through together. It's the right tone. Don't lecture. Schmooze with them, gain their confidence, then rev up the heavy equipment and steamroller them. I knew what was coming even if they didn't.
"You folks might remember back in opening statement I told you that we had the burden of proof, to prove that Philip Corrigan died because of the negligence, the malpractice, of the defendant. Now, when the lawyers get through talkin' at you, the judge will tell you that all we need do is prove our case by a preponderance of the evidence. What does that mean? Well, if you put two boys on a teeter-totter and one weighs fifty-one pounds and the other forty-nine, the boy who weighs more tilts the scales. We just need to tilt the scale."
With that, Cefalo moved from behind the lectern and held his arms out, pretending to be a scale. He lowered his right arm one way, just a bit, to illustrate his point. "A wee little tilt and you must find for the plaintiff on liability," he reminded them. He would make the case as easy as first-grade recess.
"I also told you back in opening statement that a trial is like a book, and every witness is a chapter. Every book has a story and this one is a tragedy. It's about a vigorous, healthy man in the prime of his life, a family man, a businessman, a husband, a philanthropist ..."
Again Cefalo turned to Melanie Corrigan. Six heads swiveled the same way. She gnawed her lower lip and fought back a tear. Her long hair was lassoed into a knot on top of her head and again she wore black. It emphasized her fair complexion, made her seem wan and helpless.
Cefalo got back into it, building momentum. "Philip Corrigan went into the hospital to have routine disc surgery. He put his trust in Roger Salisbury, who held himself out to be an expert orthopedic surgeon. Now his widow wakes up each morning, and there's always that moment, that split second, when she hopes he's still beside her."
It went on this way for a while, Cefalo painting with a broad brush. His strategy was to dance around the evidence and avoid the expert testimony until he had heated up their emotions.
"Now you folks heard from a lot of witnesses. But the two you probably remember best are Dr. Harvey Watkins, the former chief of orthopedics at a great hospital, and the defense witness, Charles Riggs, the elderly fellow who used to be the coroner. I think you should ask yourselves one question about these two. Who's done more laminectomies? Why, Dr. Watkins has done more disc jobs than a dog's got fleas. Old Charlie Riggs, he's never had a patient that lived."
A big smile; the jurors tittered. Roger Salisbury shifted uncomfortably in his chair.
"Matter of fact, Charlie Riggs never had a live patient in his entire career. His testimony was all hypothetical."
Cefalo dragged hypothetical across his tongue, the same way a Florida politician once accused an opposing candidate's wife of being a practicing thes-pian.
"They might as well have brought Gino, my butcher, in here to describe back surgery. You know what they call coroners in the medical profession? Canoemakers. They just chop, chop, chop it up like hollowing out a log."
"Objection, Your Honor! That's not a legitimate comment on the evidence." I don't like to object during closing argument. It sometimes angers the jurors who like hearing lawyers beat their breasts, but I wanted Cefalo to know I hadn't fallen asleep.
"Overruled," Judge Leonard said.
"Canoemakers," Cefalo repeated, needling me. "Riggs has never done one laminectomy. Not one! Mr. Lassiter should be ashamed."
With that Cefalo turned and looked toward me. So did the jurors, looking peeved, wondering if I tried to bamboozle them. Good strategy, avoiding what Riggs had said, just attacking his credentials. Sooner or later, though, he'd have to address the testimony or risk giving that ball to me on an open field. Roger Salisbury was squirming so much his chair squeaked on the old tile floor. I patted his arm, a coach telling
"You folks might remember back in opening statement I told you that we had the burden of proof, to prove that Philip Corrigan died because of the negligence, the malpractice, of the defendant. Now, when the lawyers get through talkin' at you, the judge will tell you that all we need do is prove our case by a preponderance of the evidence. What does that mean? Well, if you put two boys on a teeter-totter and one weighs fifty-one pounds and the other forty-nine, the boy who weighs more tilts the scales. We just need to tilt the scale."
With that, Cefalo moved from behind the lectern and held his arms out, pretending to be a scale. He lowered his right arm one way, just a bit, to illustrate his point. "A wee little tilt and you must find for the plaintiff on liability," he reminded them. He would make the case as easy as first-grade recess.
"I also told you back in opening statement that a trial is like a book, and every witness is a chapter. Every book has a story and this one is a tragedy. It's about a vigorous, healthy man in the prime of his life, a family man, a businessman, a husband, a philanthropist ..."
Again Cefalo turned to Melanie Corrigan. Six heads swiveled the same way. She gnawed her lower lip and fought back a tear. Her long hair was lassoed into a knot on top of her head and again she wore black. It emphasized her fair complexion, made her seem wan and helpless.
Cefalo got back into it, building momentum. "Philip Corrigan went into the hospital to have routine disc surgery. He put his trust in Roger Salisbury, who held himself out to be an expert orthopedic surgeon. Now his widow wakes up each morning, and there's always that moment, that split second, when she hopes he's still beside her."
It went on this way for a while, Cefalo painting with a broad brush. His strategy was to dance around the evidence and avoid the expert testimony until he had heated up their emotions.
"Now you folks heard from a lot of witnesses. But the two you probably remember best are Dr. Harvey Watkins, the former chief of orthopedics at a great hospital, and the defense witness, Charles Riggs, the elderly fellow who used to be the coroner. I think you should ask yourselves one question about these two. Who's done more laminectomies? Why, Dr. Watkins has done more disc jobs than a dog's got fleas. Old Charlie Riggs, he's never had a patient that lived."
A big smile; the jurors tittered. Roger Salisbury shifted uncomfortably in his chair.
"Matter of fact, Charlie Riggs never had a live patient in his entire career. His testimony was all hypothetical."
Cefalo dragged hypothetical across his tongue, the same way a Florida politician once accused an opposing candidate's wife of being a practicing thes-pian.
"They might as well have brought Gino, my butcher, in here to describe back surgery. You know what they call coroners in the medical profession? Canoemakers. They just chop, chop, chop it up like hollowing out a log."
"Objection, Your Honor! That's not a legitimate comment on the evidence." I don't like to object during closing argument. It sometimes angers the jurors who like hearing lawyers beat their breasts, but I wanted Cefalo to know I hadn't fallen asleep.
"Overruled," Judge Leonard said.
"Canoemakers," Cefalo repeated, needling me. "Riggs has never done one laminectomy. Not one! Mr. Lassiter should be ashamed."
With that Cefalo turned and looked toward me. So did the jurors, looking peeved, wondering if I tried to bamboozle them. Good strategy, avoiding what Riggs had said, just attacking his credentials. Sooner or later, though, he'd have to address the testimony or risk giving that ball to me on an open field. Roger Salisbury was squirming so much his chair squeaked on the old tile floor. I patted his arm, a coach telling
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