Solomon & Lord Drop Anchor by Paul Levine

and if it weren’t
for high-placed friends in Washington, he would have been indicted
for tax evasion.
    What she said was: “Phil was the most giving
man I’ve ever known. The way he cared for his first wife when she
was terminally ill, if you could have seen that, if you all could
have seen it.” Then she turned to the jury, an actress facing her
adoring audience. “He never thought he could love again, but I
brought something to his life. And to me, he was everything—a
lover, a friend, even the father I never had. Then for him to die
like this, in his prime.”
    Clever. Very clever. So well rehearsed it
didn’t look rehearsed. Explaining how a twenty-six-year-old woman
marries a fifty-five- year-old man. A father, for crying out loud.
No mention that the champagne corks were popping only six weeks
after he buried his beloved first wife. And if I bring it out on
cross, I’m a cad. It was a virtuoso performance. Even Judge Leonard
was listening, practically a first. He had been in a fine mood at
motion calendar in the morning, as well he should after Hot Touch
paid $10.40, $5.40, and $4.80.
    When Dan Cefalo turned to me and said, “Your
witness,” he was smiling so broadly I almost didn’t notice that his
fly was half undone and he had buttoned his shirt into his
suitcoat.
    The occasion called for brilliance. Roger
Salisbury looked at me as if I were his last friend in the world. I
approached the witness stand with a solicitous smile. I still
hadn’t made up my mind. Behind those tears I saw a flinty toughness
that I would love to bring out. But make a mistake, reduce her to
tears or hysterics, and the jury would lynch me and nail enough
zeroes on the verdict to buy an aircraft carrier. She looked
straight back at me. The full lips lost a bit of their poutiness
and set in a firm line. It’s there somewhere, I knew. But my
investigators couldn’t find it in six months and my pretrial
deposition came up empty. I couldn’t risk it now.
    I turned to the judge. “Your Honor,” I said,
as if seeking his approval, “I believe it would be unfair for us to
keep Mrs. Corrigan on the stand to discuss this painful subject. We
have no questions.” Roger Salisbury sank into his chair looking
hopeless and abandoned. Men on Death Row have brighter futures.
    “Very well,” Judge Leonard said, aiming a
small smile in my direction. “Mr. Cefalo, call your next
witness.”
    “The plaintiff rests,” Dan Cefalo said, his
goofy grin still lighting up the room.
    “Any motions?” the judge asked. We approached
the bench and the judge sent the jurors out to lunch.
    “At this time, the defense moves for a
directed verdict,” I said without a great deal of conviction.
    “On what ground, Mr. Lassiter?” the judge
asked.
    “On the ground that there’s insufficient
evidence of proximate cause, first that the surgery caused the
aneurysm, and second that the aneurysm caused the death.”
    “Denied,” the judge said before Cefalo even
opened his mouth. “The plaintiff’s expert testified to that. Whatsa
matter, Jake, it’s a jury question at least.”
    I knew that. Somewhere between his Bloody
Marys and his White Russians, Dr. Watkins had stuck us on proximate
cause, at least sufficiently to beat a directed verdict, but I was
giving the judge a little preview of our defense. Oh Dr. Charles W.
Riggs, I need you now.
    The judge looked over the courtroom, which
was emptying, and waved us closer to the bench. With a hand, he
signaled the court stenographer to take a hike. “You boys talk
settlement?”
    A practical enough question. If he could
clear us out of the courtroom, he could spend the rest of the week
at the track.
    “Judge, we offered the policy,” I said
apologetically. “A million dollars even, all we’ve got, no excess
coverage. They oughta take it and spare the court all this time and
effort.”
    Cefalo shook his head. “Our liquidated
damages alone, lost net accumulations for the estate, are over
three