Preferential Treatment, page 19
“Sure, why not.”
Jenny opened a large journal and ran her finger down one of the pages. She looked up and frowned. “Looks like you got the Chief.”
Every employee in the Nobel County courthouse was aware of Chief Judge Rowina Grant’s dislike for members of the plaintiffs’ bar as well as her gruff and discourteous demeanor toward everyone. She was feared by not only lawyers that sued folks but also court employees.
Judy closed the book that bore the bad tidings and looked at Darnell. “Sorry,” she mouthed almost imperceptibly.
Darnell shrugged. “Gotta play with the cards they deal us.”
“I told you not to fuck it up!” Fabian exclaimed only half joking when Darnell broke the news that Chief Judge Grant had suddenly come into his life. “You really think she’ll be a big problem for us?”
“Couldn’t help it, and yes, I think she’ll make our lives miserable, but we’ll get through it. Others have, despite her,” said Darnell. “Better roll up our sleeves and get ready to go to work.”
Two days after Darnell had filed the Gunther case, deputy sheriff John Cox entered Montgomery’s office, summons and complaint in hand. Sherri McFadden, Montgomery’s receptionist, looked up with a start and gasped audibly. Instinctively, she knew that nothing good could come out of the presence of an officer of the law bearing a handful of papers.
“Good morning,” beamed the deputy. “How are you today?”
“Uh…, hello,” stammered McFadden. “May I help you?”
“Yes, you may. I’m looking for Dr. Ancil Montgomery. I have something for him,” said the deputy grinning wryly. “Is the doctor around?”
“He’s here, but he’s got surgery scheduled shortly. Can I help you with something or give him a message when he’s not so busy?” asked McFadden.
“No, I need to give this to him myself. It will only take a minute of the good doctor’s time, and I’m sure they won’t start that surgery without him,” said the deputy.
“One minute, please,” McFadden said. She pressed the intercom key and announced, “Doctor, there’s a gentleman here to see you.” She did not want to break the news to her boss that the “gentleman” seeking an audience with him was a rather large, black-uniformed officer of the law bearing a fist full of papers.
“I’ve got surgery in ten minutes!” shouted an irritated Montgomery through the intercom. “Whoever it is, tell him it’s going to have to wait. I don’t have time…”
“I think you had better see him, Doctor. I believe he has something for you.”
“All right.” Montgomery straightened his tie and patted down an errant strand of hair. He exited his office, spied the deputy, and stopped abruptly, as if running into an invisible wall. The deputy took a step in his direction. The doctor spotted the papers in the deputy’s hand and knew instantly why the officer was there. For a fleeting moment he had the urge to run but knew that there was nowhere to hide.
“Doctor Ancil Montgomery?” asked the deputy.
“Yes, that’s, uh, that’s me.”
“I have something for you,” said the officer. The officer handed Montgomery the summons and complaint. “You have a good day, Doctor.”
Jeffrey Woodall carefully read the three page document simply titled “COMPLAINT” in the case styled IN THE CIRCUIT COURT OF NOBEL COUNTY, WEST VIRGINIA, Mary A. Gunther, guardian and next friend of Joseph M. Gunther, an incompetent person, Mary A. Gunther, guardian and next friend of Adam S. Gunther and Steven A. Gunther, infants, and Mary A. Gunther, in her own right, Plaintiffs, vs. Ancil Joseph Montgomery, M.D., Defendant. Civil Action No. 05-C-243-G. Woodall marveled to himself how such a simple instrument as a civil complaint begins a legal war of epic proportions, causes immeasurable angst to defendants and plaintiffs alike, costs hundreds of thousands of dollars to complete, and results in the consumption of huge chunks of professional time. The proverbial snowball at the top of the hill causing the massive avalanche, he thought.
Woodall spun in his chair and looked out of his corner office window. He contemplated the work he had in front of him defending Montgomery and wondered if he had bitten off more than he wanted to chew. After all, it was springtime. Time to dust off the golf clubs, play some rounds with his buddies, sip cocktails at the Club, and have some fun while the sun shone. The relatively short West Virginia summer months were dear to him, and he loved his pleasures in life—certainly more than any affection he had for the practice of law. Although he had ascended to Chairperson of the prestigious litigation section of Darnell, Smyth, Woodall & Coombs, an impressive title and position indeed, his administrative duties in that role consumed as much time as he cared to dedicate to the practice.
To many of the hard-working lawyers who handled litigation for the firm’s clients, Woodall was a paper pusher who had tried few cases in the past ten years and who routinely made himself look busy when he was in reality far from it. Most viewed him as an impudent brat in a man’s body who rose to the top in the firm’s hierarchy more by birth right than by sweat of the brow and talent. Had he not been the grandson of one of the firm’s founders and son of one of its former partners, it was generally believed he would have never even made it to the status and rank of partner since they knew he lacked the drive or ability to attain that goal on his own.
Recently, Woodall’s confrontation with Ben Darnell had been the catalyst for his hasty departure from the firm and had resulted in an additional load of cases with which the remaining partners had to deal. To fill the void, Woodall had exerted his authority as litigation section chair by divvying up the work for the rest of them to handle while he refused to bear his share. The displeasure of his partners was, however, not lost on Woodall. Perceiving unrest among the troops, he felt that taking on the Gunther case would help calm the waters while it could also otherwise be beneficial to him—he could get his shot at the man he both despised and secretly envied—Ben Darnell.
But Woodall realized the years of ducking his share of the caseload had left him rusty in not only courtroom skills but also substantive and procedural knowledge. He had spent too many days on the golf course when he was purportedly attending mandatory continuing legal education sessions. He always chose the best and most expensive venues, in the warmest winter climes, and, of course, those that sported the best and most challenging links. Cheating the system and the State Bar Association by “cutting class” did not bother Woodall in the least. Hell, everybody does it.
Despite his awareness of these shortcomings, Woodall was determined to take on his nemesis. He knew that even though he was rusty, the deck was stacked in his favor in light of the new medical malpractice “tort reform” that had been passed by the West Virginia legislature. What made his odds even better, he calculated, was the fact that the judge to whom the case had been assigned was none other than Chief Judge Grant. He knew, according to what other defense lawyers whispered about the jurist, most, if not all, close legal and procedural questions would be decided in a defense counsel’s favor. Further, he had been the judge’s classmate in law school, and he never missed a chance to schmooze with her at various bar social functions after she ascended the bench.
But even with these pros, Woodall knew he would need help on the case, especially since he had no intention of reinventing the wheel by brushing up on all he had failed to learn and all he had forgotten during his self-imposed hiatus from the actual practice of law. Although there were many talented partners he could rely upon to assist him, Woodall surmised that if he chose this route, either the partner would soon take the lead in the case, would resent the fact that yet one more time-consuming case would be foisted upon him by the litigation section chair under the guise that Woodall would bear the brunt of the work, or both.
I need a bright, talented associate to help me.
“Edith,” Woodall yelped into the intercom, “find Amanda Cohen, and ask her to please come to my office right away.”
“Yes, sir,” Woodall’s secretary replied.
Woodall was pleased with his decision. Amanda Cohen had been with Darnell-Smyth for five years, two years shy of the seven years it took for most associates to either be offered a partnership in the firm or unceremoniously fired. Cohen was well known for her diligence and her keen abilities in the courtroom. She also possessed textbook knowledge of the law that she had gained during her Ivy-League law school education. Because of these attributes, many of the partners felt confident she was in line for an accelerated ascension to the coveted position of junior partner.
Yep, she’ll do just fine, thought Woodall.
In less than a minute, Woodall heard a light tap on his office door.
“Come in!” Woodall commanded.
The door opened, and Woodall gestured toward a worried-looking Amanda Cohen to come in. “Sit, please,” said Woodall pointing to one of two large flowered wingback chairs positioned opposite him.
Cohen complied, demurely crossed her legs at the ankles, and folded her hands in her lap. She was professionally dressed, as per office protocol, adorned in a navy blue pinstriped suit with knee-length skirt and white blouse, buttoned to the hilt. On her left lapel, she wore a diamond broach in the shape of the Star of David. She wore no other jewelry. Her three-inch black pumps were highly polished and stylish. Her hair was pulled back into a severe bun.
Cohen squirmed in her chair and tried to get comfortable after being summoned to the chairman of the litigation section’s office for unknown reasons. She knew that Woodall seldom, if ever, tried cases and that any assignment usually came from other members of the litigation section who would routinely call on her to assist them. Her exposure to Woodall had been scant, and his real function as a contributing partner in the firm remained a mystery to her.
“Hello, Mr. Woodall. Edith told me you wanted to see me,” Cohen said pushing her round, horn-rimmed glasses up the bridge of her nose.
“Yes. We’ve just picked up another med mal defense from APIC that I’ll be handling, and I want you to assist me.”
Cohen exhaled slightly, relieved that she had not been called on the carpet for some misstep she may have committed. She, like the other associates at Darnell-Smyth, walked on egg shells, afraid of committing some faux pas that would disrupt their pursuit of a partnership in the firm. “Of course,” she said. “Anything I can do to help. I love working on medical cases.”
“Great!” Woodall exclaimed. He shoved a stack of papers across the desk towards Cohen. “Here’s the complaint and Notice of Claim they filed along with an expert opinion that came with it.”
Cohen scooped up the stack and leafed through the document on the top—the complaint. Her eyes widened. “This complaint was filed by Mr. Darnell!” a stunned Cohen shrieked.
“Yeah. One of your old bosses. How about those apples?”
“I didn’t know he was now on the plaintiff’s side,” Cohen whispered.
“Yeah. Since he left the firm, I guess he’s no longer doing the Lord’s work. You’re not going to feel uncomfortable going up against him, are you?” Woodall challenged.
“No, of course not,” Cohen said unconvincingly. “It’s, it’s just it’ll seem kind of strange. We worked closely together on a lot of cases.”
“All the better for us. You’ll know how he thinks and maneuvers. I see it as a real advantage for us. You’ll be able to get inside his head. What do you think?”
Cohen stiffened. She knew she was on a fast track for partner, and this test of her resolve and talents could be instrumental in attaining that goal. “He puts on his pants one leg at a time. I’m ready to go to work. Give me my marching orders, and I’ll help you any way I can. Where do you want me to start?”
Woodall beamed. He knew he had made the right choice. A young, bright, aggressive Jewish lawyer. A winning combination!
“Great,” exclaimed Woodall. “You study what I’ve given you so far and take a shot at drafting the answer to the complaint. Throw every affirmative defense and motion you can think of at them, and let them know they’re in for a war. I’ll come up with a game plan for division of labor and get back with you early next week. In the meantime, you might as well start boning up on the medicine and check our files to see whom we might get to be a good neurosurgeon to help us. The guy they used to write the plaintiff’s certificate of merit, a guy by the name of Blakely, looks like he’s pretty well credentialed. We’ll need somebody good to counteract him. Look for a star, preferably an academic type, who still has an active practice.”
Cohen bit her lower lip and thought of the other matters she was handling that were keeping her in the office days, nights, and weekends. She wondered how she could manage the crush of work other partners had already foisted upon her and take on the huge amount of new work she knew was coming her way. It’ll get done, she thought. It always does.
“I’m looking forward to working with you, Amanda. I think we’ll make a good team,” beamed Woodall.
“Yeah, me too,” said Cohen. “Anything else right now? If not, it looks like I’ve got some work to do.”
“That’s it for now. Shoot me a copy of the answer you draft as soon as it’s finished. And be sure to calendar the date it’s due so we don’t miss that. Be sure to record all your time you spend. We’ll make a ton of money for the firm on this baby.”
“I should have it by tomorrow,” Cohen said. She rose and headed for the door. Suddenly, Cohen stopped and turned to face Woodall. “Who’s this Jack Fabian that’s listed with Mr. Darnell as counsel for the plaintiffs?” she asked.
“He’s some ambulance chaser that has shown his ugly mug around here in another case. He took APIC for some money a while back. Darnell was defending the case. I guess that’s how they hooked up. Strange bedfellows these cases sometime make.”
“Never heard of him,” Cohen said.
One week after receiving the Summons and Complaint, an anxious Ancil Montgomery absent-mindedly leafed through a magazine in the waiting room of Darnell-Smyth. He glanced at his watch. It was 10:10 a.m., and his meeting with his attorney was already ten minutes late getting started. He had surgery scheduled at 1:00 p.m., and he wanted to start on time.
The doctor took a sip of his latte he had purchased from the corner coffee shop and was startled by the calling of his name. “Dr. Montgomery?” a pleasant woman’s voice chimed. Montgomery instinctively rose. “Mr. Woodall will see you now. Please come with me,” said the receptionist.
Montgomery followed the woman down a long corridor adorned with framed paintings and photographs mounted on dark paneled walls. The plush carpet was a deep green giving Montgomery the sensation of walking in a moss-covered forest. The grand sophistication of his surroundings seemed both impressive and pretentious.
The woman reached the far end of the corridor and rapped sharply on a large mahogany door. Prominently displayed at eye level was a brass plaque burnished with the name “Jeffrey C. Woodall, Esq.”
“Come in,” commanded a man’s voice on the opposite side of the portal.
Woodall studied the handsome, steely-eyed young neurosurgeon framed in his doorway. He’ll make a great impression in front of a jury, he thought. “And you are Dr. Montgomery?”
“Yes. And you are my new lawyer?”
“I am. Jeffrey Woodall. It is a pleasure to meet you. Please sit down.” Montgomery complied, clutching to his chest a brown folder crammed with papers. Woodall was immediately struck by his client’s youthful appearance.
Woodall sat, meticulously arranged a yellow legal pad in front of him, and grasped his Mont Blanc fountain pen.
“I don’t understand all this,” Montgomery blurted, startling Woodall. “This ambulance-chasing shyster is blaming me for a bad result. I didn’t do anything wrong. It was just a difficult surgery that went bad. These things happen. It’s well known in the literature that not all surgeries on aneurysms go well. Some people die, even under the best circumstances. Are you going to help me? Is there any way we can get aggressive and sue this bastard back?”
Woodall, taken aback by the outburst, furrowed his brow and leaned forward. “Doctor,” he began slowly. “I know this is probably all new to you. Probably it’s the first time you’ve been sued, but you need to take it easy and relax. It’s my job to do the worrying for you.”
“I’m sorry, but relaxing after being sued is not in my DNA,” Montgomery replied. “How are you going to get rid of this nonsense?”
“I’m afraid it’s not that easy. There’s a legal process that must be followed. It will take patience, and it will take time and a lot of hard work on both of our parts. Once again, it will be easier on you to get through this if you try to relax and keep your eye on the ball.”
“Okay. Sorry. What do you need me to do?”
“I need you to let me know what happened. I need all the details you can recall,” Woodall began. “I know we have a chart, and that will be helpful, but I need to know everything. Anything you can remember even if it isn’t recorded. Anything that you may have done during and before surgery that could be helpful to explain the outcome. I’ll also want to know if the plaintiff did anything he wasn’t supposed to or didn’t do something he was supposed to. If we can pin part or all of the blame on him, that would be extremely important for your case. I want you to take the chart, study it, and fill in the blanks. I’m sure there are some. I’ll need you to educate me on the medicine and this surgery you performed. Also, if you know any good neurosurgeons that would support our position that you did nothing improperly, that certainly would be helpful.”
“How much are they suing me for?” asked the doctor.
“We’ll worry about that later,” Woodall replied. “Initially, a plaintiff is not allowed to state in his complaint a specific amount being sought. It’s prohibited by the new tort reform statute. It minimizes the sensational aspects of the case and helps keep it out of the newspapers. We have the option on down the line to demand that they tell us how much they want, but I think we’re getting ahead of ourselves here.”
