Impact (48 page)

The reasonable value of medical care, services, and supplies reasonably required and actually given in the treatment of the plaintiff to the present time and the present cash value of the reasonable value of similar items reasonably certain to be required and given in the future.

Reasonable compensation for any pain, discomfort, fears, anxiety, and other mental and emotional distress suffered by the plaintiff and of which his Injury was a proximate cause, and for similar suffering reasonably certain to be experienced in the future from the same cause.

No definite standard is prescribed by which to fix the reasonable compensation for pain and suffering, nor is the opinion of any witness required as to the amount of such compensation. In making an award for pain and suffering, you shall exercise your authority with calm and reasonable Judgment and the damages you fix shall be Just and reasonable in the light of the evidence.

PUNITIVE DAMAGES—RECOVERY OF AND

MEASURE

If you find that plaintiff suffered damages as a proximate result of the conduct of a defendant on which you base a finding of liability, you may then consider whether you should award punitive damages against defendants, or either of them, for the sake of example and by way of punishment. You may in your discretion award such damages, if, but only if, you find by a preponderance of the evidence that said defendant was guilty of malice in the conduct on which you base your finding of liability.

Malice means conduct with a conscious disregard for the safety of others. A corporation acts with conscious disregard of the safety of others when it is aware of the probable dangerous consequences of its conduct and willfully and deliberately fails to avoid those consequences.

The law provides no fixed standards as to the amount of punitive damages, but leaves the amount to the jury's sound discretion, exercised without passion or prejudice.

In arriving at an award of punitive damages, you are to consider the following:

(1) the reprehensibility of the conduct,

(2) the amount which will have a deterrent effect on the defendant in the light of defendant's financial condition,

(3) that the punitive damages must bear a reasonable relation to the actual damages.

FOURTEEN

“Caught you, counselor.”

Just when Alec Hawthorne had decided he was safe for the duration, the greeting attacked him from the rear.

From beneath her yellow rain hat, Brenda Farnsworth inspected him from head to toe. “I like the beard,” she said offhandedly, “but the outfit carries Ralph Lauren a bit too far.”

His chin sank with resignation. “How'd you spot me?”

She pointed. “The watch. It's far too fancy for a tramp. You've been a naughty boy, Mr. Hawthorne.”

“How?” Without trying, he thought of a dozen ways.

“You're not supposed to be there.”

He watched her tongue swab her upper lip. “So you and Hawley are intimates these days.”

“We keep in touch. In case we need each other.” Brenda crossed her arms. “So how's it going, anyway?”

He shrugged. “Your guess is as good as mine.”

“Keith's better than I expected, I have to admit. But it won't be enough—Chambers is holding too many cards.”

“Are you one of them?”

She raised a shoulder, then let it drop.

“I still can't figure your interest,” he said. “Why are you here every day? What are you doing on their witness list?”

She rolled her eyes in a burlesque swoon. “That nasty crash injured one of Altoona's leading citizens. Naturally, I'm concerned about it.”

“Bullshit.”

The word cancelled her performance. “I lost a sister, remember?”

“The trial isn't going to change that.”

“I also lost a lover.”

“It won't change that, either.”

“Prick.”

He laughed. “So tell me—how's Hawley going to use you when he puts on his defense?”

“He thinks I'm going to say bad things about Jack.”

“Are you?”

“Only if I have to.”

“What would make you have to?”

Her look was crafty. “If I thought Laura and Keith were about to get their hands on a big hunk of money, I'd try to put a stop to it.”

“How?”

“By blowing the whistle on the lovebirds.”

“Are you so sure Keith and Mrs. Donahue are lovers?”

“Sure enough to say so to the jury.”

Her intent was clearly independent of truth or falsity. “What if I asked you not to?”

“Since you got a nice settlement for Carol, I'd think it over. And then I'd do it anyway.”

From a sudden impulse, he took her hand. “What can I do to convince you to stay out of the Donahue case?”

Angered, she pulled away. “I'll do what I have to do,” she retorted hotly, then seemed to cool. “If they don't try to make Laura and Jack like Ozzie and Harriet, maybe I'll keep quiet. But if they do, I tell what I know.” She stuffed her hands in her pockets, as if to preserve them from contamination. “When's she on, by the way? I want to be sure I catch the show”

“Monday, probably. The doctor goes tomorrow.” He pointed to the hotel that surveyed them from the other side of Market Street. “Can I buy you a drink? I hear vengeance works up quite a thirst.”

Although he expected her to refuse, she glanced up and down the street, then examined him long enough to make him wish he hadn't issued the invitation. “Why not?” she said finally, and took his arm and strolled with him to the hotel bar.

“What have you done with your settlement money?” he asked as she sipped her stinger.

“Bought a car. Had the house painted. Put my son in therapy. You know—the basics.”

“How's he doing?”

“Better, I guess. At least he's out of the graveyard.”

“Is he back with you?”

She shook her head. “With Laura. He sleeps in her garage.”

“How do you feel about that?”

For the first time since confronting him, she softened. “When you've spent twenty-five years dealing with someone like Spitter, you get used to mixed blessings.”

Hawthorne watched her stir her drink, then glanced at the clock on the wall. “Got any plans this evening?”

Her lip twitched. “I thought I'd sit home alone, down a six pack of Bud, and watch
L.A. Law
to see how Keith measures up.”

“Would you like to have dinner together?”

She looked around. “Here?”

“It's not the Fairmont, but I expect it has a steak.”

She hesitated. “I noticed you sneaking into one of those side rooms with that woman who works for you. What's the deal there, anyway?”

He looked out at Market Street, once grand, then tawdry, now rebounding. Rather like himself. “We used to be close, but now we're not.”

“When's the last time you slept with her?”

“The night before my heart attack.”

“When's the last time you tried?”

He laughed. “The night before my heart attack.”

“Why not since?”

“She's afraid I'm going to drop dead in the middle of the festivities. I'm a little afraid of that myself,” he added with false flippancy. “So how about it? Shall we adjourn to the dining room?”

She looked at him until he squirmed. “I've got a better idea.”

“What?”

“Let's try that apartment of yours. The one with all the wine.”

“I take it you're willing to take your chances,” he said as he threw money on the table.

“I grew up in my daddy's bar. There's nothing you could do, in the middle of the festivities or otherwise, that I haven't seen before, including drawing your last breath.”

They left the hotel and took a cab to Vallejo Street, to a point just behind the blare of Broadway. He unlocked the gate that guarded the unprepossessing walk-up, allowed her to precede him to the entrance, then ushered her inside. “Somehow I don't see you conducting your love life in a place like this,” she whispered.

“That's the idea,” he replied. “And you can be as loud as you like—I'm the only tenant who speaks English.”

They took the stairs to the second floor. The apartment was small—pullman kitchen, sitting room, with a narrow view of the bay and the looming undercarriage of the bridge that spanned it toward the east Hawthorne helped Brenda off with her coat and motioned for her to take a seat on the couch, then left her for the kitchen.

The refrigerator was not as he had left it last; he suspected Martha had entertained a new friend since the last time they had entertained each other. “Chenin blanc or champagne?” he called.

“Champagne. Maybe if we pretend it's an occasion it'll turn out to be one.”

He delivered her Veuve Clicquot in a stem glass that had a bluish cast. She sipped and smiled. “This isn't Cold Duck.”

“Nope.” He sat in a club chair and regarded her as he imbibed his own accomplice, which was Scotch.

“You look surprised we're here,” she said.

He shrugged. “I am, a bit. I figured you were still hung up on Keith.”

“I'll always be hung up on Keith, but the equation has gotten too unbalanced lately—this may even things up. Besides, I haven't had an adventure in twenty years.” She raised a brow. “You're not diseased or anything, I trust?”

He considered his heart. “Nothing catching.”

She upended her glass, then raised it in the universal gesture for another round. “If we're going to be naughty, I better be drunk enough to enjoy it.”

From the kitchen he watched as she strolled around the room, examining the furnishings, the art, the books, the view. “Not that it's relevant, but are you married at the present time?” she asked as he brought the bottle to the sitting room and refilled her glass.

Her look told him she knew enough of his past to be mischievous. “Not at the moment.”

“You've been to the altar an obscene amount.”

“It would appear that way to anyone but a Moslem, I suppose.”

“Have you been faithful to any of them?”

Since honesty is the most seductive line of all, he said, “One.”

“The first?”

“The third.”

“Why her?”

“I decided to try the only thing I could think of that I'd done wrong the first two times.”

“Did it work?”

He shook his head.

“Why not?”

“She didn't choose to reciprocate.”

“You mean she had other men.”

The bitterness of his response surprised him. “If she confined herself to men, it was the only taboo she observed.”

Brenda's smile was sloppy. “Let's hear it for our side.” She lofted the stem glass once again. “If I get drunk, can I stay here all night?”

“Be my guest.”

He refilled her glass and she emptied it in successive swallows. “Ready as I'll ever be,” she said, blinking with her buzz. “Just remember, I live in Altoona so I've only screwed in the minor leagues.” She banged her glass onto the coffee table hard enough to spill its dregs. “But I'm working on my game.”

“Will Mr. Tollison be bothered if he finds out about this?” he asked, uncertain of the answer he preferred.

Her lush smile vanished. “I sure as hell hope so.”

As manipulated as she, he tugged her to her feet, then led her toward the bedroom. By the time he was out of his clothes she was naked on the bed, her arms grasping the rods of the headboard, her legs spread for him to admire their confluence. “The last time I fucked a stranger, I got pregnant,” she observed lazily.

“I'm not a stranger; I'm your lawyer.”

“I'll probably have twins.”

He stood over her and read her flesh. Unlike Martha, she was excited to be the subject of a dissertation. As she arced her back, his cock elongated to intersect his gaze. A moment later she grasped it like a fry pan and tugged him to her side.

They wallowed in flesh for long minutes that were in turn yielding and belligerent, trying proven combinations and invited variations, exhibiting the skills each hoped would spur the other on. Brenda writhed in increasingly spastic throes, to the point that Hawthorne considered whether she wanted to be punished, then decided she was content to be punishing herself. Her ministrations were both insistent and defiant, as though done primarily to prove her courage, a French frill on the theme of Russian roulette. As a result, he was quickly on the brink.

He arranged their torsos and entered her conventionally. She quickly holstered him to his hilt, then slid hands between their bellies and monitored the redundant progress of his prick with nails that were sharp enough to circumcise him. When he was confident she wished him no harm, he glanced at his watch, then hurried toward the close; he was supposed to meet Tollison at eight.

He was spent in a dozen convulsive writhes. After wiping himself with a Kleenex, he stood to dress. She turned toward the telltale sound, stretched, scraped semen off her thigh with a forefinger, licked, and finally swallowed it. “Lots of calories in this stuff. Guess I better go back on my diet.”

Her look was bothersome. “How do you feel? Booze-wise?”

“Sober enough to get out of your hair, if that's what you're worried about.”

“You're free to stay,” he offered.

She eyed him skeptically. “Will you want an encore?”

He shook his head. “Not tonight.”

“The old wham-bam, huh? Well, it's not the first time.”

She dressed reluctantly, as though she would prefer to remain naked. When she was finished, she went to the other room and waited while he cleaned himself and the apartment. Though he felt a need to reveal that she had excited the first orgasm since his heart attack and that he was indebted to her for proving he was back to normal, at least below the belt, he didn't because he couldn't be sure what she would do with the information.