On Our Way Home: Chapter Six

Anthony Zych

I couldn’t tell whether the jury received the news with relief or disappointment. Sandy Matherson wasn’t happy to learn she wouldn’t be having her own December to remember, but she stifled her reaction, since both she and I knew Earl would be pissed enough for both of them. I talked to her about the situation after the bailiff had once again led the jury out of the courtroom so that they could start their very extended break in the trial. Earl’s face already had developed a shade of red that nearly matched his flannel shirt. He pressed his forearms so hard against his torso that with one good squeeze his head would have been launched into low orbit.

I fiddled with the contents of one of the boxes of paperwork that would stay in the courtroom until we resumed. The judge had said no other business would be conducted there during the week of Christmas, so we could leave everything where it was. I moved slowly while pretending to organize the files in the hopes that Sandy and Earl would leave. They didn’t. Meanwhile, Anderson and his minions had packed up the gadgets they planned to use during their presentation and embarked on a long weekend that wouldn’t entail licking six-, seven-, or maybe even eight-figure wounds. I tried not to think about the possibility of a verdict that large, especially since it would have been tied up for months on appeal. Still, having a major award tied up on appeal is a lot better than not having one at all.

Soon, three people remained in the courtroom: Sandy, Earl, and me. Sandy checked once more to her left and to her right to confirm we were alone. She nevertheless whispered. 

“Was there any talk in there about, you know, settling this?”

“Nothing more than before,” I said. “They’ve been pretty firm in their position. It makes it a lot easier to go forward when we know we don’t have that bird in the hand.”

“What was it before?” She knew the answer. I could tell she wanted me to say it in front of Earl, that maybe he didn’t believe her.

“They offered ten thousand dollars before trial,” I said. “That’s nothing. It’s peanuts. It wouldn’t even cover my costs.” 

“Now, what does that mean?” Again, she already knew the answer to the question. Maybe if we won she should go to law school. After first going to college. She was definitely sharp enough to do it, if Earl would simply allow her to.

“I’ve paid for everything so far. I get that money back from whatever we recover. That’s money I’ve paid out of pocket, money that’s not coming back if we lose.”

“And we don’t pay you that if we don’t win, right? Because that’s not what that letter you sent says.”

“I know,” I said, eyeing Earl carefully since he was actually the one asking these questions. “Technically, I can’t say in advance that you won’t owe me the money. But if we get nothing, I’m not going to ask you for a dime. I took this case to try to make things better for you. The last thing I’m going to do is make things worse.”

That’s when Earl could no longer help himself, even though he’d likely been told by his wife to not say anything to me. 

“You sure ain’t made nothing better yet,” he said. “You said we was getting an answer on this today. We expected an answer on all of this before Christmas. Now that there judge is saying we gotta come back after New Year’s Day? Well, that sure don’t seem fair to me.”

“I don’t disagree with you, Earl.”

“The way I see it, you’re the one that’s supposed to keep unfair shit from happening to my wife.”

Sandy’s eyes flashed at him. 

“Earl, he’s trying the best he can.”

“Well, then he should have been trying not to puke all over himself.” 

I tried my best to stay calm. I wanted to lash out at anyone and anything over what had happened that morning. I had real skin in the game, just like they did. More than they did. I’d spent more money than I wanted to calculate chasing U-Sav-Plentee on this one, and it was as good of a case as I was ever going to take to trial against a company that big. The truly strong claims settle, because the lawyers don’t want to have their names attached to a horrible outcome at trial. So they make the plaintiffs an offer they can’t refuse. To get the planets to line up just right for a massive verdict, the company and the lawyers had to think they had a clear winner. Most of the time, they did. Once in a while, they found out the hard way they didn’t. 

The best thing going for Sandy, Earl, and me in this case was that we wanted the jury to take what would amount to pocket change from a beast that swallowed up money on money on money, especially when their stores were at maximum earning capacity during the holidays. Already that morning, three days before Christmas, U-Sav-Plentee’s worldwide operations likely had cleared in profit more than a hundred times the amount we would have won, even if I’d been allowed to ply the jury with tequila and cocaine during their deliberations. My ace in the hole, the proximity of the deliberations to Christmas Day, would dissolve into dust by January 2. And it had happened because, for whatever reason, I had a rapid bout of nausea that had resolved itself faster than I could even realize it was happening.

“Folks, I’m sorry about this. I’ve said all along we have to play the hand we’ve been dealt. That’s really all we can do at this point.”

“Why don’t you call that other lawyer and see if they want to settle?” Earl said. “He sure seems smart.”

I was smart enough to pick up on the implication. I kept fighting to not take the bait.

“That won’t work at this point. They’ll sense weakness. They’ll refuse. If they didn’t do it before this morning, they’re definitely not going to do it before we come back.”

“Well, I hope you and your family have a nice Christmas. And I hope you’ll be thinking about the kind of Christmas my family will have because of this.”

Sandy continued to glare at him. The fact that she hadn’t stopped him told me, deep down, she felt the same way. It also told me, no matter how many times I’d explained it in plain terms to Sandy, they didn’t fully realize they wouldn’t have been presented with a giant ceremonial check by the CEO of the company that same day, if we’d won.

“I ain’t asked you for nothing through all of this,” he said. “But I’m asking for one thing. And I ain’t really asking. I want you to come to our house on Tuesday. I want you to pretend I’m that jury. I want you to tell me exactly what you would’ve said to convince them to make this right, if you would’ve got up there and done it today.”

That was the last thing I wanted to do, the last thing I planned to do. At that point, however, I just wanted to get out of there. So I agreed to do it. I’d figure out later how to get out of it. Not that I’d have a lot of time in the coming weekend to devise a plan that would have a chance of working.

I told them, given Earl’s request, I needed to gather a few things to bring with me on Tuesday, which prompted them to finally go. After they did, I went back to the table, pulled out the chair, and sat in it for a long time. I stared at the seats where the jurors had been sitting all week. Ready to hear my closing argument. Perhaps ready to change Sandy’s life and mine, just by writing a number in a box on a sheet of white paper. And now, just like that, the moment was gone forever. 

Ho ho ho. Merry Freaking Christmas.

(On Our Way Home continues on Wednesday, November 30, with Chapter Seven. It’s being posted free of charge, with all chapters here. If you feel like paying for something, buy a copy of Playmakers instead. Through December 11, you’ll get a free, personalized bookplate.)