I’ve never before tried a civil insurance fraud case where the trial is about insurance coverage, money, and the
reputation of an honest citizen. I’ve also never represented a client who believed more in her case and me than anyone I’ve worked for in 21 years, who
happened to own her own business, worked the program, and was a part-time
psychic. And I don’t think I’ve ever
been so scared in the lead-up to a trial.
I work for Christine. So one Monday morning in a mildew-smelling Florida
courtroom with no space and no décor and no soul, we start her insurance fraud
trial.
We start voir dire.
The panel sits both inside the jury box and outside it. The court room is small. For those outside the
box in the front row, there’s nothing between me and them. We talk about the proof you need to declare
someone a fraud. We talk about honesty
and how much we all hate defrauders. We’re
forming a tribe. A retired military
intelligence man relishes telling me about his career. I touch him while we
talk. I barely remember doing it. No one says anything. Later, the judge tells me to back away from
them. I hear nothing the defense lawyer
says.
Our opening is a story about consistent truth over
time. Our story is how truth is fidelity
to facts. Christine is real.
She knows how to share emotionally and honestly. She tells me her life is about rigorous honesty,
and it shows. The judge dislikes the case. She doesn’t know what to do with me, and I
set her off without meaning to. Maybe
she’s scared, too.
I softly cross the defense expert about the scope of
his paid-for opinions. He is an author
of a forensic engineering book. We talk
about the importance of ethics and fairness in his work, as he writes in his
book. I ask him if he feels he has
treated Christine ethically and fairly and honestly, which sets the judge off
again. The judge’s body language is strongly
against us, or me, I can’t tell which. But
it’s killing us, and our jury sees all of it. On break, I reverse roles with the judge. That teaches me to not resent and judge her but to use a
soft voice and to not say any of it on the record. I just need her understand
why her body language speaks to the jury. She’s offended and mad. She explains it’s hot in the court room, and that
I’ve misunderstood her. We start up the
evidence again. She sits like a statue
for the rest of the trial.
We close.
We’ve brought our jury everything there is, and it’s truth and real and
authentic. Christine is not a fraud, and
she’s not a witch in Salem. I tell the
jury we’re scared and we don’t know what else to say. There is so much evidence proving she’s real and
honest that I climb up on top of counsel table.
It’s just in the moment for me, and it isn’t planned. I say, ‘if you could physically stack our
evidence it would reach higher than my hand.’
Not an objection, and not a sound from the judge.
Two hours into their deliberations, the jury is deadlocked.
I’m beating myself up alone in a
hallway going over what I could do different in the second trial. The judge reads the deadlocked instruction,
and they go back in. More time passes.
The jury wants my cross of the insurance company’s expert re-read. I cringe, thinking they want this to convince
each other that the insurance company is right, that Christine is a fraud. I had an expert to counter their paid-for expert,
but chose not to bring him. We don’t
need him to show the jury the truth in our story, I thought. Was I wrong?
Will we lose because of my decision?
No. We win. We win everything, coverage, fees, and we
win the insurance company’s counterclaim they brought against Christine.
Christine is not a fraud, of course. My voice through the trial is indeed my true
voice. I am real. We brought our jury the truth and they
brought Christine into their tribe.
While the jury deliberated, Christine drew angels on
sticky notes which she arranged on the same table I had stood on. A week later
she explained them to me. She drew the
jury as angels who were there to save her.
The judge was God. Her many supporters
who came during the trial were her guardian angels.
She drew me on a sticky.
“John, you were my Warrior Angel.”
Her words.
All of the TLC tribe was there with Christine
and me and our jury in that small, tense, smelly Florida court room where the
client saw angels on her jury and put wings on her Warrior Angel. How beautiful it is to be in those moments.
