I spend hours with Doug trying to explain these legal principles, none of which make sense. He wants to know why his wife’s life is worth only $1 million. I explain that his state senator voted for this cap on damages—and that he also takes money from insurance lobbyists—so perhaps Doug should contact this elected official and bitch about the way he votes.
Doug asks, “Then why did we sue for $50 million when the most we can get is only $1 million?” Another question with a long answer. First, it’s called making a statement. We’re angry and fighting back, and suing for $50 million sounds much more aggressive than a mere $1 million. Second, a quirk in this already screwed-up law prohibits the jurors from knowing about the $1 million cap. They can sit through a month of testimony, evaluate the evidence, deliberate thoughtfully, and return a proper verdict of, say, $5 to $10 million. Then they go home, and the next day the judge quietly reduces the verdict down to the cap. The newspaper might trumpet another big verdict, but the lawyers and judges (and insurance companies) know the truth.
It makes no sense, but bear in mind this law was written by the same conspirators who insert endless gibberish into your insurance policies.
Doug asks, “But how can a cop kick in my door and shoot me with immunity, but if I return fire I’m a criminal looking at twenty years?” The simple answer is because they are cops. The complicated answer is that our lawmakers often pass laws that are not fair.
My client is still in mourning, but some of the shock and grief are beginning to subside. His thinking is getting clearer; reality is setting in. His wife is gone, murdered by men who will not be held accountable. Her life is worth only $1 million. And he, Mr. Doug Renfro, is in the midst of a criminal prosecution that will one day drag him into a courtroom where his only hope will be a hung jury.
The road to justice is filled with barriers and land mines, most of them created by men and women who claim to be seeking justice.
My little cage fighter, Tadeo Zapate, has won his last four fights, all by brutal knockouts. That’s eleven in a row, with only three career losses, all on points. He’s now thirty-second in the world bantamweight rankings and moving up nicely. UFC promoters are taking notice. There’s talk of a fight in Vegas in six months, if he keeps winning. Oscar, his trainer, and Norberto, his manager, tell me they can’t keep the kid out of the gym. He is focused, hungry, almost manic in his quest for a title fight. They work him hard and are convinced he can be a top-five contender.
Tonight he fights a tough black kid with the stage name of Crush. I’ve seen Crush fight twice and he doesn’t worry me. He’s just a brawler, a street fighter with limited training in mixed martial arts. In both fights he got knocked out late in the third round because of fatigue. He starts with a bang, cannot pace himself, and pays for it at the end.
I wake up with a bad case of butterflies, thinking of nothing but the fight, and cannot eat breakfast. I’m puttering around the apartment late in the afternoon when Judith calls my cell. There’s an emergency—her college roommate has been seriously injured in an auto accident in Chicago. Judith is racing to the airport. Ava, her partner, is out of town, so it’s up to me to man up and be a father. I bite my tongue and do not tell her that I have plans. It’s fight night!
We meet at the park and she delivers our son, his duffel bag, and a barrage of warnings and instructions. Normally, I’d snap back and we’d argue, but Starcher seems to be in good spirits and eager to get away from her. I’ve never met her college roommate, so I don’t inquire. She storms off, jumps in her car, and disappears. Over pizza, I ask Starcher if he’s ever seen a cage fight on television. Of course not! His mothers monitor everything he reads, watches, eats, drinks, and thinks.
Last month, though, he spent the night with a friend, Tony, who has a big brother named Zack, and late that night Zack pulled out a laptop and they watched all manner of evil, including an Ultimate Fight.
I ask, “How was it?”
“Pretty cool,” he says with a grin. “You’re not mad?”
“Of course not. I love those fights.”
I go on to explain how our night will go. The kid’s face lights up like I’ve never seen. I make him swear that he will not, under any circumstances, tell his mothers about going to the fights. I explain that I have no choice; that I have to be there as part of a team; and that under normal circumstances he would not be invited. “Let me handle your mother,” I say, without much confidence, but then I realize he will be grilled mercilessly about the evening.
“Let’s just say we had pizza and watched TV in my apartment, which will be the truth because we’re eating pizza now and we’ll turn on the television when we get to my apartment.”
For a second he looks confused, then lights up again.
