Ever After (23 page)

“You heard what I just told you about the relationship between lawyers and judges. Nobody's willing to stick out his neck.”

“OK, go on. I promised I wouldn't interrupt.”

“Well, that's about all I can tell you now. We'll have to wait and see what Judge Murphy has in mind. There's nothing more we can think to do.

“By the way, something else you should know. Judge Murphy is a devout Christian. He's taken his vow to Christ. There are other things, too, but you'll figure those out for yourself. Just remember that, for this day, we're in this man's hands whether we like it or not. He used to work for Steele, Cutler and Walsh, but they didn't ask him to stay. That doesn't really help our case, either.”

I need time to think about all this. I can't believe it. None of this has much to do with the civics courses I had in elementary school, or the “Problems of Democracy” classes in high school, or the one on United States government and political science at UCLA. Nobody mentioned anything about “settlements” or “plea bargaining.” Maybe they hadn't invented those things yet. It was all over forty years ago.

I've slouched down in my seat as the beautiful scenery passes by the window. This is the same scenery which in a few months will again be shrouded with smoke. It's hard to believe.

We reach Eugene.

We shake hands all around and then go through huge doors, high enough for giants. The inside has the closed-in smell of all public buildings, of years of fear and conflict. There's a metal detector just inside the door, like the kind used in airports. I feel as if I'm being led into prison.

I'm carrying my briefcase. I have a peanut-butter sandwich packed in there and my tape recorder with a packet of ninety-minute tapes. When I go through, the detector buzzes, and I back out. The security guard goes through my briefcase and lifts out my small tape recorder. I have my earphones in there, too. He holds it up, glaring at me.

“What do you intend to do with this?”

“I'm the personal representative for my family as plaintiff in this case. I want to record what happens so they'll know.”

“You can't bring this into a federal court-house. You aren't allowed to record any of the proceedings. It's against the law.”

I turn to Mona.

“Is that so?”

“That's right. I didn't know you were bringing a tape recorder or I would have told you.”

I look back at the cop.

“I don't intend to record any of the proceedings. I was only going to tape myself telling my reactions about what's been happening.”

“Nope. Can't do that either.”

“How about if I leave the tapes with you?”

I look over at Ted Mitchell. He's checking his watch. The cop opens the tape recorder and removes the tape. I watch him. He finds my peanut-butter sandwich, looks at it carefully, then takes out the pack of tapes.

“OK. I shouldn't do this, but you can keep the recorder in the briefcase and not use it. You can pick up these tapes when you leave.”

He smiles. I smile back at him. I don't know if he senses how funny this all is. I smile at Mona, Clint, and Mitchell. They don't think it's funny at all. On the way up the steps from the entrance, Mona turns to me.

“If you use that tape machine and get caught, I promise I won't defend you.”

We go up to a large room. It's apparently where the settlement conference is to be held. I spot Claire Woodman in the hall outside. She's knitting. She looks up as if she doesn't know me, but then grudgingly shakes hands.

“What's the matter, Claire? How's the family?”

“They're all fine, considering.”

“Considering what?”

She shrugs and goes back to her work. Maybe she's catching “law,” a contagious and dangerous disease. Mona comes over and urges me to follow her into the big room. Everybody's beginning to settle down. It's quite a crowd.

There's the main seating area, where I imagine visitors will sit. Then, along the right side, some plush swivel chairs. I count. Thirteen. It must be for the jury. Up front are some tables and chairs, and on a platform behind them is a large desk. It looks like a courtroom from any movie, only huge.

It's three o'clock. I'm thinking about that peanut-butter sandwich. I can smell it through the Saran wrap and the leather of the briefcase. Just then, a door opens on the left, behind the big desk. This must be Murphy, although he's dressed in civilian clothes, more like golfing togs, with checkered trousers, a shirt open at the top and a long-sleeved, loose sweater.

He crosses his legs tightly, left over right, and puts his hands up behind his head, fingers interlaced. He starts to speak. He speaks in a very soft, lyrical, lilting voice so we all lean forward to hear.

“I'm Judge Murphy, and I'm in charge of this settlement conference. We are going to settle all suits arising from the I-5 tragedy. We are not going to leave this building until every suit has been settled. I hope all of you understand that.”

There isn't a voice of dissent.

“I am going to stay here twenty-four hours a day, working this out. And all of you are, too. I know we can come to compromises and reach agreement. This will not be easy for any of us. But I warn you that whatever the hour of my summons, day or night, you're to be in my chambers within five minutes—or I shall hold you in contempt of court.”

At this, he looks around the room, hoping to find someone he can hold in contempt, I suppose.

“This is going to be a long session, as long as it has to be, as long as you make it. We could easily be here several days.

“Now, would each of you please stand one at a time, give your name, the reason you are here, and if it is appropriate, whom you are representing.”

Again silence. I'm already feeling slightly claustrophobic. We're actually prisoners of this man. How can all these trained, educated people just sit there?

“We'll start with you, Mr. Stears.”

Mr. Stears is on the extreme left of the room, but not in the jury box. He's up in the last row. He stands, says his name and that he represents a particular insurance company. We have a “thank you” from Judge Murphy, and he points to the next person in line.

This is going to take forever; there must be at least fifty people in the room. I'm between Mona and Ted Mitchell. Clint is on the other side of Mitchell. Danny is beside Clint. I was watching Judge Murphy so closely I didn't see Danny come in.

The lawyers, meanwhile, are already sounding as if they're tired of the whole thing. The plaintiffs or defendants are generally nervous. When the judge finally gets to my row, I'm surprised to find myself anxious as well. At my turn, I stand up.

“My name is William Wharton, father of Kathleen Wharton Woodman, grandfather to Dayiel and Mia Wharton Woodman, father-in-law to Bert Woodman, all of whom were killed in the accident on highway I-5 in this state. I am standing in for my wife as family representative. I am here under threat of being charged with contempt of court if I did not make the long voyage from France to this place. I have no intention of making settlement outside of court and resent having been forced to come here against my will.”

So now it's out in public. I sit down. Ted Mitchell rises and identifies himself as lawyer to the plaintiffs, the Billings and Wharton families. He doesn't look happy.

After everyone has said their piece, Judge Murphy calls on the Assistant District Attorney for the state of Oregon, a heavy-set man wearing glasses.

“I am instructed as Assistant District Attorney to the state of Oregon to inform you that Judge Murphy, as settlement judge for this conference, has suggested to me, representing the state, that the maximum amount of money available from the state in these settlements for all claims relating to this accident is $300,000 as per the law.”

There are no objections. I can't believe it. I look over at Mona; she puts her fingers to her lips to shush me. The judge takes over again.

“Also available for this settlement will be various amounts of insurance monies from different defendants. All of these have been entered into a general fund from which settlements will be allocated at your suggestion and my discretion.

“I suggest you gentlemen representing plaintiffs and defendants sit down and work out settlement amounts, proportionate to the general fund, which you feel appropriate to your particular case. I shall be calling you and your clients into my chambers a few at a time to see how well you are progressing with this difficult task. No one is to reveal to any client the total money in the general fund, nor the amounts of the settlements when they are made. This is an official injunction and violation of it will be dealt with severely.”

On that note, he stands, turns, and walks back through the door by which he entered.

At first, there's not much movement or comment. Then, gradually, like birds searching for nesting places, lawyers, plaintiffs, defendants, drift into various corners, angles, or groups of chairs and, honest to God, pull out those innocuous, yellow, lined, legal pads. Mitchell, Mona, and Clint drift off together. Mona motions me to stay where I am. This is where the professionals get separated from the clients. Danny stays a while, then sees a newspaper on a table down at the front of the room and goes for it.

I'm still numb. I can't believe this is happening. It's like a kangaroo court, or secret fraternity initiation meeting. I'm furious.

After about ten minutes sitting alone, I pick up my briefcase and head for the door on the other side of the main desk, a matching door to the one the judge went through. I want a private place for myself. I have two ninety-minute tapes which were “accidentally” in my inside jacket pocket. If Mona wants to make an arrest, here's her chance. I want to get down some of my thoughts, and feelings.

The door, I find, leads into a relatively large room. It has a long table and comfortable chairs. There's another door at the other end which looks as if it might lead toward the judge's chambers. I settle myself with my back to the window. I put my briefcase on the table, slip a cassette into my recorder, pull out some papers and a pencil to look as if I'm writing, prop the edge of the top of the briefcase open with a ball-point pen, push the proper buttons on the recorder and start recording. I get down most of what's happened so far and how I'm feeling about it. This takes maybe ten minutes.

I go out again. I need to find our lawyers. How can they make decisions without the client?

It takes me half an hour to find them; actually, they find me. That is, Ted Mitchell does. He motions me to a chair.

“We've been thinking it over and we feel we should present our case against the trucking company, Sampson, first.”

“Why not the state of Oregon? They're most responsible.”

“You heard what's happened. We can't get much from the state by suing them; probably Judge Murphy won't even allow us to file suit.”

“How about Thompkins? He lit the fire.”

“He's filed for bankruptcy and has only $100,000 insurance available; the rest is protected by his bankruptcy, a special form of Chapter Eleven, for farmers. Everybody's going to be suing him and we'd only manage a limited portion of the whole. It wouldn't be worth it. Sampson's definitely our first choice.”

“I don't want to settle. You know that, don't you?”

He doesn't answer at first.

“Yes, I know. But when Judge Murphy calls us in, he's going to put heavy pressure on us to settle. I, personally, think the case is worth close to a million dollars.”

“But we won't settle.”

He doesn't respond.

The day drags on. The few toilets are always occupied. There's only one phone on the courtroom floor. People keep being called in by Judge Murphy and coming out, still arguing with each other.

Meanwhile, I, at the insistence of my lawyers, have become involved in a terrible legal maneuver.

The van Bert was driving had been borrowed from his best friend Doug; it was insured for half a million dollars. This is because Doug has a garage and apparently insures all the vehicles on one policy. Another attorney wants us—that is Danny and me—to sue Bert, our Bert, for his involvement in the accident, so that this half-million can go into the “pot,” this general settlement fund. Mona says Danny won't resist the idea.

I
should be suing
Bert
, who was killed trying to save our family? And I should also be suing Doug because he was kind enough to lend Bert his van?

My lawyers point out that it's only the insurance company that loses, not Bert, who is dead, and not Doug. I don't care. There must be some line between right and wrong. For an hour, these lawyers keep badgering me: to them it is incomprehensible that I would keep this money out of the “pot.” They act as if I'm robbing them.

Now I understand why Claire Woodman was so incommunicative: she thought I was going to sue her son. It's what her lawyer probably told her.

I go out and hunt for Claire Woodman's lawyer. I explain what has happened and confirm that there will be no suit coming from me, even at the cost of everyone's potential profit. The lawyer doesn't believe me at first, but then smiles and leads me over to Claire. She explains. Claire reaches up over her knitting, and we hug. I feel much better. She's crying. She has been sitting here, thinking the worst of me and not saying a thing. Very Oregonian, very John Wayne-ish, very lawyerish.

I walk along, looking out the windows into the courtyard. It's starting to get dark and I'm starved. Ted Mitchell and Clint say they'll cover for us while Mona and I go eat. There's a restaurant in the Hilton Hotel just down the street. We don't talk much. I bitch; she explains. I still want a jury trial, a chance to make the issue public again.

The food is expensive and isn't much good. I can see we're not going to see the judge today. I don't intend to spend the night sleeping on that courtroom floor and so, before leaving, I go to the front desk and reserve a room. I'll stick around in the courtroom till ten or so, but after that, I'm taking off. I'm pooped. I'll ask one of the team to phone me if the judge calls us to his chambers.