IN THIS AGE OF CONGESTED COURTROOMS and overworked judges, the late Harvey Hale left a docket remarkably well organized and free of backlog. There are a few good reasons. First, he was lazy and preferred to play golf. Second, he was quick to dismiss a plaintiffs suit if it offended his notions of protecting insurance companies and large corporations. And because of this, most plaintiffs' lawyers avoided him.
There are ways to avoid certain judges, little tricks used by seasoned lawyers who are cozy with the filing clerks. I'll never understand why Bruiser, a twenty-year lawyer who knew the ropes, allowed me to file the Black case without taking steps to avoid Harvey Hale. That's another matter I want to discuss with him if he's ever brought home.
But Hale is gone and life is fair again. Tyrone Kipler will soon inherit a docket that's begging for action.
In response to years of criticism by laymen and lawyers alike, the rules of procedure were changed not long ago in an effort to speed up justice. Sanctions for frivolous law-
suits were increased. Mandatory deadlines for pretrial maneuvering were imposed. Judges were given more authority to ramrod litigation, and they were also encouraged to become more active in settlement negotiations. Lots of rules and laws were implemented, all in an effort to streamline the civil justice system.
Created in this mass of new regulations was a procedure commonly known as "fast-tracking," designed to bring certain cases to trial faster than others. The term "fast-tracking" was instantly added to our legal jargon. The parties involved can request that their case be fast-tracked, but this seldom happens. It's a rare defendant who'll agree to a speedy trip to the courtroom. So the judge has the authority to do it on his own volition. It's usually done when the issues are clear, the facts are sharply defined but hotly in dispute, and all that's needed is a jury's verdict.
Since Black versus Great Benefit is my only real case, I want it fast-tracked. I explain this to Booker over coffee one morning. Booker then explains this to Kipler. The justice system at work.
THE DAY AFTER Tyrone Kipler is appointed by the governor, he calls me to his office, the same one I visited not long ago when Harvey Hale occupied it. It's different now. Hale's books and mementos are in the process of being boxed. The dusty shelves are bare. The curtains are pulled open. Hale's desk has been removed, and we chat with each other in folding chairs.
Kipler is under forty, soft-spoken, with eyes that never blink. He's incredibly bright, and widely thought to be on his way to greatness as a federal judge somewhere. I thank him for helping me pass the bar exam.
We chat about this and that. He says kind things about Harvey Hale, but is amazed at the sparsity of his docket.
He's already reviewed every active case, and targeted a few for quick movement. He's ready for some action.
"And you think this Black case should be fast-tracked?" he asks, his words slow and careful.
"Yes sir. The issues are simple. There won't be a lot of witnesses."
"How many depositions?"
I have yet to take my first deposition. "I'm not real sure. Less than ten."
"You'll have trouble with the documents," he says. "Happens every time with insurance companies. I've sued a bunch of them, and they never give you all the paperwork. It'll take us a while to get all the documents you're entitled to."
I like the way he says "us." And there's nothing wrong with it. Among other roles, a judge is an enforcer. It's his duty to assist all parties as they try to obtain pretrial evidence to which they're entitled. Kipler does seem to be a bit partial to our side, though. But I guess there's nothing wrong with that either-Drummond had Harvey Hale on a leash for many years.
"File a motion to fast-track the case," he says, making notes on a legal pad. "The defense will refuse. We'll have a hearing. Unless I hear something very persuasive from the other side, I'll grant the motion. I'll allow four months for discovery, that should be enough time for all depositions, swapping of documents, written interrogatories, etcetera. When discovery is completed, I'll set it for a trial."
I take a deep breath and swallow hard. Sounds awfully fast to me. The image of facing Leo F. Drunrmond and company in open court, in front of a jury, so soon, is frightening. "We'll be ready," I say, not knowing what the next three steps are. I hope I sound a lot more confident than I feel.
dugouts, bleachers, umpires, a scoreboard with lights, a concession stand between the two fields. This is the A League, highly competitive slow-pitch softball with teams consisting of very good players. They think they're good anyway.
The game is between PFX Freight, the team with the yellow shirts, and Army Surplus, the team in green with the nickname Gunners on their shirts. And it's serious business. They chatter, hustle like mad, scream encour-'agement to one another, occasionally ride the opposing players. They dive, slide headfirst, argue with the umpires, throw their bats when they make an out.
I played slow-pitch softball in college, but was never taken with the sport. It appears the object here is to knock the ball over the fence, nothing else matters. This happens occasionally, and the home run struts would shame Babe Ruth. Almost all of the players are in their early twenties, in reasonably good shape, extremely cocky and trimmed out with more garb than the pros use; gloves on all hands, wide wristbands, eye-black smeared across their cheeks, different gloves for fielding.
Most of these guys are still waiting to be discovered. They still have the dream.
There are several older players with larger stomachs and slower feet. They're ludicrous trying to sprint between bases and race for fly balls. You can almost hear muscles popping loose. But they're even more intense than the young guys. They have something to prove.
Donny Ray and I talk little. I buy him popcorn and a soda from the concession stand. He thanks me, and thanks me again for bringing him here.
I pay particular attention to the third baseman for PFX, a muscular player with quick feet and hands. He's fluid and intense, lots of trash-talking to the other team. The
I'VE FALLEN into the habit of calling Donny Ray each afternoon, usually around five. After the first call several weeks ago, Dot mentioned how much it meant to him, and I've tried to call each day since. We talk about a variety of things,- but never his illness or the lawsuit. I try to remember something funny during the course of the day, and save it for him. I know the calls have become an important part of his waning life.
He sounds strong this afternoon, says he's been out of bed and sitting on the front porch, that he'd love to go somewhere for a few hours, get away from the house and his parents.
I pick him up at seven. We eat dinner at a neighborhood barbecue place. He gets a few stares, but seems oblivious. We talk about his childhood, funny stories from the earlier days of Granger when gangs of children roamed the streets. We laugh some, probably the first time in months for him. But the conversation tires him. He barely touches his food.
Just after dark, we arrive at a park near the fairgrounds where two softball games are in progress on adjacent fields. I study them both as I ease through the parking lot. I'm looking for a team in yellow shirts.
We park on a grassy incline, under a tree, far down the right field line. There is no one near us. I remove two folding lawn chairs from my trunk, borrowed from Miss Birdie's garage, and I help Donny Ray into one of them. He can walk by himself, and is determined to do so with as little assistance as possible.
It's late summer, the temperature after dark still hovers around ninety. The humidity is virtually visible. My shirt sticks to me in the center of my back. The badly weathered flag on the pole in centerfield does not move an inch.
The field is nice and level, the outfield turf is thick and freshly mowed. The infield is dirt, no grass. There are
We chat for a while longer, and then I leave. He tells me to call him if I have any questions.
AN HOUR LATER, I almost call him. Waiting for me when I return to my office is a bulky envelope from Tinley Britt. Leo F. Drummond, aside from grieving for his friend, has been busy. The motion machine is in high gear.
He's filed a motion for security of costs, a gentle slap in the faces of me and my clients. Since we're both poor, Drummond claims to be worried about our ability to pay costs. This might happen one day if we eventually lose the case and are ordered by the judge to cover the filing expenses incurred by both parties. He's also filed a motion for sanctions asking the court to impose financial penalties against both me and my clients for filing such a frivolous lawsuit.
The first morion is nothing but posturing. The second is downright nasty. Both come with long, handsome briefs properly footnoted, indexed, bibliographed.
As I read them carefully for the second time, I decide that Drummond has filed them to prove a point. Relief is rarely granted on either motion, and I think their purpose is to show me just how much paperwork the troops at Trent & Brent can produce in a short period of time, and over non-issues. Since each side has to respond to the other's motions, and since I wouldn't settle, Drummond is telling me that I'm about to be suffocated with paper.
The phones have yet to start ringing. Deck is downtown somewhere. I'm afraid to guess where he might be prowling. I have plenty of time to play the motion game. I am motivated by thoughts of my sorrowful little client and the screwing that he got. I'm the only lawyer Donny Ray has, and it will take much more than paper to slow me down.
POOD
inning is over, and I watch as he walks to the fence beside his dugout, and says something to his girl. Kelly smiles, I can see the dimples and teeth from here, and Cliff laughs. He pecks her quickly on the lips, and struts off to join his team as they prepare to hit.
They appear to be a couple of lovebirds. He loves her madly and likes for his guys to see him kiss her. They can't get enough of each other.
She leans on the fence, crutches beside her, a smaller walking cast on her foot. She's alone, away from the bleachers and the other fans. She can't see me up here on the other side of the field. I'm wearing a cap just in case.
I wonder what she'd do if she recognized me. Nothing, probably, except ignore me.
I should be glad that she appears to be happy and healthy and getting along with her husband. The beatings have apparently stopped, and I'm thankful for this. The image of him knocking her around with a bat makes me ill. It's ironic, though, that the only way I'll get Kelly is if the abuse continues.
I hate myself for this thought.
Cliffs at the plate. He crushes the third pitch, sends it well over the lights in left, completely out of sight. It is truly an amazing shot, and he swaggers around the bases, yells something to Kelly as he steps on third. He's a talented athlete, much better than anyone else on the field. I cannot imagine the horror of him swinging a bat at me.
Maybe he's stopped drinking, and maybe in a sobered state he'll stop the mistreatment. Maybe it's time for me to butt out.
After an hour, Donny Ray is ready for sleep. We drive and talk about his deposition. I filed a motion today asking the court to allow me to take his evidentiary deposition, one that can be used at trial, as soon as possible. My client
will soon be too weak to endure a two-hour question-and-answer session with a bunch of lawyers, so we need to hurry.
"We'd better do it pretty soon," he says softly as we pull into his driveway.
