John Grisham

"And she was the person responsible for handling this claim for your company?"

"That’s correct."

"And you fired her?"

"Of course not."

"How’d you get rid of her?"

"She resigned. It’s right here in her letter."

"Why’d she resign?"

He pulls the letter close like a real smartass, and reads for the jury: "I hereby resign for personal reasons."

"So it was her idea to leave her job?"

"That’s what it says."

"How long did she work under you?"

"I have lots of people under me. I can’t remember all these details."

"So you don’t know?"

"I’m not sure. Several years."

"Did you know her well?"

"Not really. She was just a claims handler, one of many."

Tomorrow, she’ll testify that their dirty little affair lasted for three years.

"And you’re married, Mr. Lufkin?"

‘Yes, happily."

"With children?"

"Yes. Two adult children."

I let him hang here for a minute as I walk to my table and retrieve a stack of documents. It’s the Blacks’ claim file, and I hand it to Lufkin. He takes his time, looks through it, then says it appears to be complete. I make sure he promises that this is the entire claim file, nothing is missing.

For the benefit of the jury, I take him through a series of dry questions with equally dry answers, all designed to provide a basic explanation of how a claim is supposed to be handled. Of course, in our hypothetical, Great Benefit does everything properly.

Then we get to the dirt. I make him read, into the microphone and into the record, each of the first seven denial letters. I ask him to explain each letter: Who wrote it? Why was it written? Did it follow the guidelines set forth in the claims manual? What section of the claims manual? Did he personally see the letter?

I make him read to the jury each of Dot’s letters. They cry out for help. Her son is dying. Is anybody up there listening? And I grill him on each letter: Who received this one? What was done with it? What does the manual require? Did he personally see it?

The jury seems anxious to get to the Stupid Letter, but of course Lufldn has been prepped. He reads it to the jury, then explains, in a rather dry monotone and without the slightest flair for compassion, that the letter was written by a man who later left the company. The man was

wrong, the company was wrong, and now, at this moment, in open court, the company apologizes for the letter.

I allow him to prattle on. Give him enough rope, he’ll hang himself.

"Don’t you think it’s a bit late for an apology?" I finally ask, cutting him off.

"Maybe."

"The boy’s dead, isn’t he?"

"Yes."

"And for the record, Mr. Lufkin, there’s been no written apology for the letter, correct?"

"Not to my knowledge."

"No apology whatsoever until now, correct?"

"That’s correct."

"To your limited knowledge, has Great Benefit ever apologized for anything?"

"Objection," Drummond says.

"Sustained. Move along, Mr. Baylor."

Lufkin has been on the stand for almost two hours. Maybe the jury’s tired of him. I certainly am. It’s time to be cruel.

I’ve purposefully made a big deal out of the claims manual, referring to it as if it’s the inviolable pronouncement of corporate policy. I hand Lufkin my copy of the manual that I received in discovery. I ask him a series of questions, all of which he answers perfectly and establishes that, yes, this is the holy word on claims procedures. It’s been tested, tried and true. Periodically reviewed, modified, updated, amended with the changing times, all in an effort to provide the best service for their customers.

After reaching the point of near tedium about the damned manual, I ask: "Now, Mr. Lufkin, is this the entire claims manual?"

He flips through it quickly as if he knows every section, every word. "Yes."

480 JOHNGRISHAM

"Are you certain?"

"Yes."

"And you were required to give me this copy during discovery?"

"That’s correct."

"I requested a copy from your attorneys, and this is what they gave me?"

"Yes."

"Did you personally select this particular copy of the manual to be sent to me?"

"I did."

I take a deep breath and walk a few steps to my table. Under it is a small cardboard box filled with files and papers. I fumble through it for a second, then abruptly stand up straight, empty-handed, and say to the witness, "Could you take the manual and flip over to Section U, please?" As this last word comes out, I look directly at Jack Underhall, the in-house counsel seated behind Drummond. His eyes close. His head falls forward, then he leans on his elbows, staring at the floor. Beside him, Kermit Aldy appears to be gasping for breath.

Drummond is clueless.

"I beg your pardon?" Lufkin says, his voice an octave higher. With everybody watching me, I remove Cooper Jackson’s copy of the claims manual and place it on my table. Everybody in the courtroom stares at it. I glance at Kipler, and he’s thoroughly enjoying this.

"Section U, Mr. Lufkin. Flip over there and find it. I’d like to talk about it."

He actually takes the manual and flips through it again. At this crucial moment, I’m sure he’d sell his children if a miracle somehow could happen and a nice, neat Section U materialized.

Doesn’t happen.

"I don’t have a Section U," he says, sadly and almost incoherent.

"I beg your pardon," I say loudly. "I didn’t hear you."

"Uh, well, this one doesn’t have a Section U." He’s absolutely stunned, not by the fact that the section is missing, but by the fact that he’s been caught. He keeps looking wildly at Drummond and Underhall as if they should do something, like call Time Out!

Leo F. Drummond has no idea what his client has done – to him. They doctored the manual, and didn’t tell their lawyer. He’s whispering to Morehouse. What the hell’s going on?

I make a big production of approaching the witness with the other manual. It looks just like the one he’s holding. A tide page in the front gives the same date for the revised edition: January 1, 1991. They’re identical, except that one has a final section called U, and one doesn’t.

"Do you recognize this, Mr. Lufkin?" I ask, handing him Jackson’s copy and retrieving mine.

"Yes."

"Well, what is it?"

"A copy of the claims manual."

"And does this copy contain a Section U?"

He turns pages, then nods his head.

"What was that, Mr. Lufkin? The court reporter can’t record the movements of your head."

"It has a Section U."

"Thank you. Now, did you personally remove the Section U from my copy, or did you instruct someone else to do it?"

He gently places the manual on the railing around the witness stand, and very deliberately folds his arms across his chest. He stares at the floor between us, and waits. I think he’s drifting away. Seconds pass, as everyone waits for a response.

"Answer the question," Kipler barks from above.

"I don’t know who did it."

"But it was done, wasn’t it?" I ask.

"Evidently."

"So you admit that Great Benefit withheld documents."

"I admit nothing. I’m sure it was an oversight."

"An oversight? Please be serious, Mr. Lufkin. Isn’t it true that someone at Great Benefit intentionally removed the Section U from my copy of the manual?"