The Justice Game (14 page)

    Jason paused for a second, trying to read how this blunt honesty was impacting his potential clients. “With respect, Mr. McAllister, you need a good trial lawyer, not somebody who’s going to waste his time filing unwinnable paper motions.”

    That assessment was followed by a brief silence, and Jason still couldn’t read the faces of his hosts. Case McAllister made a check mark on his legal pad.

    “I like him,” Davids said. “It’s the first honest piece of advice we’ve received on this case. Plus, Robert Sherwood assures me he’s an excellent trial lawyer.”

    McAllister nodded his assent, and Jason felt his neck muscles relax. He took note of how Davids had made a point to insert Sherwood’s name into the conversation.

    Melissa Davids took a half step forward and looked Jason dead in the eye, as if she was somehow measuring the strength of his character.

    “They’re going to demonize us,” she said. “Make you feel like you’re literally the devil’s advocate. You’re going to have to look at that jury and tell them a poor grieving widower doesn’t deserve a dime. You’re going to have to learn about guns and the gun culture. You’re going to have to defend the Second Amendment like it’s your firstborn child. Can you do all that?”

    She said it with the seriousness of wedding vows.
Man, these folks are intense.

    “Yes,” Jason said, setting his own jaw to show that two could play this game. “But you’re going to have to let me call the shots at trial. And let me coach you as a witness. And go along with some wild gambles I might cook up along the way. And let me—and only me—select the jury. And one more thing—you’re going to have to pay my bills on time and send in a seventy-five-thousand-dollar retainer.” He hesitated, trying to make sure he hadn’t forgotten anything. “Can
you
do all that?”

    “I
really
like this guy,” Davids said to Case McAllister.

A few minutes after Melissa Davids made her pronouncement, Case McAllister escorted Jason down the hall to Case’s office, bigger than Melissa’s but every bit as austere. The two men talked litigation strategy for nearly an hour. They agreed not to remove the case to federal court and decided to immediately file a Motion to Dismiss, though neither of the men thought the motion would be successful.

    As they were wrapping up, Davids stuck her head in the door. “Grab your overcoat, Noble,” she said. “I’ll meet you at the shooting range in five minutes.”

    Before Jason could respond, she was gone.

    Case rose slowly, the limp more noticeable this time. “Bum knee,” he said. “Need a total replacement but I keep putting it off. It’s worse after I’ve been sitting for a while.”

    Case pulled a long overcoat from a hanger on the back of his office door. “Here,” he said, handing it to Jason.

    “I’m fine. Really.”

    “Don’t be a hero,” Case said. “You’ll freeze your butt off out there. Melissa loses track of time.”

    Jason took the coat and tried it on. It was black and came down to his knees, like something Doc Holliday might have worn to the O.K. Corral. The sleeves were short, and the coat was tight. “Maybe if I take my sports coat off.” He removed his jacket and tried the overcoat again. The sleeves still crawled up Jason’s forearms.

    Case sized him up. “Close enough,” he said.

The MD Firearms outdoor firing range was located behind the factory on a large slice of land that backed up to woods full of pine trees. Jason had seen an indoor firing range on the tour provided by Davids. But according to Case, Melissa Davids much preferred to do her target practice outside.

    A few minutes after Jason arrived, the company’s CEO showed up carrying two gray attaché cases.

    “He’s all yours,” Case said. “Just bring him back to the office when you’re done.” The lawyer retreated toward the building as Davids set down the attaché cases and handed Jason earmuffs and safety glasses.

    “Have you ever fired a gun before?” Davids asked.

    “No.”

    She looked at him in disbelief. “And you’re a cop’s kid?”

    “It’s a long story.”

    Davids shook her head. “We’ll psychoanalyze that later. For now, let’s start with some basics.”

    After a brief safety lesson, Davids opened the first case. It contained an MD-9, the same gun used by Larry Jamison to mow down Rachel Crawford. Even to Jason, who was now being paid $275 an hour to represent the manufacturer, the gun looked evil.

    According to Jason’s research, the MD-9 had become popular with gangs after it made the lyrics of a few ubiquitous rap songs. The gun had a dull black finish and a boxy design—none of the smooth, glossy, machine-finished surfaces of pricier weapons. It featured a stubby barrel and a square pistol grip that jutted down from the center of the gun, not the rear. Davids began loading the slender gray magazine with thirty-two brass 9 mm cartridges.

    “What do you know about gun terminology?” she asked.

    “Not much. What I’ve read.”

    “Gun control folks like describing guns as ‘automatics’ and ‘semi-automatics,’ to make it sound as if a gun like this is a machine gun. A fully automatic keeps firing as long as you hold down the trigger. A semi-automatic, like this gun, fires one round each time you pull the trigger.”

    Jason had read some information about how easily the MD-9 could be converted to a fully automatic before it was redesigned in the early 90s. But he decided to save that topic for later.

    “You’ll also hear people use the term
automatic
when referring to a pistol like the MD-45. In that context, what they mean is that the pistol automatically reloads, using the explosive force of the cartridge to load and cock itself after each shot. These pistols are actually auto-loading or semi-automatics.”

    She looked up at Jason. “Does that make sense?”

    “Sure,” he said. In truth, it was a little confusing. But he’d figure it out.

    Melissa Davids demonstrated the proper handling and shooting techniques for the MD-9, instructing Jason in the best stance as she downed several man-shaped targets about fifty feet away. Jason noticed that even in Davids’s expert hands, a few of the shots missed their mark.

    She took off the earmuffs and turned to him. “Attorney-client privilege?”

    “Of course.”

    She looked at the gun, weighing it in her hands. “This thing’s a piece of junk. It’s awkward and bulky and kicks like a mule. It’s good up to about twenty-five feet, and that’s it.”

    Jason resisted the obvious question:
Then why do you sell it?
For one thing, he didn’t want to alienate the company CEO on their first meeting. For another, he already knew the answer:
People buy it.

    She handed the gun to Jason and pushed a button that made the targets pop back up. Another button moved them to twenty-five feet away.

    The gun felt heavy and awkward in Jason’s hand, like it needed a second handle at the back of the gun so his left hand could provide some stability. He tried to mimic Davids’s stance but didn’t quite get it right.

    “Bring that one leg back just a little,” she said, tapping his right foot until he slid it back. “Competitive shooters use a squared-off stance, but in a true self-defense encounter, you’re more concerned about balance and the ability to move laterally.

    “Now, keep your strong arm straight and stiff, with your support arm slightly bent.” Davids demonstrated as she talked. “Bring the gun straight up into your line of vision until the sights are lined up and on-target.”

    Jason did as he was told. His hands trembled a little, partly from the cold, partly from nerves, partly from the unexpected weight of the gun.

    “Fire away,” Davids said, her voice loud enough to penetrate the earmuffs. “Empty the magazine.”

    The trigger action was quick and required little pressure. But the gun bucked, and Jason’s first few shots were slow and off-target. He gained a feel for the gun and started squeezing faster, adjusting on the fly after each errant shot. Even after all the targets had dropped, Jason kept squeezing and firing, aiming at a piece of wood farther down the range, peppering the ground with 9 mm bullets. Shell casings flew past him, one hitting the rim of his safety glasses. He emptied the magazine in a matter of seconds.

    Davids was smiling. They both hung their earmuffs around their necks.

    “Whoa,” he said. “That was a rush. No piece of dirt is safe when I’m firing an MD-9.”

    Davids eyed him with a look that seemed to indicate a slight reappraisal. “Most first-time shooters start a little more cautiously,” she said.

    The second attaché contained a shiny pistol that Davids handled with the pride of a first-time parent. “It’s a prototype,” she explained. “An MD-45. Five-inch barrel. Blue carbon steel and aluminum alloy frame. Rosewood grip. Two ten-round magazines.”

    She loaded the gun and handed it to Jason. It felt a ton lighter than the MD-9, with a comfortable wooden grip that fit nicely into the contour of Jason’s hand. Davids popped the targets up and moved them back down the range to fifty feet.

    Jason sighted in the gun, and Davids corrected his stance. “Relax a little more. Bring the gun straight up. Don’t lock your elbow.”

    Unlike its evil cousin, the MD-45 felt smooth and comfortable in Jason’s sweaty hands. The trigger had a crisp let-off and very quick reset. He fired efficiently and with much greater accuracy. The gun had a larger-caliber bullet but only about half the kick. The longer barrel and precision machining made it easier to hit the targets even at this greater distance—not exactly in the heart but at least a shoulder wound or maybe one that strayed down to the thigh. He only missed the entire target once.

    After he finished, Jason and Davids removed the earmuffs and safety goggles.

    “You like it?” Davids asked.

    “Yeah.”

    “We’re going to order you one, Noble. I’ll ship it to a dealer in Virginia Beach. It’s a prototype that will have all of our latest safety features including—are you ready for this?”

    “Sure.”

    “A built-in GPS system for tracking the gun. That way if it ever gets stolen, you’ll be able to trace it. It’ll also have a fingerprint-activated safety lock that will allow the gun to be fired only by you.”

    Jason knew those types of guns were in the works—some of the lawsuits he had researched even suggested it was negligence not to use safety locks like that in the design of every gun. But Jason didn’t know that MD Firearms was working on this prototype.

    “I thought owning this type of gun might come in handy for media interviews or maybe even your closing argument,” Davids said. “You’ll hear a lot of talk about how we push semi-automatic assault weapons and how we’re the great merchant of death. Might be helpful for you to say that you own an MD Firearms gun, one equipped with a GPS system and fingerprint safety lock. Also, the publicity wouldn’t hurt our marketing.”

    Jason wasn’t so sure. He still thought it might be more powerful to say he’d never owned a gun in his life. That way, nobody could accuse him of being part of the industry. But Davids wasn’t exactly asking his permission. He had the sense that nothing would alienate his client quicker than disrespecting her product.

    “Let’s shoot a few more rounds and then get you fingerprinted,” Davids said, reloading the prototype. “Our market studies have shown just one glitch with the MD-45 so far.”

    Jason waited, still wrestling with the thought of being a gun owner.

    “With all those safety features, nobody wants to buy it.”

Jason left town without stopping by to see his father. He hadn’t spoken to his dad in at least a week, and his dad would have no way of knowing that Jason had flown into Atlanta.

    Christmas would be here soon enough, and it would be mandatory for Jason to visit. He would keep it short—Christmas Eve and Christmas Day—making sure that some crisis in his law practice required him back in Richmond the day after Christmas. Jason’s older sister had married and moved to California. She only showed up every third year, and this would not be one of them.

    Jason hated Christmas.

One week later

Robert Sherwood wanted to wring Andrew Lassiter’s scrawny little chicken neck but instead gave himself twenty-four hours to calm down. The drug patent verdict was the second time in three months that Justice Inc. had called it wrong. Sherwood’s clients were lighting up the phone lines. His efforts to calm them met with limited success. Felix McDermont, Sherwood’s largest and most unpredictable client, was beside himself.

    “Take me off your list,” he told Sherwood. “I can flip a coin and get the same results.”

    “Don’t do anything precipitous. We’re still batting over 90 percent.”

    “Being forty million short based on your recommendation was precipitous,” McDermont replied. “Ending our relationship is not.”

    After the phone call, Sherwood had begun polling his board members. When he had garnered the votes, he’d arranged a meeting with Andrew Lassiter for this morning.

    The timing was lousy, but what options did he have? His entire life, Sherwood had made it a habit to deal with problems as soon as they reared their ugly heads. Problems only got worse with time, never better. Besides, if he waited until January, Lassiter might catch wind of the plan. He would lobby the board members, and they might soften once the heat from the patent verdict dissipated.

    Sherwood had the votes now. There was no guarantee he would have them in January. He couldn’t change the fact that Christmas was only one week away. No doubt he would become legendary for this, the comparisons to Scrooge almost too easy.

    But he had no choice. Lassiter could no longer be trusted.

    “He’s here,” Olivia said.

    Sherwood blew out a huge breath. If he listened carefully, he could hear the songs of the season echoing up from the street. The lobby of Justice Inc. was decorated with a large tree and the politically correct amount of white Christmas lights. The two failed predictions had cost the firm’s clients a lot of money, but the firm itself had been immensely profitable this year. Sherwood had just signed some hefty bonus checks.