The last thing David wanted to do was to try to revive a dead witness. “No sir,” he said quickly.
“Dr. Borzov, you’re excused.”
He staggered away with the aid of a bailiff, $75,000 richer but with another black mark on his resume. Judge Seawright recessed court until 3:30.
D r. Herbert Threadgill was a pharmacologist of dubious reputation. He, like Borzov, was spending the waning days of his career living the easy life, away from the rigors of real medicine, doing nothing but testifying for lawyers who needed his notoriously pliant opinions to fit their version of the facts. The paths of both professional testifiers crossed occasionally, and they knew each other well. Threadgill had been reluctant to sign on for the Klopeck case for three reasons: the facts were lousy; the case was weak; and he had no desire to face Nadine Karros in a courtroom. He had finally said yes for only one reason-$50,000 plus expenses, for only a few hours of work.
During the recess, he saw Dr. Borzov outside the courtroom and was appalled at his appearance. “Don’t do it,” Borzov said as he shuffled toward the elevators. Threadgill hurried to the men’s room, splashed some water in his face, and decided to flee. Screw the case. Screw the lawyers, they were not major players anyway. He had been paid in full, and if they threatened to sue, he might consider returning a portion of his fee, or not. He would be on an airplane in an hour. In three hours he would be having a drink with his wife on the patio. He wasn’t committing a crime. He was under no subpoena. If necessary, he would never return to Chicago.
At 4:00 p.m., David returned to the judge’s chambers and said, “Well, Judge, looks like we’ve lost another one. I can’t find Dr. Threadgill, and he won’t answer his phone.”
“When did you last speak to him?”
“During lunch. He was all set, or at least he said so.”
“Do you have another witness, one who is here and has not gotten lost?”
“Yes sir, my economist, Dr. Kanya Meade.”
“Then put her on, and we’ll see if the lost sheep somehow find their way home.”
Percy Klopeck worked for twenty-two years as a dispatcher for a freight company. It was a sedentary job, and Percy did nothing to break the monotony of sitting in a chair for eight straight hours. Non-union, he was earning $44,000 a year when he died and could have reasonably expected to work for seventeen more years.
Dr. Kanya Meade was a young economist at the University of Chicago, and she moonlighted occasionally as a consultant to pick up a few bucks-$15,000 in the Klopeck case. The math was straightforward: $44,000 a year for seventeen years, plus anticipated annual increases based on the historical trend, plus a retirement based on a fifteen-year life expectancy beyond the age of sixty-five, at 70 percent of his highest salary. In summary, Dr. Meade testified that Percy’s death had cost his family $1.51 million.
Since he had died peacefully in his sleep, there would be no claim for pain and suffering.
On cross-examination, Ms. Karros took exception to the numbers of Percy’s life expectancy. Since he had died at forty-eight, and early deaths were common among his male blood relatives, it was unrealistic to suggest that he would have lived to age eighty. Nadine was careful, though, not to spend much time debating damages. To do so would lend credence to the numbers. The Klopecks were not due a penny, and she would not give the impression she was worried about the alleged damages.
When Dr. Meade finished at 5:20, Judge Seawright adjourned court until nine the following morning.
CHAPTER 42
After a hard day in court, Helen was in no mood to cook. She picked up Emma at her sister’s home in Evanston, thanked her sister profusely and promised to debrief later, and raced away to the nearest fast-food restaurant. Emma, who slept in moving vehicles much better than in her own crib, dozed peacefully as Helen inched along in the drive-thru. She ordered more burgers and fries than usual because she and David were both hungry. It was raining, and the late-October days were growing shorter.
Helen drove to the Khaings’ apartment near Rogers Park, and by the time she arrived, David was there. The plan was to have a quick dinner and hustle home for an early bedtime-Emma, of course, holding the key to that. David had no more witnesses to present for the plaintiff, and he was not sure what to expect from Nadine Karros. In the pretrial order, the defense had listed twenty-seven expert witnesses, and David had read every one of their reports. Only Nadine Karros knew how many to call to the stand, and in what order. There was little for David to do but sit, listen, object occasionally, pass notes to his comely paralegal, and try to give the impression he knew what was going on. According to a friend from law school, a litigator in a Washington firm, there was an excellent chance the defense would move for summary judgment, convince Seawright that the plaintiff had failed to provide even the bare bones of a proper case, and win outright without presenting a single witness. “It could be over tomorrow,” he said as he sat in traffic in Washington and David did the same in Chicago.
Since Thuya had been released from the hospital five months earlier, the Zincs had missed only a few of their Wednesday night fast-food dinners. The arrival of Emma had briefly interrupted things, but before long they were packing her along for the visits. A ritual had clearly been established. As Helen approached the apartment building with the baby, Lwin and Zaw, mother and grandmother, bolted from the door and raced to see the baby. Inside, Lynn and Erin, Thuya’s two older sisters, sat side by side on the sofa, waiting eagerly to get their hands on Emma. Helen would place her gently in one of the laps, and the girls and their mother and grandmother would chatter and squeal and act as if they had never before seen an infant. They gently passed her around, back and forth with great care. This would go on for a long time while the men were starving.
Thuya watched it from his high chair and seemed amused. Each week David and Helen hoped to see some tiny sign of improvement in his condition, and each week they were disappointed. As his doctors predicted, progress was highly unlikely. The damage was, after all, permanent.
David sat by him, rubbed his head as always, and handed him a French fry. He chatted with Soe and Lu as the women formed a gaggle around the baby. Eventually, they made their way to the table, where they were delighted to learn that David and Helen would be eating with them. They usually avoided burgers and fries, but not tonight. David explained that they were a bit rushed and would not have time to take Thuya out for a drive.
Halfway through a cheeseburger, David’s cell phone vibrated in his coat pocket. He looked at it, jumped to his feet, whispered “It’s Wally” to Helen, and stepped outside the front door.
“Where are you, Wally?”
In a weak, dying voice, the reply came, “I’m drunk, David. So drunk.”
“That’s what we figured. Where are you?”
“You gotta help me, David. There’s no one else. Oscar won’t talk to me.”
“Sure, Wally, you know I’ll help, but where are you?”
“At the office.”
“I’ll be there in forty-five minutes.”
H e was on the sofa next to the table, snoring, AC nearby watching him with great suspicion. It was Wednesday night, and David assumed, correctly, that Wally’s last shower had been bright and early Monday morning, the day the retrial commenced, six days after Oscar’s dramatic collapse, and six days after Wally’s legendary mistrial. No shower, no shave, no change of clothes-he was wearing the same navy suit and white shirt as when David had last seen him. The tie was missing. The shirt was heavily stained. There was a slight tear on the right leg of his trousers. Dried mud caked the soles of his new black wing tips. David tapped his shoulder and called his name. Nothing. His face was red and puffy, but there were no bruises, cuts, or scrapes. Perhaps he had not been brawling in bars. David wanted to know where he had been, but then he didn’t. Wally was safe. There would be time for questions later, one being “How’d you get here?” His car was nowhere in sight, which was somewhat of a relief. Maybe, drunk as he was, Wally had the presence of mind not to drive. On the other hand, his car could have been wrecked, stolen, or repossessed.
David punched him on the biceps and yelled from six inches away. Wally’s heavy breathing paused for a second, then continued. AC was whining, so David let him out for a pee and made a pot of coffee. He sent a text to Helen: “Drunk as a skunk but alive. Not sure what’s next.” He called Rochelle and passed along the news. A call to Oscar’s cell went straight to voice mail.
Wally rallied an hour later and took a cup of coffee. “Thanks, David,” he said over and over. Then, “Have
