Hmm. Most of it was thoughts and realizations in the moment, but there's one or two things I can still remember thinking about.
Like, during that segment of the trial where Amber's lawer was just reading out the 'shocking headlines' of garbage tabloids about him, then moved on to never refer to them again, all but proving the entire point was to use the headlines that attacked Johnny's reputation as an attack on his character? I kept thinking the judge, or other lawer, should realise what's happening and step in, but they never did. Made me realise he was using part of the evidence procedures to spew all that garbage uninterupted - the thing where you have to get witnesses to verify evidence is what it's entered as, right?
Hopefully October can clarify if I'm wrong.
There was also some point where Heard's lawer was making question after question that were leading or speculative or something, which kept getting objected to, but they steamrolled through with more and more reguardless, if I'm not remembering wrong. That seemed less like they were getting called out and more like they were getting away with spinning a narrative with their questions, which would be remembered by the jury even though they never got to finish their trains of thought. Because there weren't trains of thought there, they were counting on being objected so they could swing right into the next thing without loosing momentum. Or so I assume, at least.
The more I learn about the legal system, the less confidence I have in it. People are so damn irrational. And about important things like crime and punishment, they seem to be WORSE, not better.
Being deluged by promos of the upcoming She-Hulk: Attorney at Law for Disney+ has me wondering if now Jennifer Walters must appear in this story, just because.
Being deluged by promos of the upcoming She-Hulk: Attorney at Law for Disney+ has me wondering if now Jennifer Walters must appear in this story, just because.
Now I know that it's not entirely relevant to the story, but I just want to gush about the fact that I've gotten accepted into my local prelaw program... Admittedly, I'm not getting any actual law classes this semester because it's summer semester.
Now I know that it's not entirely relevant to the story, but I just want to gush about the fact that I've gotten accepted into my local prelaw program... Admittedly, I'm not getting any actual law classes this semester because it's summer semester.
Feel free to ask for any suggestions, tips, etc. when classes start back up. Would be happy to help with the do's and don't's from my personal experience.
EDIT: Oh, uh, before I forget. Next chapter will drop this week.
Ah, always nice to have good news during the Hell Season(tm) at work.
On a different matter, how wide spread is the knowledge of Noa's mutant status in her home town (at least before her 'debut' on live television)? Beucase during Rosh Hashanah, it's noted that she avoided the congregation because she'd be hug-swarmed, popping the glamour.
Ah, always nice to have good news during the Hell Season(tm) at work.
On a different matter, how wide spread is the knowledge of Noa's mutant status in her home town (at least before her 'debut' on live television)? Beucase during Rosh Hashanah, it's noted that she avoided the congregation because she'd be hug-swarmed, popping the glamour.
Outside of her parents, it basically wasn't known at all prior to her glamour going pop, but she also had a reputation for being quiet, antisocial, aloof, frigid, and very physically distant.
Even after the grand national TV reveal, Noa knows there's a very real chance members of the congregation won't know, just due to... well, not watching television.
Even after the grand national TV reveal, Noa knows there's a very real chance members of the congregation won't know, just due to... well, not watching television.
So, a note that should be obvious to y'all by now: this case is massively accelerated compared to what a similar such case would look like in real life.
For some comparison as to how much faster we're going? Well, this is a defamation case, so let's use the low-hanging fruit.
Johnny Depp's defamation lawsuit against Amber Heard was filed back in 2019. Three years later, the case is receiving its closing arguments today, May 27, 2022. That is three years from filing to trial.
Now, in fairness: that case had way, way, WAY more discovery involved than the one in this story. This is a story before the internet, before social media, before digital photography, etcetera. The difference in quantities of evidence is several orders of magnitude, which obviously translates to several orders of magnitude less time required to actually get there.
That said, a case like this would have taken at least six months to reach trial. And that's just for the facts.
I didn't want that. I didn't want to have to skip eight months just to get to a trial phase, and then through yet another year of arguments and deliberations over the damages phase. That is the Doylist reason why this trial is going several times faster than a trial of this scope realistically would in our world.
As for the Watsonian reason? Well… read on.
So, get to scene 3 first.
Okay.
…
Read the scene? Perfect. You can open this second spoiler now.
So. Additur.
This is, very obviously NOT how additur (the choice of a judge to increase the monetary award of a jury) actually works. The damages phase of a trial is often just as long, if not longer, than the rest of the trial itself. And additur is an extremely rare thing to have happen. The opposite, remittitur, is far more common.
Now, if we're being completely honest, additur is just a version of remittitur -- remittitur is the process by which a judge corrects a clearly unfair jury award, and this is usually by pushing the number down to something more realistic. An example is the McDonalds hot coffee case – go look it up, there's enough misinformation about this case that you should probably just go read all the info on it yourself.
Here, we have an additur. That is to say – the judge decided that the award was too low.
This kind of thing is incredibly rare. It's there to shock you, to grab your attention, because I'm trying to impress upon y'all that this is not just a throwaway mini-arc to solve the financial issues problem for the rest of the fic.
This is just another step in a much larger, overarching issue.
Monday, January 22, 1990
I had only just finished filling out and signing my first check (forty-five thousand dollars, two more of that same denomination to go) when my office phone rang. A glance up at the phone showed it was my direct extension, as opposed to a call transferred from Sophie's desk, which currently meant there were only four people it could be.
So, I picked up the handset, held the speaker about an inch away from my horn, and spoke.
"Noa Schaefer speaking," I said. No need for the full 'law office of Noa H. Schaefer' when they were calling the back line, after all. They already knew who was on the other end.
"Just got a call that the check for my Yankees season tickets was being shredded, and I may need to write a new one for next year," Sam Lieberman's voice greeted me from the other end. "You know, if you were going to ruin sports for the year, a little warning would've been nice? I had two hundred on the Yankees to win the World Series this year."
"You make that same bet every year, Sam," I told him, leaning back in my chair as I played with the phone's spiral cord. "And need I remind you that my Mets won more recently?"
"We don't talk about Eighty-Six," Sam said.
"The year the Bad Guys won," I said with fondness. "That was a good year."
"And this one's lookin' like shit without my baseball," Sam groused. "Just had to raise a stink in the press, didn't ya Noa. Can't go one case without the spotlight, I swear to God." Despite Sam's choice of words, his tone was downright affectionate. Heck, he sounded proud.
"Turns out, if John Jonah Jameson likes you, it's not hard to get something on the front page," I said with a smirk. I still had a copy of that Bugle in my desk, fresh from the newsstand and ready to be framed once this case wrapped up. It was a bit presumptuous to send it out for framing now, but it was only a matter of time.
"And all that kvetching means we don't get sports," Sam groused. "NBA is on hiatus, NHL is on hiatus; hell, they're talkin' about whether they should move the [/I]Super Bowl back. And yes, I blame you."
"Wow, people who are at the peak of physical ability don't want to perform to that level if it means they lose their livelihood, and the people whose finances depend on that performance don't want to lose their money," I said, my total monotone signal enough to anybody how sarcastic I was being. "Who would have ever guessed."
"Anyone," Sam said, answering the rhetorical question. "But if this is the backlash, it's looking like you've got yet another big one on your hands—"
"Oh, one sec," I said to Sam, as I saw Sophie's hazy form become visible through the frosted glass. I put a hand over the mouthpiece as Sophie pushed the door open, eyes on the paper in Sophie's hands. "Fax?" I asked, hand outstretched.
"From federal court," she said. "Docket update on our case." She handed me the papers, about thirty pages in total.
"Thanks a dozen, Sophie," I said. Sophie nodded with a smile, then left my office and closed the door behind her. "Sorry about that Sam," I said into the handset, thumbing through the papers to see page numbers. Canter v. Becker, et al. sat front and center of the fax's cover page. "Docket report came in."
"You get assigned a judge yet?" Sam asked.
"You ask this before I even flip past the cover page," I said before doing exactly that. "Let's see, it's – oh my God yes!" I cheered, voice rising almost into a shriek at the end there, pumping a fist in triumph.
And then I remembered I was still on the phone.
"For the love of God, Noa, I get enough of that from the wife!" Sam griped.
"Sorry! Sorry," I said, only half meaning it. "But we got assigned to Judge Nolan!"
"... Nolan?" Sam asked. "Judge Harold Nolan? Longest serving black judge in the State of New York? The man who taught your trial advocacy class in law school?" Sam finished. "That Judge Nolan?"
"Co-taught NYU Law's trial advocacy course," I corrected, "but yes."
Sam's laughter came over the other line.
"Talk about a home court advantage," he said, and I could just picture his smirk in my mind's eye.
"Indeed," I said, flipping through the pages. "And ooh, motion for an expedited discovery phase and expedited trial? I'll take those… hmm," I hummed, flipping to the last motion. "This last one, though… no thank you."
"Motion for a bench trial?" Sam asked, voice dry.
"Yup," I said, popping the 'p'.
"Of fuckin' course," he said. "That one ain't gonna fly. Oh – check something for me. Waldorf still servin' as counsel for Nike?"
"Uh… one sec?" I flipped back up to the earlier pages, and looked through the notices of appearance for the various attorneys in the case. "Yep, Alastair Waldorf, representing Nike. Why do you ask?"
"Word got around, that filthy schmuck has been… mouthing off in the lounges," Sam said. "Do every Italian, Irishman, and fellow Jew in New York a favor: take him to the cleaners."
"Oh, don't you worry, my dear Mr. Lieberman," I said, letting a shark-like grin spread across my face. "I intend to wring out every last drop."
Monday, February 26, 1990
Public pressure was a very good way to grease the wheels of the US justice system. A bureaucracy that usually ran at a snail's pace blazed through all of the various issues that would normally crop up in absolute record time.
Believe me, 'within two months of filing' was the fastest I had ever seen a case go to trial. Something told me that having the team owners, players, and commissioners of all of the major US sports leagues watching this case with bated breath was reason enough to get things rolling.
That, and the lost revenue across the country as professional sports shuddered to a complete halt.
Attempts to settle had been made by various parties to the case. Nike was the first to offer, putting forth a lowball settlement that would also have allowed the company to almost completely maintain face. Becker's offer came next, complete with a press conference with a public rescission of his statements, and turning the US Open trophy back over to its rightful owner: himself.
These offers, along with all of the others, were rejected. Jacques wanted his day in court, and he wanted everybody to see it.
Our limo service brought us to the underground garage at the courthouse, and my decision for us to arrive an hour and a half early allowed us to enter completely unmolested. We had made enough of a kerfuffle in the press that the media's attention was squarely on our opponents, and not in a kind way. The best thing we could do was slip under the radar and let the sharks circle.
When our foes finally made it into the courtroom, the sweat at their necks and the general discomfiture with which the various defendants sat was sign enough that our trick had worked. And that I would owe Jameson a holiday basket, most likely.
"All rise for the Honorable Harold T. Nolan," the bailiff announced. Jaques and I got to our feet immediately, and I had to hold back a smirk as eyes fell on my attire for the day — my one pantsuit. The one with the tail hole.
And wouldn't you know it, but the chairs at counsel's table had an opening between the seat and the back.
Judge Nolan entered the courtroom, an absolutely massive mug of steaming jasmine tea in one hand, a notepad and fountain pen in the other. He sat himself at the bench, took a loud, deep slurp of his tea, pulled his chair further up, and clasped his hands.
"You may be seated," he said, and we complied. "Are there any final motions before we seat the jury?" Silence greeted the judge's question. Well, aside from one person coughing in the gallery. "Very well. Please rise as we seat the jury."
And with that, we all stood once more as twelve people filed into the courtroom.
Now, civil court only required six jurors, and most courts hewed strongly to that bare minimum, as inconveniencing any more people than that was simply too inefficient for even the vagaries of bureaucracy to allow. However, when a case became high-profile enough, a judge could decide to seat a larger jury. Rule 48(a) of the Federal Rules of Civil Procedure simply stated that you could have no fewer than six, but no more than twelve.
Fittingly, Judge Nolan decided that a case that had paralyzed all professional sports in the country demanded the full roster of twelve.
And four alternates. Just in case.
The jury we'd selected was a bit of a mixed bag. We had a pair of career corporate types that were clearly inclined to side with Nike, Adidas, and Wilson, but a simple question of "Mets or Yankees?" had been enough to reveal something very important to me: Don Mattingly and Willie Randolph were singled out by name, hinting that these people understood the value of a single player's performance.
(Also, I was of the opinion that both had withheld some information that might have disqualified them for cause so that they could get some insider information for their portfolios. And if the defense didn't want to say anything, well…)
The crown jewel of my jury, though? A new doctor, being given a much-needed reprieve from his internship, who would have gone on to college baseball if not for a subpar result from Tommy John surgery. Oh yes, he would be one to watch.
New doctor juror was the last to be seated, and his eyes locked onto Jacques instantly, sizing him up.
Perfect.
"Does the plaintiff wish to offer an opening statement at this time?" Judge Nolan asked.
"We would, your Honor," I said, standing from my seat. "Permission to approach?"
"Granted," he said.
"And permission to prepare my approved demonstratives?" I asked.
"Granted," Judge Nolan said. "Bailiff, if you could assist Counsel?"
The bailiff gave a nod, and he and I disappear off to the side, away from the jury's field of view, before returning with… a pair of big CRT televisions on carts, VHS players hooked up to them, both with large extension cords trailing behind them off to the back of the courtroom. This greatly limited the amount of room I had to maneuver in the well of the court, but that was a technique usually used to command the jury's attention, and lead it where I wanted.
What I put on TV would do the job for me.
A quick thing about demonstratives – if it was admissible as evidence, it was something you could use as a demonstrative. And given that we had already cleared all evidence for admission in the discovery and pretrial process, everything I had to show was already declared properly kosher for the court.
Before I began, though, I did a quick check to see if both VHS players were on and the tapes loaded up, and the other papers I needed sat atop them. Only then, once I was certain everything was ready the way I wanted it, did I turn to the jury.
"Ladies and gentlemen of the jury," I said, a smile on my face as I made eye contact with as many jurors in turn as I could. "My name is Noa Schaefer. I am here today to represent Mr. Jacques Canter, the rightful winner of the 1989 US Open, one of the four Grand Slam tennis tournaments. I call Jacques the 'rightful' winner because that is what he is – the man who, by right, won the tournament, and deserves the title. However, Jacques does not have his title, or his trophy. Those were taken from him. Why?
"Because according to the man he defeated, Jacques is, apparently, a mutant who used his power to cheat." I paused, sighed, and shook my head. "Okay, that seems like it should be a fairly simple accusation to fend off, right? Well, unfortunately, no. There's only two ways to actually prove if someone is or isn't a mutant," I said, reaching to pull several sheets of paper off of the cart. "The first is a simple cheek swab, stained and analyzed in a lab. The problem is that the specific combo of reagents you need to get that stain to stick doesn't work very well. I have here ten of that test, using a sample provided by yours truly." I flipped through the papers, walking in front of the jury. "Negative, negative, negative, negative, negative, negative, negative, negative, negative, aaaaand negative.
"There we go. Ten tests that all say I'm not a mutant. But of course…"
I snapped my fingers, and my glamour shattered. Scales, horns, and tail, all became visible in a flash of rainbow. Several members of the jury jumped, and I could practically feel all eyes locked onto me.
"Well, the proof is right here," I said, waving down at myself. "The test is garbage." I turned completely away from the jury to place the papers back onto the cart, letting them see where my tail poked out of the hole tailored into my pantsuit before I turned back towards them. "There is one other test, but, eh…"
I grimaced here, wringing my hands.
"Would it tell you I'm a mutant? Yes… but it would send me to the hospital. And there's a very real chance that when I left that hospital, it would be in a body bag." I frowned as I looked at the jury, eyes falling squarely on our newbie doctor. "Administering that test? Well, that's a one-way ticket to losing your medical license. Which means that unfortunately, medicine can't tell us anything.
"So where do we look instead?" I asked, rhetorically. "Well, thankfully, we don't have to look far. When Jacques Canter was stripped of his title for being a rascally, cheating mutant, the Association of Tennis Professionals helpfully told us that they based their decision on the five points Jacques scored that were, per Boris Becker, several other tennis professionals, and all officials involved, quite literally impossible."
At this, I turned on the first television, the one on the jury's left. And silence ensued.
"... my apologies," I said. "The TV needs to warm up a bit." A small, muted chuckle rang out from the jury, and a quick glance showed me that the CRT was ready to go. "Now, where was I?... oh yes. The impossible shots. As you can see!"
I picked up the VCR's remote from the cart, and pressed play.
"First: a sprinting backhand return, glancing off of the net just perfectly as to land just barely inside Becker's side of the court." I probably owed Joshua a raise; somehow, he managed to perfectly record this VHS tape so that we got the run up to the shot, and then just the shot itself, repeated three times.
"Second: a drop shot, right at the net, that bounces off to the middle of nowhere, delivered immediately after a serve." This one came after Becker returned Jacques' serve, and even with Becker almost at the halfway point of the court, he couldn't predict where the ball was going to bounce; in fact, the damn thing bounced directly over his racket to land, for the second time, on Becker's side of the court. The part that was interesting, here, is that Jacques went into a dead sprint the instant his serve finished, in full anticipation of that exact kind of return. And Jacques punished it beautifully – but if his prediction had been wrong, he would have been the one punished.
It was less the shot that was the problem on this one, per Becker's account, and more the read. Which was a fact that ran contrary to the rest of Becker's accusations, but...
"Third: a blind return volley with Jacques' back to the net, which bounced back over the net and onto Jacques' side on its own." Everybody in the jury gave a full-body cringe at the sheer volume of Jacques' tennis shoes squeaking against the court. A quick look at my client showed that the man himself was reddening, if just a little. But this shot was crazy: Jacques wasn't facing the ball or the net; he just swung his racket blindly, and it managed to not just hit the ball, but put just the right spin on it.
"Fourth: a shot from between the legs, and arcing right over his opponent's head." This one was a treat to watch, and even on the crummy resolution of a CRT monitor, you could pinpoint the exact moment Jacques realized he had too much momentum, bled as much possible by throwing out a leg… and had still gone too far to wind up for a normal swing. So he swung a shot between his legs, and it worked.
"And last, but not least: an extremely wide, back-to-the-net backhand shot that required practically jumping into the crowd, and arcing the ball around the net to land." This one was, quite frankly, ridiculous, and was the shot I'd been most willing to call bullshit on.
It was also, hilariously enough, the one that every single student athlete duplicated.
With that last shot finished, I paused the TV, and faced the jury.
"Ladies and gentlemen, these are the five shots. These are the five feats that Boris Becker stated are impossible. Corroborating this claim are six other professional tennis players, all seeded in the top sixteen. They each provided a report, stating how and why, in their opinion as tennis professionals, these five shots were validly considered 'impossible'. And just to drive that impossibility home, let's take another look at them, shall we?"
Using the remote, I rewound the VCR on the first TV right back to where we started.
And then, I turned on the other television, whose VCR was also ready. And this one had spliced footage from five separate students, each reproducing one of the five shots.
"Let's go over this again, shall we?" I picked up the remote for the other television, and pressed play on them at the same time. "One, the sprinting backhand return. Two, the post-serve drop shot. Three, the blind return volley. Fourth, the last-ditch between-the-legs shot. And fifth, the crowd-jumping backhand."
All five shots played in sequence. The five from Jacques Canter, and from the students.
"Seven different professional tennis players, five tennis officials, and four sports analysts all agree that these five shots were impossible to make without the assistance of a mutant power," I said, listing off the types of experts that had provided a report to the various defendants. "Sixteen experts on the sport all agree that in order to do this, Mr. Canter must have cheated, and he must have used a mutant power to do so. But that's their opinion.
"And in this courtroom, ladies and gentlemen of the jury, the only opinion that matters? Is yours."
And with that, I shut the televisions off, motioned to the bailiff that he was free to retrieve them, and went back to my seat.
It was an unorthodox opening statement. I didn't say what we would be proving. I didn't mention who would be speaking to prove our case. I didn't bring up the other professional athletes that I'd initially planned to – Michael Jordan, Babe Ruth, Mohammed Ali, Wayne Gretzky. I said none of that. Instead, I kept it simple, stupid, and relied on a creative interpretation of my favorite legal principle: res ipsa loquitur. That was to say? The proof could speak for itself.
And a picture was worth a thousand words.
Thursday, March 15, 1990
"Has the jury reached a verdict?" Judge Nolan asked.
It had been an utterly wild few weeks. Of the sixteen experts that the combined defendants had lined up initially, only three agreed to testify, and none of them were the professional tennis players who had initially gone to bat when Becker asked them. As it turned out? None of them wanted to follow a trio of Division III college athletes onto the same stand, and try to say that no, the feats of athleticism that college kids had pulled off were, in fact, impossible. The experts that did take the stand fudged their testimony to say that the shots were impossible when done legitimately, and tried to cast shade on the integrity of NYU's students..
But I had over a dozen separate students, men and women, who had all successfully recreated at least one of Jacques' "impossible" returns. If two or three students cheated, that was believable, sure. But when you got above five, it started to look more likely that the initial showing was, in fact, the real fucking deal.
"We have, your Honor." The jury foreman, the newbie doctor, stood up and handed the jury form to the bailiff.
The bailiff, for his part, handed the form to the clerk of court.
"If all parties would please rise and face the jury as it delivers its verdict?" Judge Nolan asked.
We got to our feet, and turned to face the jury. Not by much, as plaintiffs we were closer to the jury box, but enough.
"In the case of Jacques Canter v. Boris Becker, the United States Tennis Association, the Association of Tennis Professionals, Nike Inc., Adidas AG, and Wilson Sports – we the jury find the defendants liable for all counts of the complaint."
"Yes!" Jacques half-hissed, half-yelled next to me, arms pumping down as he visibly restrained himself from jumping for joy in the courtroom. Across the aisle, Boris Becker deflated and slumped down into his seat, while the attorneys looked wholly unsurprised.
All evidence had been in the record before the trial began. We all knew how this was going to go. The only reason it hadn't settled was that Jacques refused to let this go quietly.
"We the jury hereby award Jacques Canter, the plaintiff, forty million dollars in damages."
This time, though, my eyes actually did go wide. Our complaint had listed that much as the top end we asked for, but I had assumed that we would never get anywhere even close to that! I expected something closer to five million, maybe ten if we got lucky…
But forty million!?
Jacques reached over, leaned down, and hugged me, shattering my glamour to pieces. But I didn't care, because Jacques also picked me up and spun me around a little, knocking our chairs away.
And I allowed that, because my brain was still whirring at the numbers. I'd taken this case under contingency, and used a bog-standard contingency arrangement of thirty percent.
In just four months, I had made twelve million dollars.
Oh. My God.
"The Court would like to thank the jury for their service," Judge Nolan said, turning towards the jury. "Members of the jury, you are dismissed. Bailiff, if you would?"
What was I supposed to do with that much money?... okay, actually, at least a third of that was going to be taken by taxes. But that still left me at basically double my previous net worth. The mortgage on my condo? Taken care of. Rent for the rest of the office's lease? Handled. Oh God, I needed to set up some kind of bonus for both Joshua and Sophie, they had gone above and beyond, I needed to find a loophole to dive through so I wasn't paying them legal fees, non-attorneys can't partake in legal fees… mid-year bonus! Mid-year bonus, that's what I would do!
"If I could have your attention, please?"
The banging of Judge Nolan's gavel brought me back to the present.
"I do my best to offer the jury's award of damages as much respect as possible," Judge Nolan said. "But I do often find that when numbers get large enough, jurors simply lose perspective. In any ordinary situation, with even the greatest of celebrities, forty million would be more than enough. But this is not an ordinary situation. And these are no ordinary defendants. These six defendants are each jointly and severally liable for the full forty million – that is to say, one defendant can pay the full amount, and then sue the remaining defendants for repayment of their respective shares. And I guarantee that this is what will happen, because to one defendant in particular, forty million dollars, while an immense sum on paper, would just be another write-off on their taxes.
"Last year," Judge Nolan continued, "Nike's total revenue was one billion, seven-hundred and ten million dollars. The company's profits were one hundred and sixty-seven million dollars. Despite being embroiled in a legal battle over terminating Mr. Canter's sponsorship, and publicly stating that Mr. Becker's defamatory statements were the grounds for doing so, Nike's stock value has continued to rise. I would not be surprised if Nike's revenue broke the two billion mark this year.
"Compared to that, forty million dollars is two percent of their expected revenue. Just… the cost of doing business."
Judge Nolan leaned in closer to the microphone on his bench.
"Ladies and gentlemen, if the penalty for such gross misconduct is a fine, then it only serves its purpose if the fine is substantial. A mere two percent of one of six parties' projected yearly revenue is not substantial enough. And I will not disrespect this Court by leaving its judgments as simply 'the cost of doing business'."
My eyes went wide. Was… was he…?
"Mr. Canter." Judge Nolan turned towards our table, where we still stood. "Does plaintiff consent to grant this court the power of additur?"
"P-plaintiff consents, your Honor!" I practically yelled, my heart beating so fast I started stumbling over my words.
"Very well." Judge Nolan turned towards the defendant's table. "As a baseline: Mr. Canter is being awarded 3.7 million dollars in compensatory damages, from seized prize money and lost income from terminated sponsorship agreements. The original jury award included 36.3 million dollars in punitive damages. And that is simply… insufficient. Therefore, I hereby increase the punitive damages award to two hundred and fifty million dollars, for a total award of 253.7 million dollars."
Oh.
Oh my God.
Oh my fucking God.
I fell back into my chair, suddenly boneless. Beside me, Jacques fell back into his chair, small, hysterical giggles bubbling forth.
"Y-your Honor—!" Across the aisle, Alastair Waldorf, Nike's lead attorney, surged to his feet, his ghost-gray face framed by oily blonde hair. "Defense—"
"Whatever you were about to motion for, it is denied," Judge Nolan said. "Award has been entered into the record. I hereby find all parties jointly and severally liable for the full 253.7 million dollars, to be deposited into an escrow account controlled by counsel for the Plaintiff by the end of the month. You can squabble and sue over who owes what portion in a separate suit, as I will not have you denying a wronged man his much deserved due." The judge brought his gavel down. "Court is adjourned."
Jacques and I dragged ourselves to our feet as Judge Nolan left the courtroom. Once he left, we both slumped back down into our chairs, minds whirring in identical disbelief.
Thirty percent… Seventy-five. MILLION. Dollars.
"Champagne?" Jacques asked, voice barely a whisper.
"... champagne," I said, a hysterical giggle building into a joyous belly laugh.
My client pulled me into a hug, and I couldn't help but reciprocate, laughing all the way.
Friday, May 18, 1990
What would you do if you suddenly won the lottery?
Okay, actually, no. That didn't quite work – I hadn't won the lottery.
But I was fairly certain that seventy-five million dollars was close enough!
My mortgage? Paid. The office's lease? All of the funds for my remaining year and change of the lease, set aside in a separate savings account.
My wardrobe? Filled to the brim with brand new tail holes. I'd kept most of my old skirts and skirt suits, they still worked just fine. But I now had a half dozen skirt suits with a tail hole in the skirt, another five pantsuits with tail holes, slacks with tail holes, casual clothes with tail holes… I had even commissioned some special hosiery.
Let me tell you – it was utterly liberating to comfortably wear a pair of blue jeans for the first time in… oh God, I actually could not remember how many years it had been. Now don't get me wrong, I overall preferred skirts and dresses, they were more comfortable to me overall, but having more options was wonderful.
And having those options was particularly nice right now, as I walked into Madison Square Garden, my tail poking out the back of a pair of capris-leg pants, paired with, of all things, a New York Rangers jersey.
Judge Nolan's full written verdict in the Canter case set a very important precedent: to use plain language, if you want to make an accusation of using a mutant power for your personal benefit, you had best have the proof to back it up. Two months after they shuddered to a dead halt, sports came roaring right back, with some of the best play we'd seen in years.
That two month delay, serendipitously, meant that for once, I got to attend a playoff hockey game on my birthday.
Yes. It was my birthday. Today, May 18th, I was… thirty-four years old.
As of today, I was officially in my mid-30's. And yet, I thought with a quick glance at my reflection before putting my makeup compact away, I barely looked a day over twenty-five.
At least, I hoped so.
I stepped off the third escalator and onto the premiere level of the Garden, and went searching for the right section. It took walking around about a third of the stadium's outer ring (and dodging far too many people that thought they could speed walk while carrying three beers) until I arrived at the luxury box, showed my ticket to the usher outside, and walked in.
Cold beer and chilled white wine sat in a large ice bucket on a counter, alongside a crudite platter, cold cuts, and sandwich rolls. On the other counter, there were some hot food options – chicken wings, sliders, pigs in a blanket, and something else I couldn't quite pinpoint.
What mattered more was the only other man sitting in the box. A black man, nearly bald, with what little hair he had left pure, snowy white. He wore a Rangers jersey that still had the stiffness of a brand new purchase.
"You know, I'm amazed that I never gave hockey a chance," he said as he heard me approach. "It's always football, basketball, baseball. You never hear much about hockey. I think it has to do with all the ice skating."
"Something tells me the sport would get more fans if they heard an old adage I'm fond of," I offered, taking the seat beside him.
"Oh?" Judge Harold Nolan turned to me, an amused smile on his face. "And what would that be?"
"Simple," I said with a grin. "I went to the fights, and a hockey game broke out."
Judge Nolan gave me a grin of his own, then reached to give me a gentle one-armed hug, very careful not to press against my horns, hidden as they were beneath my glamour.
"It's always a pleasure to see my favorite students doing well," the judge said, leaning back as the Garden went dark, and the announcer began to introduce the Capitols first, then the Rangers.
"You tell that to every former student who ends up winning before you in court," I said, a bit of joking in my tone.
"Why I never!" Judge Nolan said, putting a hand to his chest in mock affront. "Who told you such lies?"
"Jake," I said, starting to list off the names of old classmates that I knew had also gone before the judge. "Ashton. Andrew. Mildred. Michael. Zachary. Me. Do I need to go on?"
"Oh, you wound me, Noa," he said with a laugh. "So, I will be the first to admit I am a neophyte here. Would you care to give me the rundown on what to look for?"
"Well, the puck is a piece of frozen rubber that—"
"I don't think you need to go over what a puck, stick, or skates are," Judge Nolan said with a laugh.
"If you insist," I said with a giggle of my own, and went about actually giving a halfway decent explanation of hockey's rules, mostly as they came up.
The offsides rule was the first to come up, followed by the line rule. Penalties were always fun to talk about, and even in just the first period, we actually saw a proper five for fighting. High-sticking was one that Judge Nolan understood immediately, but a look at how thick the players' gloves were left him a little baffled at how a holding penalty could even come about.
Cross-checking, though?
"So it's a tackle," Judge Nolan said.
"... no," I said again, pushing up my glasses as I pinched the bridge of my nose. "It's closer to a screen in basketball than a tackle in football. How did you even get a tackle out of that descriptor?"
And then there were the similar ones.
"So if you trip somebody by hooking them or slashing them, it's just tripping," he said, "and it's not also hooking and/or slashing?"
"Nope! Just the most obvious one," I said. "Plus, keep in mind the refs are always going to be half blind. So…"
"Aren't they always?" Judge Nolan asked, and laughed at his own joke.
Save for the occasional explanation, the first period went rather well. The Rangers were up two goals to none, and were playing circles around the Capitols defense. That said, from what I knew, this wasn't going to last – the Rangers had only one line that was actually good on the offense, and their second and third lines were just middling on both offense and defense. The Rangers absolutely lived by the idea that the best defense was a good offense, and it had worked rather well through the season… but the playoffs bug had a way of making people push too hard and run out of steam.
But once the period ended, and the break between them began, I turned towards the good judge.
"Not that I'm ungrateful for the birthday present," I started, "but I do have to ask, Judge Nolan: why did you invite me here?"
"Harold is fine, Noa," Judge Nolan said – Harold said. "You're right to be cautious. Yes, you are still one of my favorites, but you're also correct that I have an ulterior motive."
"You need a favor," I surmised, to which Harold nodded. "And as for why you're asking me, it's because I'm both a solo practitioner and have recently had a substantial financial windfall. Partly thanks to you, I'll admit."
"On the money," he said. "An old war buddy of mine from Korea is in a spot of legal trouble. I was able to pull a few strings and call in favors with our new District Attorney to keep charges from being pressed, but there isn't much I can do to stop a civil suit."
"And since you're a judge, the most you can do is offer basic advice, like 'retain an attorney'." I took a deep breath, and sighed. "Okay. What is your friend looking at, here?"
"The civil claim is for intentional torts of assault and battery," the judge told me. "Plaintiff had to go to the hospital, and needed some dental work. When he relayed the specifics, I told him he may have a case for defense of other."
Ah. I saw it now.
This was also part of the reason Judge Nolan wanted me.
"And the third party?" I asked.
"The plaintiff's son," he said.
"And who is the plaintiff?" I pushed. "Who is the plaintiff who can afford to push a civil suit when the DA refuses to press charges?"
"And there's the rub," he said. "The plaintiff is none other than Norman Osborn."
… well, shit.
"So this is why Osborn with a shiner was on the front page of the Bugle back in early February, I suppose," I half-asked, half said. "Okay. Harold, I may be good, but I am not 'win against a billionaire's fleet of thirty lawyers in open court' good. I don't think anybody is, really."
"This isn't a case that needs winning," he said, placatingly. "Just slowed down and calmed until a settlement can be reached. I won't expect a miracle, but I just don't want my friend and his boy out on the streets. There are too many veterans left sleeping on sidewalks already."
Judge Nolan was a canny one, I had to admit. He was largely responsible for my amplified wealth, he had gifted me the ticket here for my birthday, and nastiest of all, he had put the exact kind of case in front of me that I may not have wanted, but probably needed.
The last time a self-defense or defense-of-other case came before me, with overwhelming odds before against me, I had just barely not pulled out the win. Hell, I was still working on it; St. John's appeal was due for oral arguments in early August, and I was even now soliciting amicus brief after amicus brief. I knew that win was mine, and I was going to get it. I needed to get it.
And here was a chance at the exact catharsis I so desperately coveted, dropped right into my lap.
What other answer was there, really?
"Okay," I said. "I'll help your friend, pro bono. But again, I make zero promises," I warned. "I'll try to keep this out of court, get this as low as possible. But I'm no miracle maker."
"That's all I ask, Noa," Harold said. "Thank you, truly."
"Don't thank me yet," I said, reaching into my purse to pull out my planner. "I have nothing set for Monday, so I'll try to get this started then." I paused. "I realize you still haven't told me my new client's name."
"... did I really…?" Judge Nolan shrugged, with a light chuckle. "Ah, well. My friend's an old widower from Queens, name of Ben Parker…"
Dun dun DUUUUUN.
I have been sitting on that ending line since literally the moment I started this fic.
Hope y'all enjoyed.
If you're feeling generous, you can find my Ko-Fi page right [HERE]. (with a bit of luck, I will hopefully be able to can the Ko-Fi page for good soon... assuming this next bit of networking works out...)
Because suddenly this feels tremendously like a "you scratch my back, I scratch yours" situation, and while favor trading is just how the business is done in politics Nora doesn't feel nearly as hesitant about this as I think she should I think, even considering the personal relationship already involved here.
Yeah, that's not the cheap champagne money. I'm not sure it's even the expensive champagne money. That's signing up for a lifetime champagne a week program money.
I can't say I have any particular knowledge of this topic but as a layperson I'm surprised that the sponsors got dragged into this. While I doubt they'd be voicing complaints about the decision, I would have expected to see a very noncommittal stance because of the obvious risk of lawsuits. With their defence being simply that they sponsor USTA to promote the sport and thet make no comment on the issue. It feels odd to me for them to be stuck in alongside the others.
