Ever After (28 page)

I say nothing. Mr. Lee begins his presentation. He wants to make a video using small models to demonstrate the sequence of the vehicles slamming into each other.

I don't understand. “You mean you're going to make little models and push them around a few frames at a time—filming them like kids playing with toys?”

He doesn't blink an eye. He illustrates how it will work, using the little wooden trucks and cars on his drawing-board. I look at Mona.

“Honestly, Will. We need to do this. Harry Fox will have his own film showing just the opposite sequence, with Bert slamming into the vehicle in front of him before being hit by Sampson's truck. A video re-enactment is standard in auto accident trials. It's something that interests juries, that they can understand, not all that different from what they see on TV or films.”

“So, at great expense, we're going to sponsor a motion picture Academy Award contest for miniature automobile crashes, with the jury as judges. You've got to be kidding. No jury is going to believe this. The judges must be filled up to the gullet with these kinds of make-believe dramas. They must know it's all phoney.”

The technocrats for Forensic and Metallurgical Engineers Inc. stand there, not smiling, not arguing. Mona's lips are tightly pursed.

“Mr. Lee also has a wonderful way with juries. He has the right blend of seriousness, so they believe him, and humor, so they can enjoy him.”

“So, we're also paying for Mr. Lee's thespian skills. I'm sorry, Mona, I don't see it. All I want is for us to gather the information concerning the accident, put this in a reasonable form, then present it to the judge and jury so they can make a decision. Does that make sense to you?”

“All right, we'll talk about this later. Mr. Lee has another idea. He's convinced from the positions of the bodies and the damage to the vehicles that he can prove our version is the correct one. He would like to purchase a VW van exactly like the one Bert was driving, same model, same year, and put it through some metallurgical tests. As I understand it, there's a metal connection of the front seat to the floor which he's convinced gave way so that the seats went over backward as a result of the Sampson impact from behind.”

“Lord, Mona, you only have to look at the pictures taken when they were still in the van. They're stretched out on their backs. What else do we need? If he really wants to do some kind of metallurgical monkey-business test, I'm sure he can buy a van for five bucks from any junkyard. There's no reason to buy a whole Volkswagen.”

I turn to Mr. Lee and his helpers.

“I'm sorry, gentlemen. But I'm the one who will pay for all this nonsense in the end, and I don't think it's necessary. Thank you for your help.”

I go toward the door. Mona continues to talk to them, shaking hands all around. I realize I forgot to shake hands goodbye, but I'm not going back in. The place feels like a coroner's lab.

We walk out to the car, not talking. Mona gets her key out of her bag. I stand waiting by the passenger side door. Her face is white. She can scarcely talk. And then she starts shouting over the top of the Honda.

“Why are you like this? You can be so nice, and then at the critical moment you become vicious.”

“Mona, I hate to think this case could be decided by such a childish technique.”

“Don't you trust my professional judgment?”

“I think, Mona, you're out of touch with reality. I think you don't believe we can win this case. You're afraid of Harry Fox, and you don't trust juries. I imagine that not trusting juries is an occupational hazard. If anything, you're being
too
professional.”

“So you don't trust my professional judgment.”

“If I didn't, I'd have another lawyer. I think you're a good lawyer and we have a good relationship. We're friends and, as friends, we should say what we think and feel. It's our responsibility to each other.”

“Don't talk to me about responsibility.”

Suddenly, I feel terrible. Maybe she's right. Maybe my natural resistance to all authority, all experts, is the problem.

“I'm sorry, Mona. I know how much you want to win this case. But I'm being honest: I think your desire to prove yourself professionally is getting in the way. Maybe I should have an ‘amateur' lawyer. Perhaps this whole business of being ‘professional' rings a wrong bell with me. Professional, to me, means doing something for money. I think of professional baseball players, professional artists, the entire bag of professionals. Amateur in French means lover. It means someone who loves what they do for the work itself. They can be active or passive amateurs, it doesn't matter. These people are real lovers.”

I sneak a look over at the speedometer. We're doing seventy. I'm holding onto the handle built into the roof over the window and the other hand is locked onto the holder on the armrest.

“Mona, you're a good driver, maybe a lover of driving, but you're not a professional. Please, for me, would you slow down, I'm a real wimp about fast driving.”

“Boy, you really are a wussy, aren't you?”

“You bet, a professional wussy, wimp, or whatever you want to call me. I love life and I'm not ready to leave it yet, especially not broken into pieces and scraped all over a macadam road.”

She slows down. She looks at me again. I look back at her. I wish she'd keep her eyes on the road, but I'm enjoying looking at her, too. Cross purposes.

“Mona, is there time for us to stop and have a beer?”

As quickly as I can think, she's swung the car across the entire road, both lanes, and pulled into a little parking-lot in front of a bar. Either she was considering the same thing, or she knows every bar within twenty miles of Portland's city center. Or maybe she is a professional driver. The way she made that turn, she could have been screeching around the curves at Le Mans.

Inside is dark and cool. We take tables in the back.

We sit, not saying anything. The drinks arrive. I hope a cop doesn't stop us on the way home.

Then, I can feel myself about ready to cry, but if it comes, it comes. I'm getting better at crying. I even cry when I don't know what I'm crying about. I can cry over a picture in a newspaper or when I hear about a kind, loving act that somebody's done, or a piece of music, or, as I said, over nothing at all. I imagine this is the sign of some neurosis with a complicated name.

I put five dollars down on the table, hoping it will cover the beers. Mona and I walk out the door, slowly, so they can stop us if it isn't enough.

The next day, Mona tells me we're going to a pre-trial conference. It's been called by Judge Higgins, the trial judge.

I dress in my lawyer clothes. We park in a parking-lot near the courtroom. Clint is already there waiting for us on the steps. I'm reminded of the settlement conference, with Ted Mitchell and Clint waiting for us. But no Mitchell this time, no security check either.

We go to a small room. Harry Fox is there with another guy, a big heavy fellow, and we shake hands all around. About five minutes later a middle-aged woman peeks in the door, and nods for Fox and Mona to come with her. We sit in silence waiting.

They come back quickly. Mona walks in her high-heeled-booted walk over to me.

“Judge Higgins doesn't want either plaintiffs or defendants at the pre-trial conference, only the attorneys. I'm really sorry to drag you all the way over here.”

“It fits.”

“Whatever you do, don't talk to the defendant. You'll probably be told to stay in the same room. Don't trust this guy, he's standing in for Sampson. He'll try his damnedest to wangle something, anything, out of you.”

The middle-aged woman returns. She motions Mona, Clint, Harry Fox, and his fat lawyer helper into the room with the judge. She takes the Sampson man and me through the door. It opens into a medium-sized courtroom, the kind I'm accustomed to in films.

At first I wander around the room, trying some of the chairs, first the jury's, then the judge's. It's comfortable and swivels. I wish I had something to read; the other guy has a couple magazines.

“Like to borrow one of these? They're the latest
Newsweek
and
Time
.”

He holds them out like the witch in
Snow White
with her poisoned apple. I take
Newsweek
. Maybe it's a test to see which one I'd choose, get some information as to my political preferences. But no, he keeps on reading.

Five minutes later he begins talking about one of the articles he's reading. I figure, the hell with it. I'll just be careful about what I say, nothing about the accident, my lawyers, the case in general, my personal opinions.

We have a great time chatting. As far as I can tell, he asks no leading questions. We talk about skiing, the baseball season, the pennant races, our children, neutral stuff. It's a good thing we have something to talk about, because the pretrial conference goes on for over two hours. I feel guilty when Mona comes out. Should I tell her I've been friendly with the enemy?

She and Clint are all smiles. But then, so are Harry Fox and his blimp. We again shake hands, just as if we're in a boxing match before the starting bell. I don't like the feeling.

We stop at a bar around the corner from the courtroom. They're jabbering away as we go along. They seem to think they've won every point that was raised. I wonder what Harry Fox was smiling about. Maybe this is the way lawyers hide their real feelings, smiling and jabbering. I try to stop my mind from thinking that way. I'll listen.

It turns out that in most points of procedure and of admissible evidence, “we've” won. Then, Mona speaks to me directly.

“Judge Higgins wants to close the courtroom to TV. He says this issue is too controversial in Oregon, and could possibly generate a media-inspired mass hysteria. He pounded his fist and said his courtroom would not be a circus.”

I look at her, then at Clint. It's so diabolical, and it isn't even their fault. They still don't understand what I want, why I want it. The only person who seems to have been listening was Harry Fox. Now I know why he was smiling.

“I give up! There's no use having a trial if nobody's going to be there to see it, to hear it. If no media can be used to put it before the people, the whole farce is an exercise in futility. How hard did you fight Judge Higgins when he tried to put this one over?”

Clint speaks.

“But we got everything we wanted, Will. We're going to win this trial and win it big. There's only a question of how much Judge Higgins will limit any award the jury makes. You have nothing to worry about.”

I turn to Mona.

“And what did you say?”

“Clint's right. We've practically won the case already. Most of our time was spent arguing whether he would or would not deduct the money awarded to Wills by Judge Murphy from your jury award, and what he would do if Sampson appeals.”

“And that's all?”

“Well, what else?”

“You won the battle and lost the war, that's all! Don't you see it? I know Harry Fox does. I'm sure all the seed growers and farmers will see it when they get to know about this fiasco.

“As far as I'm concerned, this trial might as well not take place. It's going to be a non-event, a total waste of two years' work on your part and mine, an insane parody of a real trial!

“I've said it all along, over and over. WE WANT AN UP FRONT JURY TRIAL! We've wanted it because we want to rub the filth and the stubble and the ashes into the faces of everyone who has anything to do with field burning, want them to experience, in total, complete detail, the destruction of my family. You had to know that. I've said it often enough.

“I don't think I'm a vindictive person, but as some compensation to my daughter, her husband, her lovely children, I want these Oregon grass-growing hicks to know what they've been a part of, what they'll be a part of again, when the next fire burns, when more autos and trucks tangle and are crushed, and their drivers along with them, into oblivion.

“Now, it will be just another private black mass in the back chapel, dry tears, echoes of muffled snickers by the people responsible; from your wonderful governor, to the last person who would not sign the petition for the referendum. How could the two of you have missed it. Didn't you listen? Or were you so caught up in the ultimate trivia game, called law, that you forgot to look at or listen to what was happening?

“It's easy to see why plaintiffs and defendants were excluded from that pre-trial conference. I'll bet our Mr. Fox was somehow behind it as I'm sure Mr. Crosley, the lawyer for the man who lit the fire, in his ice-cream suit and Buddha smile, was behind the settlement conference.”

I stand up, drop some money on the table, and walk out. I don't know how to get around by public transport in Portland but I have Robert and Karen's phone number.

I find a phone booth around the corner. I'm in it when I see Mona running along the street. I don't duck, but I don't signal where I am, either. Let chance be a factor. In her high-heeled boots, she isn't quite running, but she's moving fast enough. She passes my booth, then, apparently having seen me in the corner of her eye, comes back. As I slip coins into the phone, she's outside watching me. I look back at her while the phone rings. After nine rings I put the receiver down. Chance! I go out. I don't see Clint.

“Hi there, good, old, bloodbuddy chum. What do you think of yourself as a friend now?”

I start to walk away, not knowing where I'm going. She follows, stride for stride, even in those dumb boots.

“Please, Will. Stop! Listen to me! You tried to explain but I didn't really hear you. I thought I did, but I didn't. I should have known, just by watching Harry Fox. Jesus, law can be such a fucking stupid business.”

“Yes. Law sure is, at least as it's practiced in Oregon, and probably over all America, and perhaps the entire world, but it's lawyers who make it stupid. The kinds of people it attracts, the way they're trained, separated from real life, made to believe they're somehow superior to others. It makes any possibility for real justice almost negligible. Our negligent law and its indigent practitioners. It makes me sick.