Authors: RANDY SINGER
He would sit there and take all of their anger, all of their vitriol, every one of their accusations and indictments. He deserved every word.
Anything he said would, of course, be a self-incriminating statement. If the Tates decided to press charges based on this meeting, so be it. Anything would be better than continuing to live with this lie.
He was sick to his stomach by the time he meekly introduced himself to Reverend Tate’s assistant. He desperately wanted to bolt, but there was no turning back now. The reverend had the door to his office closed and made Jason wait five more minutes. It was the longest five minutes of Jason’s life.
Reverend Tate came out looking serious and sad, shook Jason’s hand, and ushered Jason into the office. He looked the same way Jason remembered him—beefy and intimidating with intense brown eyes. He was a little heavier now, and his hair was peppered with gray.
Mrs. Tate was also in the office, and she greeted Jason with a hug. She had put on more weight than her husband, and her sad eyes sagged even when she briefly smiled.
Jason sat down on a small couch, as if he were at a counseling session. Reverend and Mrs. Tate sat in front of him in two side chairs, holding hands.
“We appreciate you coming,” Reverend Tate said. “Do you mind if I start with a prayer?”
The request shouldn’t have taken Jason off guard, but it did. He took off his hat, put his elbows on his knees, and bowed his head. He was so nervous he hardly heard a word the reverend said.
When Reverend Tate finished praying, he asked Jason about his shoulder.
It actually hurt like crazy, but Jason tried to shrug it off. “Just a flesh wound,” he said in a lame attempt at humor.
“Look, Jason, I know how hard it must have been coming here and facing this.” Reverend Tate stared at Jason—right through him, really—and Jason couldn’t look away. “This is all pretty fresh to us and picks the scabs off some raw wounds, but I want you to know—” he paused and looked at Mrs. Tate, who nodded along—“we
need
you to know that we hold nothing against you, son.”
Mrs. Tate dabbed at her eyes, and Jason realized that the reverend’s voice was cracking a little as well. “You were LeRon’s best friend, and he loved you like a brother. You boys were young, and you made a big mistake. God chose to take LeRon home. We’ve learned to accept that.”
The words stunned Jason, rendering him speechless. He hadn’t known quite what to expect, but he surely had not envisioned this. His planned
mea culpa
speech seemed so inadequate now. What could he say in response?
Jason was not an emotional guy, but he found himself choking back tears as he offered a meager apology. “He deserved a better friend than me. I’ve lied to you, disrespected him, used my dead friend as a…” Jason struggled for the right word, then reached back to his closing argument. “. . . as a scapegoat.”
He had more to say, but Mrs. Tate cut him off, her motherly instincts kicking in. “You were young. You had your whole life in front of you. We don’t blame you.”
“How can you not?” Jason asked.
“What good would bitterness do?” Reverend Tate asked, his voice strong and confident again. He was in pastor mode now. “Would anger bring our son back? Would punishing you bring him out of the grave?”
Jason shook his head, but that apparently wasn’t good enough for the reverend.
“Would it?” he insisted.
“No, sir.”
“You know that’s right,” the reverend said. “All that’s left is all that’s left. LeRon wouldn’t have wanted us puttin’ no guilt trip on you.”
They talked that way for nearly an hour, with the last half focused on memories of LeRon. As they did, Jason felt a suffocating weight leave his chest. For ten years, he had lived with guilt and deception. Now he felt like he could breathe again.
By the time Jason was ready to leave, Reverend Tate had him convinced that LeRon would actually be proud of the type of trial lawyer Jason had become.
“He’s probably watching you right now,” the reverend suggested, “talkin’ smack. ‘Have you seen my boy Jason? Ain’t nobody better than him.’”
Reverend Tate locked his eyes on Jason. “Do you mind if I preach at you for a minute, son. Sometimes, I just can’t help myself.”
“No problem,” Jason said.
Mrs. Tate smiled.
“Don’t back away from the hard cases, son. The clients nobody else wants to touch—the people everybody else gives up on. You want to honor LeRon’s memory?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Then seek justice, son. That’s what you’re good at. But let me leave you with a passage from the Word to think about. You ready for this?”
Jason nodded.
“‘So speak and so act as those who are to be judged under the law of liberty. For judgment is without mercy to one who has shown no mercy. Mercy triumphs over judgment.’ That’s James chapter two, verses twelve and thirteen.”
It sounded profound, but to be honest, Jason didn’t know exactly what it all meant. He borrowed a piece of paper and a pen. He wrote down the reference.
Later, when he had time, he would look it up. He would think about it with the same intensity he brought to his cases. He would read what the experts said.
The law of liberty. Mercy triumphs over judgment.
The words were familiar, but the way they were strung together created concepts that were foreign. Like a mystery.
Maybe someday he would understand.
After a two-day media blitz, Melissa Davids settled into her nondescript office in the out-of-the-way industrial park that served as the national headquarters for MD Firearms. The factory was running full bore, trying to keep up with the orders flooding in for MD-9s and MD-45s with the new GPS system and fingerprint-activated safety lock. Almost every employee was working overtime.
At 10 a.m., Melissa called Case McAllister to her office for a quick meeting.
Before he arrived, she picked up the memo and moved in front of her desk. As usual, this would be a stand-up meeting. If it took five minutes, it would be too long.
“How’s Annie Oakley?” Case asked as he walked in the door.
“Remind me never to do CNBC again,” Melissa replied. “Hopeless liberals.”
“That’s what you said last time,” Case reminded her.
“Yeah, well . . . they haven’t changed.”
“There’s a surprise.”
Melissa handed Case the memo. “Look this over and let me know what you think.”
She watched his eyes glance over the page and then lock on the handwriting at the top. The document was a copy of the memo Case had written two years ago entitled “Sales to Dealers Sued by Northeast Cities.”
But Melissa had crossed through her original handwritten instructions and replaced them with new ones. Case, the consummate pro, didn’t show the slightest hint of surprise as he read.
“I think I can make this happen,” Case said. “After all, the Second Amendment’s not a license to kill.”
Melissa shot him a look. “Quotes like that—you oughta work for CNBC.”
It took Robert Sherwood two days to get the FBI off his back. Once he provided documented proof that Justice Inc. and its clients would have stood to lose tens of millions of dollars from a plaintiff’s verdict, the feds had to concede that Andrew Lassiter, Rafael Johansen, and Tony Morris must have acted outside the purview of Justice Inc. But the feds were not willing to concede total defeat; they made noises about possibly prosecuting Sherwood for illegally tapping into Jason Noble’s phone calls and intercepting his e-mails.
“Maybe Rafael Johansen was intercepting those calls and e-mails,” Sherwood argued, “but he wasn’t passing that information back to us. Think about it. If I had been monitoring Jason Noble’s e-mails, I would have known he was being blackmailed. And if I’d known he was being blackmailed, I wouldn’t have invested millions in MD Firearms and other gun companies.”
The logic was unassailable, and Sherwood knew that his firewall of legal protection would hold. While attorneys like Jason were working for Justice Inc., their company phone calls and e-mails were closely monitored—all perfectly legal. Justice Inc. had tens of millions of dollars riding on each case. The cell phones and e-mail accounts were company property. Permission to monitor them was contained in a bunch of legalese buried in the small print of contracts the lawyers signed when they handled company cases.
Andrew Lassiter’s access to those records, along with the repossessed computers of those lawyers, was undoubtedly how he had learned about Kelly’s affair and been alerted to something fishy with Jason’s car accident.
Once the attorneys left the New York City firms and quit working for Justice Inc., they were on their own. From time to time, Sherwood might use Rafael Johansen to investigate or monitor the lawyers, particularly if they were suspected of harboring proprietary information that belonged to the company. But Sherwood was a master at plausible deniability.
“Just how Johansen did the monitoring was his business,” Sherwood explained. “He was an independent contractor, and I didn’t ask any questions. I just continued to stress that everything needed to be done on the up-and-up.”
By the third day, the FBI had run out of questions, and Robert Sherwood was ready to make some serious money.
The company was flush with cash from the Crawford case, and the clients had never been happier. Sure, Sherwood had received some panicked phone calls on Monday right after the devastating cross-examination of Chief Poole. In the sanctuary of his office, he had paced and cursed and called Jason all kinds of names for not vetting Poole properly. But on the phone with clients, Sherwood had been the epitome of composure, urging them to ride it out, assuring them that Jason would pull a rabbit out of his hat during closing arguments.
Then came the shocking events of Monday afternoon. A mistrial in the real case. A defense verdict by the shadow jury. A shoot-out at the Surf and Sand that had turned Melissa Davids into a folk hero.
MD Firearms stock had skyrocketed, and Justice Inc.’s clients cashed in.
In the following weeks, the only cloud on the horizon for the firearms manufacturers was the newfound popularity of plaintiff’s attorney Kelly Starling. There were rumors her firm was already preparing half a dozen new cases on behalf of gun victims. According to Sherwood’s sources, she had turned down a gig as a legal commentator for CNN to stay focused on her crusades against gun makers and sex traffickers.
But such matters no longer concerned Robert Sherwood. He had already moved on. There were millions of AIDS victims in Kenya, and Sherwood was never one to rest on his laurels.
“Brett Lawson, line one,” Olivia called out.
Sherwood spent the next fifteen minutes talking to the father of Carissa Lawson, the backup singer who had died with high levels of cocaine and oxycodone in her blood. Despite the jury verdict in the criminal case acquitting Kendra Van Wyck, Brett Lawson was convinced she had poisoned his daughter. Months ago, Mr. Lawson had filed a wrongful death suit and promised to bankrupt Kendra Van Wyck and all of her associated companies. He reminded the world that O. J. Simpson had won the criminal case and lost the civil case. The standard of proof was different. He wouldn’t rest until justice was served.
But now, the civil case had bogged down due to the ineptitude of the L.A. celebrity lawyer handling the matter. Robert Sherwood had called some of his connections in the entertainment industry, who in turn had talked Brett Lawson into calling the CEO of Justice Inc.
“I’ve got just the lawyer for you,” Sherwood promised. Due to Jason’s notoriety from the Crawford case, it didn’t take long to convince Mr. Lawson he’d be better off changing attorneys. Jason Noble could win this case in his sleep.
Sixty seconds after Sherwood hung up, Olivia was standing in the doorway, arms crossed. She knew why Brett Lawson had called.
“Well?”
Robert Sherwood looked up and smiled. He pulled a cigar out of his desk drawer and lit it.
“Game on,” he said.