Tampa, Florida
Friday 7:00 a.m.
January 22, 1999
When the alarm went off at 7:00, I cursed my promise to keep Grover’s case moving quickly. Promise in haste, repent at leisure, I guess.
We began trial again promptly at 9:00.
Grover looked like he had spent a later night than I had. O’Connell and his associate didn’t look well-rested either.
I remembered too well the years I’d spent preparing long into the night for trials, and attributed the defense team’s weariness to that preparation.
Grover’s ego would never have allowed all-night grunt work. What was his excuse?
Throughout the morning, I found myself studying him, seeking evidence of stress or mental strain caused by anticipation of his arrest for murder. Saw none, unfortunately.
The afternoon session was filled with video depositions, always a boring part of any trial. Rulings were made in advance to avoid interruptions. Lights lowered, courtroom quiet, testimony long and complicated. Always a lethal combination if the goal was to keep the jury awake.
Plaintiffs’ national experts; doctors making a killing by testifying around the country in breast implant cases. It was rumored that some of them charged as much as $25,000 just to review a patient’s medical records, $10,000 for a deposition and $50,000 to testify in court, which they would rarely consent to do.
One of last night’s articles said that many experts made a more prosperous living as professional witnesses than they’d ever earned practicing medicine. The legitimate medical community was appalled, of course, but the experts were doing nothing illegal, or even novel. As Sheldon Warwick had said at George’s party, product liability lawsuits were a growth business.
This afternoon’s witnesses were experts on the surgical techniques for implanting and explanting the breast prostheses. Their testimony consisted of diagrams and charts and videos of actual surgeries, which left most of us squeamish.
I nodded off a couple of times. Maybe no one noticed. I’m fairly sure I didn’t snore. But I sat up straighter in my chair and tried to pay attention. It wasn’t easy.
Grover’s final video of the day was the deposition testimony of an expert immunologist, a doctor specializing in the human immune system.
Grover questioned him for almost an hour before he reached the finish line. “Implants cause the immune system of an implanted woman to turn on itself and destroy her own cells? Is that what happens?”
The doctor said, “It’s like AIDS. Debilitating. Progressive. Degenerative.”
Grover said, “And like AIDS, doctor, breast implants kill?”
The doctor said, “Absolutely.”
Worthington glowered at the testimony in the dark because we already knew his cross examination didn’t dent the doctor’s confidence.
The videos finally ended. The jury seemed more sleepy and bewildered than impressed.
I dismissed the jury and then the parties and returned to my chambers at 4:35, hoping to sneak out before the CJ arrived for the meeting he’d insisted my secretary put on the calendar.
Like a high school principal, he had been the victim of this dodge before; he’d arrived early and waited. I pretended to be pleasantly surprised to see him; he feigned joy at the prospect; he entered my chambers.
Before I joined him, I raised my voice and said, “Hold my calls, Margaret,” which was our code for “come in and rescue me in ten minutes.”
CJ said, “Wilhelmina, you know I think the world of you and your husband.”
He knew, and I knew, he thought no such thing and, even if he did, what was the point? I smiled and nodded and waited for the punch line.
“Wilhelmina, I’m concerned about you. You were absent last week after you were, as I understand it, attacked by a mugger. Today, you look exhausted. You have some control over your schedule. You need to pace yourself.” He sounded genuine, but that tic at the corner of his left eye proved the effort stressed him out some.
Nice backhanded way to say I looked like hell.
Quite sure we hadn’t gotten to the point of his visit yet, I said, “I appreciate your concern, Oz.”
CJ cleared his throat and finally spit it out, like a wad of phlegm.
“I’ve been asked to tell you that your conduct is being perceived, by some, as well, not what we’d hoped for.” Another throat clearing thing. “It’s true you have a lifetime appointment, but you can be, uh, impeached.”
My temperature shot up ten degrees. Nostrils flared.
He noticed. Rushed on. “It doesn’t happen often, but it has happened before.”
Hard words, “I see.”
CJ’s voice squeaked, like the wad of phlegm had settled against his vocal cords and pressed his wind. “I suggest you leave the homicide investigations to Ben Hathaway, particularly when the deceased is someone as disreputable as Michael Morgan.”
He could barely eek out the name. Swallowed. Sweat dotted his forehead.
Now, he had my full attention. My ears burned like hotspots. Eyes narrowed. Brows dipped toward my nose. Fists clinched under the desk where CJ couldn’t see them; where I couldn’t use them to throttle the little shit.
He stood as if about to bolt. “I doubt there’s a person worth knowing in Tampa who’s sorry to see Morgan dead. You want to be careful who you make your enemies, Willa. People in this town have long memories.”
My breaths slammed full and hurt my chest. Fists opened, closed; again, harder. I might actually do something here I’d regret later. Grace under pressure, Wilhelmina. Mom’s voice played in my head, but it didn’t lower my temperature.
Ever since I’d mistakenly taken his parking place my first day on the job, the revered first spot next to the door reserved for the Big Guy, the CJ, Oz himself, he’d been on my case. His reaction was more than a little bit strange for such a minor infraction. He gave me the worst case assignments, the smallest chambers, the most meager courtroom redecorating budget possible. At meetings, he ignored my suggestions and just generally made it known, without saying so, that I was far from his favorite. Okay. I’d come to actually treasure all of that because it meant he left me alone.
But this was the first time he’d ever said anything overtly threatening to me. It was so out of character, so inappropriate and so unjudicial, that I wasn’t totally sure I’d heard him correctly. I was tired. I was stressed. My visceral response seemed extreme. Could I have misunderstood?
“Are you threatening me, CJ? And if you are, are you threatening me or is this a message from someone else?” I asked him coldly.
He’d reached the door. Had his hand on the knob. But he watched me like a sniper. “Don’t take that tone with me, Wilhelmina. I’m trying to give you some good advice. If you don’t want to take it, the risk is yours.”
He slammed the door on his way out. Hard enough to knock one of the ancient framed photographs off the wall. It hit the floor, landed on a weak corner, and burst apart, sending glass shards everywhere.
Too bad it wasn’t the little dweeb’s head that shattered.
Margret rushed in. The alarm on her face was almost comical. “What happened?”
“Old glass, I guess. Do we have a broom? I’ll take care of it,” I said.
She replied, “That’s ridiculous. Go get coffee. Leave it to me.”
When I returned, all traces of the broken glass were gone. The spot where the old photo once hung showed the most god-awful green blank spot. The thing was almost as big as CJ. If it had landed on his head, he might literally have shattered, just as I’d wished.
The silly thought cheered me up. Along with the Cuban Coffee, good cheer cleared my head. But the situation was as murky as ever.
“Why did CJ give me that warning?” I asked myself aloud.
Heeding Grandma’s warning about answers, I skipped speculation and went right ahead with questions.
“Does he think I’ve disgraced his precious court? Does he hold me somehow responsible for Junior’s recent loss of face? Does someone who once contributed heavily to his reelection campaigns ask him for the favor?”
He has aspirations to higher office. Maybe it’s a black mark against him if he can’t keep his junior justices in line, and he won’t be considered for the Court of Appeals?
If so, that would be most unfortunate.
The only chance I had of getting rid of him was the Peter Principle: get him kicked upstairs.
It was quite a while before I figured out the real reason for his warning, and it was I who had to be hit over the head with it even then.