things about accessing a certain auto company’s voice-mail system that I would have been better off not learning. Haskell had had nothing to do with my demise but undoubtedly had heard about the details on the attorney grapevine in Detroit.
“Ah,” I said. “Got it.”
“Sorry. I didn’t know if that was still raw. Apparently so.”
Behind him one half of a credenza was crowded with pictures of Haskell with his wife and son, in ski attire atop a mountain, on a sailboat, in front of the White House. There was a picture of Haskell in a tuxedo and his wife in a ball gown with President Clinton and the first lady. The other half held pictures of the son in goaltender gear, holding the wide blade of his goalie stick aloft, hugging a teammate, posing in a blurry shot with a man in a Detroit Red Wings uniform.
Above the credenza, framed reproductions of front pages of the Detroit Times , the Detroit Free Press , and the American Lawyer lined the paneled wall. Headlines on each shouted the size of verdicts Haskell had won against auto companies: $28.1 million, $94.4 million, $42.8 million. I couldn’t help but think of the one case that was not on his trophy wall, the one I’d covered for the Times that had set me at odds with Haskell and gotten me in trouble with my bosses. Nor could I help wondering again how he could be coming up short with the money to build that new rink. What exactly was the problem?
“It’s fine,” I said. “I like it here.”
“You landed on your feet, man. And of course who wouldn’t like it here, huh?” He swept an arm toward the big bay window facing the lake. I looked. Mom’s house was a fuzzy yellow speck in the tree line on the opposite shore.
“I hear you’ve been staying with your mother,” Haskell said. “That’s a good son, in my book.”
“The rent’s free. The food’s good.”
“Oh, my, you must have heard.” He leaned into the table and shaped his face into one reflecting concern. “That girl.”
Gracie, I assumed.
“Yes. Not a girl, really.”
“Did you know her?”
“A little.”
“It’s terrible. Her poor mother.”
“Yeah. She worked at the rink, you know.”
“Did she?” he said.
“Drove the Zamboni. Sharpened skates.”
“Ah.” Haskell gazed out the window again, crossed his legs, ran his fingers along a crease in his corduroy slacks. “Suicide is so … so selfish, don’t you think?”
“It’s not a suicide,” I said.
“Really? Is that what the police are saying?”
“They aren’t saying yet.”
Haskell shook his head. “I had a client once—did I ever tell you this story?—this client had a son, an only child, four years old, who’d been gravely injured when he was thrown from a minivan. He actually diedwhile we were at trial due to complications related to being a quadriplegic, which should have worked to—well, that’s beside the point.”
“Right.”
“The defense put my client, the mother, on the stand. About as brazen a move as I’ve seen in all my years of lawyering. They asked her a lot of questions about how the boy was situated, where she’d bought the car seat, how well she secured him, et cetera. They even asked about her husband supposedly leaving her. All of it patently irrelevant, trying to blame her for their own client’s egregious negligence. They got her crying, of course. I assured her they were out of order and I’d get her testimony thrown out by the judge. But …”
He let his voice trail off for dramatic effect.
“And she killed herself?” I said.
“Unbelievable.”
“She’d lost her son and her husband. And she must have felt guilty.”
“No,” he said, leveling his eyes on me as if I were a member of the jury. “She was just afraid to get on with her life.”
“What happened with the case?”
“The family had been through enough. We settled.”
“I guess you missed out on a pretty big payday there, huh?”
“A payday had nothing to do with it.”
I felt more
“Ah,” I said. “Got it.”
“Sorry. I didn’t know if that was still raw. Apparently so.”
Behind him one half of a credenza was crowded with pictures of Haskell with his wife and son, in ski attire atop a mountain, on a sailboat, in front of the White House. There was a picture of Haskell in a tuxedo and his wife in a ball gown with President Clinton and the first lady. The other half held pictures of the son in goaltender gear, holding the wide blade of his goalie stick aloft, hugging a teammate, posing in a blurry shot with a man in a Detroit Red Wings uniform.
Above the credenza, framed reproductions of front pages of the Detroit Times , the Detroit Free Press , and the American Lawyer lined the paneled wall. Headlines on each shouted the size of verdicts Haskell had won against auto companies: $28.1 million, $94.4 million, $42.8 million. I couldn’t help but think of the one case that was not on his trophy wall, the one I’d covered for the Times that had set me at odds with Haskell and gotten me in trouble with my bosses. Nor could I help wondering again how he could be coming up short with the money to build that new rink. What exactly was the problem?
“It’s fine,” I said. “I like it here.”
“You landed on your feet, man. And of course who wouldn’t like it here, huh?” He swept an arm toward the big bay window facing the lake. I looked. Mom’s house was a fuzzy yellow speck in the tree line on the opposite shore.
“I hear you’ve been staying with your mother,” Haskell said. “That’s a good son, in my book.”
“The rent’s free. The food’s good.”
“Oh, my, you must have heard.” He leaned into the table and shaped his face into one reflecting concern. “That girl.”
Gracie, I assumed.
“Yes. Not a girl, really.”
“Did you know her?”
“A little.”
“It’s terrible. Her poor mother.”
“Yeah. She worked at the rink, you know.”
“Did she?” he said.
“Drove the Zamboni. Sharpened skates.”
“Ah.” Haskell gazed out the window again, crossed his legs, ran his fingers along a crease in his corduroy slacks. “Suicide is so … so selfish, don’t you think?”
“It’s not a suicide,” I said.
“Really? Is that what the police are saying?”
“They aren’t saying yet.”
Haskell shook his head. “I had a client once—did I ever tell you this story?—this client had a son, an only child, four years old, who’d been gravely injured when he was thrown from a minivan. He actually diedwhile we were at trial due to complications related to being a quadriplegic, which should have worked to—well, that’s beside the point.”
“Right.”
“The defense put my client, the mother, on the stand. About as brazen a move as I’ve seen in all my years of lawyering. They asked her a lot of questions about how the boy was situated, where she’d bought the car seat, how well she secured him, et cetera. They even asked about her husband supposedly leaving her. All of it patently irrelevant, trying to blame her for their own client’s egregious negligence. They got her crying, of course. I assured her they were out of order and I’d get her testimony thrown out by the judge. But …”
He let his voice trail off for dramatic effect.
“And she killed herself?” I said.
“Unbelievable.”
“She’d lost her son and her husband. And she must have felt guilty.”
“No,” he said, leveling his eyes on me as if I were a member of the jury. “She was just afraid to get on with her life.”
“What happened with the case?”
“The family had been through enough. We settled.”
“I guess you missed out on a pretty big payday there, huh?”
“A payday had nothing to do with it.”
I felt more
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