Silent Justice: A Ben Kincaid Novel of Suspense

Chapter 28

CHRISTINA STOOD AT THE front of Judge Perry’s courtroom trying to explain things as best she could. “I’m sure it will only be a moment, your honor.”

“A moment is too long.” Judge Perry’s usual impassive expression today seemed positively grim. “When I say a trial will begin at nine o"clock, I mean it.”

“I understand that.”

“If this is part of a plaintiff strategy to delay, let me tell you right now that I will not tolerate it.”

“No, sir.” Christina felt the prickly heat rising up her neck. “It’s nothing like that. He’s just … late.”

“Then we’ll proceed with co-counsel at the helm. Approach the bench, Ms. McCall.”

“Your honor … I can’t.” Christina was twisting her fingers into knots. “I’m only an intern. I haven’t finished law school.”

Judge Perry’s shoulders began to heave. “Fine. Then we’ll proceed with Professor Matthews.”

Matthews awkwardly pushed himself to his feet, making minute adjustments in the lie of his tweed jacket. He did not approach.

“Is there a problem?” the judge asked, with an edge that could cut through butter. “Haven’t you finished law school?”

“Your honor,” Matthews began. “I do have a law degree. But I’ve never tried a lawsuit. I’m here strictly to advise on legal issues.”

Judge Perry’s face was so tight he had difficulty speaking. “I will not tolerate this in my courtroom! Where is Mr. Kincaid?”

“I-I don’t know, your honor,” Christina stuttered. “I can’t imagine what happened. But I’m sure, whatever it is, it was unavoidable …”

“Mr. Kincaid is in contempt of this court. If he does not appear in five minutes, I’ll dismiss the plaintiffs" suit.”

Cecily leaned across plaintiffs" table to Christina. “Can he do that?” she whispered.

“Oh, yeah,” she whispered back. “He’s the judge. He can do whatever he wants.”

“I’m setting my stopwatch,” the judge informed them. “Five minutes. And counting.”

“That won’t be necessary.”

The last voice came from the back of the courtroom. Everyone present swiveled around to see Ben Kincaid rush up the center aisle. He had a document box under each arm, with his briefcase precariously balanced between. His tie was unknotted, dangling over his neck. He looked a mess.

“I apologize to the court for my tardiness,” Ben said as he raced to the front. “It was unavoidable. I … uh … had car trouble.”

“That’s not good enough!” Judge Perry barked. He seemed even more enraged now that Ben was here. “When I say a trial begins at nine sharp, I mean nine sharp. Not a second later.”

“Yes, sir. I understand that, sir. And I’m very sorry.”

“In your absence, you were found in contempt of court. You are directed to pay a five-hundred-dollar fine to the court clerk on your way out of the courtroom today.”

Ben closed his eyes. “Yes, sir.” Five hundred dollars!

“Now please take a minute to … pull yourself together. And then let’s get on with this trial!”

“Yes, sir. Thank you, sir.” May I have another, sir?

The judge stepped into chambers. Ben avoided Colby’s smarmy smile; obviously he thought the trial was already drifting his way. He’d had nothing to do with Ben’s absence, but he was more than happy to exploit it to the fullest.

Christina began knotting his tie. “What happened to you? Sleep late?”

“No. Couldn’t get to the courthouse. Ended up calling for a taxi. And you know how long that takes. Since there are only two taxis in all of Tulsa.”

“What happened? Van wouldn’t start?”

“No.” He craned his neck as she slid the knotted tie up against his Adam’s apple. “When I walked out to the curb this morning, it was gone.”

“Stolen?”

“Repossessed.”

Christina’s jaw dropped. “No.”

“Yes.” He popped open his briefcase and started organizing his materials. “It seems we’ve reached the end of our financial tether. The Brain is calling in the markers.”

Once he was finally dressed and groomed properly, Ben scanned the courtroom gallery. It was jam-packed. Spectators were wedged together on the long-tiered pews like travelers on an overbooked bus. People stood at the back of the room and filtered along the walls. Ben suspected Judge Perry wouldn’t tolerate that for long; surely it violated the fire code.

All in all, he counted more than two hundred people crammed in the relatively tiny gallery. Members of the press and sketch artists occupied most of the first row. Members of the plaintiffs" families took the second, except for Cecily who, as the designated plaintiffs" representative, sat at the table up front with Ben. And directly behind the relatives sat a phalanx of gray-suited Blaylock executives and employees. Most of the people who had been deposed were present, including Turnbull—although Ben noticed that he sat a good distance away from everyone else in the Blaylock camp. Ben knew Turnbull hadn’t been fired, but he was probably receiving a chilly reception from his old pals, just the same.

And some of the people crammed into the courtroom were simply spectators, folks with no connection to the case at all. Some were VIPs or lucky ducks with well-placed friends who’d managed to get them in without waiting in line. It was supposed to be first come first served, but Ben knew that, as a practical matter, connections counted. He also knew Colby had sent in a squadron of young associates at the crack of dawn to hold seats until the Blaylockians arrived. He wanted as many friendly faces in the courtroom as possible.

The Brain was out there, too, the son of a bitch. Keeping an eye on his collateral, Ben supposed. He wondered if he’d driven to the courthouse in Ben’s van. Ben’s former van.

Ben marveled at the high-tech appearance of this far-from-new courtroom. Although federal courts still did not permit trials to be televised, monitors for internal use were everywhere. A huge television screen, six feet by six feet, faced the jury box. It was on wheels so it could be moved as necessary. In this way, exhibits could be shown to the jury as they were discussed. Two smaller television screens appeared at each end of the jury box. All of these monitors, of course, had wires and cables and feeder mechanisms cluttering the courtroom. There were also computer monitors at the judge’s bench, and it looked like Colby’s team had no fewer than three laptops.

Not exactly Clarence Darrow’s courtroom.

Ben stifled a yawn. He had not gotten much sleep last night and, despite the excitement swirling around the courtroom, it was beginning to catch up with him. Even after he left the office, he had a hard time sleeping. Sometime around four he finally drifted off. Good thing he hadn’t gone outside—he might’ve seen the repo man swiping his van.

The old-style steam radiators in the federal courtroom emitted a discernible hum; once you focused on it, it seemed deafening. The spectators had a hum of their own, an expectant buzz, an anticipatory excitement about what would soon begin. Why did people come to watch trials to which they had no connection? Ben wondered, for about the millionth time. Don’t they get enough of this on television? Don’t they have lives of their own? It never made sense to him. But after all the pretrial publicity this case had received, he supposed it was inevitable.

Around nine fifteen, Judge Perry returned to the courtroom. He appeared to have suppressed some of his anger, although Ben knew he had a long way to go before he’d be back in this man’s good graces.

“Good morning, ladies and gentlemen,” the judge said. “The court case set for trial is Elkins et al. versus H. P. Blaylock Industrial Machinery Corporation, case number JP00-065. This case is set as a jury trial. Counsel, is there any reason we should not proceed at this time with jury selection?”

Ben and Colby both rose to their feet, shaking their heads. Ready or not, the trial had begun.

Compared to most of the criminal cases Ben had handled, voir dire in federal civil court was a piece of cake. Voir dire in criminal cases could go on for days in some jurisdictions; voir dire in this case took less than an hour. In the Northern District of Oklahoma, the judges still handled all the questioning of prospective jurors. Lawyers could submit questions in advance, which the judge might or might not read. But at any rate, when the judge was in charge, there would be none of the mostly irrelevant questioning designed to help the lawyers “get to know” the jurors, and none of the questions designed to preview trial theories. If the question didn’t pertain to rooting out potential bias, the judge didn’t read it. As a result, federal voir dire was always more direct—and shorter. Even though it limited his ability to select a favorable jury, Ben had to admit that, objectively speaking, the federal court approach was a lot quicker and probably better.

Judge Perry methodically quizzed the twenty potential jurors he had called to the witness-box. Although he was probably less persistent than a private attorney might’ve been, he didn’t hesitate to follow up when a juror statement revealed any possible bias.

Probably the most interesting moment occurred when the judge asked if any of the jurors had any ties, past or present, with the defendant, H. P. Blaylock. A black woman in the back row, Etta Thompson, raised her hand.

Ben almost salivated. What would it be? he wondered. A disgruntled employee? An angry mother? Even if Colby removed her from the jury, all the others would get to hear her complaint.

“My husband Manfred worked at that company for twenty-four years. Till two years ago.”

“But he doesn’t work there now?” Judge Perry followed up.

“No, sir.”

“May I ask why not?”

Ben rubbed his hands together in anticipation. Fired. Laid off. Industrial accident.

“He’s dead, your honor.”

The judge was taken aback. “Oh—I’m sorry. I didn’t know—”

“Don’t worry, sir. We had twenty-six good years together.”

“Oh.” He paused a few respectful moments. “Well, was there anything about your husband’s work experience that might make it difficult for you to treat the Blaylock corporation just as you would any other defendant?”

“Yes, sir.”

Ben sat up.

“You think you might have some bias?”

“Yes, sir. I do.”

Now we’re back on track, Ben thought. Let "er rip, lady. Give us the dirt.

“Did the corporation treat your husband poorly, ma’am?”

“Oh, no, sir. Far from it. They were a godsend.”

Ben felt his heart thump down to the pit of his stomach.

“They’ve been so fine. So generous. They continued paying us six months after Manny’s heart attack. They paid out his pension immediately, in cash. They even paid all the medical expenses. And they’ve kept his health insurance coverage in place for my children.”

The judge seemed confused. “Well then … why … you said you were biased.”

“I am, sir. I’m biased in Blaylock’s favor. It think it must be the best little company that God ever put on this earth. I just …” She turned her head slightly toward plaintiffs" table. “I just can’t understand why anyone would ever want to hurt those good people.”

Ben felt a throbbing in his temples that didn’t desist. First his car was repo’d, then one of the jurors nominates the defendant for sainthood. This case was already off to a rotten start—and they hadn’t even had opening statements yet.

Judge Perry didn’t see fit to remove any of the jurors for cause—not even Mrs. Thompson, who ultimately swore she could treat all parties fairly despite her undying love for H. P. Blaylock. So Ben had to use his first preemptory to remove her. Colby removed a woman from the front who had a son with cerebral palsy; no doubt he thought she would be too sympathetic to the plaintiffs". Ben then removed a school janitor who had opined that jury awards were “getting out of hand”; Colby removed a woman who felt that “big corporations have too much power.”

Ben hated to remove the janitor; he had two boys of his own about the age of Cecily’s Billy. But he couldn’t afford to leave anyone who might, even if he managed to win the suit, argue against awarding major damages. Ben didn’t have any illusions; this case wasn’t going to break the record set by Pennzoil v. Texaco, in which the jury awarded plaintiff Pennzoil eleven billion dollars in damages. But he had hoped to keep open the possibility of a significant damages award. He’d better—if he ever hoped to see his van again.

Ben wasn’t sure what to do with his last peremptory. Christina steered him toward a plumpish woman in the center row.

“Why her?” Ben whispered.

Christina shrugged. “I think she’s stingy. And we definitely don’t want stingy.”

“Stingy? How can you tell?”

“I just have a feeling. Look at the way she sits, all bottled up tight. Look at the way she clutches her purse in her lap; she hasn’t let go of it since she came into the courtroom. And look at that dress. Most people dress up for court. If that’s her idea of dressing up, it’s been a good long time since she went shopping.”

Ben wasn’t entirely convinced, but he didn’t have any better ideas. The woman was dismissed. Colby removed another mother, which left them with fourteen people—twelve jurors and two alternates. Ten women and four men, ages ranging from twenty-one to sixty-eight. Twelve white, one black, one Hispanic. One with a college degree, thirteen not. A secretary, a sales clerk, two fast-food restaurant employees, a bookkeeper, a retiree, a hospital nurse, a stay-home mom, a student, a man who owned a body shop, an architect, and two waitresses. A randomly chosen group of average citizens who would be charged with finding the facts in one of the most complex cases Ben had ever encountered, a case where millions of dollars were at stake, a case that would determine culpability for the deaths of eleven innocent children.

The preliminaries were over.

The trial had begun.