Rogue Divorce Lawyer

by Dale E. Manolakas

  Dee said, “Kurt, get an expedited transcript of that hearing from the court reporter to file. We don’t want anything to slow the process.”

  “I already have it. We’re filing it with the writ. No delays.”

  The two men had everything in order in a thick tabbed exhibit addendum: the new writ points and authorities and the motion papers in their totality.

  Dee signed their quest for justice. “File and serve it now. We’ll get the stay. Because the trial is around the corner. Judges hate a duplication of judicial resources. Nothing grabs them quite like them wasting their own time.”

  “What about the reversal?” Kurt asked.

  “The merits and reversal are wild cards. This is cutting-edge and Lady Justice is never really blind. Depends on our panel. They are just politicos hidden in black robes.”

  “That’s cynical, Dee. Some follow the law, don’t they?”

  Jim snickered. “They follow their law. They’re gubernatorial appointees there to advance the agenda of the governor appointing them— liberal or conservative.”

  Dee added, “And that doesn’t account for their own biases, either.”

  “Come on,” Kurt said, “They have to follow the law.”

  “Who says?” Dee laughed. “They write the law.”

  “But they’re supposed to interpret it, not write it.”

  “If there’s one thing I’ve learned, they do what they want and distort case law to support what they do … right or wrong. Hell, when they break the law themselves, they get special treatment with velvet gloves at a “private tribunal.”

  Kurt asked, “How do you know that?”

  “It’s common knowledge. Ask any senior partner.”

  Jim added, “Like the federal Congress secretly paying out millions of taxpayer dollars for their personal sexual harassment claims.”

  Kurt said, “I saw that in the news.”

  Dee laughed her maniacal laugh. “Just before they buried the story.”

  “That’s not right or fair.”

  Jim just shrugged. “What does right or fair have to do with anything? We just need two of the three politicos on our panel who want to please the Woman’s Bar Association and slap Vega around without the Hispanic Bar Association taking offense. That’s what justice would be.”

  That same day Gary and Judge Vega were personally served the writ papers. And by the same motorcycle messenger.

  * * *

  Late that afternoon, Judge Vega thumbed through the massive papers. It wasn’t the first time someone had challenged a ruling of hers, and wouldn’t be the last. She knew writ petitions were almost always summarily denied, and she was confident this one would be too.

  She called her clerk and told her to file what was waste paper to her. She had better things to occupy her time—like forcing a settlement in an insurance case before her over a house fire in Rialto. She chuckled. Since the insurance company wouldn’t budge, she had intimidated the plaintiffs into taking a lot less than they had sued for under their homeowners’ policy.

  A good day’s work.

  * * *

  When Vicky brought the appellate filing to Gary, he had a very different reaction.

  “What the hell? Where is that little bitch getting the money for all this work? A writ petition?”

  “Who knows?” Vicky left, careful to hide her pleasure at his displeasure.

  “Ah, what do I care? The appeals courts never grant these things.” Gary set the papers aside and shouted through the door. “Vicky, prepare some interrogatories and document requests in the Comstock divorce.”

  Gary had to take his anger out on someone and it was going to be Mr. Comstock.

  Comstock’s an ass and my client’s a pig. But she has cash up front.

  Vicky was weary of all the make-believe hours he billed for her changing names and a few words on forms. Mindful as always that her salary made ends meet at home, she just sighed, kept her head buried in the sand and did as Gary ordered.

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  Chapter 43

  The pending writ didn’t inspire either side to settle. It did prompt Gary to initiate a series of emails, appearing receptive to settlement. His objective—to please Judge Vega.

  Gary had played at practicing law so long and so well that his make-believe-legal mumbo jumbo “artworks” outshone Kurt’s responses. Kurt devoted little time to the futile settlement tango. His priorities were his “real work” and courting Regina.

  * * *

  Meanwhile, Kurt’s writ petition was assigned to the appellate justices in the Second Division. The rotating panel of three justices decided nearly sixty writ petitions monthly—ninety-nine percent summarily denied.

  Appellate justices statewide were little known to most Californians, even though they wrote the rules Californians had to live by—whether a child molester could be their neighbor, a rapist’s criminal conviction could be overturned, or a developer could build a high rise condominium on a pristine Pacific Ocean beach.

  Even less known to Californians was the existence of the justices’ little helpers—their chamber’s appellate attorneys. Each justice could hire three attorneys who actually did the real work—read the records and briefs, defined the issues, researched the law, and wrote the opinions—the rule of law Californians lived by.

  The justices chose their chamber’s attorneys to be surrogates for their political, result-oriented opinions. As at-will employees, who served at the pleasure of the justices, they rarely popped their idealistic heads up to be hacked off—along with the salaries critical to survival in the prohibitively expensive L.A. megalopolis.

  * * *

  The assigned panel was the division’s Presiding Justice Valerie Wu, and two associate justices: Justice Ramon Rios and a newly appointed female “baby justice,” Anne Conti who was assigned the lead and would write, or more accurately sign, the opinion.

  Justice Conti’s appointment came from her notoriety for tough criminal sentencing in Superior Court. She showed no mercy leveling long sentences and, finally, handing down the death penalty in a particularly controversial case. Evidently, the governor believed that her intractable, merciless sentences meant she had the intellect to tell average Californians how to live and die.

  Conti’s chambers attorneys were Darryl Watkins, Joseph Stein, and a woman who was out on maternity leave. Watkins, a striking African-American, had left his prior law firm quietly after being accused of sexual harassment that he argued was merely crossed signals. Stein was a secular Beverly Hills Jew who viewed this job as a calling. Both were in their early thirties.

  * * *

  The Fourth District’s central appellate staff initially handled the intake of new cases. The rotating managing attorney Nancy Andrews evaluated Eliana’s writ petition along with others and prioritized them for handling.

  Nancy was a forty-two-year-old single mother of two who landed at the Fourth District after a middling career at a middling L.A. firm that imploded.

  Unfortunately for Gary, she had herself been sexually harassed. She escaped a date rape by a fellow law student and years later an attempted assault by a law firm partner one night late at work.

  * * *

  After reviewing Eliana’s Writ petition, Andrews reported to the assigned lead justice, Justice Conti.

  “Good morning, Justice Conti.” Andrews handed a copy of Eliana’s writ petition to the justice. “You’ve been assigned as the lead on this writ.”

  Justice Conti was stroking the rich leather samples for her new chamber’s couch. She received a generous allowance from the tax dollars of hard-working Californians to remodel her already magnificent office.

  “Good morning, uh—”

  “Nancy Andrews from central staff.”

  “Of course. Choosing from so many lovely things is hard. Do you like this shade of leather or this?” Conti held up two.

  “It’s a matter of taste.” Nancy resented Justice Conti wasti
ng her time and California tax dollars on these “remodels” she had seen done needlessly so many times.

  “Right.” Conti continued to compare the samples.

  “This petition is legally and procedurally troubling. It needs a careful look. It asserts outrageous misconduct by a lawyer and a Superior Court judge in San Bernardino. It’s serious and warrants a meeting asap.”

  “Just leave in on my desk. I’ll get to it.”

  “Don’t you want a quick rundown?”

  “Not now, thank you.”

  Nancy left the new female justice to her misplaced priorities.

  * * *

  With the tight writ timetable before the trial date, Justice Conti gave the writ to Watkins to work up and write a recommendation by tomorrow.

  The next day, Conti read Watkins’ recommendation of summary denial and scanned the moving papers and Eliana’s declaration. All pretty routine to her. Still, as per protocol, she called an in-chambers meeting with Nancy, the assigned writ attorney, and included her chambers attorneys since she personally hadn’t bothered to read all of the writ papers.

  * * *

  “My clerk recommends summary denial.”

  “What? How?” Andrews was shocked. “I—”

  Watkins interrupted, “The lower court judge was correct in the summary adjudication. Our court system is overburdened enough without expanding the definition of malpractice to include things like this. That’s all.”

  Joe Stein supported his friend Watkins, as Watkins always did for him. “Darryl’s right.”

  “‘Things like this?’ Your honor, the victim’s assertions made under oath about the divorce lawyer demanding sexual favors for legal services can’t be lightly discarded. If true, that’s unethical, constitutes malpractice, and dishonors the bar. Frankly, any judge who condones it might—”

  “If true,” Watkins interrupted again.

  “If true?” Nancy said.

  She saw the good old boys club, male solidarity, rearing its ugly head even with these young millennial lawyers who should know better. She calmly set forth the applicable law and the ethics demanded of lawyers and judges.

  “Justice Conti,” Nancy argued. “This is exactly why a trial is necessary for this case. You’ll all also notice it’s been more than ten days since this petition arrived and the respondent, Stockton, filed no preliminary opposition, nor any objection to the stay.”

  Judge Conti said, “Nancy, I read the victim’s declaration. She’s a liar.” Nancy was taken aback, “With respect, it’s not for you or the legal system to judge credibility at the summary adjudication stage in a case.”

  Clearly annoyed, Justice Conti picked up her paint samples. “I’ll meet with Justices Wu and Rios.” She dismissed the attorneys.

  * * *

  Two days later, after a series of conferences and emails amongst the panel justices, the Court of Appeal, no thanks to Justice Conti, issued a stay order and required Gary to file a written opposition to the petition.

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  Copyrighted Material

  Chapter 44

  On Friday morning, when Judge Vega read the appellate court’s emailed stay and request for opposition papers, she was stunned. She had expected a summary denial. Certainly not what was on her computer monitor.

  Judge Vega yelled for her clerk to come in and pointed at her P.C. “Did you see this? Look. That L.A. firm got a stay.”

  “I saw it, but—”

  “God damn second-guessers.”

  “The writ will be denied in the end, like the others.” The clerk moused before the raging Vega.

  “Right. You’re right. We should be happy. The trial is stayed and off our calendar until the denial is issued.”

  “Shall I take the trial off calendar?”

  “Not until the writ is formally dismissed.”

  The clerk hurried out, leaving Vega thumping her fingers on her desk and staring at her PC screen.

  * * *

  Not an hour later L.A., Kurt had also received and read the appellate court’s stay and order. Dee called an immediate meeting.

  Before Kurt went down to Dee’s, he called Regina about the stay.

  Regina said, “That’s amazing and so rare. Congrats. Let’s celebrate tonight.”

  “Great. Seven-thirty at Inko Nito? We deserve the best tonight.”

  On the way to Dee’s office, Kurt called Angela to tell Eliana about the stay. He asked her to tell Eliana and added that he would be pulling an “all-nighter” on a case—a case of infatuation with Regina.

  In Dee’s office, the three celebrated a victory that few litigators every saw. The rarity of an appellate court issuing a stay and requiring an opposition was well-known. Dee sent out a firm-wide, self-congratulatory victory email.

  * * *

  That same morning Gary breezed through his emails as he drank his coffee. His eyes stopped on one from the appellate court. He read it—short and clear.

  “Fuck.” He threw his half-full coffee cup across the office into the wall. “They never do this.”

  Vicky ran in “What’s going—”

  Gary yelled, “We have to file an order to show cause why the writ shouldn’t be granted by August 18th.”

  “A what?”

  “An opposition.”

  “Do we have a form for it?”

  “Hell no. This is a time eater. We’ll spread the billing time out … pick a couple of clients. Look on that legal site you use for a form.”

  “Right.”.

  “And get me Suzanne Friedman on the phone. She knows this stuff cold.”

  Friedman was the premier appellate specialist in San Bernardino, a sole practitioner like Gary. She was forty-three, blonde, attractive, well-maintained, and media savvy. From a prominent Jewish family, she was plugged in and herself had been an appellate court clerk.

  * * *

  Vicky transferred Friedman’s call to Gary. While they talked, she sat numbly at her desk. She was afraid. She had to get out of this mess. The appellate court was a big deal. What if they discovered how Gary billed her time or about the late appointments she made for him?

  Vicky didn’t want to be involved in this mess. She could be forced to testify at trial. Gary had lied about Eliana’s bills. She had helped on all the billing over the years for the sake of a good salary—one she needed and on which she had come to depend.

  I’ll get this opposition thing done and leave. I have skills now. I’m out of here.

  Her hands shook as she searched for writs on the form site.

  * * *

  Despite the order to show cause from the Court of Appeal, Gary went to his Wednesday lunch with his other family lawyer cronies at The Central Cafe. He stayed only long enough to eat and see if any of his colleagues had inside information of any of the justices on his panel. The consensus was that with two women justices he was going to get screwed. But none of his cronies had dealt with appeals or writs. Leaving the restaurant, he could only wish Eliana had retained one of his lunch buddies for her damned divorce.

  * * *

  For Gary, Friedman’s help didn’t come cheap. She didn’t owe him any favors—in fact, he owed her. He could afford to hire her outright, however, given his ability to “find” pots of money when he wanted. With her help, he managed to prepare a marginally reasonable opposition to the writ petition.

  Gary’s opposition asserted, in many permutations, that Eliana’s claims were baseless and she was a liar. His strongest argument was that, even if he withheld legal work for sexual favors—which he flat-out denied—that was not malpractice. There was no California case law stating it was, and no analogous law either.

  Friedman worked for money and didn’t come cheap. Gary had to pay her a premium to allow him to place her name as second attorney below his on the opposition papers. Her name on his papers demonstrated appellate expertise and reliability to the appellate court. Friedman convinced herself Eliana’s case was a witch hunt. Then there was the money, of
course.

  Gary relaxed after filing his self-graded excellent opposition. He told himself he would decimate Eliana’s credibility at the trial whether it was just about her fraud claims or all of the causes of action were reinstated. Even if he lost the writ, he’d destroy this female upstart.

  * * *

  With his opposition filed, Gary slept whiskey-well, even next to snorting Mary.

  His dreams were consumed with punishing Eliana, the upscale piece of ass he had never tamed. While he cross-examined her on the witness stand, tears ran down her soft cheeks and her tender body shook with her sobs. Her strong, soft mouth was also going down on him in between his questions to her in court. Her long dark hair jerked back and forth in a bestial rhythm as she made him hard, made him moan, made him talk dirty, made him come.

  Then the dream turned into a nightmare. Judge Vega pounded her gavel and screamed, “Order. Order. I’m next.”

  “Jesus!” Gary jolted awake.

  “What’s wrong.” Mary started from her deep sleep.

  “Nothing. Nothing. I …”

  He crawled out of bed with the come sticky under his pajamas. Pajamas that were his armor against Mary’s desires—pajamas that he started wearing when her ass got too big to screw.

  Gary took a clean set of pajamas from his dresser drawer and went into the bathroom.

  “You stupid fucking cow.” He cleaned himself with a towel. “Leave me alone.”

  “What, dear?”

  “Nothing.” Gary flushed the toilet to block Mary out.

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