With virtually no prompting, he leads us through a complete checklist of how such a claim should be handled. Drummond gravely nods his head, as if they’re really kicking some ass now. Guess what? Great Benefit stuck to the book on this one. Maybe a couple of minor
mistakes, but hey, it’s a big company with lots of claims. No major departure from what’s reasonable.
The gist of Reisky’s opinions is that Great Benefit had every right to deny this claim because of its magnitude. He explains very seriously to the jury how a policy that costs eighteen dollars a week cannot reasonably be expected to cover a transplant that costs two hundred thousand dollars. The purpose of a debit policy is to provide only the basics, not all the bells and whistles.
Drummond broaches the subject of the manuals and their missing sections. Unfortunate, Reisky believes, but not that important. Manuals come and go, in a state of perpetual modification, usually ignored by seasoned claims handlers because they know what they’re doing. But, since it’s become such an issue, let’s talk about it. He eagerly takes the claims manual and explains various sections to the jury. It’s all laid out here in black and white. Everything works wonderfully!
They move from the manuals to the numbers. Drummond asks if he’s had the chance to review the information regarding policies, claims and denials. Reisky nods seriously, then takes the printout from Drummond.
Great Benefit certainly had a high rate of denials in 1991, but there could be reasons for this. It’s not unheard of in the industry. And you can’t always trust the numbers. In fact, if you look at the past ten years, Great Benefit’s average denial rate is slightly under twelve percent, which is certainly within the industry average. Numbers follow more numbers, and we’re quickly confused, which is precisely what Drummond wants.
Reisky steps down from the witness stand, and begins pointing here and there on a multicolored chart. He talks to the jury like a skilled lecturer, and I wonder how often he does this. The numbers are well within the average.
Kipler mercifully gives us a break at three-thirty. I huddle
in the hallway with Cooper Jackson and his friends. They’re all veteran trial lawyers and quick with advice. We agree that Drummond is stalling and hoping for the weekend.
I do not utter a single word during the afternoon session. Reisky testifies until late, finally finishing with a flurry of opinions about how fairly everything was handled. Judging from the faces of the jurors, they’re happy the man’s finished. I’m thankful for a few extra hours to prepare for his cross-examination.
DECK AND I enjoy a long meal with Cooper Jackson and three other lawyers at an old Italian restaurant called Grisanti’s. Big John Grisanti, the colorful proprietor, puts us in a private dining room called the Press Box. He brings us a wonderful wine we didn’t order, and tells us precisely what we should eat.
The wine is soothing, and for the first time in many days I almost relax. Maybe I’ll sleep well tonight.
The check totals over four hundred dollars, and is quickly grabbed by Cooper Jackson. Thank goodness. The law firm of Rudy Baylor may be on the verge of serious money, but right now it’s still broke.
Forty-seven
S
ECONDS AFTER PAYTON REISKY TAKES the witness stand bright and early Thursday morning, I hand him a copy of the Stupid Letter and ask him to read it. Then I ask, “Now, Mr. Reisky, in your expert opinion, is this a fair and reasonable response from Great Benefit?”
He’s been forewarned. “Of course not. This is horrible.”
“It’s shocking, isn’t it?”
“It is. And I understand the author of this letter is no longer with the company.”
“Who told you this?” I ask, very suspicious.
“Well, I’m not sure. Someone at the company.”
“Did this unknown person also tell you the reason why Mr. Krokit is no longer with the company?”
“I’m not sure. Maybe it had something to do with the letter.”
“Maybe? Are you sure of yourself, or simply speculating?”
“I’m really not sure.”
“Thank you. Did this unknown person tell you that Mr. Krokit left the company two days before he was to give a deposition in this case?”
“I don’t believe so.”
“You don’t know why he left, do you?”
“No.”
“Good. I thought you were trying to imply to the jury that he left the company because he wrote this letter. You weren’t trying to do that, were you?”
“No.”
“Thank you.”
It was decided over the wine last night that it would be a mistake to beat Reisky over the head with the manuals. There are several reasons for this line of thinking. First, the evidence is already before the jury. Second, it was first presented in a very dramatic and effective manner, i.e., we caught Lufkin lying through his teeth. Third, Reisky is quick with words and will be hard to pin down. Fourth, he’s had time to prepare for the assault and will do a better job of holding his own. Fifth, he’ll seize the opportunity to further confuse the jury. And, most important, it will take time. It would be easy to spend all day haggling with Reisky over the manuals and the statistical data. I’d kill a day and get nowhere in the process.
“Who pays your salary, Mr. Reisky?”
“My employer. The National Insurance Alliance.”
“Who funds the NIA?”
“The insurance industry.”
“Does Great Benefit contribute to the NIA?”
“Yes.”
“And how much does it contribute?”
He looks at Drummond, who’s already on his feet. “Objection, Your Honor, this is irrelevant.”
“Overruled. I think it’s quite relevant.”
“How much, Mr. Reisky?” I repeat, helpfully.
He obviously doesn’t want to say, and looks squeamish. “Ten thousand dollars a year.”
“So they pay you more than they paid Donny Ray Black.”
“Objection!”
“Sustained.”
“Sorry, Your Honor. I’ll withdraw that comment.”
“Move to have it stricken from the record, Your Honor,” Drummond says angrily.
“So ordered.”
We take a breath as tempers subside. “Sorry, Mr. Reisky,” I say humbly with a truly repentant face.
“Does all of your money come from insurance companies?”
“We have no other funding.”
“How many insurance companies contribute to the NIA?”
“Two hundred and twenty.”
“And what was the total amount contributed last year?”
“Six million dollars.”
“And you use this money to lobby with?”
“We do some lobbying, yes.”
“Are you getting paid extra to testify in this trial?”
“No.”
“Why are you here?”
“Because I was contacted by Great Benefit. I was asked to come testify.”
Very slowly, I turn and point to Dot Black. “And, Mr. Reisky, can you look at Mrs. Black, look her squarely in the eyes, and tell her that her son’s claim was handled fairly and properly by Great Benefit?”
It takes him a second or two to focus on Dot’s face, but he has no choice. He nods, then finally says crisply, “Yes. It certainly was.”
I, of course, had planned this. I wanted it to be a dramatic
way to quickly end Reisky’s testimony, but I certainly didn’t expect it to be humorous. Mrs. Beverdee Hardaway, a stocky black woman of fifty-one, who’s juror number three and sitting in the middle of the front row, actually laughs at Reisky’s absurd response. It’s an abrupt burst of laughter, obviously spontaneous because she cuts it off as rapidly as possible. Both hands fly up to her mouth. She grits her teeth and clenches her jaws and looks around wildly to see how much damage she’s done. Her body, though, keeps gyrating slightly.
Unfortunately for Mrs. Hardaway, and quite blessedly for us, the moment is contagious. Mr. Ranson Pelk who sits directly behind her gets tickled at something. So does Mrs. Ella Faye Salter who sits next to Mrs. Hardaway. Within seconds of the initial eruption, there is widespread laughing throughout the jury box. Some jurors glance at Mrs. Hardaway as if she’s still the source of the mischief. Others look directly at Reisky and shake their heads in amused bewilderment.
Reisky assumes the worst, as if he’s the reason they’re laughing. His head falls and he studies the floor. Drummond chooses simply to ignore it, though it must be awfully painful. Not a face can be seen from his group of bright young eagles. They’ve all got their noses stuck in files and books. Aldy and Underhall examine their socks.
Kipler wants to laugh himself. He tolerates the comedy for a bit, and as it begins to subside he raps his gavel, as if to officially record the fact that the jury actually laughed at the testimony of Payton Reisky.
It happens quickly. The ridiculous answer, the burst of laughter, the cover-up, the chuckling and giggling and head-shaking skepticism, all last but a few seconds. I detect, though, a certain forced relief on the part of some of the jurors. They want to laugh, to express disbelief, and in doing so they can, if only for a second, tell Reisky and
Great Benefit exactly what they think about what they’re hearing.
Brief though it is, it’s an absolutely golden moment. I smile at them. They smile at me. They believe everything from my witnesses, nothing from Drummond’s.
“Nothing else, Your Honor,” I say with disgust, as if I’m tired of this lying scoundrel.
Drummond is obviously surprised. He thought I’d spend the rest of the day hammering Reisky with the manuals and the statistics. He shuffles paper, whispers to T. Price, then stands and says, “Our next witness is Richard Pellrod.”
Pellrod was the senior claims examiner over Jackie Lemancyzk. He was a terrible witness during deposition, a real chip on his shoulder, but his appearance now is no surprise. They must do something to cast mud on Jackie. Pellrod was her immediate boss.
He’s forty-six, of medium build with a beer gut, little hair, bad features, liver spots and nerdish eyeglasses. There’s nothing physically attractive about the poor guy, and he obviously doesn’t care. If he says Jackie Lemancyzk was nothing but a whore who tried to snare his body as well, I’ll bet the jury starts laughing again.
Pellrod has the irascible personality you’d expect from a person who’s worked in claims for twenty years. Just slightly friendlier than the average bill collector, he simply cannot convey any warmth or trust to the jury. He’s a low-level corporate rat who’s probably been working in the same cubicle for as long as he can remember.
And he’s the best they have! They can’t bring back Lufkin or Aldy or Keeley because they’ve already lost all credibility with the jury. Drummond has a half-dozen home office people left on his witness list, but I doubt if he calls all of them. What can they say? The manuals
don’t exist? Their company doesn’t lie and hide documents?
Drummond and Pellrod Q&A through a well-rehearsed script for half an hour, more breathless inner workings of the claims department, more heroic efforts by Great Benefit to treat its insureds fairly, more yawns from the jury.
Judge Kipler decides to insert himself into the boredom. He interrupts this little tag-team, says, “Counselor, could we move along?”
Drummond appears shocked and wounded. “But, Your Honor, I have the right to conduct a thorough examination of this witness.”
“Sure you do. But most of what he’s said so far is already before the jury. It’s repetitive.”
Drummond just can’t believe this. He’s incredulous, and he pretends, quite unsuccessfully, to act as if the judge is picking on him.
“I don’t recall your telling plaintiff’s counsel to hurry up.”
He shouldn’t have said this. He’s trying to prolong this flare-up, and he’s picking a fight with the wrong judge. “That’s because Mr. Baylor kept the jury awake, Mr. Drummond. Now move along.”
Mrs. Hardaway’s outburst and the snickering it created has obviously loosened up the jurors. They’re more animated now, ready to laugh again at the expense of the defense.
Drummond glares at Kipler as if he’ll discuss this later and straighten things out. Back to Pellrod, who sits like a toad, eyes half-open, head tilted to one side. Mistakes were made, Pellrod admits with a weak effort at remorse, but nothing major. And, believe it or not, most of the mistakes can be attributed to Jackie Lemancyzk, a troubled young woman.
Back to the Black claim for a while as Pellrod discusses
some of the less-damning documents. He never gets around to the denial letters, but instead spends a lot of time with paperwork that is irrelevant and unimportant.
“Mr. Drummond,” Kipler interrupts sternly, “I’ve asked you to move along. These documents are in evidence for the jury to examine. This testimony has already been covered with other witnesses. Now, move it.”
Drummond’s feelings are hurt by this. He’s being harangued and picked on by an unfair judge. He takes time to collect himself. His acting is not up to par.
They decide to fashion a new strategy with the claims manual. Pellrod says it’s just a book, nothing more or less. Personally, he hasn’t looked at the damned thing in years. They keep changing it so much that most of the veteran claims handlers just ignore it. Drummond shows him Section U, and, son of a gun, he’s never seen it before. Means nothing to him. Means nothing to the many handlers under his supervision. Personally, he doesn’t know a single claims handler who bothers with the manual.
So how are claims really handled? Pellrod tells us. Under Drummond’s prompting, he takes a hypothetical claim, walks it through the normal channels. Step by step, form by form, memo by memo. Pellrod’s voice remains in the same octave, and he bores the hell out of the jury. Lester Days, juror number eight, on the back row, nods off to sleep. There are yawns and heavy eyelids as they try vainly to stay awake.
It does not go unnoticed.
If Pellrod is crushed by his failure to dazzle the jury, he doesn’t show it. His voice doesn’t change, his manner remains the same. He finishes with some alarming revelations about Jackie Lemancyzk. She was known to have a drinking problem, and often came to work smelling of liquor. She missed more work than the other claims handlers.