The negotiations went on all day Friday and late into the night. Then picked back up early Saturday morning:
“We can’t give you anything close to that much money.”
“And we can’t take anything near what you’re offering.”
“You got to be kidding—that’s more money than that family would see in a lifetime.”
“What’s important is what they will no longer see in their lifetimes–her husband, their father.”
“My bosses will kill me if I take them that number.”
“Your client actually killed my client’s husband.”
“This is it—take it or leave it.”
“My clients will fire me if I bring them that offer. I guess we’re going to trial on Monday unless you come up with another decent chunk.”
A day and a half, sometimes with hours between the conversations, they finally hit our number. We settled—but don’t think of it as “settled,” as in conceded. It was almost half of the highest award ever given by a jury in that particular county. And three times what the plaintiffs had hoped for.
Let me say right off the bat that money, no matter how much, is a piss poor substitute for a human life. But there was no way of bringing back our client’s husband. And now his widow at least has a chance to create a decent world for herself and her kids. There is a sense of real accomplishment in that.
The bummer: the confidentiality agreement signed upon settlement means that the doctor’s gross negligence, the guy who caused her husband’s death, won’t have a red mark next to his name. It’s the price of buying a woman on disability with two special needs kids a better life, but nonetheless a tough pill to swallow. I only hope his near miss will teach him something about being thorough whenever someone else’s life is in his hands. But that’s only a hope
So I’m home sitting at my desk, tired as hell. Yeah, I know, I thought I’d be gone for a good two weeks and ended up back here after just a few days. Man, did I overpack. Yet, from the moment the team met on Wednesday through the two days and nights that followed, we continued prepare for trial despite the negotiations. Which, as usual, meant long hours and little sleep. I’m getting a little old for this.
Of course I’m glad to be home. And happy we got a settlement for the family that we may not have gotten with a trial. Over the years, I’ve learned that trials are very mercurial. They don’t just hinge upon “the facts,” certainly not justice, or even the law. Like plays or Olympic meets or the NBA playoffs, talented participants can have a bad day, or the ensemble of players on the team may not work in sync as they usually do. And just like in sports, the judge may make decisions along the way that hamper your game plan or take away too many of your points. And the nature of the population of a particular place, city, or county cannot be underestimated in these anti-plaintiff times.
Nevertheless, there’s a legal malady I sometimes feel: trial interruptus. Months of research, strategy, legal motions, legal briefs, depositions, and focus groups–all geared toward this particular court room, toward this particular judge, toward the particular type of people who would serve on the jury–everything on the cutting room floor. All that time and energy, that forward motion, stopped at the last minute. Well, that’s happened to me before, and undoubtedly will happen again. But we were able to give a family who had run out of chances another shot. That satisfaction remains.
There’s an upcoming trial in September in that same Midwestern county and I’ll be back at it. And once again I’ll try to send home posts from the front. Who knows, there might even be more than two. Or not.
Meanwhile, I’m unpacking my bags, shredding files, catching up with bills, and will pick up the saxophone for the first time in weeks. Sure hope I remember how to get it to sing.
There are two things a person should never be angry at – what they can help, and what they cannot.
Plato