Rusty smiled again and said, “Some good news, Judge. Late last night I took a call from Luther here and he made us an offer of settlement. I declined, but after a good night’s sleep we have decided to accept the sum of one million dollars to settle the case.”
His Honor was surprised and glared at Bancroft. “You didn’t mention a settlement offer to me.”
Bancroft said, “Well, Your Honor, I didn’t say a word about it because Mr. Malloy rejected my offer outright. He never even consulted with his client. Indeed, he was quite abrupt and used language you wouldn’t tolerate in open court.”
“I apologize, Luther,” Rusty said, condescending. “I didn’t realize you were so sensitive.”
“Apology accepted. Anyway, I informed my client and the offer was immediately taken off the table. I was instructed to try the case to the end. We’ve come this far. Let’s get it over with.”
Ben shot a look of desperation at Pauline, who appeared unmoved.
Rusty was surprised but recovered quickly. He rubbed his hands together as if itching for a fight and said, “Great! Let’s tee it up.”
Judge Pollock frowned at both lawyers and said, “Well, it seems to me that one million is a fair settlement, all things considered.”
Bancroft nodded gravely and said, “I agree, Judge, but my client was, and is, adamant. No settlement. The hospital firmly believes it did nothing wrong.”
“Let’s go!” Rusty said, ready to rumble.
“All right. Proceed to your tables. I’ll have the bailiff prepare the jury.”
All the lawyers filed out and headed for the courtroom. Ben Bush ducked into a restroom, locked himself in a stall, and sent a text message to Diantha: Defendant withdrew the offer after R’s rejection. Client never told. Headed for closing arguments. We’re so screwed!!
（6）
Under the steady gaze of everyone—lawyers, parties, spectators, clerks, bailiffs, and Judge Pollock—the six jurors filed in and took their seats. The seventh, an alternate, sat next to the jury box. There were no smiles, only the stressed looks of people who wished they were somewhere else.
The plaintiff’s table was closer to the jury box than the defense’s, and throughout the trial the jurors had been forced to look at Trey Brewster. He was positioned on their side by his lawyer, who, of course, wanted him exposed as much as possible. Trey was twenty-three years old but age didn’t matter anymore. Birthdays came and went and he had no clue. His eyes were always closed, his mouth perpetually opened, his head propped awkwardly on his left shoulder. One tube with oxygen ran to his nose. Another, with formula, ran down his throat. He had a feeding portal in his stomach, but Rusty wanted the jurors to see all tubes possible. As brain-damaged as he was, Trey could still breathe on his own, so there was no noisy ventilator to grate on the jurors. He weighed 120 pounds, down 80 since his surgery two years earlier. He was nothing more than a shriveled shell of a young man, and there was absolutely no chance his condition would ever improve.
His mother sat to his right with her hand always on his arm. She had the hollow-eyed, fatigued gaze of a defeated caregiver who could never give up. His father, to his left, stared blankly ahead, as if detached from the proceedings.
Judge Pollock pulled his mike closer and said, “Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, we have now made it to the end, or something very close to it. You’ve heard all the witnesses, seen all the exhibits, listened to the law as I have instructed you. This has been a long trial and it’s almost over. Again, I thank you for your service and patience. Both sides will now be allowed to make their closing arguments, and then you will retire for your deliberations. For the plaintiff, Mr. Malloy.”
Rusty stood and walked to the podium with great confidence. He looked at the six jurors and offered them a businesslike smile. Three met his gaze. Three looked away. Number two appeared to be ready to cry. He began without looking at notes.
“When my client, Trey Brewster, was admitted to GateLane Hospital for a routine appendectomy, no one in his family, no one on his medical team, no one in the world could have predicted that he would never regain consciousness, that he would spend the rest of his life paralyzed, brain-dead, in a wheelchair, fed by a tube, his bladder drained by catheters.”
Rusty’s voice was rich and heavy, his cadence dramatic. He was the only actor on the stage, and relished the moment. His opening was powerful. The courtroom was still and silent.
On the third row of the gallery, Carl Salter looked in the general direction of Rusty, but he was really watching all six faces, all twelve eyes.