While I was busily violating all kinds of client-confidentiality, work-product, attorney-client privileges by spilling all this to Sam on the ride back to his house, my subconscious was spinning and churning.
By the time we were back at Sam’s and I was draped over his couch while he poured the wine, which, of course, I’d had to buy since Sam’s idea of good wine was basically Bud Light, my subconscious had spit out two ideas. Neither of which I liked.
First, Jackson, my beloved mentor, my ardent defender, and my personal god of thunder, had been negligent in handling the discovery phase of this case. Sure, he’d deposed half of the citizens of Sarasota County, but he had never gone to Idaho and deposed the people there, where young Jason had spent more than half of his gestation period. With an even half-assed investigation into the Idaho prenatal experiences of Mrs. Goodacre, Jackson stood a good chance of discovering what had gone on in Boise. And, as Jackson is anything but half-assed, he’d have deposed everybody with the remotest connection to Mrs. Goodacre and he would have found out the truth.
In other words, if Jackson had done what he was supposed to have done, this case would have ended many months and many thousands of dollars ago.
So, why hadn’t Jackson done what he was supposed to do?
He would, of course, say he didn’t go to Idaho because Henry, as the claims adjuster in charge of allowing or disallowing payment for litigation expenses, had refused to pay for any trips to Idaho.
So why had Henry done that?
Yeah, yeah, yeah, everybody in the malpractice insurance world is frothing at the mouth about cost containment. But wasn’t that a pretty important step to refuse to authorize? Wasn’t Henry saving pennies and losing dollars? And even if Henry didn’t authorize the trip, Jackson had a legal and ethical obligation to Dr. Randolph to complete the discovery process by going to Idaho and finding out what had happened there.
So there it was: My hero Jackson had screwed up.
The second thing my subconscious spit out was the wholly convoluted notion that maybe some of this—the attempted murders on Dr. Randolph, the rifling in the files, my mugging—might have been the nefarious doings of the good-parents, Mr. and Mrs. Goodacre, in an artless attempt to end the litigation before they were found out. Or to hide something, steal something, see if I’d found anything out. There were definitely possible motives floating out there. The parents just felt like suspects now that I knew they were frauds.
But what would that have to do with poor Dr. Trusdale, dead and decomposing in his last earthly location?
Sam handed me some wine and made me explain everything again, and again.
“Hmm,” he said, as I spilled my guts about Jack-son’s having screwed up.
Hmm? Sometimes Sam carries this strong, silent type thing way too far.
“What do you mean, ‘hmm’?” Did he think Jackson would try to kill Dr. Randolph to cover up his own negligence? That didn’t make any sense at all.
“Nothing,” Sam answered.
None of this made any sense.
“Let’s go to bed and sleep on it,” I said, finishing the wine. I meant, of course, together, but Sam was still sleeping on the futon in his second bedroom. But I saw the way he looked at me when he thought I wasn’t paying attention. Give it two more nights, I thought, and that futon thing will end.