dirt on Varrick, now seemed ready to eat lunch, deliberate, and go home.
“A quick lunch,” the judge said. “Back here at 2:00 p.m.”
D avid found an empty corner of the cafe on the second floor of the building and was eating a sandwich and looking over his notes when he felt someone approach from behind. It was Taylor Barkley, a Rogan associate, one of the few David had met and occasionally nodded to across the courtroom. “Got a second?” he said as he slid into a chair.
“Sure.”
“Nice cross. Nadine makes few mistakes, but that was a big one.”
“Thanks,” David said, chewing.
Barkley’s eyes darted around as if they were swapping crucial secrets. “Have you come across a blogger who calls himself the Hung Juror?” David nodded, and Barkley continued: “Our tech guys are very good, and they’ve tracked him down. He’s in the courtroom, three rows behind you, navy sweater, white shirt, thirty years old, balding, glasses, pretty nerdy looking. Name’s Aaron Deentz, used to work for a mid-range firm downtown but got whacked in the recession. Now he blogs and tries to be important, can’t seem to find a job.”
“Why are you telling me this?”
“He has the right to blog; the courtroom is open to the public. Most of his stuff is harmless, but he took a shot at your wife. Me, I’d deck him. Just thought you’d want to know. See you around.” And with that, Barkley eased away and was gone.
A t 2:00 p.m., Nadine Karros stood and announced, “Your Honor, the defense rests.” This had been discussed in chambers and was no surprise. Judge Seawright wasted no time and said, “Mr. Zinc, you may address the jury in closing statement.”
David had no desire to address the jury and ask for compassion for his client, Iris Klopeck, but it would be extremely awkward for a lawyer who had tried a case from beginning to end to waive final argument. He stood at the podium and began by thanking the jurors for their service. Then he confessed that this was his first trial, and, frankly, he had not planned on doing anything but research. However, events had conspired to thrust him into this arena, and he felt bad for not doing a better job. He held up a document and explained that it was the pretrial order, sort of an outline for the trial that both sides agree on long before the jury is selected. Of interest, on page 35, was a list of the experts for the defense. Twenty-seven! All with the word “Doctor” attached somewhere to their names. Thankfully, the defense did not call all twenty-seven, but they certainly hired and paid them. Why would any defendant need so many well-paid experts? Perhaps the defendant had something to hide. And why would the defendant need so many lawyers, David asked, waving an arm at the Rogan Rothberg team? His client, Iris Klopeck, could not afford such talent. The field was not level. The game was rigged. Only the jury could equalize things.
He spoke less than ten minutes and happily left the podium. As he walked back to the table, he glanced at the spectators and made eye contact with Aaron Deentz, the Hung Juror. David stared at him for a few seconds, then Deentz looked away.
Nadine Karros argued for thirty minutes and managed to shift the attention back to Krayoxx and away from those other unpleasant tests Mr. Zinc had talked about. She vigorously defended Varrick and reminded the jurors of the many well-known and trusted drugs the company had given to the world. Including Krayoxx, a drug that had survived the week nicely since the plaintiff had failed miserably to prove there was anything wrong with it. Yes, she and Varrick may have twenty-seven noted experts in their lineup, but that was beside the point. Much more important was the expert proof offered by the plaintiff, who filed the lawsuit and had the burden of building a case and had thoroughly failed to do so.
David watched her performance with great admiration. She was smooth and skilled, and her trial experience was obvious from the way she moved around, spoke, chose her words effortlessly, looked at the jurors, smiled at them, and trusted them. From their faces, there was little doubt they trusted her too.
David waived his rebuttal argument. Judge Seawright went straight to the reading of the jury instructions, the most tedious segment of any trial. At 3:30, the jury was led from the courtroom to begin its deliberations. David wanted to get away, so he carried a large box of his documents to his SUV in the garage. As he was riding the elevator back up to the twenty-third floor, his cell phone vibrated. The text message said: “The jury is ready.” He smiled and whispered, “That didn’t take long.”
When the courtroom was quiet, a bailiff brought in the jury. The foreman handed the written verdict to the clerk, who gave it to Judge Seawright, who said, “The verdict appears to be in order.” It was returned to the foreman, who stood and read, “We, the jury, find for the defendant, Varrick Laboratories.”
There was no reaction from anyone in the courtroom. Judge Seawright went through his post-verdict rituals and released the jurors. David had no desire to hang around and suffer through the happy horseshit of “Nice job,” “Tough set of facts,” “Better luck next time.” As soon as the judge tapped his gavel and adjourned court, David lifted his heavy briefcase and dashed from the room. He beat the crowd and was hustling down the hall when he caught a glimpse of a familiar blue sweater entering a restroom. David followed, and once inside he scanned the room and saw no one but Aaron Deentz. David washed his hands, waited, and when Deentz finished at the urinal, he turned and saw David. “You’re the Hung Juror, right?” David said, and Deentz froze, unmasked.
“So what?” Deentz said with a sneer.
David cocked his arm and shot a right cross that landed perfectly on the fleshy left jaw of the Hung Juror, who was too stunned to react. He grunted as his jaw popped. David followed with a quick left hook that landed on the nose. “That’s for the bimbo, you ass!” David said, as Deentz fell to the floor.
David left the restroom and saw a crowd at the far end of the hall. He found the stairs and sprinted down to the main lobby. He dashed across the street to the garage and was safely locked in his SUV before he took a deep breath and said, “You idiot.”
A fter a circuitous route back to the office, David arrived late on Friday afternoon. To his surprise, Oscar was sitting at the table having a soft drink with Rochelle. He looked thin and pale, but he had a smile and said he was feeling okay. His doctor had cleared him to spend no more than two hours a day at the office, and he claimed he was eager to get back to work.
David gave a highly condensed version of the trial. He mimicked the Russian accent of Dr. Borzov, and this drew laughter. All jokes were on Finley amp; Figg after all, so why not laugh at themselves. When he described his frantic efforts to find Dr. Threadgill, they laughed some more. They could not believe that Helen had been drafted into service. When he described the faces of the jurors during Iris’s video, Rochelle wiped her eyes with a tissue.
“And in spite of my brilliant performance, the jury reached its verdict in only seventeen minutes.”
When the humor was gone, they talked about Wally, their fallen comrade. They talked about the bills, the line of credit, their bleak future. Oscar suggested they forget about it until Monday morning. “We’ll figure out something,” he said.
David and Rochelle were startled at how thoughtful and kind he had become. Perhaps the heart attack and surgery had softened him up and provided a glimpse of his own mortality. The old Oscar would have been cussing Figg and griping about the firm’s imminent financial ruin, but the new one seemed oddly optimistic about their situation.
After an hour of the most pleasant conversation David had experienced around the office, he said he needed to go. His paralegal was waiting with dinner and wanted to know about the trial.
CHAPTER 47
Over the weekend David puttered around the house, ran errands for Helen, pushed Emma through the neighborhood in her stroller, washed and shined both vehicles, and kept an eye on the online buzz about the trial and Varrick’s great victory. There had been a small story in Saturday’s Sun-Times and not a word in the Tribune. The online publications, though, were busy with the aftershocks. Varrick’s public relations machinery was in full swing, and the verdict was being described as a major vindication of Krayoxx. CEO Reuben Massey was quoted everywhere touting the drug, condemning the mass tort bar, promising to crush “those ambulance chasers” in any courtroom they dared to enter, praising the wisdom of the Chicago jurors, and clamoring for more laws to protect
