Chapter 42: Unbridled

Thursday, October 6, 1983

I headed off to the deposition right after lunch. Jasmine had reaffirmed that she wasn’t particularly interested in attending. Both Mr. Lancaster and I had checked with Camille and Francis and they felt the same way.

That made sense to me, especially since she had a limited role in things. She had a claim for both actual and punitive damages, but there was virtually no chance that the outcome of her case would be significantly different from mine.

It only took me about twenty minutes to arrive at the office, which was located in an office tower near Greenway Plaza (home to the Summit, where we’d see The Police in a month and a bit). I parked in the underground garage and headed up to Mr. McBride’s (or his insurance company’s) lawyers’ office.

Mr. Lancaster was waiting outside the office when I arrived. We shook hands and sat down.

“Just to go over it again,” he said, “You’re here to watch. No one should ask you anything. In particular, Mr. McBride shouldn’t address you at all. It’s not a problem for him to say ‘hello’ or anything of the sort, but he can’t pivot any questions to you or anything of the sort. The deposition should proceed exactly as it would if you weren’t in the room.”

I nodded. “That makes sense.”

“Similarly, you might be able to speak, or you might not. I would advise against any sort of apology or similar statement. It wouldn’t necessarily make any difference, but it would be recorded and they could bring it up later. More importantly, you have nothing to apologize for, whatever Mr. McBride wants to say or imply about your shared liability — which he, and his lawyers, will unquestionably attempt to argue.”

I nodded again. “That also makes sense. I’ve gone over it in my mind as well. While I certainly could have changed the outcome by simply pausing a few more seconds at the stop sign, that’s not a ‘reasonable man’ standard. I had no reason to believe that pausing would matter. In the vast majority of accidents, the victim could’ve avoided the accident by changing their behavior.”

“Exactly! Finally, you’re not there to correct anything. Mr. McBride has had trouble getting his story straight in the past, but this is his story, told under oath. If it differs from the facts, we can ask him to clarify it here. However, if he wishes to stick to something, that’s a matter for a trial

“I’ll remember that. I’m certain that we’ll differ on some things. If we didn’t, there would be little point in all of this back and forth.”

He smiled. “Just so. Anyway, you’re here just to watch, and that’s your right.”

“So, I’ll watch.”

“Indeed!” He paused, then said, “I would have serious concerns about this with some teenage plaintiffs. Part of me says that I should be consistent and give you lots of warnings I really don’t think you need. On the other hand, I really don’t think you need them, so I’ll go with that.”

“Thanks,” I said. “For my part, if you give me a stare or touch my arm or anything, I’ll stop whatever I’m doing immediately.”

“That works. What’s said can’t be unsaid, but I’ll stop you if I have any concerns.”

“Works for me!”

We headed in, checked in with the receptionist, then took seats in the waiting room. After just a few minutes, Mr. Keller came in, smiled, shook hands with me, and took a seat next to Mr. Lancaster.

I probably should have brought a book with me. I’d thought this would move right along, based on my own deposition, but we were there almost half an hour before the court reporter came in, and then another ten minutes before Mr. McBride arrived.

He came in by himself, gave us a death stare, then went to the receptionist. A few minutes later, a man in a suit came out, shook his hand, and led him away. I didn’t recognize the man, but his bearing and appearance screamed ‘lawyer.’

As they were going, I was pretty sure I heard Mr. McBride whispering emphatically to his lawyer, “What’s he doing here?” Given the volume, I might have misheard him.

“That’s Danny Jacobs,” Mr. Lancaster said. “He’s more-or-less Don Blankenship and Stephanie Lane’s boss.”

“Bringing out the big guns?” I said.

He nodded. “McBride wouldn’t stand for less if he could help it. He can’t actually help it — this is completely in the hands of his insurance company — but he’s apparently someone they’re willing to appease, at least for now.”

About fifteen minutes later a woman (most likely a secretary and not a paralegal) came to get us, directing us to a conference room not far into their office suite. It had a glass wall on the inside and a nice view of downtown Houston out the window. Just the place to impress clients (and, perhaps, intimidate the opposition).

It meant little to me, and I imagine it meant little to Mr. Lancaster and Mr. Keller, but I was hardly the average plaintiff. I suspected the goal was to tell people ‘We’re very good, and you’d best settle for what you can get, because we’ll eat you alive at a trial if it gets that far.’ In this case, I suspected we’d have the upper hand.

Mr. McBride gave me another death stare as I came in. Stephanie Lane was seated next to him, with Don Blankenship next to her. There was no sign of Danny Jacobs. The stenographer was the only other person at the table, and she appeared to be focused on her keyboard for the moment.

There were open seats near the door, so we took those. It put me about as far away from Mr. McBride as possible, which was another plus.

As with my deposition, everyone present identified themselves for the stenographer. Mr. McBride was asked to present identification, which he did, grumbling just a bit.

Mr. Lancaster and Mr. Keller began walking Mr. McBride through the evening. He had been out celebrating a new oil lease deal they’d made and had had ‘just one margarita.’ I was suspicious of that for obvious reasons. Mr. Lancaster pushed him on it, and eventually they seemed to agree that it might have been a very strong margarita, as well as a large one.

At some point that became plausible, of course. Three or four shots of tequila and someone Mr. McBride’s size would be well over the limit. Heck, even fat first-life Steve would’ve been reluctant to drive after three regular margaritas, though he might have been fine.

Mr. Lancaster wrapped that up by referring to Mr. McBride’s toxicology screen, which showed him to have been well over the legal limit (Over twice the limit! I hadn’t known that before) at the time of his hospital admission. Ms. Lane halted the questioning briefly to have a whispered conversation with Mr. McBride. Following that, Mr. McBride added that he could have had a drink after the accident ‘to calm his nerves.’ That still sounded like a dead-end approach to me, fraught with trouble, but it was at least something they could perhaps use to create doubt.

It took surprisingly long to get Mr. McBride out of the restaurant and into his car, given how much time they’d spent on the margarita. The drive itself took a while longer. He’d come from the Galleria area along the loop and then down I-10 before moving to surface streets. There was a lot of discussion as to whether his lights were on during that sequence, which wound up getting repeated answers of ‘I don’t know.’ We knew they were off at the time of the accident. Driving without them wouldn’t look good; turning them off after leaving the freeway might look worse.

As the narrative got to the street on which we’d met, he nudged Mr. Blankenship and whispered something. They conferred for a second, and then Mr. Blankenship asked for a fifteen-minute delay for everyone to use the restroom and for Mr. McBride to make a phone call that was apparently urgent.

I didn’t really need to go, but one of Dad’s aphorisms is ‘Never pass up a free bathroom!’ It applied here, so I asked for directions. They sent me to one up near the lobby, well away from where Mr. McBride would be. No sense risking a confrontation, I’m sure.

When I came out, one of the secretaries offered me a glass of water. I flashed on the water scene from ‘Erin Brockovich’, but this wasn’t that sort of case. I thanked her for it and headed back to the conference room.

Mr. McBride went over by a few minutes, but before too long we were all settled and the deposition resumed. Surprisingly, or not, we got through the accident much more quickly. Mr. McBride claimed that he believed that his lights had been on, and that perhaps they’d simply been turned off in the accident. He claimed to have been going at a speed much slower than the investigation showed, but covered that by saying that he hadn’t been watching the speedometer and that he hadn’t had the car that long. There was a bit of discussion as to whether he might have kept closer to freeway speeds than he should have, which Mr. McBride allowed might be possible.

It went as I’d expected. He certainly presented the best spin possible on his own actions. I believed that he had been caught completely by surprise when my car appeared in front of his and even that he’d meant to hit the brakes. The evidence seemed to indicate that he hadn’t been braking at the moment of impact, but that wasn’t completely established as far as I knew, and might never be.

He captured his own confusion well. He’d been in a panic and worried that his car might explode, with his ribs bruised, his door inoperable, and his seat belt locked. Calling for help, hitting the horn, and all of that was perfectly reasonable. He made mention of my not rendering aid, but we had that covered.

He claimed to not remember any part of hitting me. That again seemed dodgy to me. There was no reasonable justification for him to have punched me, but claiming he didn’t remember doing it was basically trumpeting that he was seriously drunk. Oh, I imagined they could produce an expert who would claim that Mr. McBride lost the memory in the trauma, and my own knowledge of eyewitness testimony actually supported that as a possibility, but I also knew that most juries didn’t know that, nor would they necessarily give the expert much credence.

Mr. Lancaster and Mr. Keller pressed him on that point a fair bit. Did Mr. McBride remember anyone pulling him away from me? The neighbors restraining him? Had the police mentioned the assault charge? Had he been handcuffed?

As they ran through the questions, I noticed Mr. McBride’s face getting a bit red, then a bit redder still. His answers picked up a bit of a tone of aggravation, and his lawyers had to remind him not to talk with his hands several times. He didn’t seem dangerous, and perhaps I was simply attuned to him looking agitated since I’d seen him that way, but he certainly didn’t look nearly as calm as before.

They went through his own transit to the hospital, the care he’d received, the tests he’d undergone, and so forth. That part was all very routine. He acknowledged that they’d given him a toxicology screen after a bit of back-and-forth with his lawyers. If they were going to claim a lab mix-up, it wasn’t part of today’s proceedings, and I imagined the hospital could show their procedures would preclude that from happening.

Mr. Lancaster asked a few questions about the damage to Mr. McBride’s car, and then Mr. Keller asked a few questions about what injuries Mr. McBride had sustained. That took a few minutes.

He hadn’t calmed down during any of it, which surprised me. Most of the questions were dry and boring and not the sort of thing to get anyone angry.

The last few questions had to do with his own recovery. Ironically or not, the most significant injury he’d sustained was a broken bone in the hand that he’d punched me with. His lawyers set the case for him breaking it in the crash. Drunk or not, though, would someone punch someone else with an already damaged hand?

Maybe, but they’d have to be really drunk, I’d imagine. Mr. Lancaster made that point by asking him whether his hand had hurt before the punch and if it’d hurt more after. Those were both things he couldn’t remember, naturally, but those answers required more consultation with his attorneys and more whispering than I’d have expected.

As Mr. Blankenship started wrapping things up, Mr. McBride started to say something. Mr. Blankenship got him to quiet down.

“I’d like to thank everyone for attending this deposition. We’ll be in conta...”

Mr. McBride started to say something else. Ms. Lane leaned in and whispered to him. He whispered back.