Ever After: A Father's True Story

  I hang up. I look over at Robert.

  “Well, I’ve done what I can. I don’t really expect anything to come of it. I’ve lost most of any confidence in large organizations, and I guess AP has to qualify as one.”

  “You’re positive about this, Will? I wonder why they’d do a thing like that? It could make a body lose confidence in just about everything.”

  “I know what you mean, Rob.”

  I spend most of that day taping all my remembrances and reactions. Probably none of the kids, nor Rosemary, will take the time to listen to this, but it will be a good record for me when it comes to writing my book. This book is beginning to look like my last-ditch effort to fulfill Bert’s mandate about field burning. If the book is published, it might help Oregonians see how they’ve been, are being, ripped off by big business and big government.

  It also helps get some of it out of my system. I’m burying it alive in that little black, battery-driven box. I sit down and fill seven ninety-minute tapes, and I’m hoarse when I’m finished.

  The next morning Rob takes me to the airport. We’re out of the house by six-thirty. It isn’t too bad a drive at that time in the morning. Rob drops me off at the departure gate. I check in, carrying my bags straight through to avoid waiting for them in Paris. I sit in a lounge chair near a window. There aren’t many people. I’ve never seen an airport so empty. I look up.

  There’s Mona running toward me. She’s holding a newspaper. She has a big unlawyerlike smile on her face. She gives me a good kiss and then shows me the newspaper. She holds it out flat in both hands, facing me. I would never have believed it. The headline is:

  I-5 CLAIM REMAINS UNSETTLED

  The Associated Press

  Contrary to earlier reports, not all legal claims stemming from the deadly 1988 chain reaction crash on I-5 have been settled.

  US Magistrate Joseph Murphy said Monday that he was quoted incorrectly and did not say last week that all claims had been resolved.

  One claim, by William Wharton, has not been settled. Trial is set for September twenty-fifth.

  Four members of the Wharton family were killed in the crash.

  “I have no desire to settle … I was blackmailed into coming here,” Wharton said.

  Murphy said he was aware that Wharton was not satisfied with the legal processes that resulted in the settlement in Eugene last week of all other claims in the crash.

  “He has strong feelings about his idea of the judicial process,” Murphy said.

  Wharton, who lives in France, said Murphy required all eighteen plaintiffs and their lawyers involved in the court case to be no more than five minutes away from the court-house for three days.

  “We were virtually locked in. He just wore everybody down,” Wharton said. “I’m very unhappy about it all.”

  Murphy said no one was forced to settle. “All I will say is the settlement conference process is a mediation process,” Murphy said. “The court does not require anyone to settle. They settle of their own free will if they choose to, and that prerogative is strongly protected by the court … “[Yes, but all the lawyers did not want to antagonize Judge Murphy. They did not want to put their law or insurance firms at a disadvantage some other time. So, they held their tongues, afraid of the judge’s power.]

  Except for Wharton, all eighteen parties who made claims agreed to out-of-court settlements.

  The lead defense counsel Henry Crosley called it “One of the most complex pieces of litigation in Oregon history.”

  Nearly all of the lawsuits were against the state of Oregon and Paul Thompkins, the Albany area farmer whose field burning investigators blamed for the collision.

  I can’t believe it. I can hardly talk to Mona. I thank her for bringing me the newspaper. She has an extra copy for me. I don’t want to look at it again. My sense of correct behavior has been vindicated, and I’m not capable of making any logical comment. We hold onto each other for a minute, kiss, slowly, once on each cheek, French style. I pick up my bag; my flight is boarding. I look back. Mona yells, “I’ll see you in September.”

  I nod, smile, and turn.

  CHAPTER 17

  WE SPEND the summer in New Jersey, as usual. It’s difficult, being in the place where we last saw Kate and her family, but while there, on the beach, I prepare for the upcoming trial, listening to all the tapes I made just after the conference. I take notes on my own yellow legal pad. I have so many questions. I still can’t put it together.

  After a few weeks, Ted Mitchell phones personally. He says, without prologue, that he is dissociating himself from the case. He will not elaborate. He suggests that I find another lawyer. Steele, Cutler and Walsh will then give the new lawyer what it has already discovered.

  I’m stunned. The trial is only two months away. I ask if he could recommend a lawyer. He says that Ms. Flores may have some ideas. I ask if this means that Steele, Cutler and Walsh is abandoning the case. How does this relate to our contract for contingency? There’s a pause.

  “You can work that out with Ms. Flores. I’m only telling you I am no longer associated with your case.”

  With that, he hangs up. For a few minutes I sit by the phone. Then I tell Rosemary. She knows how unhappy I’ve been. She suggests that I phone Bud for advice. Bud is our family lawyer.

  “He’ll know somebody in Portland he can recommend. At least he can tell us what to do.”

  I phone and go through all the secretaries until I reach Bud. I explain the situation. He asks if I could fax him my correspondence with Steele, Cutler and Walsh as well as my notes.

  I go up to the local drugstore and fax what he’s asked for. I set a time for him to fax me back. I bike home. But instead of faxing, he phones. “Look, Will. It seems as if your lawyers aren’t exactly doing you any favors. I think you’re right: they just want to settle.”

  “But what do we do, Bud? We don’t know any lawyers in Portland.”

  “Well, I don’t either. The first thing is to do nothing. There’s no hurry. With this situation, any judge, despite your opinion of judges, is going to delay your trial.

  “You’ve made the big mistake of asking questions of your lawyers which are not easy to answer. They may be thinking that you might want to sue them. From so little information, I don’t know if you have grounds, but I can tell you one thing: never sue your lawyer. Especially if it’s an outfit as big as this one seems. They have salaried people walking the corridors all day, looking for something to do. It won’t cost the partnership anything to keep them busy fighting you. The legal and court costs would wipe you out before you could blink. So, just sit tight. Let them contact you.”

  I’m pleased to have Bud on our side. It’s nerve-racking, but we follow his advice: we do nothing.

  Three days later there’s a phone call. It’s Mona and Clint. They have a speaker phone, and when I get Rosemary on the extension, we have a four-way conversation. Mona is the first to speak.

  “Ted says we can talk to you. But he’s definitely off the case.”

  “I got that message. What is it you want, Mona?”

  “He says, if it’s OK with you, Clint and I can take over the case without Ted. I’d be your trial lawyer.”

  “You mean you’d actually go all the way to trial?”

  “Of course. That’s what you want, isn’t it?”

  “I wasn’t sure anybody at Steele, Cutler and Walsh wanted it, not even you. Judge Murphy in Eugene didn’t want it, and I didn’t see anybody else rushing around encouraging me to go on with it.”

  “Well, do you want to go with us?”

  “Sure. It’s what I want. To be honest, I’d rather go with you two than with Mitchell.”

  “OK, then, we’re on. I’ll write you, explaining what’s happened and what I hope will happen next. For the trial, we’ll need expert witnesses and they will cost money. That cost has to come out of your pocket: that is, from what is awarded you by the jury. I’ll explain it all in the letter.”

&nbs
p; In fact, she feels there’s so much to prepare for the trial that she suggests I consider coming to Portland early. She has, she says, a very large house and I can stay with her. And so, on September tenth, I return, once again, to Oregon.

  Mona’s house is huge. It’s brick and frame construction, very turn-of-the-century in feeling, a huge porch across the front. It has three floors, plus a large basement.

  She takes me up to the top floor and shows me an unfinished room with a comfortable bed. At some time in the past, someone tried to redecorate the room but used a flame-jet to burn off the old paint and melted most of it into clumps, then gave up. There are beautiful windows looking out onto a small grove of trees.

  The trial is set for the end of the month, when Rosemary will join me. Although I am here early to help, most of the pre-trial work is done by Mona in the office. While Mona is there, I figure I’ll use my time getting this room into shape. I tell Mona of my plan. She’s enthusiastic. She says if I drive her to work and pick her up, I can have the car to buy the things I need. She’ll pay for paint or anything else I’ll use. So, that’s the deal.

  The windows, I soon discover, must have been painted by a blind man. There’s more paint on the panes than on the wood. I spend hours with a razor-blade, scraping.

  Tom, Mona’s husband, is a huge man, at least six-four and more than 200 pounds. He’s on the phone a good part of the day, arranging listings on houses for sale. He doesn’t seem to mind my being there. He’s up by four or five in the morning, reading the newspaper at the breakfast table. He sits alone, drinking his coffee. Mona comes down by seven or eight, dressed in jogging clothes. I develop the habit of following her along on a bicycle while she runs. She moves at a fairly stiff pace. I could never keep up with her on foot. She usually does about two miles, mostly in a local park. I like to think of what she could do if she didn’t smoke.

  Throughout, she briefs me for the trial. She asks me hard questions. What if Harry Fox starts blaming you for writing a book about the death of your family? Doesn’t the book invade their privacy?

  I say, “I don’t think so. I know they would like to stop field burning as much as I would and would be very happy with what I’m doing.”

  Fox, again: “But you’re going to make money from this book. Doesn’t that make you feel like some kind of vampire?”

  “No. Most likely the book won’t make any money. It’s written for us, for the family.”

  I still can’t stop from asking questions.

  “I know you’re trying to prepare me for what might happen at the trial, Mona, but what does all this have to do with Sampson’s responsibility for the deaths?”

  “You still don’t understand, do you?”

  “I guess not.”

  “Why, at the deposition, do you think Fox wanted to know exactly how much money you made?”

  “Just a nosey bastard, I guess.”

  “I’ll tell you something. Harry Fox never does anything for no reason, or just to be nosey. Remember that. When it comes to the settlement, your assets will be a factor in what an ordinary jury awards you.”

  The next morning, when I’m driving Mona to work, she says she wants me to go with her to see the people we hope to use as our main expert witnesses. It’s an outfit called Lee’s Forensic and Metallurgical Engineers Inc. It’s located in a small, one-story building near the outer limits of Portland.

  There’s no question as to which Mr. Lee is. His number one and number two sons stand at attention on either side of him. They have a huge drawing-board before them with complicated drawings in blue and black ink. Mr. Lee bows toward Mona and they shake hands. Mona turns to me.

  “Mr. Lee has some experiments he wants to carry out to establish whether the impact which killed your family was from the front or from the back.”

  “What’s the difference? The accident report says both impacts were a direct result of the momentum from Sampson’s truck.”

  “But you can be sure Harry Fox is going to make a big issue of this with the jury. He’ll try to claim Bert drove into the car in front of him before the Sampson truck hit him. It could affect the case.”

  I say nothing. Mr. Lee begins his presentation. He wants to make a video using small models to demonstrate the sequence of the vehicles slamming into each other.

  I don’t understand. “You mean you’re going to make little models and push them around a few frames at a time—filming them like kids playing with toys?”

  He doesn’t blink an eye. He illustrates how it will work, using the little wooden trucks and cars on his drawing-board. I look at Mona.

  “Honestly, Will. We need to do this. Harry Fox will have his own film showing just the opposite sequence, with Bert slamming into the vehicle in front of him before being hit by Sampson’s truck. A video re-enactment is standard in auto accident trials. It’s something that interests juries, that they can understand, not all that different from what they see on TV or films.”

  “So, at great expense, we’re going to sponsor a motion picture Academy Award contest for miniature automobile crashes, with the jury as judges. You’ve got to be kidding. No jury is going to believe this. The judges must be filled up to the gullet with these kinds of make-believe dramas. They must know it’s all phoney.”

  The technocrats for Forensic and Metallurgical Engineers Inc. stand there, not smiling, not arguing. Mona’s lips are tightly pursed.

  “Mr. Lee also has a wonderful way with juries. He has the right blend of seriousness, so they believe him, and humor, so they can enjoy him.”

  “So, we’re also paying for Mr. Lee’s thespian skills. I’m sorry, Mona, I don’t see it. All I want is for us to gather the information concerning the accident, put this in a reasonable form, then present it to the judge and jury so they can make a decision. Does that make sense to you?”

  “All right, we’ll talk about this later. Mr. Lee has another idea. He’s convinced from the positions of the bodies and the damage to the vehicles that he can prove our version is the correct one. He would like to purchase a VW van exactly like the one Bert was driving, same model, same year, and put it through some metallurgical tests. As I understand it, there’s a metal connection of the front seat to the floor which he’s convinced gave way so that the seats went over backward as a result of the Sampson impact from behind.”

  “Lord, Mona, you only have to look at the pictures taken when they were still in the van. They’re stretched out on their backs. What else do we need? If he really wants to do some kind of metallurgical monkey-business test, I’m sure he can buy a van for five bucks from any junkyard. There’s no reason to buy a whole Volkswagen.”

  I turn to Mr. Lee and his helpers.

  “I’m sorry, gentlemen. But I’m the one who will pay for all this nonsense in the end, and I don’t think it’s necessary. Thank you for your help.”

  I go toward the door. Mona continues to talk to them, shaking hands all around. I realize I forgot to shake hands goodbye, but I’m not going back in. The place feels like a coroner’s lab.

  We walk out to the car, not talking. Mona gets her key out of her bag. I stand waiting by the passenger side door. Her face is white. She can scarcely talk. And then she starts shouting over the top of the Honda.

  “Why are you like this? You can be so nice, and then at the critical moment you become vicious.”

  “Mona, I hate to think this case could be decided by such a childish technique.”

  “Don’t you trust my professional judgment?”

  “I think, Mona, you’re out of touch with reality. I think you don’t believe we can win this case. You’re afraid of Harry Fox, and you don’t trust juries. I imagine that not trusting juries is an occupational hazard. If anything, you’re being too professional.”

  “So you don’t trust my professional judgment.”

  “If I didn’t, I’d have another lawyer. I think you’re a good lawyer and we have a good relationship. We’re friends and, as friends, we should
say what we think and feel. It’s our responsibility to each other.”

  “Don’t talk to me about responsibility.”

  Suddenly, I feel terrible. Maybe she’s right. Maybe my natural resistance to all authority, all experts, is the problem.

  “I’m sorry, Mona. I know how much you want to win this case. But I’m being honest: I think your desire to prove yourself professionally is getting in the way. Maybe I should have an ‘amateur’ lawyer. Perhaps this whole business of being ‘professional’ rings a wrong bell with me. Professional, to me, means doing something for money. I think of professional baseball players, professional artists, the entire bag of professionals. Amateur in French means lover. It means someone who loves what they do for the work itself. They can be active or passive amateurs, it doesn’t matter. These people are real lovers.”

  I sneak a look over at the speedometer. We’re doing seventy. I’m holding onto the handle built into the roof over the window and the other hand is locked onto the holder on the armrest.

  “Mona, you’re a good driver, maybe a lover of driving, but you’re not a professional. Please, for me, would you slow down, I’m a real wimp about fast driving.”

  “Boy, you really are a wussy, aren’t you?”

  “You bet, a professional wussy, wimp, or whatever you want to call me. I love life and I’m not ready to leave it yet, especially not broken into pieces and scraped all over a macadam road.”

  She slows down. She looks at me again. I look back at her. I wish she’d keep her eyes on the road, but I’m enjoying looking at her, too. Cross purposes.

  “Mona, is there time for us to stop and have a beer?”

  As quickly as I can think, she’s swung the car across the entire road, both lanes, and pulled into a little parking-lot in front of a bar. Either she was considering the same thing, or she knows every bar within twenty miles of Portland’s city center. Or maybe she is a professional driver. The way she made that turn, she could have been screeching around the curves at Le Mans.

  Inside is dark and cool. We take tables in the back.