Gary knew Judge Kwok by reputation and her groundbreaking work in family law. That wasn’t what mattered to him. She had spent her pre-judicial career as a hard-nosed assistant district attorney in Santa Clara County. She had made her reputation prosecuting men accused of sex crimes, from rape to assault to harassment. She was a feminist icon.
He could have drawn no worse judge for this case.
* * *
Gary jumped when there was a knock at his office door. It was the new temp the agency sent. A cheap one—a “he.” An obvious slap in his face.
“Sorry I’m late, Mr. Stockton. I’m new to the area and the agency. I’m Miguel Cuevas. I’m taking over for your secretary on leave.”
“I understand. The agency said you were experienced?”
Experienced at what? Gary thought as he stared at the early twenties tattooed ex-gangbanger with a bouncing silver ring piercing into his lower lip.
“Absolutely. Spent two years working with the volunteer lawyers at Homeboy Industries in Boyle Heights.”
Shit, Gary thought. That place saves souls and converts gangbangers into choir boys. No creative billing now.
* * *
Gary was condemned to the cheap, the male, and the reformed whose ethics he would not test. He accepted his lot, showed the kid the ropes, and started him out with two client collection letters and some form discovery. He figured he could keep up the pretense that his secretary was on leave for months without anyone being curious. There was no need for anyone to know Vicky had quit or the circumstances.
As he finished his explanation, the street door opened. A tight-jeaned blond female brought the scent of coconut in his office.
“Hello.” The thought of coconut body products, as well as the body and a new potential client, aroused Gary in every way.
“Mr. Stockton? Gary Stockton?”
Gary smiled. “Yes, and you are?”
She smiled and shoved a large envelope at Gary, which he reflexively grabbed. “You’ve been served.”
The woman left Gary holding the envelope.
“I don’t want any calls put through. Take messages. A client is coming in at eleven. I’m here for him.” Gary added, “And just to clarify, if anyone asks, Vicky is on vacation.”
Gary went into his office and slammed the door, guillotining Miguel’s crisp, “Yes, sir.”
As eleven o’clock passed and noon approached, Gary called the client and left messages. There was no response.
There was no hope either. Gary was now living off the last the last dollars from the loans against the equity of the house and the office building. Mary had signed anything he put in front of her without question while she was getting her dinner parties together.
* * *
Over the ensuing two weeks, Gary was ever more isolated. He was embattled. More civil suits were filed against him and criminal charges were just a matter of time. To get by and continue to pay Suzanne Friedman, he let his life insurance policy go and stopped paying everything he could.
At his office, the swarm of reporters, internet bloggers and the merely curious blasted him at the door day by day until most got the message that he would give them nothing. A stubborn few still persisted in badgering him on otherwise lackluster news days.
The San Bernardino Sun, other news outlets, and the ever-present Internet reported on everything, including his replacement as head of the Family Law Section.
On December 7th, fittingly enough Pearl Harbor Day, he received a letter from the Office of the California State Bar’s Chief Trial Counsel. It informed him that a number of complaints had been lodged against him and that the State Bar had commenced an investigation into those complaints and his conduct. Even though those wheels would grind slowly, inevitably grind they would. At the end, predictably, Gary would lose his license to practice law.
Miguel buzzed Gary. “I have a Detective Gonzalez on the line.”
“Tell him I’m leaving for court and will call him back this evening.”
Gonzalez didn’t need to speak to Gary or drag him in for an interview with all the free information in the press and victims coming forward. He was calling to scare Gary and keep him off balance. It was clear Gonzalez and the D.A. were investigating him and collecting evidence.
It was only a matter of time before was in cuffs. He’d be in them already had Gonzalez known about Kim and Zaida.
* * *
Gary focused on his defense fund and secreting away a nest egg for that. He had to keep as many clients as he could—and, most importantly, their money. He called each one he thought he could keep. He groveled, denied, cajoled, explained, and endured.
Some of his female clients, not part of his special harem, stayed with him. For most, it only took his denials and continuing deceit about the work he was doing on their cases—after all, they did not have a lump-sum retainer for a new attorney anyway.
For the few with choices, he had to go further and present himself as the victim of jealous competitors and young bucks stealing his clients for their start-up practices. His efforts had a five percent success rate, but he billed double for any phone calls and prep time to take more from their dwindling trust accounts. The few males he represented, of course, stayed without much encouragement—woman haters all. They knew what women were like, and Gary reminded them as needed.
A Vicky-less Gary churned and inflated his remaining clients’ billable work himself, hard and fast, to generate the money to compensate Friedman and keep her working for him. He sent out his own bills, but had little expectation they would be paid. He was rapidly losing ground.
⌘
Copyrighted Material
Chapter 60
At home Gary, who had lived lonely in his marriage for years, was now further embattled. He was forced to deal with and suck up to the wife he had come to hate—all the more because his secret pleasures were now gone.
The isolation was never-ending and bore down on him. Gary even began to miss Mary’s waning trail of social-climbing dinners. At least they had been a break: some guests had fed his lust, like the long-legged, tight-assed wifey Bonnie; others had fed his sardonic sense of humor; and yet others fed his shock, watching dull jowly couples praising Mary’s food—masticating and rolling it around open-mouthed on their tongues.
Mary was intent on maintaining her lifestyle and orchestrated each day to maintain the appearance of normalcy until Gary was cleared. Her woman’s clubs and charity committees were awkward at times, but members said they felt for her. She had “friends” who still went to lunches with her, as long as they were at expensive restaurants and Mary paid.
Soon their credit cards would be maxed out and Mary would have them declined publically to her mortification.
Gary didn’t care. He also didn’t care that Mary had separated Gary from her life, and his bedroom from hers as well.
* * *
Gary dreaded the continued occasional Sunday family gatherings. Given all the troubles, they had increased and were now a weekly event, their kids wanting to support Mary by their presence. With everything hanging over his head, Gary had no use for his semi-adult, semi-bearable children. Thanksgiving had been bad enough.
Sunday, December 12th dinner was consumed with idle female chatter. When the older kids finished picking at their food, they ran to the den to watch a movie.
As the six adults sat, there was, as always, a twitter of female food exaltations intertwined with male fall football predictions. Gary half-heartedly joined in, but no one met his eyes.
Then, silence.
The appeal decision and intense news coverage of the civil suits, possible criminal charges, Gary’s dislodgement from his bar association post, the California State Bar investigation—it was a room filled with elephants. The awkward silence masked the expectation that he, Gary, would speak and somehow make their lives the same again.
Larry finally spoke up. “Dad, what about all the new things in the news?”
“Yes,
Dad.” His daughter Charlotte’s pleasant voice belied the anger in her eyes—the same anger Mary’s eyes exuded when she looked at him, a rare occurrence these days.
“What are we supposed to say to people?”
“Yeah, Dad,” his son-in-law Eric chimed in.
Gary hated Eric called him “Dad.”
Again, silence. Gary looked to Mary.
“Kids, leave your father alone,” Mary intervened with a loyalty that Gary had not expected. “This is between us. You should simply say it’s not true.”
For the first time in years, he remembered the love they had once had. The reasons he had married her so many years ago. Then her storming eyes pivoted to his, killing that wisp of fond emotional memory.
“But,” Larry objected. “All the lawsuits, the State Bar investigation, the women coming out, and—”
Mary shut Larry up. “Enough. That’s only people piling on. And the stupid internet. Simple jealousy. Enough. Let’s clear and get the dessert, girls. I made that chocolate cake and cupcakes for the kids.”
Gary watched Mary’s fat ass and his daughter’s, now almost identical, clear the table. He wondered if his son-in-law wanted Charlotte gone too.
Gary thought, Probably not yet.
“Coffee, anyone?” Mary popped her head in to ask, despite the fact that every Sunday the men skipped the coffee and stuck with their beer and wine.
* * *
At the table, the sound of Gary topping off his wine broke the silence—a silence filled with scandal and questions that had gone unanswered too long.
“More?” Gary asked his son-in-law.
“No. I’m going to check on the kids.” He had never liked Gary anyway.
“Wine, son?”
“I’m sticking with my beer.”
“Of course.”
Their eyes did not meet. Gary finished his wine. Larry emptied his beer.
“I’m gonna get another.” Larry left for the kitchen and the fridge.
Gary waited—alone. Larry didn’t return. Gary was an outcast in his own home too. He boiled with rage. Hadn’t he given his children everything? Didn’t he deserve some respect? Mary might have moved him to the guest bedroom, but at least she remained civil.
Gary smiled. She’s fighting for her precious house. She doesn’t know she’s already lost it.
* * *
Gary got up with his glass and the half-full bottle of chardonnay. He retreated to his study to watch what remained of the fourth quarter of the Jets-Seahawks game. Seattle had a three-touchdown lead, and both teams were going through the motions.
He didn’t come out again. He would be “at work” every family Sunday from now on and for Mary’s big annual charity open house the following Sunday, December 19th. He polished off the rest of the chardonnay and staggered to the guest bedroom after the brood had left and Mary had gone to bed.
Gary managed to remember to set his alarm for seven the next morning. He had to be in court with that feminazi new Judge Kwok at eight-thirty a.m. sharp.
⌘
Copyrighted Material
Chapter 61
When Gary arrived at Judge Kwok’s courtroom, it was full of attorneys. She had scheduled multiple status conferences back to back to take immediate control of her docket.
The clerk called the Thurston case. Gary came forward, along with Kurt. Eliana wasn’t there, nor were any other clients because it wasn’t necessary or preferred. Kurt wished he weren’t there either.
Judge Kwok’s eyes narrowed as she looked at Gary and then caught herself. Her distaste for him was evident to everyone in the courtroom.
“Counsel, we need a new trial date for you expedited trial. The trial is not starting this week, as per our notification.”
“Understood, your Honor.” Gary sucked up.
An expedited trial made sense once, but it didn’t anymore. The Thurston case was now just one of several Gary faced from the women he had represented. More accurately, misrepresented and abused. In fact, the further away the better, but Gary couldn’t lose face.
“I have a very full docket, Mr. Stockton.”
“I will happily accede to whatever trial date best suits your Honor’s calendar.” Gary smiled obsequiously at the judge.
“Very well. I’m going to calendar trial to begin Monday, May 5th of next year. We’ll have the trial readiness conference on April 7th. Is that agreeable, counsel?”
“Yes, your honor,” Kurt said.
“Fine with me, your Honor.”
One date was as good as another for Gary. He wanted a jury trial now, but couldn’t revisit a motion he had won—much to his regret. He would have to accept this beast’s judgment—undoubtedly against him.
Kurt was pleased with the date and the bench trial he had opposed before. It gave him plenty of time to gather more witnesses and more damning evidence without having to spend huge blocks of otherwise billable time doing it. And Stockton hadn’t asked to reopen discovery, so Kurt could blindside him with his new, lengthy witness list at trial.
“Thank you, counsel. That will be all.”
As they left the counsel tables, Kurt smiled as he held the swing gate for Gary and whispered, “Too bad.”
Gary didn’t look at Kurt or acknowledge him. Instead, he double-timed out of the courtroom.
Kurt was disappointed.
* * *
The rest of the week Gary suffered blow after blow. The news reported two new civil suits that had been filed against him. He was a pariah at the County Bar Association’s holiday party where he had always gotten free booze and salivated at the new wave of fresh female lawyers in their tight short skirts and heels.
His temp Miguel needed the job and didn’t leave. The paperwork went out in proper form and on time—what little there was. It was only Gary’s male clients and his few remaining female clients without money who kept his head above water—along with emptying his remaining client trust funds.
Gary’s life and “secret” life were nonexistent. He spent his time sanitizing his client files of over-billing. Discovery in the civil suits and the inevitable upcoming subpoenas from the State Bar made wiping clean every file and his computers essential.
* * *
On the Friday afternoon before Mary’s Sunday open house charity event, Gary was file cleansing when Miguel buzzed him.
“Mr. Stockton, can’t I send some of these client files to the new lawyers? The calls are getting nastier.”
“Like I said. Tell them they’re on the way. I’m still checking them. I wouldn’t want to send incomplete files, would I?”
“Of course not.”
Gary thought, Let those hotshot new divorce lawyers get the stuff from the court files. I’ll burn this baby down before I help them out.
Before Gary could get back to the file he was sanitizing, Miguel buzzed again.
“Detective Gonzalez needs to speak to you. It’s his third call.”
“Fine.”
Gary feared he would need a criminal lawyer faster than he had expected. But it was Friday. Gary could stall anyone on a Friday—the workforce treasured the Friday afternoon hiccup before its weekend—a weekend that recharged their psyches and renewed their spirits.
The detective’s booming baritone voice shot from the phone through Gary’s head. “Gary?”
“Yes. At last, we speak.”
“I was worried that we were condemned to phone tag.”
“So was I.” Gary played Gonzales’s game. “What’s up? I’m piling on so I can get a weekend without work.”
“Of course. I bet with that great secretary out, you’re backed up.” Gonzales was fishing either for the reason for Vicky’s absence or validating what Vicky had already told him.
“You know how it is.” Gary tried noncommittal—it worked.
“Sure I do. Can you come in Monday morning for a chat, or if you prefer, I can come to your office.”
“Tuesday might be better for me.”
“No
, Monday. If not, I could just pop over now.”
“Monday’s fine.” Gary felt the screws turn. “I’ll come in. Ten?”
Gary didn’t want Gonzalez at his office with the hovering reporters and chatty Miguel. Besides, at the police station, unless he was under arrest, Gary could make a quick exit. If he was arrested, there would be no perp walk through a bunch of reporters.
“See you at ten then.”
Gary slammed down the phone and remembered the detective’s quick, intelligent eyes and his testimony at Skip’s trial—testimony that was as assured and strong as the detective’s physicality. He had testified like a pro and had the jury eating out of his hand.
* * *
When Gonzalez hung up, he confronted his desk heaped with documentation all pointing to Gary’s arrest. Organized chronologically and almost ready was the case against him—declarations, notes, and interviews from Gary’s victims and, yes, his former secretary Vicky.
The statute of limitation had run on most of the victims and others didn’t want to relive the horrors they suffered while under Stockton’s power. One, though, Brianna Norton seemed like a good lead victim for a prosecution. She had been horrifyingly abused—recently repeatedly. Any judge or jury would find her incredibly sympathetic, and her abuse was well within the statute of limitations.
As the detective read his notes from Brianna’s two interviews, her eyes lingered in his mind. Their blue glossy shimmer windowed a dark emptiness characteristic of sexually abused victims. But her voice didn’t match her seeming fragility. It had a sharpness and power that Gonzalez couldn’t define and hadn’t encountered in his many years on the force.
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