed, waving
his palm in a sweeping arc in front of him.  “That’s what juries love!”

“Get out of my house.”

Mendoza finished his beer, walked to the trash can, and tossed
the bottle in.  “See you around, Counselor.”

“Not likely,” I called to his back. 

He left through the front door.  It was a humid night, the air
still and heavy.  I stood on the porch and watched him walk across the street
and down two houses.  It was too dark to tell what kind of vehicle he was
driving, but from the taillights it looked like some type of SUV.  I watched
until his car was out of sight, then I went back in and locked the door. 

I filled Niki and his associates in on what had transpired.  I
had thought long and hard about letting Mendoza walk and in the end I decided
that I’d made the right decision.  Apparently, Niki wasn’t as convinced. 

“So you let him walk?” he asked.

If there’s anyone who I hate to be second-guessed by it’s Niki
Lautrec because, no matter what, he invariably turns out to be right.

“Just do your job and it won’t matter,” I asserted irritably. 

“Whoa,” he laughed.  “A little touchy are we?”

“I miss my family.” It came out a whine.

“Bring ‘em back.  We’ll provide security – very discrete.  The
rats will never even know.”

I wasn’t sure I liked him referring to my boys as rats, mostly
because I wished that I’d come up with the expression. 

“I’ll call Maddie in the morning and run it past her,” I said.

“All right.  Let me go; I’ve got a job to do here, seeing how
you ran off Mendoza.” 

I was determined not to let him goad me into a sparing match,
but there was one more thing we needed to discuss before I could get any sleep.

“Something’s gnawing at me,” I started, but I hesitated.

“Yeah?  What’s up?”

“I don’t know.  It’s probably nothing . . .”

“But,” Niki prompted.

“Well, you know how you said that it didn’t seem like La
Gente’s style – the box of hair and all that?”

“Yeah?”

“Well, what if it wasn’t La Gente?  What if Mendoza took her so
he could use that as leverage to make me represent him?”

The line was dead quiet, but I knew Niki was still there; he
was thinking.  He mulled it over for some time before he said, “Hold on,” then
I could hear him talking to his cohorts.  “Sammy, Sammy, Sammy,” he said when
he got back on.

“What’s the verdict?” I asked, mildly surprised that he was
even considering it.

“We can’t rule it out.  I’ll get someone on that angle of it. 
Let’s talk in the morning.”

“Okay.  I’ve got a mediation at 8:30, but I’ll check in at some
point.” 

I walked through the house, turning off lights, I tucked the
damn cats in, made sure all the doors were locked and headed off to bed.  And
as I passed through the kitchen, something caught my eye.  The son of a bitch
had absconded with my kid’s toy.

We were scheduled for mediation in Earl’s discrimination suit,
and Earl and I met at the mediator’s office 30 minutes before the scheduled
starting time.  I like to be all set up when the other party arrives, sort of a
home court advantage, if you will.

“How’s Destiny?” I asked, and Earl’s face lit up.

“She doin’ real good. ‘Cept they want to use leaches on her,
and I don’t know ‘bout that.”

“Leaches?” I repeated, assuming something had been lost in
translation.

Earl nodded. “Live medical leaches are frequently used to
prevent venous congestion of the replanted digit. In addition to sucking out
blood, the saliva has enzymes which thin the blood and help prevent blood
clotting of the vessels that have been repaired.”

I was stunned, but then I remembered.  “Your photographic
memory,” I said, pointing at him.

He smiled.  “I done read up on it.”

The mediator walked in at that moment.  He was an old-timer who
had a reputation for settling difficult cases, a real throw-back from another
generation, and as tenacious as a Pit Bull. He wore khaki trousers, a western
shirt, a bolo tie, a silver bullet belt buckle, Lucchese alligator boots, and a
100x Stetson El Presidente cowboy hat.  I’d used the guy a couple of times and
he always started his mediations with his “Hats and Boots” spiel.

The group started out in a large conference room, Earl and me on
one side of the table, sitting opposite DIFCO Operations Manager Stewart Lyden,
Line Supervisor Trey Block, both of whom were named in our lawsuit; DIFCO’s
corporate rep; and the defendants’ attorney, Mason Alvarez.  Everyone settled
in and the mediator took the floor.

“We’re here today to try to avoid taking this case to trial,”
the mediator said, looking from one side of the table to the other. “Do you
know the best reason to settle out of court?” he asked, and he paused for a
fraction of a second before answering his own question.  “Because juries are
reliably
unpredictable
!” he exclaimed.  He then launched into his story
about how a jury had doubled its award for one of his clients from a
half-million to $1 million and had doubled his requested attorney fees, not
because of his legal skills, but because they liked his cowboy hat; and how
another jury had ruled against a party because their attorney wasn’t wearing cowboy
boots. By the time he was finished with his opening remarks, he had everyone’s
rapt attention.

“Now, I’d like to hear a brief statement from each side as to
the issues in this case, and then we’ll split you up into separate rooms.  Mr.
Collins, let’s start with you.”

I scooted my chair back and stood up.  “I’m going to let you
hear the opening statement that I’m going to use at trial, and I’m even going
to let you know my strategy,” I said.  “Here’s my strategy.  My first goal as a
plaintiff’s lawyer is to poison the jury’s mind toward the defendants, and
that’s exactly what I’m gonna do.” I turned to where a jury would be sitting
and launched into my opening statement:  “Ladies and gentlemen of the jury . .
. racism is alive and well!” I exclaimed in my best southern hick imitation. I
paused to make sure I had the defendants’ full attention, then I continued in
my own voice. “Racism is alive and well, and sitting in this court room,” I
said, making a sweeping motion towards the defendants, presenting them to my
imaginary jury. “The defendants’ conduct towards Earl Jefferson was so
offensive, so contrary to the progress this country has made in the 5 decades
since passage of the Civil Rights Act, that you’ll hark back to the times of
the Freedom Riders. And let me be clear; I’m not talking about an isolated
incident of racial discrimination.  I’m talking about a relentless campaign of
abuse directed towards a man because of the color of his skin.”

I pulled out a file box that was stashed under the table and
held it up.  “This is what I call a ‘hate box,’ and I can’t wait to burn its
contents when this trial is over.” 

The defendants were shifting in their seats as I set the box
down in front of me.

“Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, this box represents Mr.
Jefferson’s life in the workplace for the past two years.  Racially-charged
material left taped to his locker, or slipped inside his lunchbox, or left at
his work station, or stuck under his car’s wiper blade.  And folks, this is
just the
tangible
evidence. This box can’t hold the verbal abuse that my
client endured, the derogatory statements, the racial jokes; but that doesn’t
make it any less real. And it was tangible to my client.” I knocked on my heart
with my fist.   “It was tangible right here.” 

“The evidence will show that this unlawful conduct was
instigated not by rank-and-file co-workers, but by managers and supervisors,
including senior management.  You’ll learn that when my client complained about
this offensive and unlawful conduct, the mistreatment only got worse.  So he
shut up and he put up with it.”  I picked up the box, slid it back underneath
the table, then I looked at the defendants.

“Why?” I asked, gesturing with my hands out, palms up.  “Why
would someone put up with that?  You must be wondering; I know I was.  Why did
he put up with it?”  I looked from the defendants, to the corporate rep, to
their attorney, who looked like he was ready to crap. “Because of his little
girl.  He needs the job to support his 3-year-old daughter.”

 “The evidence will also show that the only other black
employee who worked at DIFCO was subjected to the same unlawful discrimination
as Mr. Jefferson. People, we have laws against that.”

I rested my hands on the table and leaned in towards the
defendants just enough to make it look like I was about to impart a secret.
“Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, I’m going to be asking you to punish the
defendants for their unlawful conduct towards Mr. Jefferson.  I’m going to be
asking you to make them pay and pay handsomely for what they did. I’m going to
be asking you to send a message to the defendants loud and clear, and with lots
of zeros, that racism will not be tolerated in their workplace.  Ladies and
gentlemen, racism is alive and well at DIFCO, and just
itching
to be
punished.”

I sat down and Earl leaned over and whispered, “You done real
good, Mr. Collins.”

“Your turn,” I told Mason Alvarez.

Alvarez swallowed hard before beginning. He addressed his
comments to the mediator.  “My opposing counsel has a way with words, but in
the end, that’s all they are,” he said, shaking his head. “DIFCO has a very
relaxed workplace, and it’s a fun place to work.  Is there banter among
co-workers?  Yes, but that’s all it is. Harmless banter.  Words.  And the
evidence will show that the plaintiff himself engaged in the same banter that
he is complaining about.  The plaintiff himself was disciplined for the same
type of behavior he complains of, not once, but twice.  He can’t have it both
ways.  Mr. Jefferson is like the kid that can dish it out but he can’t take
it.  My client is not the enemy.”

That’s it
?  I didn’t laugh out loud, but I made no
attempt whatsoever to hide my ear to ear grin.

After our opening remarks, the parties separated to different offices,
well enough away from each other so no one would come to blows if they crossed
paths in the hall.  Not that I would have expected violence in Earl’s case, but
you never knew. Earl and I settled in and waited for Hats and Boots to make his
appearance. I had a settlement figure in mind going in, but I had no idea how
far apart our numbers would be starting out. There was no doubt in my mind that
the defendants would settle. No way in hell would they let this thing go to a
jury.  The negative publicity would destroy them.

“You got a number in your head that you’d settle for?” I asked
Earl.

Earl shook his head. “I don’t got no idea.  Thas why I got
you.”

“Well, I’ve got a number in my head, and it’s somewhere between
$600 and $625.”

“Between $600 and $625?”

“Thousand,” I clarified.

“Okay and you want me to guess the number in your head?” he
asked.

It took me a second to realize what he meant.  “No, I’m saying
that if they come in with an offer between $600,000 and $625,000, I think we
should take it.  Plus attorney’s fees.  Are you okay with that?”

“Mr. Collins, they ain’t never gonna give me nothin’ like that,
but if that’s the number you got in your head, yessir, I like that number.”

Hats and Boots knocked and came in.   We shot the breeze for 10
minutes, and after establishing that everyone’s family was doing fine, we got
down to business. 

When I had previously responded to the defendants’ request for
production of documents, I had stated that they could examine and copy the
documents evidencing racial discrimination at a mutually agreed upon time and
place, but they had never actually set up a time, so they had no idea how much
ammo I had. I pulled out the hate box and picked out a few choice pieces to
show just how slimy the defendants were, and we discussed our bottom line
settlement figure.

I’ve never been a haggler, unlike my wife, who loves to
haggle.  She goes to every damn garage sale and estate sale in our
neighborhood, and believe me, there are a lot of sales in our neighborhood. In
fact, Hollywood Park has so many garage sales, they recently passed an
ordinance governing them.  Like our whitetail deer, we have a hefty population
of seniors, and I’m pretty sure Maddie reads the obituaries just to get a jump
on the next estate sale.

Before I married Maddie, I had never, not once, gone to an
estate sale or even worse, a garage sale. Buying my deceased neighbors’ stuff
ranked up there with giving blood as far as I was concerned.  But, and this is
just further proof of how whipped I have become where my wife is concerned,
since we got married, Maddie has managed to drag me with her to every damn
estate sale in the Park. And then, as if it’s not bad enough to be buying our
neighbors’ crap, she haggles on the price. I don’t care if the asking price is
a quarter, a dollar, or $50, Maddie will haggle, and if she can’t get a lower
price, she won’t buy it.  For her, it’s not about the bottom line, it’s about
the deal. Me, if I see something I want, I buy the damn thing.

Like haggling at garage sales, negotiating a settlement
typically involves a fair share of haggling. The plaintiff starts high, the
defendant starts low, and each party moves toward the center in measured
increments until a settlement is reached.  There’s a lot of posturing getting
to the bottom line, which in our case was going to be somewhere between $600,000
and $625,000, which meant that we’d come in with our first offer well above
that so the defendant could haggle down from there.  Hats and Boots left with a
handful of some of the least offensive racial material in our arsenal, and our
opening offer to settle for $775,000.  He returned 20 minutes later with two
pieces of paper and their opening offer.

“$30,000.00 and Mr. Jefferson resigns his employment,
effectively immediately; and DIFCO will pay his COBRA payments for three
months.”  He slid the papers across the table, and I noticed they were the
writeups relating to the two incidents Earl and I had previously discussed.

Hats and Boots continued. “The defendants contend that Mr.
Jefferson was just as much a part of the . . . what was the word they used?” he
flipped through his legal pad, “ah . . .
hijinks
, in the workplace. 
They don’t think you can prove a pattern of discrimination.”

I picked up the writeups and handed them to Earl. “Can you look
through the box and find the material that correlates with this writeup?”

Earl rifled through the box and came up with the cartoon that
had been left on his locker, instigating the writeup, and slid it gently across
the table with his massive palm. His embarrassment was heartbreaking, and I
could feel my blood pressure rising at the thought of what those fuckers had
done to the guy over the last two years.

“This is the cartoon that inspired that first writeup,” I said.
“It was left on Earl’s locker by the line supervisor of DIFCO. Earl modified
the cartoon and put it back on the line supervisor’s desk.  Earl was written up
and the line supervisor wasn’t.  If anything, this writeup only helps our case
because it is direct evidence of disparate treatment toward my client.”

I could tell Hats and Boots was disgusted with the defendants,
but he couldn’t say it in front of Earl.   I pushed the hate box towards the
mediator. “Take this in there and let them look through it.  And then let’s
talk about what constitutes a pattern of behavior.”

Hats and Boots left with the box and Earl and I got up to
stretch our legs. I went in the break room and got a cup of coffee and Earl
excused himself to go to the bathroom.  I saw defendant Stewart Lyden coming
out as Earl went in, and when Earl came back to the break room, he looked . . .
funny
. 

“You okay?” I asked.

Earl nodded his head without speaking, but something was
wrong.  A couple of secretaries came in, yakking about some reality TV show, so
we made our way back down the hall to the conference room. I got on the phone
with Russ to confirm a couple of appointments, and I returned a few calls while
we waited for the mediator to return with a counter offer. But when there was a
knock on the door, it wasn’t the mediator.  It was my opposing counsel.

“Can we have a word?” Alvarez asked.

“Sure.  Let’s go outside.”  I turned to Earl, “We’re going to
have a chat. I’ll meet you back in here.”

We went outside the building to a patio area overlooking the
parking lot.

“Your clients are assholes,” I said.

“That’s actually being lenient on them,” he said, then he shook
his head. “They don’t get it.”

“There’s no way in hell you can take this to trial. I’m going
to crucify those guys.”