“I did.”
I take a deep breath and walk a few steps to my table. Under it is a small cardboard box filled with files and papers. I fumble through it for a second, then abruptly stand up straight, empty-handed, and say to the witness, “Could you take the manual and flip over to Section U, please?” As this last word comes out, I look directly at Jack Underhall, the in-house counsel seated behind Drummond. His eyes close. His head falls forward, then he leans on his elbows, staring at the floor. Beside him, Kermit Aldy appears to be gasping for breath.
Drummond is clueless.
“I beg your pardon?” Lufkin says, his voice an octave higher. With everybody watching me, I remove Cooper Jackson’s copy of the claims manual and place it on my table. Everybody in the courtroom stares at it. I glance at Kipler, and he’s thoroughly enjoying this.
“Section U, Mr. Lufkin. Flip over there and find it. I’d like to talk about it.”
He actually takes the manual and flips through it again. At this crucial moment, I’m sure he’d sell his children if a miracle somehow could happen and a nice, neat Section U materialized.
Doesn’t happen.
“I don’t have a Section U,” he says, sadly and almost incoherent.
“I beg your pardon,” I say loudly. “I didn’t hear you.”
“Uh, well, this one doesn’t have a Section U.” He’s absolutely stunned, not by the fact that the section is missing, but by the fact that he’s been caught. He keeps looking wildly at Drummond and Underhall as if they should do something, like call Time Out!
Leo F. Drummond has no idea what his client has done to him. They doctored the manual, and didn’t tell their lawyer. He’s whispering to Morehouse. What the hell’s going on?
I make a big production of approaching the witness with the other manual. It looks just like the one he’s holding. A title page in the front gives the same date for the revised edition: January 1, 1991. They’re identical, except that one has a final section called U, and one doesn’t.
“Do you recognize this, Mr. Lufkin?” I ask, handing him Jackson’s copy and retrieving mine.
“Yes.”
“Well, what is it?”
“A copy of the claims manual.”
“And does this copy contain a Section U?”
He turns pages, then nods his head.
“What was that, Mr. Lufkin? The court reporter can’t record the movements of your head.”
“It has a Section U.”
“Thank you. Now, did you personally remove the Section U from my copy, or did you instruct someone else to do it?”
He gently places the manual on the railing around the witness stand, and very deliberately folds his aims across his chest. He stares at the floor between us, and waits. I think he’s drifting away. Seconds pass, as everyone waits for a response.
“Answer the question,” Kipler barks from above.
“I don’t know who did it.”
“But it was done, wasn’t it?” I ask.
“Evidently.”
“So you admit that Great Benefit withheld documents.”
“I admit nothing. I’m sure it was an oversight.”
“An oversight? Please be serious, Mr. Lufkin. Isn’t it true that someone at Great Benefit intentionally removed the Section U from my copy of the manual?”
“I don’t know. I, uh, well, it just happened, I guess. You know.”
I walk back to my table in search of nothing in particular. I want him to hang here for a few seconds so the jury can hate him sufficiently. He stares blankly at the floor, whipped, defeated, wishing he was anywhere but here.
I confidently walk to the defense table and hand Drummond a copy of Section U. I give him a toothy, nasty smile, and give Morehouse one as well. Then I hand a copy to Kipler. I take my time so the jury can watch and wait with great anticipation.
“Well, Mr. Lufkin, let’s talk about the mysterious Section U. Let’s explain it to the jury. Would you look at it, please?”
He takes the manual, turns the pages.
“It went into effect January 1, 1991, correct?”
“Yes.”
“Did you draft it?”
“No.” Of course not.
“Okay, then who did?”
Another suspicious pause as he gropes for a suitable lie. “I’m not sure,” he says.
“You’re not sure? But I thought you just testified that this fell squarely under your responsiblity at Great Benefit?”
He’s staring at the floor again, hoping I’ll go away.
“Fine,” I say. “Let’s skip paragraphs one and two, and read paragraph three.”
Paragraph three directs the claims handler to immediately deny
every claim
within three days of receiving it. No exceptions. Every claim. Paragraph four allows for the subsequent review of some claims, and prescribes the paperwork necessary to indicate that a claim might be inexpensive, very valid and therefore payable. Paragraph five tells the handler to send all claims with a potential value in excess of five thousand dollars to underwriting, with a letter of denial to the insured, subject to review by underwriting, of course.
And so it goes. I make Lufkin read from his manual, then I grill him with questions he can’t answer. I use the word “scheme” repeatedly, especially after Drummond objects and Kipler overrules him. Paragraph eleven sets forth a veritable glossary of secret code signals the handlers are supposed to use in the file to indicate a strong reaction from the insured. It’s obvious the scheme is designed to play the odds. If an insured threatens with lawyers and lawsuits, the file is immediately reviewed by a supervisor. If the insured is a pushover, then the denial sticks.
Paragraph eighteen b. requires the handler to cut a check for the amount of the claim, send the check and the file to underwriting with instructions not to mail the check until further word from claims. Word, of course, never comes. “So what happens to the check?” I ask Lufkin. He doesn’t know.
The other half of the scheme is in Section U of the underwriting manual, and so I get to do this again tomorrow with another VP.
It’s really not necessary. If we could stop right now, the jury would give whatever I ask, and they haven’t even seen Donny Ray yet.
We break for a quick recess at four-thirty. I’ve had Lufkin on the stand for two and a half hours, and it’s time to finish him off. As I step into the hall on my way to the rest room, I see Drummond pointing angrily to a room he wants Lufkin and Underhall to enter. I’d love to hear this mauling.
Twenty minutes later, Lufkin is back on the stand. I’m through with the manuals for now. The jury can read the fine print when it deliberates.
“Just a few more quick questions,” I say, smiling and refreshed. “In 1991, how many health insurance policies did Great Benefit have issued and in effect?”
Again, the weasel looks helplessly at his lawyer. This information was due me three weeks ago.
“I’m not sure,” he says.
“And how many claims were filed in 1991?”
“I’m not sure.”
“You’re the Vice President of Claims, and you don’t know?”
“It’s a big company.”
“How many claims were denied in 1991?”
“I don’t know.”
At this point, perfectly on cue, Judge Kipler says, “The witness may be excused for today. We’re going to recess for a few minutes so the jury can go home.”
He says good-bye to the jury, thanks them again, and gives them their instructions. I get a few smiles as they file past our table. We wait for them to leave, and when the last juror disappears through the double doors, Kipler says, “Back on the record. Mr. Drummond, both you and your client are in contempt of court. I insisted that this information be forwarded to the plaintiff several weeks ago. It hasn’t been done. It’s very relevant and pertinent, and you have refused to provide it. Are you and your
client prepared to be incarcerated until this information is received?”
Leo is on his feet, very tired, aging quickly. “Your Honor, I’ve tried to get this information. I’ve honestly done my best.” Poor Leo. He’s still trying to comprehend Section U. And, at this moment, he is perfectly believable. His client has just proven to the world that it will hide documents from him.
“Is Mr. Keeley nearby?” His Honor asks.
“In the witness room,” Drummond says.
“Go get him.” Within seconds, the bailiff leads the CEO into the courtroom.
Dot has had enough. She needs to pee and must have a smoke.
Kipler points to the witness stand. He swears Keeley himself, then asks him if there’s any good reason why his company has refused to provide the information I’ve asked for.
He stutters, stammers, tries to blame it on the regional offices and the district offices.
“Do you understand the concept of contempt of court?” Kipler asks.
“Maybe, well, not really.”
“It’s very simple. Your company is in contempt of court, Mr. Keeley. I can either fine your company, or place you, as the CEO, in jail. Which shall it be?”
I’m sure some of his pals have pulled time at the federal country clubs, but Keeley knows that jail here means one downtown with lots of street types. “I really don’t want to go to jail, Your Honor.”
“Didn’t think so. I hereby fine Great Benefit the sum of ten thousand dollars, due and payable to the plaintiff by 5 P.M. tomorrow. Call the home office and get a check FedExed, okay?”
Keeley can do nothing but nod.
“Furthermore, if this information is not faxed in here by nine in the morning, then you’ll be taken to the Memphis City Jail, where you’ll remain until you comply. Plus, while you’re there, your company will be fined five thousand dollars a day.”
Kipler turns and points downward at Drummond. “I have repeatedly warned you about these documents, Mr. Drummond. This behavior is grossly unacceptable.”
He raps his gavel angrily, and leaves the bench.
Forty-four
U
NDER NORMAL CIRCUMSTANCES, I might feel silly wearing a blue and gray cap with a tiger on it, along with my suit, and leaning on a wall in Concourse A of the Memphis airport. But this day has been anything but normal. It’s late, and I’m dead tired, but the adrenaline is hopping. A better first day of trial would be impossible.
The flight from Chicago arrives on time, and I’m soon spotted by my cap. A woman behind a large pair of dark sunglasses approaches, looks me up and down, finally says, “Mr. Baylor?”
“That’s me.” I shake hands with Jackie Lemancyzk, and with her male companion, a man who introduces himself only as Carl. He has a carry-on bag, and they’re ready to go. These people are nervous.
We talk on the way to the hotel, a Holiday Inn downtown, six blocks from the courthouse. She sits in the front with me. Carl lurks in the backseat, saying nothing but guarding her like a rottweiler. I replay most of the first day’s excitement. No, they do not know she’s coming. Her
hands shake. She’s brittle and frail, and scared of her shadow. Other than revenge, I can’t figure out her motive for being here.
The hotel reservation is in my name, at her request. The three of us sit around a small table in her room on the fifteenth floor, and go over my direct examination. The questions are typed and in order.
If there’s beauty here, it’s well concealed. The hair is chopped off and badly dyed to some dark red shade. Her lawyer said she was in therapy, and I’m not about to ask questions. Her eyes are bloodshot and sad, not at all enhanced with makeup. She’s thirty-one, two small children, one divorce, and from outward appearances and demeanor it’s hard to believe she spent her career at Great Benefit in one bed and out of another.
Carl is very protective. He pats her arm, occasionally gives his opinion about a particular answer. She wants to testify as soon as possible in the morning, then get back to the airport and get out of town.
I leave them at midnight.
AT NINE Tuesday morning, Judge Kipler calls us to order but instructs the bailiff to keep the jury in its room for a few moments. He asks Drummond if the claims information has been received. At the rate of five thousand bucks a day, I almost hope it hasn’t.
“Came in about an hour ago, Your Honor,” he says, obviously relieved. He hands me a neat stack of documents an inch thick, and even smiles a little when he hands Kipler his set.
“Mr. Baylor, you’ll need some time,” His Honor says.
“Give me thirty minutes,” I say.
“Fine. We’ll seat the jury at nine-thirty.”
Deck and I dash to a small attorney’s conference room down the hall, and wade through the information. Not
unexpectedly, it’s in Greek and almost impossible to decode. They’ll be sorry.
At nine-thirty, the jury is brought into the courtroom and greeted warmly by Judge Kipler. They report in good condition, no sicknesses, no contact last night from anybody regarding the case.
“Your witness, Mr. Baylor,” Kipler says, and day two is under way.
“We’d like to continue with Everett Lufkin,” I say.
Lufkin is retrieved from the witness room, and takes the stand. After the Section U fiasco yesterday, nobody will believe a word he says. I’m sure Drummond chewed on him until midnight. He looks rather haggard. I hand him the official copy of the claims information, and ask him if he can identify it.
“It’s a printout of a computer summary of various claims information.”
“Prepared by the computers at Great Benefit?”
“That’s correct.”
“When?”
“Late yesterday afternoon and last night.”
“Under your supervision as Vice President of Claims?”
“You could say that.”
“Good. Now, Mr. Lufkin, please tell the jury how many medical policies were in existence in 1991.”
He hesitates, then starts to play with the printout. We wait while he searches through the pages. The only sound for a long, awkward gap is the shuffling of paper in Lufkin’s lap.
The “dumping” of documents is a favorite tactic of insurance companies and their lawyers. They love to wait until the last minute, preferably the day before the trial, and unload four storage boxes full of paperwork on the plaintiff’s lawyer’s doorstep. I avoided this because of Tyrone Kipler.
This is just a taste of it. I guess they thought they could trot in here this morning, hand me seventy pages of printout, most of it apparently meaningless, and be done with it.