Mary stepped onto the blue carpet of the center aisle, and murmuring rippled through the crowd. Every single head turned toward her. She felt her face flush red as tomato sauce and kept her head down as she barreled down the aisle, with everyone craning their necks, or boosting themselves up to catch a glimpse of the lawyer who got locked in the trunk. Sketch artists held their gray pads sideways, and reporters scribbled on steno pads, including Mac, whose eye she avoided. The circolo, occupying two aisles on her right, waved frantically at her, and Mary acknowledged them with a nod, then practically ran up the aisle to the polished counsel table, where Judy was sitting, dressed up in a black suit, real eyeliner, and hair moussed into submission.
“Don’t you look pretty,” Mary whispered as she took her seat, and Judy smiled.
“How’s first chair feel, big girl?”
“Terrifying.”
“Go get ’em.” They both looked over at the same time to defendant’s table, where an older corporate-type lawyer sat next to Justin Saracone. Both lawyer and client were dressed in expensive dark suits with a sleek Italian cut, shiny black wingtips, white shirts with cutaway collars, and puffy silk ties. The only difference between them was that Justin had a swollen upper lip.
Mary smiled. “I do good work.”
“You the man. BTW, you see the boss? She’s here. Third row, in the middle.”
Mary took a peek. There. Bennie in her trademark suit. Trademark hair. Trademark glare. Mary faced front, fast. “Am I fired?”
“Not this time. She feels guilty she almost got you killed on that last blind date.”
Suddenly a paneled pocket door opened to the left of the dais, and the courtroom deputy appeared and took a position in front of the American flag, his chest puffed out. “All rise for the Honorable Lisa Gemmill,” he called out, his ringing voice hushing the crowd instantly, and Mary, Judy, and everyone else rose as Judge Gemmill entered the courtroom. Mary had never been before her, but the number of judges Mary had never been before was legion.
Judge Gemmill nodded to the courtroom as she swept in and took her seat on the dais. She had long, dark hair, bright intelligent eyes, and wore a chic string of pearls with her robes. “Good morning, Ms. DiNunzio, Mr. Rovitch.” Then her gaze took in the entire courtroom, her displeasure undisguised. “Ladies and gentlemen, I will have order in my courtroom today. I intend to keep these proceedings on a tight rein.” She focused on Mary. “Ms. DiNunzio, you’re the movant today. Please begin.”
“Thank you, Your Honor.” Mary gathered her papers and exhibits and went to the lectern, trying to forget that five million eyes were staring at her. “Your Honor, if it please the Court, my name is Mary DiNunzio, and I’m here on behalf of the estate of Amadeo Brandolini -”
“Brava!” “Bravissima!” “Yeah, Mary!” The circolo burst into spontaneous whoops and applause, and the gallery laughed.
Crak! Crak! Judge Gemmill pounded the gavel with a frown. “Order, people! Order!” She waited until they had settled, then looked down at Mary. “Ms. DiNunzio. Given the crowd today, perhaps we can shorten this proceeding. I have read your papers carefully, and I do have a few questions.”
Stay calm. Lots of judges do it this way.
“As you are well aware, you are before me today seeking extraordinary relief. Injunctive relief is granted in advance of a full trial, and enforceable by my contempt powers. Accordingly, the standard for such relief is quite high, whether it’s a patent case or no.” Judge Gemmill peered over the top of her glasses. “You are familiar with the standard courts must use for grant of a temporary restraining order, are you not?”
“I am, Your Honor.” Mary wet her lips. “A trial court must consider whether the movant can show a reasonable probability of success on the merits, that he or she will be irreparably harmed by denial of the relief, whether granting preliminary relief will result in even greater harm to the nonmoving party, and whether the order will be in the public interest.”
“Exactly.” Judge Gemmill thumbed through Mary’s brief. “Your brief is really quite well done, and I understand your irreparable harm argument with the sale of rights to Reinhardt. However, the glaring problem with your case is your likelihood of success on the merits. I am not sure that you can satisfy this essential requirement for the relief you seek.”
Okay, this happens, too. The judge tells you what’s worrying her, and you deal.
“In this regard, while I understand your proof problems – that the alleged fraud on the patent office occurred decades ago, and that both the patent holder, Giovanni Saracone, and your client, Amadeo Brandolini, are now deceased – I simply do not see that you have proven that Mr. Saracone misappropriated an invention of Mr. Brandolini’s.” Judge Gemmill peered over the top of her glasses. “Would you address that, Ms. DiNunzio?”
“Your Honor, I agree that my evidence is circumstantial, but it establishes the fact that Mr. Brandolini created a set of drawings for a marine deck hatch which were identical to those that ended up in Mr. Saracone’s patent application. I have also proven that the application was filed the week after Mr. Saracone and Mr. Brandolini were working together alone and Mr. Brandolini was killed by strangulation, allegedly from a suicide by hanging.”
“Objection, Your Honor!” Rovitch barked, but Judge Gemmill waved him off.
“Duly noted,” she said. She turned to Mary. “Now, what is your proof that the drawings with the patent application were Mr. Brandolini’s and not Mr. Saracone’s?”
Mary swallowed. “Your Honor, those drawings were in Mr. Brandolini’s wallet, part of his personal effects. As my affidavit shows, my associate Judy Carrier saw them. They were given to me by Mr. Brandolini’s former lawyer, Frank Cavuto, who was murdered last week.”
The courtroom burst into muffled comment, which Judge Gemmill silenced with a raised eyebrow. “Did Mr. Brandolini sign the drawings that you saw?”
“No, Your Honor. He couldn’t read or write.”
“Did he identify them in any way, on the drawings?”
“Aside from keeping them where he kept his most precious papers, no, Your Honor.”
Judge Gemmill took off her glasses. “Isn’t it equally possible, then, that the drawings in Mr. Brandolini’s wallet were Mr. Saracone’s?”
“No. The drawings were of a marine deck hatch used on fishing boats. At the time of the invention, Mr. Saracone owned a lunch truck. He was never a fisherman -”
“Objection!” Rovitch said, and Judge Gemmill nodded to Mary to continue, not that she needed encouragement.
“In contrast, at the time of the invention, Mr. Brandolini had been a fisherman all his life. He was an adult, almost aged forty, when he went to the camp. He owned three fishing boats.”
“How would the Court know that, counsel?”
“Everybody knows that,” Mary blurted out in frustration, and the circolo burst into righteous applause.
Crak Crak Crak! Judge Gemmill pounded the gavel. “Order! I will not have this! I will not!”
“Your Honor,” Mary said, “if Frank Cavuto hadn’t been murdered, I would have proof that Amadeo Brandolini was a fisherman. If those drawings hadn’t been stolen, I could show you that they existed. If Keisha Williams hadn’t had her throat slit, I could prove that on his deathbed, Giovanni Saracone’s practically admitted that he murdered Amadeo!”
“Objection! Objection! That’s an outrage!” Rovitch was shouting. Justin Saracone leapt to his feet, and the courtroom erupted in noise and chatter.
Crak Crak Crak! “Order! Order! Order!” Judge Gemmill slammed the gavel down again and again.
“Mary! Mary! Mary!” cheered the circolo, and others were shouting, too.
Crak Crak Crak! “Order! Order!”