Davids leaned forward and stared back at Kelly. “You want to hear what I know? I know you didn’t sue the estate of the man who actually shot your client’s wife. I know you didn’t sue the gun store that you say illegally sold the gun. Instead, you sue my company, and we didn’t even know about the sale. And then, as soon as the suit is filed, you make the rounds of every talk show in America. That’s what I know.”
Their host started to wrap up the segment but Kelly cut him off.
“May I respond?” Kelly asked.
“We’ve only got fifteen seconds,” the host said. “I’ll give you the last word.”
Fifteen seconds? The competitive instincts kicked in. Kelly was tired of being pushed around.
“I told you in the greenroom it was nothing personal,” Kelly said to Davids, her teeth gritted. “I lied. It is personal. Your cavalier attitude cost Rachel Crawford her life. I take that very personally.”
Davids scoffed and started to respond.
“I’m sorry,” the host insisted, talking over Melissa Davids. “We really are out of time.” He read a few sentences on the teleprompter as the producer counted down to the next break.
As soon as the red light flashed off, Davids stood and took off her lapel mike. She ignored Kelly, thanked the Fox News host, and headed to the greenroom.
Kelly tried to be gracious, mustering a fake smile as she also thanked the host and then moved off the set. She stood behind the cameras for a few minutes, watching the start of the next segment. Congressman Parker, a regular guest on the show, pontificated about the purpose of the Protection of Lawful Commerce in Arms Act. It was, according to the congressman, legislation specifically designed to stop this sort of unmerited lawsuit.
“Let me read what the legislation says about these kinds of civil actions,” the congressman said. “They are an abuse of the legal system, they erode the public confidence in our nation’s laws, they threaten the diminution of a basic constitutional right and civil liberty, and they constitute an unreasonable burden on interstate and foreign commerce.”
Kelly had heard enough. She left the set and returned to the greenroom to pick up her folder. Fortunately for her, or maybe fortunately for her adversary, Melissa Davids was already gone.
17
On her way back to the Hilton, Kelly checked her BlackBerry. Lots of enthusiastic e-mails awaited her-friends and family gushing about seeing her on television, other attorneys at B amp;W telling her she did a good job. She checked her missed phone calls-thirteen in just the last few hours-and immediately dialed the one number she cared about most.
“My friends said you were great on the morning shows,” Blake Crawford told her. “I didn’t have the heart to watch them myself.”
“Did any of your friends catch Fox and Friends?”
“A couple. They said Melissa Davids was a jerk.”
Kelly was relieved to hear that assessment, even if it was from a totally biased perspective.
“I think it’s safe to say she’s not going to roll over on this one.”
“You told me that in your office.”
“It’s a little different when you meet her in the flesh. You know those folks who run around with the bumper stickers saying, ‘You can have my gun when you pry it out of my cold, dead hands’?”
“Yeah.”
“I think Davids probably views them as sellouts.”
This brought a small courtesy chuckle from Blake. In her limited contact with the man, Kelly sensed that it had probably been a long time since he had truly laughed. And who could blame him?
“My friends say you were not exactly a pushover, either,” Blake said.
It was the one comment Kelly needed to hear. She felt like she had been played on the Fox interview and caught off guard. But the client felt good about it. Funny thing with clients, they didn’t always care how smooth or eloquent you were; they just wanted to know you were fighting for them.
“Thanks,” Kelly said. “I think we’re off to a good start.”
It took two discreet calls from conservative pro-gun senators, both friends of Robert Sherwood and major beneficiaries of Sherwood’s political donations, before Melissa Davids would agree to the meeting. Ultimately, she acquiesced, provided that they could squeeze it in first thing in the afternoon, before her return flight to Atlanta. Sherwood had a driver pick Davids up at the Fox News studio and drive her to his waterfront estate in Greenwich, Connecticut. Privacy was of utmost importance.
Sherwood met her at the door himself and was struck by how much smaller she looked in person than she did on television. When they shook hands, her grip had the tensile strength of iron; when she spoke, she talked in clipped sentences with a military staccato and no trace of a Southern accent. She looked at Sherwood with the same kind of suspicious intensity one prizefighter uses to intimidate the other just before the bout.
Robert Sherwood liked her immediately.
“Something to drink?”
“No, thanks.”
“How was your trip out here?”
“Fine.”
Visitors normally couldn’t resist gawking at the cavernous entranceway to Sherwood’s manor or staring through the house to the bank of windows overlooking the water. The view from the front entrance was breathtaking. One could see past the plush marbles and rich woods and antique furniture of the interior, through the floor-to-ceiling windows that lined the back wall, straight to the layered terrace and exquisite landscaping leading down to Long Island Sound. On a clear day, you could stand at Sherwood’s front door and see sailboats, pleasure yachts, and other vessels dotting the sound for more than a mile in each direction.
Sherwood’s neighbors were some of the wealthiest men and women in America-not the flashy nouveau riche, television stars and athletes with limited earning capacity, but the old-time money with real fortunes-hedge fund operators and brokerage firm executives savvy enough to have survived the stock market meltdown of 2008. These were the men and women who made more each year than the combined payroll of the New York Knicks.
Yet Melissa Davids, to her credit, was apparently impressed by none of this.
“I don’t have long,” she said, hardly even glancing around. “I suggest we get down to business.”
“All right,” Sherwood said. “But first I want to show you something.”
He led her through the massive family room that stretched across the back of the house, past a wet bar, and through a door that opened into another large room spanning the house’s east side. It had few windows and no view of the harbor. Its design was more rustic, with a stone fireplace and a number of trophy kills hanging on the walls-African lions, Alaskan bears, Canadian elk.
Sherwood took his guns seriously. His collection contained more than forty firearms, including four rifles and two pistols manufactured by MD Firearms.
Melissa Davids’s lips curled into a little smile. “Your friends told me you were a collector.”
They spent nearly a half hour in the trophy room, with Davids critiquing her competitors’ firearms and even pointing out a few flaws in her own. A dry wit came to the surface, and she allowed Sherwood to talk her into a drink.
“Scotch? Brandy?” Sherwood asked.
“I’m from the South,” Davids replied. “We drink whiskey and beer.”
Over Bud Lights, they swapped hunting stories. For lunch, Sherwood served sandwiches and chips on paper plates.
Halfway through the meal, Davids checked her watch. “Okay,” she said, “you pass the bona fide gun nut test. Now, let’s get down to business. Senator Michaels said you might be able to help with the Crawford case.”
“I run the best jury consulting firm in the world,” Sherwood said. He put his sandwich down and launched into an explanation of the micromarketing techniques that Justice Inc. employed to predict jury verdicts.
Davids looked skeptical. “I spend a few million bucks on lawyers every year. If you’re so good, why haven’t I heard of you?”
