The Justice Game (32 page)

    “Save your breath,” Garrison said. “Your objection is overruled. Tell Ms. Davids to answer Ms. Starling’s questions or I’ll hold her in contempt.”

    Melissa Davids was still in the conference room and stared at the phone, her nose flaring. “I’m right here,” she said. “May I say something?”

    “No,” Case McAllister said quickly, surprising even Jason.

    Davids glared at her general counsel for a second and then apparently decided that twenty years of building trust ought to be worth something. “Okay,” she said to the speakerphone. “On the advice of my lawyer, I’ll just keep my mouth shut and answer the questions.”

    “Good call,” Judge Garrison said.

Following the phone call, Melissa Davids increased her level of belligerence—jaw jutting out, scowling for the camera. Jason could see the deposition being played back in court—a large monitor in front of the jury box, Davids’s fury visible for all the jurors to see.

    Kelly had the witness read Case McAllister’s conclusion: “A careful cost-benefit analysis suggests we should continue to sell guns to all licensed and qualified dealers.”

    “Did you agree with Mr. McAllister’s cost-benefit analysis?”

    “No.”

    The response seemed to surprise Kelly, causing a double take. “What’s wrong with it?”

    “There should be no cost-benefit analysis in the first place.”

    “Why not?”

    “Two little things called the Second Amendment and free enterprise. It’s a game of dominos played by gun-control zealots like you. Shut down the worst dealer, and the next in line is then by definition the world’s worst dealer. So you shut him down, and then people start pointing at the next one. Where does it stop?”

    “Let me ask you a few specific questions about Mr. McAllister’s data. Do you see in the memo where he indicates that four dealers in particular account for more than half the guns traced to crimes in these northeast cities?”

    Davids took her time reading the document, generating a long silence.

    “Page two, second paragraph,” Kelly prompted.

    “What was the question again?” Davids asked.

    Kelly read the question a second time.

    “Yes, Case says that.”

    “And Peninsula Arms was one of those dealers, right?”

    Again, Davids took her time reading the document. Kelly waited her out.

    “That’s correct,” Davids said. “You want me to just read the whole memo into the record?”

    “That won’t be necessary,” Kelly said sharply. “Now, Mr. McAllister says that cutting off dealers might result in litigation by those dealers and would also play into the cities’ hands by acknowledging that MD Firearms has a responsibility to monitor dealers. Isn’t that right?”

    “The document speaks for itself,” Jason said. “Do you have a question for this witness?”

    Kelly sighed and put the document down, staring at Melissa Davids. “Is there one single sentence, anywhere in Mr. McAllister’s memo, stating that one of the factors you ought to consider is the life-threatening danger that occurs when felons and other illegal purchasers obtain firearms?”

    “No,” Davids said decisively. “And if he had put something like that in there, I probably would have fired him.”

    Kelly chuckled aloud at the perceived absurdity of the answer.

    “You find this funny?” Davids challenged.

    “Yes. As a matter of fact, I find most of your answers hilarious.”

    “Objection,” Jason said, using the most condescending and disdainful tone he could muster. “Counsel’s remarks are childish and disrespectful and should be struck from the record.”

    “You’re calling me childish?” Kelly asked with a small ironic snicker. She shook her head and turned her attention to the witness. “Why would you have fired Mr. McAllister if he had suggested that you ought to consider the risk to people’s lives?”

    “Because anybody who believes that stopping the sale of guns to Peninsula Arms will keep criminals from getting guns doesn’t have enough sense to work at MD Firearms.”

    “Maybe they could be a plaintiff’s lawyer,” Kelly said sarcastically.

    “Your words, Counselor. Not mine.”

When the deposition was over and everyone had cleared out, the MD Firearms brain trust huddled in the conference room.

    “I want to know where that leak came from,” Melissa Davids demanded, looking at Case. “I want somebody looking through every one of our e-mail servers and employee accounts. I want you to interrogate every area manager. We can’t afford to have traitors working at our company, Case.”

    Davids was on her feet, pacing next to the conference table, her face tight with anger. In contrast, Case remained seated, a soothing presence as his volcanic CEO spilled her lava.

    “Do you have any idea who did this?” she demanded.

    “There’s no guarantee that it’s somebody at our company,” Case said. “It might have been somebody at Walker Gun Co., or somebody could have hacked into our network.”

    The two of them speculated for a while about who might be behind the leak. Case promised he would leave no stone unturned in his investigation.

    After Melissa left, Case blew out a deep breath.

    “What do you think?” Jason asked.

    “She handled the questions well. Unfortunately, her previous deposition answers painted her into a corner.” Case tugged on his bow tie. “Bottom line, she’s going to look like she was lying when Starling plays her previous testimony denying that anybody ever suggested she look at the possibility of shutting down Peninsula Arms.”

    The two men sat there for a moment. Jason let his silence indicate his assent.

    “She’s been getting mixed results from our focus groups,” Jason said. “They either love her or hate her.”

    “No surprise there.”

    Case arranged his legal pads and deposition transcript into a neat little pile. He stacked copies of the day’s exhibits on top.

    “You’ve got good judgment, Jason. And I’ve watched the tapes from Justice Inc.” Case stopped fiddling with the stack of papers in front of him and looked at Jason. “You’re one heckuva trial lawyer.”

    To Jason, it felt like a strange turn for the conversation. “Thanks,” he said.

    “I may need you to try this case alone,” Case said.

    “What are you talking about?”

    “I might need to take the stand.”

    Jason furrowed his brow at the suggestion. “Why?”

    “We need somebody who can really explain that memo,” Case suggested. “Some of the jurors might think that Melissa is a little over the top, but maybe they would relate better to me. The question is whether I add more value to the case as a lawyer or as a witness. Right now, I’m thinking witness.”

    Jason felt pressure building in his chest; his head throbbed from these rapid developments. Kelly Starling had a possible mole inside MD Firearms and a smoking-gun memo for her arsenal, and now Jason might have to try the case alone.

    “Let’s sleep on this for a few days before we do anything rash,” Jason suggested.

    “Of course,” Case said. “You know me. I never make rash decisions.”

Flying back to Norfolk, alone in the window seat, Jason had time to take inventory. He made a list of things he needed to get done prior to trial—two solid pages on his legal pad, and there were probably plenty of things he hadn’t remembered to include. Maybe he was just tired, but the deposition had somehow caused him to turn an emotional corner in the case.

    Given the choice, he probably would have picked the plaintiff’s side. He loved representing the underdog. He wasn’t a natural fan of the Second Amendment, though he was getting more comfortable with the thought of having his MD-45 in his house or car. In some undefined way, it gave him a sense of security and empowerment.

    For a while, he had talked himself into liking this case. It was by far the biggest case of his legal career, and he had grown to genuinely respect Melissa Davids. Plus, there was this whole individual responsibility thing. Wasn’t MD Firearms really just an innocent scapegoat? Weren’t the real culprits Jamison and Beeson and Peninsula Arms, none of whom had been sued?

    But now that Case’s memo had come to light, Jason’s enthusiasm for the case was about nil. Melissa Davids had shown her worst side today. And though he had given Kelly a hard time in front of his clients, Jason found himself respecting her crusader mentality. Kelly carried herself like somebody who had justice on her side—somebody willing to bleed for her client. Jason realized, in a moment of unguarded candor, that he didn’t feel the same way.

    But he
was
Jason Noble. Law student prodigy. Ace trial lawyer. The greatest actor who would never be considered for an Oscar.

    Jason had once heard a Hollywood veteran say that sincerity was the key to all good acting.
“Once you can fake sincerity, you’ve got it made.”
It was, Jason thought, true in the courtroom as well.

    By the time the plane started its approach, Jason had talked himself into once again being the Great Defender of the Second Amendment. The memo might have cost him a co-counsel, but if so, Jason had gained a great witness in the process. Melissa Davids had her rough edges, but Case McAllister was a pro. He would sit there on the witness stand, adjust his bow tie, and systematically dismantle Kelly Starling’s case.

    Jason’s BlackBerry vibrated before the plane hit the ground. As usual, he had refused to turn it off during flight, secretly switching the mode from normal to vibrate. The habit was probably indicative of some deep personality flaw born out of his rebellious and contrary nature, but his reasoning was simple: if cell phones actually messed up the navigational equipment, would they really let passengers even bring them on planes?

    He did, however, have the good sense not to check his messages until the plane touched down. As the flight attendant started her welcome-to-Norfolk spiel, Jason pulled the BlackBerry from its clip and started scrolling through his messages.

    Seven e-mails. Not bad for a ninety-minute flight. He could get through these before they hit the gate.

    But when he opened the third one, his hand froze around the device. The words sucked the wind from his lungs, causing an audible gasp. He read it twice and bowed his head, leaning against the seat in front of him, staring at the screen of his BlackBerry.

    Jason took a deep breath and tried to calm his racing heart. His hands literally trembled, as if he had just watched an old friend rise out of the grave, point a finger at Jason’s chest, and accuse him of murder.

    He closed his eyes and, like a recurring nightmare, it all came rushing back.

Ten years earlier

The irony was that Jason and his friends avoided the big party that night—the one with all the football players and cheerleaders and rich kids—because Jason and his buddies discussed it, and they thought there might be trouble.

    For the most part, Jason avoided parties altogether, feeling lonelier in big groups than he did staying home. But on this night, he had made plans with four of his soccer teammates and a small group of girls to hang out in a parking lot next to the tennis courts of a northern Atlanta subdivision. A senior with a fake ID brought the beer. Another kid grew his own weed.

    Jason rode to the party with a buddy named LeRon, a fast left wing on the soccer team, a player so full of bravado and bluster his teammates affectionately nicknamed him the Mouth.

    In some ways, they made a strange pair—the quiet son of a cop and the outspoken son of an AME preacher—but sports brought them together. The Mouth could hold his own intellectually, quoting King and Plato and T. D. Jakes, and he brought a nice balance to Jason’s biting sarcasm. The Mouth was an eternal and irrepressible optimist, even on a soccer team that hadn’t logged a winning season in five years.

    The Mouth also harbored big dreams. One day, he was going to be the next Johnnie Cochran. The next day, the world’s greatest sports agent. Once Jason tried to goad him toward politics, but the Mouth scoffed at the idea. “There’s no money in
that.
”

    On this night, like many others, the Mouth had a few too many beers and smoked a little too much weed. After a few hours hanging out, including the last thirty minutes inside the cars while a light rain fell, they all decided to go to a nearby Steak n Shake for something to eat. LeRon, to the surprise of everyone, begged off and handed his car keys to Jason. “Your daddy’s the cop,” he said. “They won’t bust you for DUI. You can take me home and crash at my house.”

    Jason agreed to drive, but not because he thought his dad would cut him any slack. He wasn’t as wasted as LeRon. He’d only had a few beers during the past two hours, four or five at the most. If he wanted to get home in one piece without calling his father and triggering the old man’s wrath, his own hand on the wheel provided the best hope of getting there safely.

    Trouble hit on the Highway 400 exit ramp. Jason lived off a different exit and nearly passed LeRon’s out of habit. At the last second, he swerved to make the ramp. It might have been this abrupt maneuver, or the sharp curve of the ramp, or the slick road, or the nearly bald tires, or the wipers that smudged rather than cleared the windshield. It might have been the speed. It might have been the booze.