Chapter 21
Sasha walked the four blocks to the federal courthouse at a rapid clip. The sky had clouded over and the morning air was cold. She ran up the large stone stairs to the lobby and pushed the heavy brass-framed doors open with her shoulder, digging in her bag for her cell phone.
By court rules only lawyers were permitted to carry cell phones into the courtrooms of the United States District Court for the Western District of Pennsylvania. Civilians had to check them at the security desk.
Before the 9/11 attack, lawyers had to turn them over, too. Evidently, the inability of attorneys to reach their offices and families from court on the morning of the attacks had added to the chaos, as they mobbed the security guards to retrieve their phones.
Now, attorneys were permitted to have them in court, but there was no mercy for the lawyer whose cell phone rang while a judge was seated on the bench. Sasha had seen it happen more than once: a seasoned trial lawyer would be in his groove, telling his story, and his cell phone would ring in open court. Invariably, the intrusion would whip the judge into a rage and it would be all downhill from there.
She stopped in the vestibule to mute her Blackberry each time she went to court. She made it part of the pre-security routine in the hope that she would never find herself on the receiving end of a ringtone-induced tirade.
As she stood just inside the door, soaking in the warmth and turning off her ringer, an obese, slovenly, middle-aged man lumbered through the door. She stared in open amazement. It was 9:20 a.m. and he was shoving what was unmistakably a Primanti’s sandwich into his mouth.
Primanti Brothers was a Pittsburgh institution. The original restaurant—and in Sasha’s view, still the best of the ever-expanding Primanti Brothers empire—was a run-down sandwich shop in the Strip District. Primanti’s sandwiches were enormous, with generous portions of both meat and cheese. But Primanti’s true claim to fame was the addition of both coleslaw and perfectly crisp French fries right on each sandwich.
The story was that the truck drivers who delivered fresh produce to the Strip District wholesalers wanted sandwiches they could eat on the road. As it could be difficult to steer a big rig with a sandwich in one hand and a container of fries and coleslaw in the other, Primanti’s just slapped them between the two slices of bread.
The sandwiches were great. To end a long night of bar-hopping. Or to enjoy during a baseball game. But, Sasha, a Pittsburgher born and bred, had never seen anyone eat one for breakfast. The guy walking past her was doing so with gusto. He crammed the last bite into his mouth and headed for the metal detectors, tucking his shirttails in as he went.
Sasha dropped the phone back into her bag and lined up behind him. He worked his jaw, still chewing the last of his sandwich, while the elderly security guard handed him a basket for his keys and wallet. He walked through the detector and gathered his things.
She swung her briefcase up onto the conveyor.
“You’re at Prescott, ain’t cha’?” The security guard was squinting at her.
She smiled at him. “Yep. I had a long employment trial in front of Judge Dolans last year.”
The elevator chimed and the door opened to let the sandwich eater on.
The security guard nodded. “With Mr. Peterson.”
“That’s right.” Her smile faded.
“I was sorry to hear he passed. Mr. Peterson was a good lawyer. Good man, too. Never blew by us with an attitude.”
The second security guard bobbed his head in agreement from his perch on a stool beside the scanner.
“He was a good man,” she agreed.
Sasha scooped up her bag and headed for the bronze-doored elevator. At the federal courthouse, she usually broke her rule of taking the stairs. All the stairways were thick with stale smoke. Every stairwell had a posted “No Smoking” sign. It usually hung right above an ashtray overflowing with butts.
She passed the short elevator ride to the fourth floor thinking about Peterson. She couldn’t believe she’d never again walk into a courtroom with him by her side.
She replayed his standard pre-court appearance pep talk in her head. Mac, only a moron could lose this argument. Just don’t be a moron and you’ll be fine.
It hardly qualified as inspirational but it always helped to remind her that an argument was not a life-or-death proposition. At least for her. Friends of hers who specialized in death penalty appeals probably wouldn’t find the mantra very helpful.
The elevator stopped on the fourth floor. She stepped out on to the gray marble floor and headed for Judge Cook’s courtroom. Just outside the courtroom doors, a tall man, not thin, not fat, was looping a tie around his neck. Based on the pile of legal-sized folders jammed into the redweld at his feet, she assumed he was plaintiff’s attorney.
She hesitated. Ordinarily, she would introduce herself to plaintiff’s counsel before a court appearance. But, ordinarily, plaintiff’s counsel would be fully dressed at the time. She nodded at him and headed toward the doors.
“Are you from Prescott & Talbott?” he asked.
She turned. “I am. Eric Donaldson?”
He walked over, straightening his knot. He buttoned down his shirt collar, buttoned closed his suit jacket, and then offered her his hand.
“The one and only.”
“I’m Sasha McCandless. I assume you heard about Noah?”
“A tragedy.”
She waited a beat. “My understanding is that you and Noah reached an agreement on the terms . . .”
He cut her off. “We can talk about that in court. I’m just waiting for my client. He’s in the restroom.” His eyes flashed from her face to the men’s room door over his shoulder. “Let me gather up my files. See you inside.”
He headed back to his overflowing redweld and she walked into the courtroom. She thought it was kind of strange that his client was here for this. But, maybe individual litigants showed up for every appearance. The in-house attorneys for her corporate clients usually had to be dragged to court under threat of sanction or contempt.
She walked past the empty benches in the gallery and swung open the waist-high bar (knee-high to taller attorneys) that led to the counsel tables. She claimed the table on the right, further from the jury box. Some old school lawyers insisted that the defendant always sit further from the jury box. Others said whichever party had the burden of proof should sit closer to the jury. Here, Noah had filed the motion opposing class certification, so she supposed, technically, she had the burden of proof. But, there was no jury and there would be no hearing. Just an appearance to let the court know they had worked out an agreement.
Sasha had been around long enough to understand that most of trial practice was theater. So, she took the table on the right anyway.
The door leading from the judge’s chambers opened and his deputy clerk walked in. He stacked some papers on the bench then turned to Sasha.
“You here on VitaMight?”
“Yes. Sasha McCandless for the defendant. Noah Peterson, uh, died last night in a car accident.”
“We heard.” The deputy clerk was a young-looking guy, except for his spiky gray hair. He smiled. “I’m Brett Waters. Judge Cook’s deputy.”
“Nice to meet you.”
“You seen plaintiff’s counsel lurking around anywhere?”
“He’s in the hallway, waiting for his client.”
“Good deal. I’ll call down to the court reporter and tell her to come on up.”
“I don’t know that we’ll need to go on the record for this,” she said.
“A class cert hearing? That’s on the record, kid.”
She cringed at the kid. “I think we’re just going to be informing the court that the parties have reached an agreement in principle.”
He looked at her then, his expression almost sad. “I’ll just give her a call in case.”
Sasha shrugged and turned to organizing her files on the table. Her blood was starting to rush. She got keyed up before ever
y court appearance, no matter how minor. As long as she focused her excitement, it helped her performance.
The door swung open behind her. Eric Donaldson entered first, followed by the Primanti’s sandwich guy.
Sasha swallowed a laugh.
She waited until they had settled at their table and Donaldson had dumped the contents of his files into an uneven pile. Then she walked over and extended a hand to the plaintiff.
“Mr. Jefferson? I’m Sasha McCandless. I represent VitaMight.”
He clamped his hand around hers and pumped it. His palm was moist. “Call me Warren.”
“No, you go right ahead and call him Mr. Jefferson,” Donaldson interjected with a fake laugh.
Sasha raised an eyebrow and withdrew her hand. “As I mentioned to your attorney, Mr. Jefferson, I understand we’ve agreed on the terms of a settlement and just need to let the judge know. It shouldn’t take long. Perhaps the three of us can meet after this to work out the details?”
Jefferson opened his mouth to speak but his lawyer beat him to it. “Perhaps.” Then Donaldson leaned in and started whispering in his client’s ear.