with the date and time they called. Some of the personal messages are precious. I’ve saved a few from folks who had such nice things to say about your daddy. One of the best is from Judge Caldwell.”
“I’ll listen to those later. Is Judge Caldwell still filling in as judge of the probate court?”
“Yes, the county commissioners aren’t going to call a special election, so the governor asked him to serve until November. Three or four people are lining up to run for probate judge. Carl and I are supporting Sheri Blevins.”
The door opened.
“Good morning, Randall,” Bernice called out to a dark-haired, middle-aged man who entered the reception area on crutches. “I’ve been trying to get in touch with you. This is Mr. Crane’s son, Tom.”
The man awkwardly propped himself up on one crutch and held out his hand. Tom shook it.
“What happened to your leg?” he asked.
“Car hit me, and I had to have an operation. Sorry to hear about your father.”
“Randall’s file is in one of the boxes I showed you,” Bernice said. “He was standing on the curb at the corner of Poplar and Westover minding his own business when a car ran off the road and knocked him down. The driver was Owen Harrelson, an executive at Pelham, who was down here for a meeting. I think he lives in New York or Boston.”
“I never saw him coming until it was too late,” Randall added. “Next thing I know, I’m flying through the air.”
“Harrelson claims a pothole caused him to swerve,” Bernice said. “But I think he’d been drinking. He and some of the other bosses had been playing golf all afternoon at the country club. Everyone knows there’s usually a cooler of beer strapped to the backs of the golf carts. It’s more about boozing and socializing than hitting the ball into the hole.”
“Did the police perform a blood alcohol test?” Tom asked.
“Yeah,” Randall replied.
“What did it show?”
“I hadn’t had anything to drink. Stopped after I got out of the navy.”
“I mean the driver of the car. Was he tested for alcohol?”
“No,” Bernice said. “Your daddy was going to interview the people who were at the club to find out if Harrelson had been into the sauce.”
“Why wasn’t Harrelson tested?”
Bernice rolled her eyes. “He probably showed the policeman his corporate ID.”
“You’re kidding.”
“No.”
“I want to see the accident report.”
“It’s in one of those boxes,” Bernice responded. “I’m not sure which one. Do you want me to find it?”
“No, I’ll do it. Mr.—” Tom stopped and looked at Randall. “I’m sorry. What’s your last name?”
“Freiburger.”
“Come into the office and have a seat. I don’t want you to be uncomfortable.”
Randall sat in a side chair while Tom rummaged through the files. There were a lot of different files in each box. At Barnes, McGraw, and Crowther, a single case would quickly fill a box. His father’s practice killed fewer trees.
“Here it is,” he said, pulling out a thin folder with “ Freiburger v. Harrelson ” written on the tab in black ink.
Inside, Tom found a medical release form signed by the client, a contingency fee contract, two pages of scribbled notes in his father’s difficult-to-decipher handwriting, medical records from the emergency room at the hospital, and an accident report completed by a Bethel police officer named Logan. A diagram on the report showed the position of Harrelson’s car, the pothole, and Randall Freiburger.
“This shows you lying in the street,” Tom said.
“He knocked me into the street when he hit me. That’s where I was at when the police arrived.”
“Were you knocked out?”
“No, I was sitting on the asphalt and waiting for an ambulance. My knee wasn’t working at all.”
“This diagram doesn’t show Harrelson’s car veering off the roadway.”
“It wasn’t. After he hit me, he swerved back onto the road.”
“Were there any skid marks?”
“I
“I’ll listen to those later. Is Judge Caldwell still filling in as judge of the probate court?”
“Yes, the county commissioners aren’t going to call a special election, so the governor asked him to serve until November. Three or four people are lining up to run for probate judge. Carl and I are supporting Sheri Blevins.”
The door opened.
“Good morning, Randall,” Bernice called out to a dark-haired, middle-aged man who entered the reception area on crutches. “I’ve been trying to get in touch with you. This is Mr. Crane’s son, Tom.”
The man awkwardly propped himself up on one crutch and held out his hand. Tom shook it.
“What happened to your leg?” he asked.
“Car hit me, and I had to have an operation. Sorry to hear about your father.”
“Randall’s file is in one of the boxes I showed you,” Bernice said. “He was standing on the curb at the corner of Poplar and Westover minding his own business when a car ran off the road and knocked him down. The driver was Owen Harrelson, an executive at Pelham, who was down here for a meeting. I think he lives in New York or Boston.”
“I never saw him coming until it was too late,” Randall added. “Next thing I know, I’m flying through the air.”
“Harrelson claims a pothole caused him to swerve,” Bernice said. “But I think he’d been drinking. He and some of the other bosses had been playing golf all afternoon at the country club. Everyone knows there’s usually a cooler of beer strapped to the backs of the golf carts. It’s more about boozing and socializing than hitting the ball into the hole.”
“Did the police perform a blood alcohol test?” Tom asked.
“Yeah,” Randall replied.
“What did it show?”
“I hadn’t had anything to drink. Stopped after I got out of the navy.”
“I mean the driver of the car. Was he tested for alcohol?”
“No,” Bernice said. “Your daddy was going to interview the people who were at the club to find out if Harrelson had been into the sauce.”
“Why wasn’t Harrelson tested?”
Bernice rolled her eyes. “He probably showed the policeman his corporate ID.”
“You’re kidding.”
“No.”
“I want to see the accident report.”
“It’s in one of those boxes,” Bernice responded. “I’m not sure which one. Do you want me to find it?”
“No, I’ll do it. Mr.—” Tom stopped and looked at Randall. “I’m sorry. What’s your last name?”
“Freiburger.”
“Come into the office and have a seat. I don’t want you to be uncomfortable.”
Randall sat in a side chair while Tom rummaged through the files. There were a lot of different files in each box. At Barnes, McGraw, and Crowther, a single case would quickly fill a box. His father’s practice killed fewer trees.
“Here it is,” he said, pulling out a thin folder with “ Freiburger v. Harrelson ” written on the tab in black ink.
Inside, Tom found a medical release form signed by the client, a contingency fee contract, two pages of scribbled notes in his father’s difficult-to-decipher handwriting, medical records from the emergency room at the hospital, and an accident report completed by a Bethel police officer named Logan. A diagram on the report showed the position of Harrelson’s car, the pothole, and Randall Freiburger.
“This shows you lying in the street,” Tom said.
“He knocked me into the street when he hit me. That’s where I was at when the police arrived.”
“Were you knocked out?”
“No, I was sitting on the asphalt and waiting for an ambulance. My knee wasn’t working at all.”
“This diagram doesn’t show Harrelson’s car veering off the roadway.”
“It wasn’t. After he hit me, he swerved back onto the road.”
“Were there any skid marks?”
“I
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