Dead Man's Rule Read Online Free
sure,” Weaver said as the elevator doors opened and both men stepped in. “Your client’s case is totally baseless.”
“So was your motion, as we both know.”
Weaver smiled but said nothing.
“But look what happened,” Ben continued. “You can’t be sure of anything in that courtroom. Judge Ryan is like a barroom drunk waving a gun around. Today it was pointed at me; tomorrow it may be pointing at you, and neither of us knows where it’ll be pointing when it goes off. Your client faces liability of up to $100 million, and there’s no way you can honestly tell them they have a seventy-five-percent chance of winning.” The elevator jerked unsettlingly, then came to a stop. “Think about it,” he said as the doors opened. “I wouldn’t laugh too hard at $25 million if I were you.”
Weaver chuckled. “But you aren’t me, are you?” he said as they stepped out into the crowded courthouse lobby. “And you sure aren’t Steve Rocco. Look, I said I’ll get you a formal response to your offer and I’ll do it, but you and your client will need to seriously rethink your position if you really want to settle this case.”
The two lawyers parted ways as they walked through the banks of steel-and-glass doors surrounding the Daley Center, Chicago’s massive high-rise state courthouse. A wide stone plaza sprawled immediately to the south, watched over by an ominous fifty-foot-tall sculpture by Pablo Picasso. The city of Chicago was quite proud of the statue but not quite sure what it was supposed to be. The prevailing theory among art critics was that it was the head of a woman. Ben had always thought that was questionable at best. The statue was black-and-gray steel, and it had wings, a long beak-like snout, and an empty ribcage. Several of Ben’s clients had commented that it looked like a hungry vulture, which they found to be a particularly apt guardian for a hive of lawyers.
The city put the plaza to good use, and today it held a bustling farmers’ market. A maze of stalls sold apple butter, gooseberry preserves, maple syrup, gourds, fresh flowers, and anything else that could legally be grown for profit in the Midwest. The chatter of rural sellers and suburban and urban buyers reminded Ben pleasantly of a county fair.
He spent twenty minutes wandering around the market, making an effort to shake off his irritation at the judge’s ruling and Weaver’s arrogance. He gradually relaxed as he walked, and he was actually in a good mood by the time he finished paying for a half dozen ears of sweet corn.
“Will it be a problem to give them the tax records?” asked Noelle.
“Not really,” said Ben. He and Noelle were sitting on their back deck, finishing a delicious dinner of grilled pork chops and the corn Ben had bought. They sipped iced tea and enjoyed the unseasonably warm October evening. The rich golden light from the low sun gave everything it touched a soft glow, bringing out the auburn highlights in Noelle’s brown hair and making her deep-blue eyes strikingly luminous. Ordinarily, Ben would have said something nice to his wife, but tonight he was distracted. “Nothing in them has any impact on the case—a point that Judge Ryan completely ignored.”
“Is that what’s bugging you so much?”
Ben didn’t answer right away. He thought for a moment, gazing at the row of oaks at the back of the yard, their red leaves beginning to thin as autumn took hold. “Well, I hate getting criticized by a judge, particularly when he’s wrong,” he said after a moment. “But what really bothered me was Weaver not taking me seriously.”
“He’ll learn his mistake in court,” said Noelle.
Ben shrugged. “I hope so.” He paused again. “You know what? Seven months ago, if I’d been in Weaver’s shoes, I would have thought the same thing he did. I wouldn’t have been pompous enough to say it, but I would have thought it. Maybe that’s what’s really eating at me; I’m afraid I’m
“So was your motion, as we both know.”
Weaver smiled but said nothing.
“But look what happened,” Ben continued. “You can’t be sure of anything in that courtroom. Judge Ryan is like a barroom drunk waving a gun around. Today it was pointed at me; tomorrow it may be pointing at you, and neither of us knows where it’ll be pointing when it goes off. Your client faces liability of up to $100 million, and there’s no way you can honestly tell them they have a seventy-five-percent chance of winning.” The elevator jerked unsettlingly, then came to a stop. “Think about it,” he said as the doors opened. “I wouldn’t laugh too hard at $25 million if I were you.”
Weaver chuckled. “But you aren’t me, are you?” he said as they stepped out into the crowded courthouse lobby. “And you sure aren’t Steve Rocco. Look, I said I’ll get you a formal response to your offer and I’ll do it, but you and your client will need to seriously rethink your position if you really want to settle this case.”
The two lawyers parted ways as they walked through the banks of steel-and-glass doors surrounding the Daley Center, Chicago’s massive high-rise state courthouse. A wide stone plaza sprawled immediately to the south, watched over by an ominous fifty-foot-tall sculpture by Pablo Picasso. The city of Chicago was quite proud of the statue but not quite sure what it was supposed to be. The prevailing theory among art critics was that it was the head of a woman. Ben had always thought that was questionable at best. The statue was black-and-gray steel, and it had wings, a long beak-like snout, and an empty ribcage. Several of Ben’s clients had commented that it looked like a hungry vulture, which they found to be a particularly apt guardian for a hive of lawyers.
The city put the plaza to good use, and today it held a bustling farmers’ market. A maze of stalls sold apple butter, gooseberry preserves, maple syrup, gourds, fresh flowers, and anything else that could legally be grown for profit in the Midwest. The chatter of rural sellers and suburban and urban buyers reminded Ben pleasantly of a county fair.
He spent twenty minutes wandering around the market, making an effort to shake off his irritation at the judge’s ruling and Weaver’s arrogance. He gradually relaxed as he walked, and he was actually in a good mood by the time he finished paying for a half dozen ears of sweet corn.
“Will it be a problem to give them the tax records?” asked Noelle.
“Not really,” said Ben. He and Noelle were sitting on their back deck, finishing a delicious dinner of grilled pork chops and the corn Ben had bought. They sipped iced tea and enjoyed the unseasonably warm October evening. The rich golden light from the low sun gave everything it touched a soft glow, bringing out the auburn highlights in Noelle’s brown hair and making her deep-blue eyes strikingly luminous. Ordinarily, Ben would have said something nice to his wife, but tonight he was distracted. “Nothing in them has any impact on the case—a point that Judge Ryan completely ignored.”
“Is that what’s bugging you so much?”
Ben didn’t answer right away. He thought for a moment, gazing at the row of oaks at the back of the yard, their red leaves beginning to thin as autumn took hold. “Well, I hate getting criticized by a judge, particularly when he’s wrong,” he said after a moment. “But what really bothered me was Weaver not taking me seriously.”
“He’ll learn his mistake in court,” said Noelle.
Ben shrugged. “I hope so.” He paused again. “You know what? Seven months ago, if I’d been in Weaver’s shoes, I would have thought the same thing he did. I wouldn’t have been pompous enough to say it, but I would have thought it. Maybe that’s what’s really eating at me; I’m afraid I’m
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