If at trial we proved the defendants liable, the jury would then consider the issue of

damages. It was next on the agenda. Rafter went through the motions of submitting the

same report on current trends in jury awards. He talked about how much dead children

were worth under our tort system. But he quickly became tedious when discussing

Lontae's employment history and the estimated loss of her future earnings. tie arrived at

the same amount, $770,000, that they had offered the day before, and presented that for

the record.

"That's not your final offer, is it, Mr. Rafter?" DeOrio asked. His tone was challenging;

he certainly hoped that was not their final offer.

"No sir," Rafter said.

"Mr. Green."

Mordecai stood again. "We reject their offer, Your Honor. The trends mean nothing to

me. The only trend I care about is how much I can convince a jury to award, and, with all

due respect to Mr. Rafter, it'll be a helluva lot more than what they're offering." No one in

the courtroom doubted him.

He disputed their view that a dead child was worth only fifty thousand dollars. He

implied rather strongly that such a low estimation was the result of a prejudice against

homeless street children who happened to be black. Gantry was the only one at the

defense table not squirming. "You have a son at St. Alban's, Mr. Rafter. Would you take

fifty thousand for him?"

Rafter's nose was three inches away from his legal pad.

"I can convince a jury in this courtroom that these little children were worth at least a

million dollars each, same as any child in the prep schools of Virginia and Maryland."

It was a nasty shot, one they took in the groin. There was no doubt where their kids went

to school.

Rafter's summary made no provision for the pain and suffering of the victims. The

rationale was unspoken, but nonetheless obvious. They had died peacefully, breathing

odorless gas until they floated away. There were no burns, breaks, blood.

Rafter paid dearly for his omission. Mordecai launched into a detailed account of the last

hours of Lontae and her children; the search for food and warmth, the snow and bitter

cold, the fear of freezing to death, the desperate efforts to stay together, the horror of

being stuck in a snowstorm, in a rattletrap car, motor running, watching the fuel gauge.

It was a spellbinding performance, given off the cuff with the skill of a gifted storyteller.

As the lone juror, I would have handed him a blank check.

"Don't tell me about pain and suffering," he snarled at Drake & Sweeney. "You don't

know the meaning of it."

He talked about Lontae as if he'd known her for years. A kid born without a chance, who

made all the predictable mistakes. But, more important, a mother who loved her children

and was trying desperately to climb out of poverty. She had confronted her past and her

addictions, and was fighting for sobriety when the defendants kicked her back into the

streets.

His voice ebbed and flowed, rising with indignation, falling with shame and guilt. Not a

syllable was missed, no wasted words. He was giving them an extraordinary dose of what

the jury would hear.

Arthur had control of the checkbook, and it must've been burning a hole in his pocket.

Mordecai saved his best for last. He lectured on the purpose of punitive damages--to

punish wrongdoers, to make examples out of them so they would sin no more. He

hammered at the evils committed by the defendants, rich people with no regard for those

less fortunate. "They're just a bunch of squatters," his voice boomed. "Let's throw them

out!"

Greed had made them ignore the law. A proper eviction would have taken at least thirty

more days. It would have killed the deal with the Postal Service. Thirty days and the

heavy snows would've been gone; the streets would've been a little safer.