Rich Waters (Jason Rich), page 6
Jason continued to peer at her, feeling the box in his pocket and growing tense. Nervous. His heart was pounding. He looked up to the high spot on the edge of the cliff where kids would jump. Chase was right. He’d never been brave enough to leap from the top. Perhaps that’s why he’d chosen this location. He might not have the courage to jump off a cliff from sixty feet up.
But he did have the stones to ask the woman he loved to marry him.
He glanced to the west and saw the sun beginning to set, flashing a golden light over the dark-brown water. Perfect, he thought. Now or never . . .
He pulled the case out of his pocket and opened it. The solitaire diamond was 1.5 carats. Impressive, but not gaudy. Jason knew that Chase would never go for anything too showy. He cleared his throat and looked at her.
Chase had brought her hands to her cheeks and was gawking at the ring.
“I’ve loved you since I was fourteen years old,” Jason began, pausing as a gust of wind blew through his hair and rocked the Sea-Doo. He gripped tight to the ring case and gathered himself. “Savannah Chase Wittschen . . . will you marry me?”
For a few seconds, her eyes moved from the ring to Jason and then back to the diamond. Her face was tense, and Jason couldn’t read it. Finally, she stood . . .
. . . and dived into the water.
“Chase?” Jason didn’t know what to do. He stood and looked around. The sun was sliding below the mountain. It would be dark soon. “Chase!”
She still hadn’t come up for air.
He put the ring box in the security compartment in the front console. “Chase!”
Still nothing.
Finally, he jumped in, feeling an instant sensation of incredible cold. He shot to the surface and slung his head from side to side. “Holy crap!” he screamed. Then he heard loud cackles.
“Chase?”
He saw her swimming toward him. When she was within a few feet, she splashed him in the face.
“Are you crazy?” he yelled, wiping the water from his eyes.
“Me?” Chase hissed. “What about you? Have you lost your ever-loving mind?”
Jason was dumbfounded. “Chase . . . didn’t you hear what I said?”
“Yeah, I heard you. Jason, have you been paying attention at all to what’s been going on these last few months? Or hell, the last week?”
He treaded water, beginning to get used to the cold. Despite his shivers, his face was growing hot. “What are you talking about?”
She splashed him again. “You want to get married? Jason, I love you, but we have nothing in common. I’m a homebody. A lake rat. I’m not comfortable around a lot of people, and you . . . you’re the pied piper. Your billboards. Your commercials. Your firm airplane. I mean, you’re always going. Depositions. Hearings. Meetings. Alabama. Tennessee. Florida. I hardly ever see you, and when you are around, you’re making me go to parties like Knox Rogers’s shindig two nights ago.”
Jason frowned. “You didn’t have fun?”
Another splash. “Are you kidding? I spent the whole night trying not to have a drink, while you butterflied around like the prom queen, backslapping with all of the good ole boys and flirting with the women.”
Jason continued to tread water, feeling his energy dissipate. “Chase, I’m sorry. You’re my girlfriend. I want you to go to parties with me. Knox is my friend. And his clients and friends are all possible referral sources. My job is to attract cases. I am who I am.” He paused. “But I’m here now. Out on the lake with you. On a Sea-Doo on Christmas Day, asking you to marry me. I don’t care if we are different. When I’m with you, I feel alive. I always have.”
For a moment, she just stared at him as they floated in the water. “You would be miserable with me.”
“You’re wrong,” Jason said, growing angry.
She shook her head. “You’re only seeing what you want to see. It’s the same problem you’re having with Nola. When you’re here, which isn’t very often, have you noticed she’s never home?”
“She’s a high school senior. She has her friends. Her life . . .”
“And it’s falling apart.” Chase swam toward the Sea-Doo and climbed on. Jason followed, feeling as if he’d been kicked in the groin. Once he was back on his seat, he spoke while looking at the water. “I’ve noticed that she’s been drunk a few times. But, you know, she’s a teenager.”
“And you’re her guardian. You’re all she’s got.”
“I’ve tried to talk with her, but she won’t listen. We don’t really know each other. I had hoped she’d come to you.”
“Me? I’m barely hanging on myself, J. R. I’m an addict just like you. And you know damn well what my biggest trigger is.” She punched his shoulder. “How could you do this?” Her lip began to tremble, and she looked away. “Look, it’s almost dark. We need to get back.”
Jason patted his pocket, which was now empty. The ring was now in the compartment under the console. Not on Chase’s finger. He peered toward the west, but the sun was gone. He looked at her, tears streaking her face. “Chase, what’s going on?”
“I’m sorry, Jason. Please . . .” Her voice cracked. “. . . just go.”
10
“Counsel, they’ve reached a verdict.”
Jason’s eyes popped open, and he shot to his feet, staring toward the voice. The bailiff stood in front of the double doors, beckoning them to come in. Jason blinked his eyes, returning to the present. He could feel the energy and nerves coming from Nate Shuttle, Winthrop Brooks, and Holly Trimble as they brushed past him. Jason took out his cell phone and dialed his client, who had gone to have coffee with his sons across the street. “Reg,” Jason said, his voice parched. “It’s time.” Jason sent Izzy and Harry the same text—The jury’s back—and then he entered the courtroom.
Ten minutes later, Judge Warren Elliott gestured to a woman in the front row of the jury box. “Mrs. Foreman, has the jury reached a decision?”
“Yes, we have, Your Honor.” The foreman was a woman named Michelle Hurd. A nurse at North Alabama Medical Center. Thirty-seven years old. Jason had thought she looked sympathetic, and that’s why he hadn’t struck her during jury selection. Now, she held in her hand a single sheet of paper that would decide the future of his client, Reginald Jackson.
Reg was an assistant football coach at the University of North Alabama. He and his wife, Leah, had two adult sons, Antonio and Marquee, both of whom also worked in the Shoals area. Leah had been driving to a UNA football game two Octobers ago. The traffic on Highway 72 had been thick, as usual. She passed through an intersection on a yellow light. An eyewitness, Charles Russell, who was in the right-hand lane but behind her, testified that the light was yellow when she entered the intersection of 72 and Cox Creek Parkway.
The eighteen-wheeler driven by Bernard Scheer, a sixteen-year veteran of Fisk Oil, was trying to time the light. The rig never slowed as it began to cross 72, T-boning the Toyota Corolla driven by Leah Jackson and crushing the driver’s side.
Leah was dead on impact. She had been a wonderful wife and mother. A career homemaker who was looking forward to being a grandmother. Now gone, because Bernard Scheer was late for a delivery.
The defense had gotten mobile phone records that showed that Leah had sent a text just seconds prior to the accident. She’d been texting and driving, which was a crime, Nate Shuttle had argued in his closing. And she’d entered the intersection on yellow. If that wasn’t contributory negligence, what was?
The courtroom was dead silent as Michelle Hurd rose to her feet. Jason was struck by the loneliness of the spectacle. Unlike the packed house for his sister Jana’s murder trial in Guntersville last year, this case had garnered no spectators save for his client’s sons, Antonio and Marquee, who sat in the row directly behind them.
Jason watched as Mrs. Hurd turned to read. Then he closed his eyes and held his breath.
“We, the jury, find for the plaintiff and award as damages the sum of . . . $25 million.”
Jason exhaled as Reginald Jackson collapsed into his arms. Then Marquee and Antonio were on him in a bear hug. There were huge sobs and shouts of, “Thank you, Mr. Rich. Thank you.”
Jason felt dizzy as he walked across the courtroom to shake hands with the enemy. “Win, lose, or draw, you always act like the verdict is what you expected,” Knox Rogers had advised him. “That’s what Professor McMurtrie taught us in trial advocacy, and that’s what winners do. Act like you’ve been there before even if you haven’t.”
Nate Shuttle and Winthrop Brooks both had pale faces as they began to pack up their briefcases. “Good job,” Jason said. To their credit, both turned and shook Jason’s hand, but neither said a word as they shuffled for the door.
“Congratulations,” Holly Trimble whispered as she walked past.
“Thanks,” Jason said.
“You know we’re going to appeal,” she added.
Jason grinned wide. “I’ll worry about that tomorrow.”
Jason waited for twenty-five minutes until the courtroom was empty save for him.
Reginald Jackson and his two sons had gone home, all three of them dog tired from the anxiety and grind of the trial. They were happy, but no amount of money was going to bring Leah Jackson back. Jason knew that the loss of Leah was what they were thinking about now. Not the money, but the matriarch of their family. Antonio and Marquee’s mom. Reg’s wife. A beautiful soul taken from the world.
Jason had cried real tears with them. As a personal injury attorney, he’d been able to have many special moments with clients where he had settled cases for a lot of money. The emotions for the clients were the same then as they were today. Happiness. Relief. But, most of all, a bittersweet sadness.
But for him, as a lawyer . . . as a human being . . . this feeling was different. He had just hit one of the largest verdicts in Lauderdale County history. He’d won. The defense hadn’t agreed to give his client money. Jason had taken it from them.
He’d won his first jury trial last year when he’d successfully defended his sister, Jana, on charges of capital murder. But he hadn’t been able to enjoy that victory. It was too personal, and too much had happened in the aftermath.
Jason took a deep breath, vowing to savor this one for as long as he could. He got up and walked around to the railing facing the jury box, which was now empty, and then looked up at the judge’s bench. His father, Lucas Rich, had tried many cases. He had called Jason a carnival act with his billboards and his racket of settling cases.
Jason felt his eyes moisten, and he managed a smile. Lucas Rich had never cared much for any display of emotion. He had thought a lawyer should be like Atticus Finch. Stoic. Professional. Somber.
Jason Rich was none of those things. He’d never been able to please his father, and once he gave up on the endeavor, he’d gone out of his way to do his job differently, to prove his father wrong.
He gazed upward. “How do you like me now, Dad?”
Jason wanted to enjoy the moment, but he couldn’t help but feel sad. Why couldn’t he have just been proud of me?
Jason leaned against the jury railing, thinking of his dad and sister. Both gone, but never far from his thoughts. He had won today, but he was losing at home. Chase had left him. Nola might not graduate high school. And his sobriety was hanging on by a thread, as evidenced by his near relapse after the meeting with the school counselor.
He sucked in a deep breath and shook his head from side to side. I’ll worry about that tomorrow, he thought, echoing what he had told Holly Trimble. Then, forcing an exaggerated grin, he turned in a circle, holding his arms out like he was the “Macho Man” Randy Savage entering the squared circle for a wrestling match. As a kid, while Lucas Rich had spent weekends billing hours at the office and Jana was hanging out with friends, Jason had been glued to the television set watching WWF, WCW, and NWA wrestling. He had loved the good guys, the villains, the theme music, the costumes.
The sheer spectacle of it all.
Sticking out his jaw, he held his right pinky finger up in the air and moved it horizontally in front of his face. Then he screamed the Macho Man’s catchphrase and a line from one of the icon’s most famous promos.
“Ohhhhhhhhh! Yeahhhhhhhh! The cream will rise to the top!”
Jason walked over to the plaintiff’s table, grabbed his briefcase, and headed for the door. As he turned off the lights in the vacant courtroom, he looked back and thought of one more thing Randy Savage might say.
“Can you dig it?”
11
Jason arrived home at 8:00 p.m. As expected, the lights of his home on Mill Creek Road were off. He’d texted and tried to call Nola to no avail. All he’d gotten in response was a cryptic text: Congrats. I’m spending the night at Harley’s.
Jason sighed and looked across the street, where the Tonidandels’ shack was lit up like Christmas. As Trace Adkins liked to sing, every light in the house was on. He reached inside his Porsche and pulled out a six-pack of Singin’ River IPA and a tub of Trowbridge’s pineapple-orange ice cream, both of which he’d iced down in a cheap Styrofoam container he’d gotten at a convenience store. Then he trudged across the street, not bothering to knock. He knew the door would be open.
As he crossed the threshold, he saw movement out of the corner of his eye. It was a huge old-school Igloo cooler, and it was being lifted up and on top of Jason’s head.
Jason screamed as ice-cold lime Gatorade drenched his hair and suit. He blinked his eyes, tasting the thirst quencher, and then he started to laugh as he took in the crowd in the tiny den.
His partner, Isabel “Izzy” Montaigne, wearing jeans and a number 2 Derrick Henry Alabama football jersey, her dark-black hair up in a ponytail, ran to him and jumped in his arms, getting herself wet in the process. “You did it, Jason Rich!” she squealed, and then another icy Gatorade bath came down on both of them, this time fruit punch flavored and coming from the other side.
Now saturated with the sticky sports drink and snorting, as some of it had gotten in his nose, Jason looked to his left and saw Chuck Tonidandel, the middle brother. Chuck’s bald head was covered by a straw cowboy hat, and he wore jeans, shitkicker boots, and a blue tank top that showed off his enormous arms. He pulled on his long, scruffy beard and dropped the cooler he was holding, reaching one of his huge hands toward Jason, who latched on. Then he closed his eyes. “Thank you, Lord, for blessing brother Jason with sweet victory.”
“Amen!” was the collective response of the rest of the group, all of whom knew that Chuck Tonidandel spoke seldom, and when he did, he was either quoting a Bible verse or praying.
Jason wheeled to his right, where Mickey Tonidandel, the youngest brother, held the other cooler. Mickey had a thinning blond mullet, a Fu Manchu mustache, and an infectious high-pitched laugh, which he delivered now. Whether it was five degrees outside or a hundred, Mickey always wore shorts because he hated “static cling,” as he called it. He typically wore some kind of rock concert T-shirt, and tonight’s entry was Whitesnake from 1997. Mickey looked like he could have been in that band. “Did you bring my beer?”
Jason held up the six-pack, which was now covered in equal parts ice and Gatorade.
Mickey snatched it and walked away, yelling “Thank you!” as he made his way to the back of the house.
Jason felt his hands being squeezed and lowered his eyes to Izzy.
“Twenty-five million,” she let out in a loud whisper, and Jason smelled champagne on her breath.
“Not bad, J. R.” Harry Davenport, the firm’s chief investigator, patted Jason’s shoulder. He wore his customary black T-shirt and faded jeans and spoke in a low drawl. “I doubt there have been many verdicts in the Shoals any bigger than that.”
“Thank you, both,” Jason said, feeling his cheeks growing hot. “We’re a team, and we won big tonight.” He paused and then smiled. “I was hoping there might be a Gatorade bath but wasn’t sure how you’d pull it off.”
Izzy punched his arm. “It’s tradition.”
Jason brought them both in for a group hug, feeling as good as he’d felt in a long time. “Hey, where’s Satch?”
Izzy hiccuped and covered her mouth. Then she giggled. “He’s in the back watching . . .” She giggled again. “. . . TV.”
“What?” Jason asked, looking to Harry, who rolled his eyes.
“You’ll see,” he said, slapping Jason on the back. “J. R., I’m going to take this one into Huntsville for some R&R. Got us a room at that Bridge Street Westin.”
“Sounds good,” Jason said. Harry and Izzy had been an on-again, off-again couple for years, and it appeared that they were back on.
“Congrats, amigo.”
“Thanks, Harry,” Jason said. “Take care of our girl.” He nodded in Izzy’s direction. His partner had just tipped a bottle of champagne up and then hiccuped. “Twenty-five million buckeroos!” She squealed, and Jason and Harry both shook their head. “She’ll be passed out before we get to New Hope,” Harry said as he walked over, picked her up in his arms, and carried her past the threshold. “I’ll call you in the morning,” Izzy hollered as the door slammed shut.
Jason looked around the room, the floor now covered with Gatorade and ice. If Chuck and Mickey were worried about the mess, they weren’t showing it. Jason picked his way through the puddles and trudged to the back den. The flooring was rickety plywood, and there were only a few rugs. As Jason entered, he saw that Chuck and Mickey were both sprawled on an old leather couch against the wall.
On the other side of the room, Colonel Satchel Shames Tonidandel sat in a tattered La-Z-Boy recliner that was a tad too small for his six-foot, three-inch, 250-pound frame. With the footrest out and the chair fully reclined, Jason wondered how it could withstand the weight and leverage Satch was applying.
Satch didn’t look up, his eyes glued to the television set. The colonel had curly brown hair and a salt-and-pepper beard that he was pulling on at present. He was tense. Locked in. Jason followed his eyes, blinked, and then looked at Mickey and Chuck, who were also staring at the screen.
