On the way back to the Marina my cell phone rings. It’s Rita. As glad as I am to hear from her, I don’t want to end up like the freight I just brought back from Thailand, so I tell her that with all that’s going on now, it might be better if we ‘cooled it’ for a while. I can tell by the frost I feel coming through the phone that she’s not a happy camper.
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It’s nice returning home. I always look forward to that part of the ride when you head north on Lincoln Avenue and after passing 85th Street, there’s a hill you start to go down, from which you can see the Marina in the distance. When the taxi drops me off at our dock entrance I’m greeted at the top of the gangway by Carolyn, the marina’s assistant dockmaster. “Mister Sharp, I understand that you’re now the managing partner of Mister Bradley’s law firm.” I nod, waiting to hear what this jerk with a clipboard has on her alleged mind. “We still intend to retain your law firm, but the arrangement to give him the houseboat to live on was a personal one and not connected to the retainer agreement. Therefore, since Mister Bradley is no longer living on the boat, we’ve rented it out to another tenant who will be moving aboard tomorrow morning.” With that said, she turns and marches off. Walking down the dock, I’m greeted by a motley crew consisting of the little girl, the big dog, the cat and four Asian guys, all of them standing in front of L. Martin’s Grand Banks.
The conversation that takes place may be the most amount of thought conveyed in the least amount of words ever spoken. One of the Asian boat maintenance guys acts as spokesman: he comes over to me, points at the trio and then at the Grand Banks, and proclaims “they live with you now on big boat.” After this stunning oration has been completed, the parade boards the Grand Banks, with the Asian guys carrying her computer, printer, monitor, fax machine, dog food, cat food, litter box and suitcases. At the same time, one of the Asian boys picks up my suitcase. The phone company is also there moving phone lines from the houseboat over to the Grand Banks.
Once everyone is aboard, the boys set up the dynamic trio in the forward crew quarters and then start cleaning the boat. They find things to clean that I never knew needed cleaning. I haven’t seen a cleaning operation like this since I was living with my wife. Whenever she got mad at me she started cleaning. I could usually tell how mad she was by how long she cleaned. About a half hour was average. A full hour meant I was really in trouble, and if the vacuum cleaner went on, it meant celibacy for at least three days.
I have no idea how long this arrangement on the boat will last, but as long as I still have the master stateroom to sleep in, I decide to keep my mouth shut. The Marina obviously doesn’t know about L. Martin’s death, so if the office keeps paying his slip rent, I guess we’re okay.
My most recent copy of the California State Bar Journal says that the current membership total is almost 200,000. That’s a lot of lawyers. The state’s population is about 35.4 million, which means there’s a lawyer available for every nineteen people. Or even worse, every 20th person in the state is a lawyer. Most gangs know that there’s strength in numbers. Lawyers don’t have gangs - they have firms. The same principles are involved. If you attend a performance of Shakespeare’s King Henry VI, there’s one line that when spoken never fails to get a roar of approval from the audience as well as the cast: in Part two of Scene two, Dick the Butcher says to Jack Cade “the first thing we do, let’s kill all the lawyers!” I wonder what would happen if someone started telling lawyer jokes about black female lawyers. Maybe then, Gloria Allred and Jesse Jackson would probably get together and we’d finally be replaced with Doctor jokes on all the late night television shows.
*****
Chapter 9
Law firms that do collection work and landlord-tenant evictions are saved from being the most despised of all lawyers, because beneath them on the food chain are the firms that do insurance company defense work. Their job is trying to defeat the claims of people who have been injured by large multi-billion dollar republican businesses like the tobacco industry, toxic polluters, faulty product manufacturers and other holier than thou types with big political clout. One of those delightful groups of lawyers is now meeting in their luxurious conference room, with a large important client. He is the CEO of a respected supplier of aircraft parts to civilian and government aeronautical groups.
The obese, white CEO addresses his lawyers. “Gentlemen, we have a problem. An attorney has placed us in an embarrassing position. Some non-genuine aircraft parts were inadvertently shipped to one of our accounts, an aeronautical supply house in Bangkok, Thailand. These parts were then mistakenly installed on an aircraft, and they are now being alleged to have caused that plane to crash, resulting in the death of both passengers.
Now I’m sure that you boys can out-paper any law firm in the country, and stall this thing off forever, but due to other pressing business matters we’d like to get this situation cleared up as soon as possible.” One of the lawyers in the room is a little too curious.
“Excuse me sir, but how did those ‘non-genuine’ parts happen to be in your company’s inventory?” Big mistake. His partnership just got sidetracked for another couple of years. The CEO is not happy about being questioned.
“How it got into our inventory is none of your damned business. Your only responsibility now is not to cross-examine me, but to make this thing go away. And I mean quickly. We’re about one month away from getting what will be a two-billion-dollar contract to provide aircraft parts to the United States Government over the next five years, and if any word of this unfortunate incident gets out, we’re in danger of losing that contract. The letter we got was from a small-time firm out somewhere near the Marina, and from what our contacts tell me, all they usually do is some collection work and tenant evictions. Can you imagine that? Some small-time penny-ante shysters trying to bring us down? They probably see this as their one chance at a big pay-day, so let’s not let this thing go more than one round.” There’s a murmur around the table. Mental wheels are spinning. One of the senior law partners speaks up.
“What kind of offer would you like to authorize? Any particular ceiling on this one?” The CEO thinks about it for a minute, before answering.
“If we go to trial and lose, there might be a multi-million dollar judgment, and after being dragged through the mud we wouldn’t stand a chance in hell of getting that huge government contract. And with all the political correctness crap going around, your firm’s stock options with us would also be in the toilet. And before we even get to trial, your legal fees over the next couple of years will come to about four million, so I’ll tell you what we’re prepared to do: if you can make this case go away in the next month and before the press gets wind of it, your fee will be one-half of what you save us from the four million we’d pay you and the five million we’d lose in a jury verdict.”
After the client leaves their office, the lawyers use a scale of justice to balance their own greed against the better interests of the client and the injured parties. Guess who wins. Their mental calculators indicate that if this matter goes through to verdict, the client will be out nine million. If they can settle this thing for a quick five million, that will save their client four million, and their fee will be two million. The down side is that it’s only half of what they could bill if they take the case to trial. The up side is that they don’t have to actually work on the case for five years to get the two million. It’s decided. They’ll try to settle for less than five million.
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I hear the pitter-patter of large soft paws entering my stateroom. It’s the Saint Bernard, and there’s an envelope in his mouth. This must be the kid’s new method of delivering messages to me: Dogmail. I retrieve the envelope and then tip the messenger with a pat on the head. He turns and returns to his office. The damp envelope contains a letter from the defense firm representing that aircraft parts manufacturer.
I have to hand it to them. They sure work fast. Their letter contains an offer of
settlement, and the amount is the largest one I’ve ever been involved with: three million dollars total. Smart. They must have figured that if they could get the client out for only three million, their fee would be in the neighborhood of the same amount, due to the combined savings to the client of legal fees and the exposure to a jury verdict. I know that if that’s their first offer, if we get to the discovery stage and take some depositions, we can probably get the amount up a little higher, but then we run the risk of their paper mill creating too many Motions for us to handle.
The sad fact is that we’re just not set up to handle a case this big, so I think that instead of trying to get a bigger settlement, I’ll just take a much lower fee and the clients will wind up fine. What they came up with was an offer that was low enough to keep their client happy, while still having enough zeroes in it to make it attractive to me and the plaintiffs. And it is all of those things.
They offered one million dollars for L. Martin’s estate and two million for Melvin’s. If not accepted, the letter lets us know that their client demands that the case go all the way through trial. I call the lawyer who signed the letter. His response is typical. “Mister Sharp, you and I both know that our client’s settlement offer is fair, but to tell you the truth, we don’t care if you take it or not. It’s the absolute top dollar the client will authorize and if you don’t accept it, our firm will be looking at several million in legal fees, so please don’t feel you’re disappointing us by turning it down.” I answer with the usual lawyer’s response
“I’ll let my clients know and get back to you.” I wish my answer was true, but unfortunately, at this point in time, I’m not even sure who my clients are. I know there’s Suzi, but that’s about it. I have no idea if there are any other surviving relatives of either Melvin or L. Martin who might have some claim to their estates.
But as far as the negotiations go, this is a done deal. I’ll let him wait for a while before formally accepting. No sense letting him know how easy it is, and I need more time to find some heirs. This is a game that we’re all familiar with; he knows that when I accept, I’ll be sure to let him know that it was at the demand of my clients, and against my advice to proceed to trial. Typical saber rattling that all lawyers do.
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After checking through the State Bar’s records and his application for admission to our old law school, the only living heir of Melvin’s that we can establish is little Suzi. California law requires that the Court approve any settlement for a minor, and now that Suzi has agreed to the amount, the office gets a Request for Court Approval started. Until I meet our dock neighbor/actor George C., this kid will be the richest person I know.
We’re still searching for L. Martin’s living relatives. Among the things requested by the defense firm prior to sending any settlements are court approval for the minor, all original documentation provided by the Thailand authorities, copies of the death certificates of both victims, and the execution of a privacy agreement which prevents anyone involved with the case from disclosing any details of the incident or settlement amounts. The defense firm also informs me that the offer will only be on the table for a certain amount of days. I think that an offer coming in this quick is odd. There’s no doubt something is going on that I don’t know about, but as long as I take care to see that my clients are properly served, that’s all that counts to me.
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Life aboard the boat now isn’t as bad as I thought it would be. I’ve never been this close to a kid for any length of time before, but there’s no conflict between her and me. That’s probably due to two main things. First, she’s my boss, and second, it’s because we haven’t had a conversation yet. I still don’t know if she understands English. We manage to keep out of each other’s way, but somehow I get the feeling that she’s the one who’s really in charge of this boat. Most of my time is spent in court making appearances for the firm. With my license back, the office now has in-house counsel and no longer needs the services of all the other lawyers who filled in from time to time. Suzi is gone most of the day, to wherever she goes. By the time I get back to the boat it’s usually seven or eight in the evening and there’s always some delicious Chinese dinner waiting for me on the stove. The dog is quite friendly, and always not more than two feet away from the girl. The cat glares at me and stays close to the dog.
Due to the fact that I probably owe my law license reinstatement to the cooperation of Jack Bibberman, the mailbox clerk who testified against Ricky Hansel and Koontz, I go back to his place of employment and offer him some extra part-time employment: he now takes my old position and serves papers on people for the firm. Stuart has also been using him to help solicit junk fax recipients in the Valley. Come to think of it, I haven’t talked to Stuart in quite some time. I’ll have to call him and say hello one of these days soon. He’ll be pleased to know that I’m now on a big yacht, and probably take the opportunity to once again try to introduce me to his dear uncle Label.
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Just as I suspected, something is going on with the defense firm’s client, because they’re sending me urgent messages requesting that I get back to them about settlement offers. They obviously want the matter wrapped up as quickly as possible. Sensing some weakness on their side, I tell them that there should be no problem settling, and that while we’re still searching for Unger’s relatives, all we want to do is take the defendant’s deposition to find out how many other potential disasters are going to take place because of their shipments to other aircraft supply houses.
As you might imagine, this doesn’t sit too well with them. The phone rings. “Peter, Peter, what’s the problem here? We’ve made a generous settlement offer, and you can take my word for it that our client has definitely asserted that there were no other shipments. The one that allegedly went to Thailand was an anomaly caused by a greedy, now-fired warehouse manager who made the switch and sold the genuine parts to a local distributor. It can never happen again.”
Whenever your adversary starts out by using your first name, you’ve already got the upper hand. I also know that without spending thousands of dollars in discovery and investigation, I’d never be able to find out what the real truth is. And if I try, I might jeopardize the settlement offer that’s already on the table. I might as well close this case out. One way or another, we’ll find L. Martin’s heirs. I decide to put him out of his misery.
“Okay, I think we can wrap this thing up. All that’s holding us up is my clients’ being unhappy with our expenses for the trip to Thailand. They don’t think it’s right for them to have to reimburse our firm for those costs, plus the expenses to ship the bodies back, funeral costs, time lost, etc., etc.”
“How much are we talking about, Peter?”
“Well, as a matter of practice, we always use first class on any trip over five hundred miles, so taking the air fare, hotel and miscellaneous expenses into consideration, including shipping the bodies back and funeral arrangements, I’d say that an extra ninety thousand should handle it.” He gives me the typical lawyer answer: he’ll check with his client and get back to me. We both know it was all baloney, but those are the dues his client will have to pay for a quick settlement, so that their hidden agenda, whatever it is, can stay hidden.
In addition to the possibility of getting some more money out of them, I hope that this delaying tactic will give me more time to locate any relatives of L. Martin. As it turns out, I may not need the time.
While preparing the documentation that the defense firm wants, I take a closer look at the death certificates. If what I’m looking at is correct, this will be one of the most amazing coincidences I’ve ever encountered. L. Martin Unger’s full name appears on his passport and on both his birth and death certificates: his first name is ‘Label.’
*****
Chapter 10
Label isn’t exactly a common name, so the question has to be asked: can this really be Stuart’s boat-owning uncle
Label? Does this mean that Stuart will now inherit the boat of my dreams, the yacht that my ‘family’ is now living on? How can this be happening? I call Stuart. His answering machine picks up, but he must be monitoring the calls because as soon as he hears my voice he cuts in: “Peter, what a pleasant surprise. I’m glad you called. I wanted to tell you about a new weight-loss product I’ll be marketing. This one really works. All you…”
Rude as it is, I cut him off mid-sentence with only one question: “Stuart, please tell me your uncle Label’s last name.”
It’s true. L. Martin Unger is Stuart’s uncle, and Stuart has no idea what happened in Thailand, or that he might have a million dollars coming his way. This is the kind of information that’s better served in person. We make arrangements to meet at Lido Pizza on Victory Boulevard in Van Nuys. It’s right off the San Diego Freeway and not far from Stuart’s Valley apartment. They serve a delicious whole-wheat egg-free rigatoni there.
Taking one look at him waddling through the restaurant’s door makes me happy to hear that he’s now involved in a weight loss program. I insist that he have a couple of glasses of wine first, because I’ve got some unpleasant news to give him. I think I need the wine more than he does, because breaking news like this to people is not my specialty. We talk about his uncle and I finally get the nerve up to let him know about the fatal plane crash. He takes the news about it much better than I expected, and tells me that he was Label’s only living relative. After another few minutes of conversation he pops the question: “Pete, do you think anyone responsible should be made to pay for my uncle’s death? I mean, I’m not looking to get rich offa this or anything, but if it was someone’s fault, shouldn’t there be some penalty?”
Single Jeopardy Page 10
