Drummond's scowl intensifies, and I smile in return. In the few brief seconds that we stand and watch each other, I learn an enormously valuable lesson. He's just a man. He might be a legendary trial lawyer with lots of notches in his belt, but he's just another man. He's not about to step across the aisle and slap me, because I'd whip his ass. He can't hurt me, and neither can his little covey of minions.
Courtrooms are level from one side to the other. My table is as large as his.
"Sit down!" His Honor growls into the microphone. "Both of you." I find a chair and take a seat. "One question, Mr. Baylor. Who will handle this case on behalf of your firm?"
"I will, Your Honor."
"And what about Mr. Stone?"
"I can't say. But this is my case, these are my clients. Mr. Stone filed it on my behalf, until I passed the bar."
"Very well. Let's proceed. On the record," he says, looking at the court reporter who's already working her machine. "This is the defendant's motion to dismiss, so Mr. Drummond goes first. I'll allow each side fifteen minutes to argue, then I'll take it under advisement. I don't want to be here all morning. Are we in agreement?"
Everybody nods. The defense table resembles wooden ducks wobbling on a carnival firing range, all heads rocking in unison. Leo Drummond strolls to a portable podium in the center of the courtroom, and begins his argument. He's slow and meticulous, and after a few minutes becomes boring. He's summarizing the major points already set forth in his lengthy brief, the gist of which is that Great Benefit is being wrongly sued because its policy does not cover bone marrow transplants. Then there's the issue of whether Donny Ray Black should be covered under the policy since he's an adult and no longer a member of the household.
Frankly, I expected more. I thought I'd witness something almost magical from the great Leo Drummond. Before yesterday, I had caught myself looking forward to this initial skirmish. I wanted to see a good brawl between Drummond, the polished advocate, and Bruiser, the courtroom brawler.
But if I weren't so nervous, I'd fall asleep. He goes past
fifteen minutes without a pause. Judge Hale is looking down, reading something, probably a magazine. Twenty minutes. Deck said he's heard that Drummond bills two-hundred fifty bucks an hour for office work, three-fifty when in court. That's well below New York and Washington standards, but it's very high for Memphis. He has good reason to talk slow and repeat himself. It pays to be thorough, even tedious, when billing at that rate.
His three associates scribble furiously on legal pads, evidently trying to write down everything their leader has to say. It's almost comical, and under better circumstances I might force a laugh out of myself. First they did the research, then they wrote the brief, then they rewrote it several times, then they responded to my brief and now they're writing down Drummond's arguments, which are taken directly from the briefs. But they're getting paid for this. Deck figures Tinley Brirt bills its associates out at around one-fifty for office work, probably a bit more for hearings and trials. If Deck is right, then the three of these young clones are scrawling aimlessly for around two hundred bucks an hour each. Six hundred dollars. Plus, three-fifty for Drummond. That's almost a thousand dollars an hour for what I'm witnessing.
The fourth man, the one sitting behind the associates, is older, about the same age as Drummond. He's not scratching on a notepad, so he can't be a lawyer. He's probably a representative of Great Benefit, maybe one of their in-house lawyers.
I forget about Deck until he taps me on the shoulder with a legal pad. He's behind me, reaching across the bar. He wants to correspond. On the legal pad, he's written a note: "This guy's boring as hell. Just follow your brief. Keep it under ten minutes. No sign of Bruiser?"
I shake my head without turning around. As if Bruiser could be in the courtroom without being seen.
After thirty-one minutes, Drummond finishes his monologue. The reading glasses are perched on the tip of his nose. He's the professor lecturing the class. He struts back to his table, immensely satisfied with his brilliant logic and amazing powers of summation. His clones tip their heads in unison and whisper quick tributes to his marvelous presentation. What a bunch of asskissers! No wonder his ego is warped.
I place my legal pad on the podium and look up at Judge Hale, who, for the moment, seems awfully interested in whatever I'm, about to say. I'm scared to death at this point, but there's nothing to do but press on.
This is a simple lawsuit. Great Benefit's denial has robbed my client of the only medical treatment that could save his life. The company's actions will Mil Donny Ray Black. We're right and they're wrong. I'm comforted by the image of his gaunt face and withered body. It makes me mad.
Great Benefit's lawyers will be paid a ton of money to confuse the issues, to muddle the facts, to hopefully strangle the judge and later the jury with red herrings. That's their job. That's why Drummond rambled for thirty-one minutes and said nothing.
My version of the facts and the law will always run shorter. My briefs and arguments will remain clear and to the point. Surely, someone down the line will appreciate this.
I nervously begin with a few basic points about motions to dismiss in general, and Judge Hale stares down incredulously as if I'm the biggest fool he's ever listened to. His face is contorted with skepticism, but at least he keeps his mouth shut, I try to avoid his eyes.
Motions to dismiss are rarely granted in cases where there's a clear dispute between the parties. I may be nervous and awkward, but I'm confident we'll prevail.
I slog my way through my notes without revealing anything new. His Honor is soon as bored with me as he was with Drummond, and returns to his reading materials. When I finish, Drummond asks for five minutes to rebut what I've said, and his friend waves at the podium.
Drummond rambles for another eleven precious and valuable minutes, clears up whatever was on his mind but does so in such a way as to keep the rest of us in the dark, then sits.
"I'd like to see counsel in chambers," Hale says, rising and quickly disappearing behind the bench. Since I don't know where his chambers happen to be located, I stand and wait for Mr. Drummond to lead die way. He's polite as we meet near the podium, even places his arm on my shoulder and tells me what a superb job I did.
The robe is already off by the time we enter the judge's office. He's standing behind his desk, waving at two chairs. "Please come in. Have a seat." The room is dark with decorum; heavy drapes pulled together over the window, burgundy carpet, rows of heavy books in shelves from floor to ceiling.
We sit. He ponders. Then, "This lawsuit bothers me, Mr. Baylor. I wouldn't use the word frivolous, but I'm not impressed with the merits of it, to be frank. I'm really tired of these types of suits."
He pauses and looks at me as if I'm supposed to respond now. But I'm at a complete loss.
"I'm inclined to grant the motion to dismiss," he says, opening a drawer, then slowly removing several bottles of pills. He carefully lines them up on his desk as we watch. He stops and looks at me. "Maybe you can refile it in federal court, you know. Take it somewhere else. I just don't want it clogging up my docket." He counts, pills, at least a dozen from four plastic cylinders.
"Excuse me while I visit the can," he says, and steps to a small door across the room, to his right. It locks loudly.
I sit in a dazed stillness, staring blankly at the pill bottles, hoping he chokes on them in there. Drummond hasn't said a word, but as if on cue rises and perches his butt on the corner of the desk. He looks down at me, all warmth and smiles.