A Time for Mercy

31

In what felt like a never-ending string of bad days, Monday promised to be one of the worst. Unable to concentrate, Jake watched the clock until 9:55, then left his office for a quick stroll to the other side of the square.

There were three banks in Clanton. Stan, at Security, had already said no. The Sullivans ran not only the largest law firm in the county, but some cousins held a majority interest in the biggest bank. Jake would not subject himself to the indignity of asking them for money. They would say no anyway, and gleefully. He walked past their law firm and cursed them, then cursed them again as he walked past their bank.

The third, Peoples Trust, was run by Herb Cutler, a chubby old curmudgeon Jake had always avoided. He wasn’t a bad guy, just a tightfisted banker who demanded more than enough collateral for any loan. The nerve. To get money from Herb, one had to show enough collateral to prove that one didn’t really need a loan to begin with.

Jake entered the lobby as if someone was holding a gun to his head. The receptionist pointed to a corner and he entered a huge, messy office at exactly ten o’clock. Herb, in his standard bright red suspenders, was waiting behind his desk and did not stand up. They shook hands and went through the usual preliminaries, though Herb didn’t waste many words and was known for his bluntness.

He was already shaking his head as he got down to business. “Jake, I just don’t know about the loan, this idea of refinancing your mortgage. This appraisal seems awfully high, I mean, three hundred thousand? I know you paid two-fifty for the place two years ago, but it looks to me like Willie Trainer clipped you on it.”

“Naw, Herb, I got a good deal. Plus, my wife really wanted the place. I can handle a new mortgage.”

“Really? Three hundred thousand for thirty years at ten percent? That’s a monthly nut of twenty-five hundred bucks.”

“I know that and it’s no problem.”

“The house ain’t worth it, Jake. You’re in Clanton, not north Jackson.”

He knew that too.

“Plus taxes and insurance and you’re looking at three thousand. I mean, hell, Jake, that’s a big mortgage for anybody in this town.”

“Herb, I know that, and I can swing it.” Such a number made him nauseous and he suspected he wasn’t faking it very well. For the month of May his quiet little office had grossed less than $2,000. June was on track to see even less.

“Well, I need to see some proof. Financials, tax returns, the like. Not sure I can trust them because I damned sure don’t trust your appraisal. What’s your gross gonna be this year?”

The indignity was overwhelming. Suffering at the whim of another banker who wanted to poke through his books. “You know how it is, Herb, in this business. You can’t predict what’ll walk in the door. I’ll probably do a hundred and fifty.”

Half of that would be a bonanza at the current rate.

“Well, I don’t know. Put together some financials and I’ll take a look. What’s in the pipeline now?”

“What do you mean?”

“Look, Jake, I deal with lawyers all the time. What’s the best case in your office?”

“The Smallwood wrongful deaths, against the railroad.”

“Oh really? I heard that one blew up in your face.”

“Not at all. Judge Noose will give us a new trial date later in the fall. We’re on track, so to speak.”

“Ha, ha. What’s the next-best case?”

There wasn’t one. Jesse Turnipseed’s mother slipped on some pickle juice on the floor at the grocery store and broke her arm. It healed perfectly. The insurance company was offering $7,000. Jake couldn’t threaten it with a trial because she had a habit of falling in well-insured stores when no one was around. “The usual assortment of car wrecks and such,” he said with a discernible lack of conviction.

“Junk. Anything of value?”

“Not really. Not now anyway.”

“What about other assets. I mean, anything worth a shit?”

Oh, how he hated bankers. His paltry savings account had been demolished to pay Stan. “Some savings, couple of cars, you know?”

“I know, I know. What about other debts? You in hock up to your ears like most lawyers around here?”

Credit cards, the monthly note on Carla’s vehicle. He wouldn’t dare mention the litigation loan because Herb would blow a gasket. The very idea of borrowing that much money to fund a lawsuit. At that moment, it did indeed seem foolish. “The usual, nothing serious, nothing I’m not taking care of.”

“Look, let’s cut to the chase here, Jake. Get some numbers together and I’ll take a look, but I gotta tell you, three hundred won’t work. Hell, I’m not sure two-fifty ain’t too much.”

“Will do. Thanks, Herb. See you around.”

“Don’t mention it.”

Jake bolted from the office, his hatred of banks refortified. He left thoroughly defeated and slinked back to his office.

The next meeting would be even more painful. Three hours later, Harry Rex stomped up his stairs, cracked the door, and said, “Let’s go.”

They made the same walk Jake had made earlier in the day, but stopped at the Sullivan law firm. A pretty secretary led them to a large, majestic conference room with people waiting. On one side of the table, Walter Sullivan sat with Sean Gilder and one of his many associates. The two railroad lawyers were with them. The handshaking took a while and everybody was polite. A court reporter sat at one end, next to the chair reserved for the witness.

On cue, Mr. Neal Nickel walked in and said hello. The court reporter swore him to tell the truth and he took his seat. It was Gilder’s deposition and he quickly took charge with instructions for the witness and a long list of preliminary questions. Since he worked by the hour, he was slow and meticulous.

Jake studied Nickel’s face and felt as though he knew him well. He had seen him so many times in the photos at the accident scene. He was still wearing a dark suit and was articulate, educated, and not the least bit intimidated.

The ugly truth came out soon enough. On the night of the crash, he was following an old pickup truck that was barely staying on the road. Swerving from one shoulder to the other. Nickel gave it plenty of room. As he topped a hill, he saw the red crossing lights flashing at the bottom. A train was passing. The headlights from the pickup and the car in front of it reflected off the bright yellow warning strips attached to each boxcar. Suddenly there was an explosion. The pickup hit the brakes, as did Nickel. He got out and raced to the crossing and saw the small car had flipped 180 degrees and was facing him, its front crumpled into an ugly mess. The train was still passing, clicking along at a reasonable speed as if nothing had happened. The driver of the truck, a Mr. Grayson, was yelling and flailing his arms as he ran around the car. Inside there was a mess. The driver — a man — and his woman passenger were crushed, mangled, bleeding. A little boy and little girl were crushed in the rear seat and apparently dead. Nickel walked to some weeds and vomited as the train finally cleared. Another car stopped, then another, and as they crowded around the wreck they realized they could do nothing. The train stopped and began to slowly come back, in reverse. “They’re dead, they’re all dead,” Grayson kept saying as he circled the wreck. The other drivers were as horrified as Nickel. Then there were sirens, and plenty of them. The responders quickly realized there was no urgency — all four were dead. Nickel wanted to leave but the highway was blocked. He wasn’t from the area and didn’t know the back roads, so he waited and watched with the crowd. For three hours he stood off to the side and watched as the firemen cut and sawed and removed the bodies. It was a horrible scene, one he would never forget. He’d had nightmares.

With this beautiful gift in hand, Sean Gilder slowly and meticulously walked Nickel through his testimony again, nailing down every detail. He handed him large photos of the crossing lights, but Nickel said he didn’t think to observe them in the chaos. They were flashing away at the time of the collision and that was all that mattered.

Sadly, at least for the plaintiffs, Nickel was far more credible than Hank Grayson, who still maintained that the lights were not flashing and he himself didn’t see the train until he almost crashed into the Smallwood vehicle.

Having far too much fun, Gilder then moved to events that took place months after the accident. In particular, the meeting with a private investigator at Nickel’s office in Nashville. Nickel had been surprised that someone had found him. The investigator said he was working for a lawyer in Clanton but did not give his name. Nickel cooperated fully and told the investigator the same story he had just testified to under oath, leaving out no details. The investigator thanked him and went away, never to be heard from again. Back in February, he had been traveling near Clanton and decided to stop by the courthouse. He asked about the lawsuit and was told that the file was a public record. He spent two hours with it and realized that Hank Grayson was sticking to his original story. Nickel was bothered by this but still did not want to get involved because he had sympathy for the Smallwoods. However, over time he felt compelled to come forward.

In the deposition game, some lawyers played all their cards and flushed out every detail. Their goal was to win the deposition. Gilder was in that camp. Better lawyers held back and didn’t reveal their strategies. They saved their best shots for trial. Great lawyers often skipped the depositions altogether and plotted brutal cross-examinations.

Jake had no questions for the witness. He could have asked Nickel why, as an eyewitness, he said nothing to the police. The scene was crawling with deputies and there were two state troopers working the crowd, but Nickel had offered nothing. He stood silently by and kept his mouth shut. His name appeared in none of the reports.

Jake could have asked him a question that was so obvious, yet had so far been missed by Gilder and his team. The train cleared the crossing, stopped, and backed up because the engineer had heard a thud. On the track, trains ran both ways. Why, then, did the lights not work when the train approached from the other direction, in reverse? Jake had statements from a dozen witnesses who swore the lights were not flashing while the train sat nearby and the rescue was underway. Gilder, either overconfident or just lazy, had not spoken to these witnesses.

Jake could have asked him about his past. Nickel was forty-seven years old. At the age of twenty-two he had been involved in a terrible auto accident in which three teenagers were killed. They were drinking beer, joyriding, racing down a county road on a Friday night when they ran head-on into a car driven by Nickel. As it turned out, everybody was drunk. Nickel registered.10 and was arrested for drunk driving. There was talk of an indictment for manslaughter, but the authorities eventually decided the accident was not his fault. The three families sued anyway and the case dragged on for four years before his insurance company negotiated a nuisance settlement. Thus, his reluctance to get involved.

This valuable background had been discovered by a private investigator who charged Jake $3,500, another ding to the old Tort Sport loan sitting in Stan’s office. Jake had the dirt. Sean Gilder probably did not because he didn’t mention it during the deposition. Jake relished the moment when he sprung it on Nickel before the jury and slaughtered him with it. His credibility would be tarnished, but his past would not change the facts of the Smallwood accident.

Jake and Harry Rex had argued over strategy. Harry Rex wanted a full-frontal assault in the deposition to spook the defense and soften up Gilder for, just maybe, some settlement talk. They were desperate for cash, but Jake still dreamed of a big verdict in his courtroom. And he would not push for a trial. A year needed to pass for things to settle down. The Gamble trial needed to come and go and take the baggage with it.

Harry Rex thought this was a foolish dream. Hanging on for a year seemed impossible.