Directed Verdict Read online

  “Not yet, but I will be.”

  “Right,” Carli teased. “No pressure, but the law school bookies have you as a five-to-one underdog. They’re sayin’ you’ll wilt under Strobel’s withering questions.”

  “And what do you say?”

  “That Strobel will be so amazed, he’ll offer you a plum job in his international law practice on the spot.”

  “Just in case,” Leslie said, “you might want to put down a few bills against me.”

  Carli laughed and gave Leslie a playful push as she walked away. “You kidding?” she said over her shoulder. “I already did.”

  Leslie’s thoughts lingered for a moment on Maximillian Strobel, the managing partner of the largest law firm in southeast Virginia. Strobel was one of three moot court judges who would hear and decide the finals in two days. More important, he also headed the only thriving international law practice outside of Washington, D.C., New York, and Los Angeles. Because Leslie had promised herself that she would never live in those mammoth cities, Strobel was her only chance at a serious career in international law with a quality of life she could tolerate.

  She glanced again at her watch. It was now fifteen minutes until midnight. Six in the morning would come quickly. She reached into her backpack and popped a couple of sleeping pills. They would kick in about the time she got back to her little studio apartment. In the meantime, she would use fifteen minutes wisely. She picked up a brief and began reading through it for the third time.

  * * *

  The next morning, Sarah Reed walked into the law offices of Carson & Associates, not at all confident she was doing the right thing. She had a nagging conviction that Christians should avoid lawyers in general and lawsuits in particular. Still, the insulting letter she now carried in her purse had overridden her feelings, and the Reverend Jacob Bailey, her pastor in Chesapeake, suggested she come here. She knew of no other attorney she might be able to trust.

  But as she got off the elevator at the fifth floor of the Tidewater Community Bank building on the outskirts of a Virginia Beach shopping mall, she started to have second thoughts. She had never been in a law office before. She would rather be going to the dentist.

  She followed the signs for Carson & Associates to the end of the hallway. She hesitated in front of the oak door with the name of the firm emblazoned in gold letters. Then she took a deep breath, said a quick prayer, and entered the waiting area.

  The receptionist did nothing to put her at ease.

  “Yeah,” the squat woman said. She didn’t bother to pause her typing. The nameplate on the desk identified her as Bella Harper. Smoke wafted upward from the ashtray next to her, where a half-gone cigarette smoldered.

  “I’m here to see Mr. Carson,” Sarah said timidly.

  “Do you have an appointment?” Bella asked.

  Sarah immediately felt stupid. She knew she should have called and scheduled in advance. But that would have locked her in. She needed the freedom to bolt if she got cold feet. Like right now.

  “No. Reverend Jacob Bailey referred me. I was hoping I could get just a minute of Mr. Carson’s time. I’ll come back later.”

  “Honey,” Bella said, finally deigning to look up, “we don’t take drop-ins. I can get you an appointment, but it’ll probably be about three weeks before Mr. Carson can see you. He’s in court this morning on a trial that will last a week. Then he’s got back-to-back appointments for two weeks after that.”

  Three weeks!

  Legal matters were something Charles would have handled. The thought of it made Sarah’s eyes fill with tears, which made her feel even more self-conscious. It didn’t help that Bella was eyeing her up and down. Sarah had become so emotional since Charles died, and waves of grief would wash over her at the most inopportune times.

  “I’ll just make an appointment some other time if I can’t get this resolved on my own,” she said to Bella, swallowing hard and forcing a plastic smile.

  “Suit yourself.” Bella resumed her typing.

  Sarah stared at Bella for a moment, dumbfounded. No wonder lawyers have such a bad reputation.

  This was obviously God’s way of telling her to drop the matter. She shouldn’t have come in the first place.

  As she turned to leave, a slender, well-dressed man burst through the thick oak door and nearly ran over her.

  * * *

  “Sorry,” Brad said, stopping just short of a collision. He gave the woman a quizzical look. “Do I know you?”

  She shrugged her shoulders. “I don’t think so.”

  “I’m Brad Carson,” he said, sticking out his hand. She looks so familiar.

  “Sarah Reed,” she said softly.

  Even her name sounds familiar. Brad noticed a trail of smoke from the ashtray where Bella had just stabbed out her cigarette.

  “What happened?” Bella called out. “I thought you were in trial.”

  “We settled.”

  Then it hit him. He had seen this lady on the news. The missionary whose husband had died in Saudi Arabia. CNN had run live coverage of her testimony before the Senate Foreign Affairs Committee. The government of Saudi Arabia had denied Sarah’s allegations of murder. They claimed her husband died from a heart attack unrelated to the injuries he received from resisting arrest on drug charges.

  In the end, the importance of the vast Saudi oil reserves won out over the testimony of a missionary. The committee authored a scathing report but avoided any real sanctions against the government of Saudi Arabia, and the Saudis agreed to conduct an internal investigation and punish any renegade police officers. The Senate placed the Saudis on probation for a while, and the Saudis agreed to diligently protect human rights.

  The oil kept flowing.

  “I remember now. I’m sorry about your husband,” Brad said earnestly. “And I’m sorry about the way your case was handled by the government.”

  Sarah shrugged and seemed to relax just a little. “Thanks. I’m just trying to move on. One day at a time.”

  “Can we help you with anything?” Brad asked.

  Bella shot him a look. “She was referred by Reverend Bailey,” Bella said, as if that explained everything. Reverend Bailey’s church members had not given up on their abortion protests, and many had tried to solicit Brad’s representation.

  Once had been enough.

  But Brad could sense that Sarah had not come for that reason. He saw something else etched in the soft lines of her face. She looked tired, older now than she had seemed just a few months before when he saw her on television.

  “Well,” Brad said, “as fate would have it, my day just cleared up. Come on back to the conference room, and we’ll talk.” He turned to Bella with a playful smile. “Bella, could you get a couple cups of coffee?”

  Bella grunted and stalked down the hallway to the kitchen. Brad ushered Sarah into the conference room.

  * * *

  “This is ridiculous,” Brad said, slapping the letter down on the large oak table. “Unbelievable.”

  The letter came from Charles’s life insurance company and denied Sarah’s claim for one hundred thousand dollars in death benefits. Brad glanced down to the operative paragraph:

  The investigation of Trust Indemnity has revealed that, according to tests performed at the hospital and during the autopsy, the Insured had a lethally high dosage of cocaine in his bloodstream on the night of his demise, and the Insured’s heart attack was precipitated in part by this self-induced overdose of cocaine. Accordingly, Trust Indemnity cannot honor your claim for insurance proceeds in light of Exclusion 4 Section A(2).

  Brad stood and began to pace, still holding the letter. To line their own pockets, the insurance company had chosen to disregard Sarah’s version of the facts and to conclude that Dr. Reed had died from a self-inflicted drug overdose. And, Brad knew, this was par for the course with Trust Indemnity. He had sued them twice in the last year alone for bad faith.

  He looked at Sarah’s expectant expression. She was
just sitting there, engulfed by the deep leather swivel chair, her hands folded on the table, concern etched deeply into her brow.

  “We’ll sue,” Brad promised. He said it with that air of authority that clients loved. “This is outrageous. We’ll sue for every penny of the hundred thousand; then we’ll sue for bad faith and punitive damages. I’ve had lots of run-ins with these folks, but this is the worst.” He paused for emphasis. “It’s time to teach these guys a lesson.”

  Brad was surprised that the look on Sarah’s face did not change. He didn’t get the same sparkle in the eyes, the you-tell-’em look he was used to receiving from other clients when he uttered the magic words “punitive damages.” If anything, the creases of concern on Sarah’s forehead burrowed deeper.

  “Couldn’t you just send a letter and see if we could handle it that way?”

  “A letter won’t do any good, Sarah. The boys at Trust Indemnity understand two things: lawsuits and punitive damages. Nothing else gets their attention.”

  Sarah shifted uncomfortably and looked down at her hands. “I don’t want to file for punitive damages, Mr. Carson.”

  Brad tried not to look at her as if she were some kind of freak. Doesn’t want to file for punitive damages? Does God still make people like this?

  Still looking down, Sarah continued softly. “I really don’t want to even file a suit. But I’ve got two kids to think about, and the money . . .” Her voice quivered, then broke off.

  Brad leaned forward on the table, looked directly at Sarah, and lowered his voice to its most comforting tone, perfected by years in front of the jury box. “Okay, Sarah, listen to me.” She looked up, and Brad continued. “There’s nothing wrong with filing a lawsuit.” He said it with real conviction, his voice comforting and steady. “Sometimes it’s the only way in our society to obtain justice. These guys owe you a hundred thousand. To let them get away with that is to admit that Charles committed suicide and died from a self-inflicted overdose of cocaine. And I know you don’t want that.”

  Sarah forced her lips into a thin smile and shook her head.

  “Then here’s what I’m going to do. I’ll draft a lawsuit and have it served on Trust Indemnity. My guess is that they’ll pay immediately once they know you’ve got a lawyer involved. If not, we’ll talk about a fee agreement at that stage. I won’t charge anything for drafting and sending the lawsuit.”

  It was not good business, but every once in a while Brad believed he owed it to the profession to take on a case pro bono. If ever there was such a case, this one was it. At least that’s the way he saw it; Bella probably wouldn’t speak to him for a week.

  “Reverend Bailey said it would be just like you to take this case for free,” Sarah said. “I don’t want that. I want you to take your normal fee. In fact, I insist on it, and I’ll go to another lawyer if you refuse.”

  Brad gave Sarah another sideways look. Where did she come from? It was hard not to be charmed by this lady. “I seldom see clients so insistent on giving me their money. But if you insist, I’ll sic Bella on you, and we’ll have you sign our retainer agreement.”

  Sarah paused before answering. “If I’ve got to deal with her again, maybe I’ll reconsider.” She smiled, and her moist blue eyes lit up for the first time.

  Brad laughed politely, struck by the warmth of her smile. He stood and shook hands with his new client, walked around the table, put an arm around her shoulder, and gave her a squeeze. They chatted for a few moments; then he ushered her out of the conference room and into the clutches of Bella.

  Brad watched Bella attack the fee arrangement with gusto, placing one form after another in front of Sarah for her signature. Carson & Associates would receive one-third of any money recovered “against Trust Indemnity or otherwise” as a result of the death of Charles Reed. Brad knew Bella had another form that actually placed the fee at 40 percent, but apparently even she could not spring that form on a grieving widow like Sarah in such a simple case.

  * * *

  Rasheed turned over and reached out to stroke his wife’s hair. As he touched her cheek, he felt the warm tears. He leaned up on one elbow and tried to focus in the dark.

  “What’s wrong, Mobara?”

  He sensed a slight movement, perhaps a shudder, perhaps a shrug of the shoulders. “Nothing,” she said.

  Rasheed knew better than to accept that answer.

  “You just decide to start crying in the middle of the night for no reason? Come on, you can talk to me.”

  Mobara wiped the tears away with the palms of her hands. “I feel so guilty,” she sobbed. “I’ve felt this every day and every night since the Muttawa came . . .” Her voice faltered.

  Rasheed reached over and drew her to himself. He held her softly as she cried.

  When she regained control, she spoke again in a desperate whisper. “We denied our Lord, Rasheed. I can’t live like this.”

  He squeezed her tighter in the silence. “Nor I,” he said at last.

  “What . . . are we going to do?” Her sobbing intensified.

  Rasheed gently released his wife, then drew her out of bed to kneel together. “We must pray . . . ask forgiveness . . . trust God to give us another chance.”

  Mobara joined him and put her hand on his. “What if they come back, Rasheed? I’m so afraid.”

  “I know. Let’s pray. Remember, God has not given us the spirit of fear.”

  Mobara looked intently at her husband. “I love you, Rasheed. And I’ll be okay if you’re with me.”

  Rasheed put his arm around her again and drew her close, still kneeling, preparing to pray.

  “Are you afraid?” she asked.

  Rasheed thought for a moment and looked down. He couldn’t lie to Mobara. She would know. “Yes,” he admitted.

  Together, they began to pray.

  6

  LESLIE TOOK ANOTHER SIP from the glass of water on her counsel table. It was half-gone, her mouth was still dry, and she hadn’t even started her argument yet. She tapped the sides of the typed pages in front of her, perfectly lining up the edges of her notes, then surveyed again the panel of accomplished lawyers who would act as judges for the moot court final.

  Seated on her left was Professor Lynda Parsons. She was rumored to be tough, fair, sarcastic, and witty. Leslie had skillfully avoided taking her classes, but now she had to face her as a judge in the moot court final.

  In the middle, and acting as chief justice because of his experience and reputation in international law, sat Mack Strobel. He was already staring down the litigants.

  Leslie stared back.

  She had read the book on Strobel. Don’t let him intimidate you. He’s from the old school—blunt and full of bluster. Respect him but don’t trust him.

  It was hard not to look away. Strobel’s eyes became piercing. His clean-shaven head, close-cropped goatee, and fierce scowl gave him a draconian look—like some type of WWF wrestler dressed up in a business suit. His leathery skin and bald pate were well-tanned, though summer was months away. He had broad shoulders, was above average height, and he seemed to dominate the courtroom without trying.

  After making her point with Strobel, Leslie diverted her gaze to Brad Carson, who sat to Leslie’s right. Carson shuffled some papers and looked absentmindedly around the courtroom. He caught Leslie’s gaze and smiled. Compared to Strobel, Carson was not an imposing figure, but he seemed so sure of himself and so natural in a courtroom setting that he, too, commanded respect. He also seemed bored and ready for some action.

  “Be seated,” Strobel barked, obviously ready to get down to the business of beating up the litigants.

  * * *

  The sizing up went both ways. Brad had already decided that Leslie would win if points were awarded for style.

  “Is counsel for appellant ready?” Mack asked.

  “Ready, Your Honor.” Leslie stood and flashed a nervous smile.

  “Is counsel for appellee ready?”

  “Yes, Your Honor.”


  Brad studied the young man opposing Leslie. Stiff posture, short-cropped hair, and precise movements. Probably active duty military, attending school on a JAG scholarship. Long on discipline, short on creativity, Brad figured.

  Leslie was more of a mystery. She was attractive but trying hard to look more like a lawyer than a beauty queen. She wore her shoulder-length auburn hair in a tight braid, and her traditional dark blue suit camouflaged a tall, thin frame. Intense sky blue eyes seemed to sparkle with anticipation. She had the high cheekbones and long neck of a model, but none of the makeup that would accentuate or draw attention to those features. Her pale skin had probably been weeks without seeing a ray of sun, and red blotches marked her neck where she had probably scratched nervously. Brad pegged her as a hardworking overachiever who was taking this event way too seriously.

  She stood and addressed the panel.

  “May it please the court, my name is Leslie Connors, and I represent the appellants—the former Taliban regime and the nation of Afghanistan. The issue in this case is whether a U.S. federal court has the jurisdiction to hear the case and award damages to certain female Afghanistan refugees against the Taliban and the nation of Afghanistan for the alleged torture of these refugees. Let me make myself perfectly clear. The issue is not whether the Taliban abused these women and should be punished for their heinous conduct; it is whether a U.S. court should usurp the role of the international community and set itself up as the final tribunal to judge that conduct.”

  “Counsel,” Strobel interrupted, “would you agree that your clients committed some of the most despicable and far-reaching human rights violations since the atrocities of Hitler?”

  “Your Honor, that is for the international community to decide, not this court.”

  “But, Counsel,” Strobel drawled, “do you deny that the Taliban regime deprived women like yourself of the most basic human rights?”

  “No, we do not deny it.” Leslie appeared uncomfortable making even this obvious concession. Brad watched as she shifted her weight from one foot to the other, then nervously tucked an imaginary strand of stray hair behind her ear.