Rogue Divorce Lawyer

by Dale E. Manolakas

  * * *

  Back at the office that afternoon, reality hit him hard. He had less and less work—translating into less and less cash flow.

  However, one flow that hadn’t decreased was his vodka. He went through a fifth that afternoon. He ignored the messages from Detective Gonzalez and avoided Vicky’s looks. He finally lurched off, heading to the Phoenix to escape his life and any surprise visit from the detective.

  By the time he weaved his way home and staggered to bed, Mary was long asleep. Asleep and snoring—the one thing that had gone right for him this day not having to listen to her prattling about her day.

  He lay there for hours mulling over how to get rid of the snoring hippo next to him.

  Why not if things go bad? They can only give me the needle once.

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  Copyrighted Material

  Chapter 53

  Over the days and weeks following the release of the writ opinion, the publicity circus gained momentum. As it spread, the effects hit Gary harder and harder where it counted—in the pocketbook.

  Those of his clients who had the money deserted him for other divorce lawyers—many went to his lunch cronies. Those who didn’t? They called Vicky nonstop demanding that Gary finish their divorces. Vicky piled all their files—thick from churning and overbilling, high on her desk and on the floor behind her.

  She complained to Gary about the screamers and the criers, but he ignored both her and the files.

  * * *

  Wednesday morning Gary came in late. A gauntlet of media people greeted him. Microphones, cameras, the works. He raced through it, pushing two of the bloodsuckers out of the way, and finally made it inside his stucco sanctuary.

  He slammed the door and locked it. “What the hell?”

  “Shall I call the police?” Vicky asked.

  “No.” The last thing Gary needed was cops nosing around. “You didn’t talk to those jerks, did you?”

  “No, of course not. But Detective Gonzalez phoned again.”

  “Yeah. Yeah. I called him back.”

  He had—when he calculated the detective was out. Gary was good at phone tag and message games. If Gonzalez had anything solid on him, Gary’d be in cuffs right now. The unrelenting and far too conscientious detective was on a fishing expedition.

  “I’m taking my lunch early today.”

  “Lunch?”

  Vicky grabbed her purse.

  Gary watched her fat ass leave and then rechecked the lock. He knew she wasn’t taking lunch, and she knew he knew. She was interviewing. He had trained this dunce too well. She had skills tantamount to those of a good paralegal. Given that technology had sharply reduced the need for legal secretaries, she was fortunate in that regard, and positioned to get a better job. Better in a lot of ways.

  He saw the stacks of files around Vicky’s desk. He wasn’t getting any more money out of them, so they weren’t getting any more work out of him.

  * * *

  Gary unlocked his inner sanctum, his lair, slammed the door, and sat at his desk. He grabbed his coffee mug, wiped it with tissues, and got out his single malt, the good stuff.

  As he drank, he went through his collection of personal questionnaires in his top drawer and gorged himself on a retrospective of his conquests. An hour later, and half-way through the stack, he heard Vicky return.

  He glared at the door separating the two of them. He wanted her dead—dead and buried with all the secrets she knew about him.

  I should have done it years ago. B.D.G. … Before Detective Gonzalez.

  Gary caressed his trophies again and read on. He paused at Brianna’s and the slammed the drawer shut.

  “Vicky,” he bellowed.

  “Yes.” Vicky stuck her head in.

  “Get Brianna in here,” he slurred.

  “I told you no more calls like that.”

  Like what? Again, Gary wondered how much Vicky could really testify to.

  Five minutes later she poked her head in again. “I’m leaving early.”

  * * *

  As Vicky left, she heard Gary raging on the phone.

  “What the hell do you mean you won’t come here? I own your ass, you bitch. Fine. I’ll come to your house … tonight … any night … any day want it. I promise you that. You’re mine. I—”

  Brianna had hung up on him. Red-faced and out-of-control he threw the office phone across the room.

  “Fuck.”

  Gary starred through liquored eyes at his trophies again. When he got to Eliana’s form his hands shook.

  “That fucking bitch.” He screamed as he tore up her form, threw it back into his special drawer, and stared at the pieces.

  He passed out and woke up to darkness. He peered out his window. The reporters had departed with the day.

  Thank, God, he thought, though God most assuredly had nothing to do with his life and never had.

  * * *

  That night, Gary finally appreciated his wife’s dream home in River Oaks, or rather its guard station entrance. He maneuvered past the waiting reporters as the gate arm rose, retreating to his home—his castle. A place where they couldn’t get to him.

  The kitchen was warm, filled with the aroma of cheddar cheese and toasted breadcrumbs.

  Mary looked up. “Those nasty reporters called all day again. Can’t you stop them?”

  “I’m sorry.” Gary couldn’t take any bitching tonight from the bitch he had married. “I can’t. But you know it’s all lies, don’t you, hon? Just clients angry at their bills, looking to pile on here?”

  “Of course, dear. All those needy women. They’re desperate.”

  Mary set out her macaroni casserole—extra cheesy, of course, to match her thighs.

  “Looks good.” Gary smiled to keep her docile.

  Mary was many things. Insightful wasn’t one of them. She was, however, very good at ignoring what she didn’t want to see—her best trait was living in an alternate reality. Gary had learned how to feed it—with delusions, lies, money, and flattery.

  Gary said, “I’m looking forward to Thanksgiving. Should be great again this year, eh?”

  “I have some special new dishes.”

  “Wonderful.” Gary dreaded another Thanksgiving with their ungrateful, leeching offspring and their own ejected protoplasm growing up just the same as them—he could see it even in the three-year-old.

  “I’m going to my study, dear.”

  “Don’t you want some casserole?”

  “I’ll scavenge later.”

  “You make sure you put it in the fridge when you’re done. I’m going up to bed. Please be sure to leave the phone off the hook if you use it.”

  “I will. I’ll be up soon anyway.”

  He wasn’t. He sat in his study, brooding and drinking some of his cheap stuff. He would not raid Mary’s special booze larder for guests only. Not this night. He didn’t want to wake to her anger.

  Gary had enough anger festering in him for both of them.

  * * *

  Thursday morning he arrived at his office, unprotected by any guard station. The media was in a feeding frenzy now, gleefully and hungrily dismantling his reputation, law practice, and hard-earned San Bernardino life.

  Gary barreled through the scrum of reporters. The hearing on his motion for the expedited trial was that afternoon, and he didn’t need distractions.

  He lunched in to avoid the reporters, ordering an acceptable delivered mushroom and green pepper pizza from La Pizza Local. Good enough even without his favorite garlic or onions—too “aromatic” for Judge Vega.

  He was counting on Judge Vega sticking it to the Payne lawyers who had humiliated her with the appellate reversal. He would get his expedited trial.

  When he left for hearing, the media had disappeared. It was a temporary respite for Gary. They greeted him on the courthouse steps bulleting questions as fast as they could, a cacophony of accusations and innuendos.

  “No comment.” Gary charged through them
.

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  Copyrighted Material

  Chapter 54

  Judge Vega entered her crowded courtroom after lunch, her motion calendar before her. Her satisfied belch was barely discernible.

  The bailiff announced, “All rise.”

  They did.

  In the first matter, an attorney wanted to substitute out of a criminal case just before the trial and have it assigned to a public defender.

  Vega took a long drag from a water bottle and scanned the file as the defense lawyer pled his case. Then the prosecutor took his turn and decapitated the motion with one razor blow—the “time” factor.

  Vega looked at the cowering defense attorney and ruled accordingly.

  “Denied. The trial is too close to substitute in any other lawyer and you, sir, have no time waiver from your client. So your client he remains.”

  Vega struck her gavel to intimidate the lawyer. It did just that. He cowered out of the courtroom.

  The bailiff then called Gary’s motion—second on the calendar.

  As Dee had ordered, Kurt had paraded the beautiful Eliana on the courthouse steps for the media. He then seated her in the front row of the courtroom’s audience section. She was apprehensive but attentive.

  For the first time, she was free of Gary’s leers and ogling. In fact, he avoided looking her way as he took his place at the defense table while Kurt did the same at the table reserved for plaintiffs.

  * * *

  Judge Vega looked down from the bench. “Mr. Stockton, we’re here on your motion for an expedited trial? Why the urgency?”

  Gary was nervous because the judge had not announced a tentative ruling granting his motion. He was right to be nervous. Vega was conflicted—if she did not order an expedited trial, this circus would continue. Her high reversal rate on appeal was already getting publicized. But if she did grant Gary’s motion the holiday season would be fractured with even more intense media coverage and a contentious, time-consuming trial.

  Gary spoke first. “Your Honor, discovery is over and we are ready for trial. The longer the delay, the more the unfair publicity and notoriety impact my professional standing and my ability to earn a living. I need to clear my name as soon as possible. These falsehoods and the excessive publicity are also biasing the jury pool if this becomes a jury trial situation.”

  “Mr. Townsend, your opposition arguments are in your papers. However, your client already agreed to a court trial in this case. Speak to your request for a jury trial now.”

  “But I would like to first argue that—

  “Speak to the jury trial issue.” Vega felt keenly the rebuke the writ opinion had given her, and she had an opportunity now to strike back if she chose.

  “As you wish, your Honor.” Kurt’s only hope was to get a jury trial back and protect himself from Vega’s biases.

  “Our client agreed to a bench trial on the fraud claims, your Honor. But now that her other causes of action have been restored, she chooses to exercise her right to a jury trial on them and have the fraud claims subsumed. Neither party will be prejudiced and there is adequate notice. We don’t even have a trial setting conference scheduled. Case law, as per our opposition papers, dictates that a change of circumstances, specifically like this one, allow this option.”

  Vega didn’t hide her displeasure.

  “How long do you estimate a jury trial will take, counsel?”

  “Including jury selection, seven trial days.”

  “Seven? Aren’t there just four witnesses?”

  “We haven’t reached the time to designate witnesses yet, your Honor. We expect to present a number of additional newly discovered witnesses who have been identified since the writ opinion came down. They have relevant information and are critical to our case.”

  “You mean those women running to the media, Mr. Townsend?”

  She didn’t hide her overt contempt for the victims, and that wasn’t lost on anyone in the courtroom.

  “Those, and others, who your Honor is apparently taking judicial notice of?”

  Cornered with her own big mouth, Judge Vega was forced to say, “Yes, I am. That puts things in a different light. Mr. Stockton, do you intend to move to reopen discovery so that you can depose any of these so-called ‘witnesses’ Mr. Townsend has mentioned?”

  “No, your Honor.” Gary had to gamble that the witnesses couldn’t be herded and prepared for an expedited trial and that he could intimidate them if and when they testified.

  “As I stated, discovery is long over and I think we’d all like to get this behind us as soon as possible. In fact, I expect to file a motion in limine to preclude the introduction of unnecessary witnesses.”

  “I would give great consideration to such a motion, Mr. Stockton. I don’t like to waste court time with irrelevant or cumulative witnesses.”

  Kurt shook his head in disgust.

  “Mr. Townsend, you have some objection?”

  “Yes, your Honor, I do.”

  Kurt started to argue. Vega stopped him.

  “Mr. Townsend, save your arguments for when Mr. Stockton actually makes such a motion, assuming he does. Let’s wrap this up. Plaintiff’s request for a jury on her non-fraud causes of action is denied. Defendant’s motion for an expedited trial is granted. Given the additional causes of action, I think two days should be sufficient.”

  Kurt started to object, but Vega raised her hand to stop him before he could say anything.

  “Don’t worry, Mr. Townsend. I’m very efficient in court trials.” She smiled as she said the words, but it was not a pleasant smile. It was anything but.

  “Having said that, I’m setting this trial for December 16.”

  “But your honor, respectfully case law—”

  Judge Vega slammed her gavel down. “Bailiff, please call the next matter.”

  * * *

  On the way home, Kurt called Dee and Jim, They were angry, but no longer surprised by anything Judge Vega did.

  They hadn’t known enough about her to do a peremptory challenge when she was first assigned as an all-purpose judge to the case. Moving to disqualify her for bias at this late hour because of her adverse rulings would be a losing effort. That wasn’t enough to get a judge removed under California law.

  The trio had to find a way not only to deal with her biases, but also crush Stockton—and fast, given the expedited trial.

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  Copyrighted Material

  Chapter 55

  To relieve the momentum of the unstoppable media feeding frenzy, Suzanne Friedman called a press conference the next Monday outside her office building announcing that Gary Stockton would speak. He had paid her well both for arranging the press conference and the prep time she spent on his statement.

  He stood silently behind her as ordered. She began the conference with a wonderful character boost for Gary and an emphatic, well-reasoned denial of the overwhelming accusations in media reports.

  “Now, my client would like to make a statement.”

  Gary parroted the memorized statement Friedman had written to conform to her theory of the case and Gary’s innocence. He charmingly and categorically denied that he had ever promised clients better work in exchange for sexual favors. When he finished, he stood preening before the press bulleting him with questions—some elementary questions any fool could answer—but some not.

  “Gary?” Friedman whispered, close-mouthed. “Step back.”

  Gary didn’t obey and, in an instant, the big immovable man, who shadowed his diminutive lawyer, started ad-libbing answer after answer—fast and against orders.

  “Gary, stop.” Friedman tapped his back.

  He didn’t.

  * * *

  Friedman weighed the harm Gary was doing to his case against the harm she would do pulling him away under the scrutiny of the cameras and the tapings. She pictured a tagline on WolfNews and headlines flashing, “Attorney Drags Sexual Predator Away from Press.”

  Fr
iedman stepped up beside him. She couldn’t artfully budge the overly-fed tall man. With a relaxed façade, She listened to the barrage of questions. Gary was cherry-picking the easy ones and did well—for a time.

  Then, a sophisticated L.A. reporter stepped forward and soft balled before asking the “gotcha question”—the one that would bury Gary. The “gotcha” game had become the norm in today’s profit-driven news world.

  Friedman saw it coming and spoke up. “Thank you for coming, I’m afraid we have to cut this short.”

  “No,” Gary whispered. “I can handle this.”

  Gary looked down at the reporter, ego pumped and mouth running. “I know that I have a reputation for that kind of conduct. Frankly, that’s a product of my zealous work for these women and my jealous competitors. A conspiracy.”

  Friedman smiled into the snake pit. “Thank you again, we have to …”

  Gary interrupted, compelled to finish his point—a damning point. “I represent mostly women, and I’m accused of all kind of things for protecting them too much. But what they did, they did because they were grateful and wanted to show their appreciation …”

  “Then you admit it,” another reporter yelled.

  Friedman stepped in front of Gary and the stupidity that shot from his mouth.

  Ever obtuse, Gary was finished and satisfied. He’d had his say.

  Friedman was shattered. Her long-married client, member of the bar, and officer of the court had just admitted in engaging in sexual activities with his clients—not only while representing them but before their divorces.