Thomas Crawley and his wife, Alice, are sitting in their colonial wingback chairs in front of the large picture window in their living room, reading – what they always did on a Saturday night. Suddenly, a van pulls up in front of the house, and then another one. Soon bright lights are shining through the window and people seem to be everywhere on their front lawn.
“What the hell?” Crawley wonders.
“Who are those people, dear?” Alice doesn’t seem to be afraid as much as annoyed to have her peace and quiet violated.
“I don't know.” Crawley puts his book down, gets up and walks into the foyer just as the doorbell rings. When he opens the door, he is almost blinded by the lights in his eyes, and it takes a minute to realize that there are reporters crowding toward him and already a half-dozen microphones and TV cameras in his face.
“Mr. Crawley, do you have any comment?”
“About what?” Crawley is totally confused.
“About the drive-by shooting downtown last night…early this morning...it was Mr. Messick. He's dead. Murdered.”
Now Crawley is stunned, as well as confused. But he comes to his senses enough to walk completely out the front door and close it behind him, sparing Alice the intrusion.
“I saw the news of the shooting this morning, but they didn’t identify the man. Are you sure it was Messick?”
“Positive. The ID was released an hour ago. Any comment?”
Crawley tries to compose himself for the camera. He musters up every bit of public relations training he ever had. “I'm stunned...and saddened...and horrified that this senseless, random violence is still happening in our city. I didn't know Mr. Messick well, but he was obviously a very fine attorney, and a formidable opponent.... The profession has lost a good man….” That’ll make a good twenty second sound bite. “Do they have any idea who might have done it?”
“Only speculation. Maybe it was random, but maybe someone didn't like his position on AIDS.”
“Well, that could be a lot of people.”
“Mr. Crawley, will you ask for a mistrial?”
This one catches Crawley off guard. “No…. No, not at all. But under the circumstances, I would certainly agree to a postponement, for let's say a month or two, while the plaintiffs regroup and find a new attorney. This is a tragedy. I would be happy to agree to whatever time they need.”
“Do you know who will take Mr. Messick's place?”
As the reality of the situation begins to hit him, Crawley decides it’s time to withdraw and let fate take its course. “I have no idea. I don't know what the plaintiffs will do, as a matter of fact, to replace him.... That's all for tonight,” and he turns and walks back through his front door into the relative calm of his home. He closes the blinds on the front window to try to block out the lights and keep the cameras away, and then reclaims his wingback chair.
He doesn’t say anything, just sits there pensively. Alice knows better than to speak without being spoken to, especially when it pertains to Crawley’s work. Finally, perhaps more to himself than to her, he says, “Unbelievable...but really good for our side...how ironic, and how timely.”
Crawley takes a drink, and then continues talking to no one in particular. “A godsend for us, actually...but what a coincidence...I hope that's all it was...a coincidence.”
“Did you say something, dear?”
Crawley ignores her question and keeps the rest of his comments to himself. I should be more careful about what I wish for…. I wonder who did it. Would Gallo be capable, or ‘connected’ enough for something like this? Was it GlaxoSmithKline? Actually, it wouldn’t have to be either one of them. There are so many other people making huge amounts of money from the HIV-AIDS business who are clearly not happy with what’s going on in this trial…or should I say, what’s coming out in this trial. I can think of half a dozen groups who would want to put a stop to this any way they could. Well, no point in speculating… just be thankful for the postponement we’re going to get and the chance to regroup.
Crawley takes another drink, picks up his book, and goes back to his reading.