Free Impact by Stephen Greenleaf Page B

hard for a settlement. In the old days he relished a trial—anytime, anywhere; on more than one occasion he had rejected reasonable settlements just to strut his stuff in court. But the thought of trying the copter case is painful: two months in Juneau, living like a monk on two hours’ sleep a night while a judge who spends most of his time with timber sales and fishing rights tries to wend his way through the law of aviation accidents.
    Even if he wins, there will be an appeal—two years’ wait in the Ninth Circuit just to get a date for oral argument, another year till the appellate opinion is handed down—then a petition to the Supreme Court, certiorari denied, back to the trial court, judgment finally entered and, eventually, after all avenues of delay have been exhausted, paid by the manufacturer. Some ten years after it is earned, Hawthorne’s fee will be received—and immediately begrudged, because it will seem disproportionate when compared to the award to the victims. Ignorant of the facts and blind to the ramifications of the neobarbarism advocated by the insurance companies, the newspapers will create another public relations disaster for the legal profession. For those and a thousand other reasons, settlement is preferable, but either way, Hawthorne calculates, the chopper case won’t yield enough to get his business in the black.
    As though she has read his mind, Martha looks up from her manual. “We need to talk.”
    â€œAbout what?”
    â€œMoney.”
    â€œYou want a raise.” Feeling expansive after his conquest of the convening pilots, Hawthorne is prepared to bargain in good faith.
    Martha shakes her head. “I want to work for a solvent enterprise.”
    â€œSo do I.”
    â€œThen you’d better listen to what I have to say.”
    He knows from the ditch just dug above her eyes that she is serious and angry, so he nods. When Martha is seriously angry, he obeys orders.
    She swivels to face him squarely. Her suit is black and austere, offering the gloomy aspect she believes she must cultivate in order to be taken seriously. Behind her antique reading glasses, her eyes fix on him like landing lights.
    â€œAfter you went to sleep last night, I got up and ran some numbers,” she begins. “What with the start-up costs in SurfAir and the likelihood that the ultralight case will be reversed and have to be retried, I calculate that at the close of fiscal ’eighty-seven, the Law Offices of Alec Hawthorne will show a net operating loss of half a million dollars.”
    He feels his eyes widen and his veins swell. “You’re kidding.”
    â€œI don’t kid,” she observes, “about money.”
    â€œWhat’s the balance on our note?”
    â€œA hundred and a half. The people at Security Pacific are not going to want to see you coming back for more, especially in light of the promises you made last time.”
    â€œDo I have any choice?”
    â€œSeveral.” She doesn’t wait for him to request enumeration. “First, the house. The place in Belvedere has six bedrooms and eight baths.”
    â€œAt last count.”
    â€œYou live alone. You don’t need the space, and you could net a quarter-million if you sold it. So why don’t you?”
    â€œI entertain sometimes.”
    â€œYou throw an office bash at Christmas. Big deal. Given the tendency of the courts to extend dram shop liability to private parties, it isn’t a good idea to be even that gracious anymore.” She blinks to scroll another item into her thoughts. “Then there are the condos. You haven’t seen Jackson Hole in years.”
    â€œI was thinking about doing some skiing just the other day.”
    â€œA condo is not essential equipment. You want to slide down the Tetons, rent a place at the village for a week. Let some surgeon carry the mortgage.”
    â€œIt’s a good