The Trial (17 page)

58

Tom Lorance received his copy of the amended petition, read through it, and made two phone calls, one to Dr. Challa and one to Challa’s insurance company. Then he e-mailed the papers to each. Within twenty-four hours he called Luke and arranged a meeting that afternoon in Dr. Challa’s office. All he told Luke was that he had an offer.

Luke turned his Sequoia into the gravel lot and parked beside a Ford F150 pickup that he suspected was driven by Tom Lorance. As he approached the door, Lorance opened it and invited him in. Dr. Challa was sitting on one of the old reception chairs and rose to shake his hand.

“Thanks for coming, Luke,” Tom Lorance said. “How’s Samantha doing?”

“Her liver function tests are getting worse every week, but we’re hoping for the best. Thanks for asking.”

“Have a seat. Let me explain why I called this meeting. I read your amended petition, then talked to Dr. Challa and his insurer. Dr. Challa would like to settle his part of the case. I’ve prevailed on his carrier to toss in their policy. That’ll give you a little war chest in your battle against Ceventa. Also, Dr. Challa would like to say something.” Tom nodded at Dr. Challa, who couldn’t bring himself to look Luke in the eye.

“Mr. Vaughan, I am personally devastated by your daughter’s illness. If I had any warning that this might happen, I never would have signed on with Ceventa. I’d rather be selling liquor next door than be responsible for the potential death of one of my patients. Please forgive me, and ask Samantha to forgive me.”

Luke walked over to the back wall and looked at a Texas medical license in a cheap frame, then turned. “Dr. Challa, I accept your apology. Tom, I’m sorry to say that I can’t settle with Dr. Challa. If I settle with him, you know what Ceventa will do, don’t you?”

Tom pursed his lips and nodded. “Yeah, Luke, I do. They’ll try the empty chair. If he’s not there at trial, they’ll blame him for everything, particularly since the consent form is missing. I understand.”

Luke looked at the two men for a moment. “Tell you what I’ll do. If I get a verdict against Dr. Challa, I’ll give you a handshake deal that I’ll take only his insurance coverage, not his personal assets. In return, I want Dr. Challa’s cooperation in my case against Ceventa.”

Tom Lorance looked at Dr. Challa, who nodded. Tom walked over to Luke, hand extended. “Deal, Luke. Let’s get those bastards and get Sam a new liver.”

59

Judge Nimitz came from his chambers and motioned the roomful of lawyers to be seated. “Morning, ladies and gentlemen. Let’s start with any unopposed motions.” Luke and Tom stood. “We have a very short one, Your Honor.”

“Step up, Mr. Vaughan and Mr. Lorance. I’ve read your amended petition and motion for expedited trial, Mr. Vaughan. Mr. Lorance, I’m surprised you’re not opposed to the expedited trial.”

“Judge, I’ve read the letter from Dr. Hartman. I certainly am not going to stand in the way of Samantha having her day in court. The sooner the better as far as I’m concerned.” Tom avoided telling the judge that he and Luke had a deal to gang up on Ceventa and limit his client’s risk.

“Mr. Vaughan, I’m willing to grant this, but what about Ceventa? You’re naming them as a new defendant. I don’t see anyone representing them. Have you talked to their counsel?”

“Judge, I know this is a little unusual,” Luke said. “However, if I wait for them to answer, it could be another month. We can’t afford to wait. I asked the sheriff to serve Ceventa’s registered agent, the CT Corporation in Dallas, by FedEx. The return of service and notice of this hearing is in the court’s file. As you can see from Dr. Hartman’s letter, time is critical.”

Judge Nimitz looked out in the audience as he spoke. “I don’t want any of you other lawyers getting the idea that you can do this, too. I know Dr. Hartman. In fact, he’s my personal physician. I want to put that on the record in open court in case he is called to testify.” The judge paused to glance at his computer calendar. “I’m setting this case in ninety days. That work for the two of you?”

“We’ll make it work, Your Honor. Thank you,” Luke said.

The two lawyers were about to walk away from the bench when Susie approached the judge and whispered something to him.

“Hold up, gentlemen. There’s a lawyer on the phone who says she represents Ceventa. Let’s put her on the speakerphone and see what she has to say. Now, if I can just hit the right button without disconnecting her … Hello?”

“Judge Nimitz, this is Audrey Katherine Metcalf. I’m counsel for Ceventa, and I demand that you deny this motion for expedited trial. Ceventa hasn’t even made an appearance yet.”

A scowl came over the judge’s face as he growled, “Ms. Metcalf, if you’re going to be in this case, you’ll learn right quick that you don’t demand anything in this court. You must be from New York City.”

“No, Judge. I’m from Dallas.”

“Same thing,” the judge said, getting nods and grins from the lawyers in the audience. “You Dallas lawyers always seem to think those of us in small towns got our law degrees from a Sears and Roebuck catalog. Just so you’ll know, mine came from the University of Texas School of Law, one of the best around. Let’s see, Mr. Vaughan and Mr. Lorance, aren’t the two of you Longhorns, too?”

Both lawyers raised their hands in a “Hook ’em Horns” sign.

“You can’t see that, Ms. Metcalf, but they’re UT alums, too. You probably graduated from Harvard, right?”

Silence filled the phone, and then came the sound of Audrey Metcalf taking a deep breath. “No, sir. I went to Yale.”

Judge Nimitz nodded. “Figured it had to be one of those Ivy League schools.”

“Look, Judge Nimitz. I’m getting off on the wrong foot with you. I apologize for my demeanor. My client called this morning, yelling at me to get something done, and I obviously overreacted.”

“Apology accepted, and I’m sure I’ll hear no more demands from you, only requests. Now, to get you up to speed, I’ve just set this case for ninety days.”

This time Audrey Metcalf spoke in a low, modulated voice. “Judge, could we make that six months? Ninety days makes it impossible to get a case like this ready for trial.”

“No, Ms. Metcalf. We’ve got a young lady who may not live long. I suspect you’re with one of those big firms. You just round up as many lawyers as you need. We’ve got a nice Holiday Inn out here on the highway. You may want to reserve a few rooms just for good measure. We look forward to meeting you.”

Audrey Metcalf slammed the phone down and looked around her corner office on the fortieth floor of the Renaissance Tower in Dallas. The office overflowed with lawyers, paralegals, and secretaries, all listening in on the conversation. “That bastard has set this case for ninety days from now,” she barked. “All of you shift whatever you’re doing to others. You’re now working exclusively on
Vaughan v. Ceventa
until further notice. Charlotte, start researching what motions we can file to delay the trial or get us an interlocutory appeal to put this son of a bitch off.”

Charlotte Bronson, an appellate specialist, nodded her understanding.

“Samuel, get the Exxacia clinical trial data overnighted down here. I don’t care if you’ve got to charter a plane. We need it in our office.” Samuel Ashland, a seasoned paralegal, turned and left the room.

“Becky, the judge said something about a Holiday Inn on the highway. Call down there and book the top floor.” Metcalf clapped her hands loudly. “Now get a move on. We’ve got a case to win!”

Audrey Metcalf watched as her team filed out of her office, putting quarters and dollar bills in a jar by her door on the way out. The young woman bringing up the rear suddenly turned around.

“Excuse me, Ms. Metcalf. I’m Mary Eames Livermore. I’m a new file clerk assigned to your team. Could I ask why there are jars of pink jelly beans around your office and people are dropping money in that jar by the door.”

Audrey Metcalf relaxed as she eyed the nineteen-year-old, obviously on her first job out of high school. “Have a seat. Tell me your name again.”

“Mary Eames, ma’am.”

‘What you see is evidence of my other passion, probably equal to my passion for the law. I had breast cancer six years ago.”

“Oh, I’m sorry,” Mary Eames said sympathetically.

“That’s okay, sweetie. I’ve passed my five years. It made me stop and reexamine my life. Once I got over the fear of dying, I got involved in the movement to cure breast cancer. The Race for the Cure started right here in Dallas about thirty years ago. I put together a team for the event every year. A lot of the people that were just in this room are a part of it. I ask each of them to raise a thousand dollars. You want to be a part of the team?”

Mary Eames shifted uneasily. “Yes, ma’am, I sure would—but I don’t know enough people with money to raise a thousand dollars.”

“Tell you what,” Metcalf said, “I’ll help you this first year. I’ll make a few calls and raise a chunk of it for you in your name.”

“That’ll be great,” Mary Eames enthused. “Just one more question. Why all the jelly beans, and why are they pink?”

Metcalf pointed at the pink ribbon in the lapel of her jacket. “See that? It’s pink, too. I always wear one. It’s to remind people that we haven’t cured breast cancer. Same with the jelly beans. When I was diagnosed, I had to quit smoking. A helluva struggle, by the way. Every time I had the urge for a cigarette, I grabbed for a jelly bean instead. Then I arranged for them to be shipped to me, all pink. I carry them everywhere and put them around the office. Anyone in my office can have a pink jelly bean for a quarter. The quarters go to fight for the cure. The money’s not important, but it’s a reminder that we’re in a war with breast cancer, a war I want to win in my lifetime.”

Mary Eames rose, thanked Audrey Metcalf for her time, and left the office, pausing to dip into her pocket, where she found a quarter to put in the jar.

60

When Mary Eames left her office, Audrey Metcalf’s eyes focused on the wall opposite her. It told the story of her life. There was an undergraduate diploma, with high honors, from the University of Michigan, a law degree from Yale, a plaque recognizing her as editor of the
Yale Law Review,
another recognizing her two years as a briefing attorney for Justice Sandra Day O’Connor on the United States Supreme Court, and multiple photos of Metcalf standing beside Republican governors, senators, and presidents. In the center was a plaque she’d received for her efforts in fighting breast cancer. Missing were photos of any family members. Her parents had died in the crash of a private jet on their return from Italy when she was five, and she’d been raised by an elderly grandmother. She’d flirted briefly with the idea of marriage after law school and abandoned the idea, choosing not to carry the baggage of a family through her life. She was now forty-five. Her goal was to be on the Supreme Court in ten more years. That goal was within reach if the country would just elect a Republican president next time.

Her eyes drifted to a recent photo of her with the mayor of Dallas at a charity event.
I’m holding up pretty well,
she thought.
No sign of gray in my black hair; that surgery to straighten my nose along with a little nip and tuck on my eyes two years ago took off at least five years.
Surgery had also reconstructed the breast ravaged by cancer.

Her thoughts returned to the case at hand. She had a lawsuit to win. Metcalf picked up the petition and studied it again. Although it wasn’t stated in the petition, she assumed that there was a connection between the plaintiff lawyer and the plaintiff. Was he her father? Surely not. It would be plain stupid for a father to represent his dying daughter. At some point his emotions were sure to get the best of him. If he was the plaintiff’s father, she could only conclude that the case was weak. Otherwise, he could have found a good plaintiff lawyer to take it on a contingent fee. Metcalf turned to her computer and clicked on the Texas State Bar Web site and typed in “Lucas Vaughan.” The basic information showed him to be a graduate of UT Law, board certified in personal injury trial law, and a sole practitioner in San Marcos with no disciplinary history.

Next she typed in variations of “lucasvaughan.com” until she found his Web site. Obviously done by an amateur from a template, it listed him as available to do wills, probate, deeds, and corporate documents. Strange, she thought, that he was board certified in a trial specialty but had an office practice. He probably wasn’t much of a trial lawyer.
This case shouldn’t be a challenge,
she mused.
Small-town lawyer, sole practitioner, in way over his head. Once we get up to speed, we’ll drop one or two motions on him every week.
Sleep would soon become a distant memory to Mr. Vaughan. She twirled her red leather chair around to look at the Dallas skyline. Then her eyes were caught by two brass balls, sitting in a velvet-lined leather case on her credenza. She picked them up and clicked them in her hand as she thought of the day she made partner. The senior partner in the firm handed them to her, saying that they were to remind her that the balls that truly made a great trial lawyer were in the mind, not elsewhere on the anatomy—and that she clearly had the biggest balls of any lawyer in the firm.