OCTOBER 18, 2022 – (Cont.) “[Mike],” I said. “I can win your goddamn case, but so far, you’re losing it. You’ve got to stop your notes and whispering. You’ve got to—got to—think of the table in there as a poker table. The judge and jurors are watching you, and trust me, you ain’t a pretty sight.”
Just then, three jurors strolled by—as Mike, oblivious to them, said in an outdoor voice, “Those jurors are a bunch of idiots!” All three heads, I noticed, jerked our way simultaneously.
* * *
Despite the stress of it all, my trial ordeal didn’t lack an element of humor, albeit in the form of an inside joke of which I was the sole insider . . .
. . . Whether it was mere coincidence or a logical, synaptical connection, I couldn’t be sure, but Mike the mathematical savant had a habit of saying, “Do the math,” even when math had nothing to do with the matter under discussion. For example, if I were to ask Mike whether the sky was green or blue or if he liked cream and sugar with his coffee, he’s answer, “Do the math.” I’d always chuckle, then ask the question another way—or move on to another subject.
At Mike’s trial, on cross-examination, the opposing lawyer—as buttoned-down as his client was—fumbled around with a line of questioning that was headed nowhere, slowly. I glanced at the jury box and saw half of them snoozing and the other half fighting the urge to join their colleagues. Despite “CALLS FOR HEARSAY” flashing in front of my eyes, the questions—and Mike’s likely answers—were innocuous, and I decided it best not to object and wake the jurors.
Continuing down the path of a wild goose chase, opposing counsel asked something as inconsequential as [mind you, I’m being facetious here, for illustrative purposes], “And, uh, what kind of sandwich did Mr. Johnson tell Mr. Anderson he wanted for lunch?”
To this, Mike answered, “Do the math.” I nearly burst out laughing. Wholly befuddled, opposing counsel looked at his client (who shrugged), looked at Mike (who bore a look of exasperation), looked back at his client (who shrugged again), and said, “Uh, Mr. P _ _ _ _ _ _what do you mean by ‘do the math’?” A quick look at judge and jury told me they were as puzzled as opposing counsel and his client were. Their collective bewilderment wasn’t improved by Mike’s amorphous, meandering reply.
. . . Miraculously, after the four-day circus-trial, in less than an hour the jury returned a verdict in Mike’s favor. I like to think it wasn’t a “sympathy” vote for his lawyer, though perhaps it was my neckties they’d preferred over my opponent’s. The other side didn’t bother to appeal, and Mike wholly escaped what could’ve been a half-million-dollar judgment. To his credit, Mike didn’t grouse about my fees, which all told, were a lot less than half a million bucks. In retrospect, I should’ve tacked on a stress-factor, pain-in-the-butt surcharge, but then again, that was long before the Age of Anything Goes. (Cont.)
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© 2022 by Eric Nilsson
