The Justice Game

33

Jason secured a room at an oceanfront hotel, then drove up Laskin Road, looking for a place to eat. He had been on edge at lunch and hadn’t had much appetite. Now he was famished.

About half a mile from the oceanfront, next to an abandoned movie theater, Jason found just the place. He pulled into a burger joint with a purple roof and a sign that promised thick shakes. The Purple Cow. If he wanted to find an authentic slice of Virginia Beach life, this looked like a promising place.

The interior featured purple booths, an old jukebox playing “Help Me, Rhonda,” a soda bar, a giant gum ball machine, children’s crayon drawings of purple cows pasted to one wall, and a colorful assortment of life-size figures covering the others, including a picture of Bill Clinton dressed up like Elvis and singing next to an image of Marilyn Monroe. The place was about half full, not a bad crowd for a weeknight in the winter, and the hostess said Jason could sit anywhere he wanted. Jason picked a booth in the back corner and studied the menu.

Jason guessed his waitress was a local high school or college student. Her name badge said Kim, and she tried to talk Jason into ordering a purple milk shake, pointing out a family at the next table where the kids sported purple teeth and tongues.

“You can’t come to the Purple Cow and not order a purple milk shake.”

“I’ll stick with vanilla.”

For the main course, Kim recommended lasagna, and Jason obliged. A few minutes later she brought the vanilla shake, and Jason knew immediately that he had found the right spot. The shake was otherworldly good, a throwback to the days of real ice cream and real milk, thick enough that you couldn’t coax it through a straw. Kim served it in two glasses-the tall aluminum glass it was mixed in and a tall thin glass to drink from. This was the way shakes were supposed to be served.

A thought hit Jason just before the food arrived. It was crazy, and way outside his comfort zone, but his competitive instincts edged out his shyness. Kelly Starling would probably be spouting off on television tonight on one channel, while Melissa Davids would be making her case on another. But Jason had an opportunity to find out how real Virginia Beach jurors might think. He got Kim’s attention, and she came smiling to the table.

“Do you have any regulars in here?” Jason asked. “I need to bounce something off some folks who live in Virginia Beach. Get their opinion on something.”

Kim scrunched her forehead, looking confused.

“I’m a lawyer,” Jason said, lowering his voice. “I’m from out of town, and I’ve got a case I need to try in a few months. I wanted to get a quick opinion from the types of people who might sit on my jury… I’ll even pay for their dinner.”

Kim asked a few questions about the case, and Jason kept it general. Still, she heard enough to pique her curiosity. “Could I listen too?” she asked.

“As long as you don’t get in trouble with your boss.”

“That won’t be a problem,” Kim said. She nodded toward a corner booth. “The guy facing us is a youth pastor named Wayne from a local church. He comes in here about once a week. That couple with him-I can’t remember their names-but they’re in the church too.”

“Think they’ll do this?” Jason asked.

“A free meal? Wayne? Uh… yeah.”

After an awkward introduction, Jason began explaining the facts of the Crawford case. He spoke with as much detachment as he could muster; he didn’t even let on whether he represented the plaintiff or the defendant. About three minutes into his presentation, he was forced to start over again when the couple who owned the restaurant joined the discussion, asking lots of probing questions.

He took mental notes as the little group argued about the right verdict. The men tended to sympathize with MD Firearms, but the woman who was part owner of the restaurant proved to be very persuasive. “I’ll never forget seeing that shooting on television,” she said. “I just think this manufacturer has a duty not to use dealers who are making illegal sales.”

Her husband shook his head. “I don’t see that. The manufacturer didn’t shoot that woman.”

“But let’s say we hire an employee who we know has violent tendencies. And then he gets mad one day and gets in a fight with a customer. You don’t think we’d be responsible?”

The question brought a reflective pause. “I see your point,” her husband said.

And so did the others. Once the pendulum started swinging, it didn’t stop until it had arrived at $2.5 million.

It wasn’t a scientific poll or even a representative focus group. But it served as an effective wake-up call.

“Who do you represent?” Kim asked.

“The company you just nailed for $2.5 million.”

When he returned to his booth, Kim asked Jason if he wanted his lasagna reheated.

“Why don’t you put it in a box,” he said. “I think I lost my appetite.”