Beach Lawyer (Beach Lawyer Series)

by Avery Duff

  “The reds, some people call them Italians,” one of the Latinas said of the red garlic.

  “I know,” he told her.

  Close by the Venice Pier, Robert headed into a bistro, corner of Speedway and Washington. At the bar, he ordered a glass of wine, caught the garlic from a pasta primavera being served. Again, his mind turned to that produce stand and his drive to LA from Gilroy. Most of the way, Philip Fanelli had dominated his thoughts.

  Some people call them Italians, that Latina told him. Philip Fanelli and bread crumbs and garlic: that was Robert’s path out of law school and down to LA. Not slugging it out against Stanford grads and the rest of the civilized world, who all clamored to practice in the City by the Bay.

  Philip had been teaching a Hastings Law corporate seminar at the request of an old friend. More about actual practice than recent cases, the lecture was called Bread Crumbs. Philip’s analogy to Hansel and Gretel emphasized the importance of leaving a paper trail based on correspondence, documenting client positions, and correcting inaccuracies to all disputed facts so they weren’t so easily held against the client later on.

  “Assuming, of course, there has been no wrongdoing,” Philip told the seminar. “Should wrongdoing occur, corporate counsel will likely be last to know, and if corporate counsel is first to know? Anyone?” he’d asked.

  After a couple of preachy answers about good client communication, Philip said, “No. If you’re first to know about wrongdoing, you were probably in on it and likely headed to jail.”

  At lunch break, Hastings Law students crowded around Philip, letting him know how sharp they were. Each one had researched Philip’s firm. A killer LA outfit: Brightwell Industries in the bag, a solid backup client base, a boutique gem at the beach in Santa Monica.

  Knowing all of that, too, Robert bailed on the seminar and sped down to the farm. Once inside a storage shed with Luis, they selected the best Italian reds on hand. After that, they stapled them inside a mesh sleeve. Normally, Rancho Rosalinda would print in the paper panel, but this time Luis and Robert and a few workers did the panel up right.

  The seminar was over when he got back, but Philip was still there in a meet and greet. Still rehearsing his pitch, Robert waited till the suck-ups—other suck-ups, actually—had gone. Philip was alone but had made dinner plans with the competition.

  “Mr. Fanelli?” he said.

  “Ah, our mystery guest.” Philip didn’t seem insulted he’d ditched the seminar, merely letting Robert know he’d noticed.

  “One question, if I may,” Robert said.

  “Why not? Let’s hear it.”

  “Do you like garlic, Mr. Fanelli?”

  Philip stopped packing his briefcase. “I’m part Sicilian, part French. I’d better.”

  “I just drove down to my family’s place south of here. I believe my time was well spent.”

  “Better spent than listening to years and years of my accumulated wisdom?”

  “I hope so. From my family’s farm,” he said, handing the garlic sleeve to Philip, who read the panel’s inscription: Italian Red Garlic Selected for Philip Fanelli. Signed by Robert, Luis, and Luis’ guys.

  Philip pointed to the sleeve. “You’re that Robert?”

  “Yes, sir. Robert Worth and those men who signed, they harvested and cured that sleeve.”

  Philip shook his hand. “Pleasure to meet you, Robert. Leaving my talk like you did, do you consider yourself a risk taker?”

  “Not really, sir. Like you said, it’s garlic. Your last name’s Italian.”

  Philip laughed.

  “All the students talking to you on break are smart. So am I. But I wanted you to know: I’m the only one willing to go the extra mile.”

  “So you are,” Philip said. “Where are the two of us going to dinner?”

  That Christmas, Robert drove to LA with a group of other students and called Philip from Shutters on the Beach Hotel in Santa Monica. Philip’s wife was up in Santa Barbara, recuperating from her latest chemo, and Robert found himself grilling salmon with Philip in his Brentwood backyard. Poolside, one of many such dinners that lay ahead once he moved to LA.

  It was during one of those meals gone late that Philip confided in him: his firm had never been sued for malpractice. Not once, not even by a shakedown artist. Philip, Robert could tell, was proud of that record.

  Now, in the bistro by the pier, Robert finished his wine and paid his tab. As he walked home on the boardwalk, his thoughts returned to the firm’s malpractice history. Technically, he believed, the firm’s clean record was still unbroken. His client was suing Jack, not the firm.

  “At least that’s something,” he said as he opened the door to his apartment.

  Once he showered that night, Alison’s observation on the boardwalk kept coming back to him: so lucky to have a home. Instead of kicking back, he opened his laptop and selected a desktop folder: RLW STUFF. He opened it. It was encrypted, calling for his password. He typed: Z-A-C-K-M-A-Y-O and stopped. Then he closed the RLW STUFF file.

  Thinking: Go ahead, man. Go ahead and do it. Now. Go.

  Pulling out his cell phone, taking a breath, he hit a button on his iPhone. Calling Home showed up on his screen.

  Inside the home where Robert was born, his father answered.

  “Robert? Well, well, how are you, son?”

  “Fine, Dad, great. How about you?”

  His father said, “Pretty fair, no complaints.”

  “Not too late to call, is it?”

  “No, son, not at all. Good to hear your voice. I’m in here with the bills. No end of ’em running a farm, but you know all about that.”

  “Oh, you’re in the study?” Robert asked.

  “Uh-huh. House is kind of empty right now.”

  Robert didn’t need to close his eyes to picture the house where he grew up, its Will Rogers Ranch design, even the prom-night photo on the study wall alongside other family memories. His fifty-five-year-old father—people said Robert favored him—would be sorting mail at the huge wooden desk dominating the long, rectangular room.

  “Where is everybody?” Robert asked.

  “Gone over to Pleasanton for a horse race. Mom, too. Not sure they’ll make it back tonight. They might head into the city, kick up their heels. Why don’t you get up here, or is your blood too thin from being down south for so long?”

  Robert sucked in a big breath. “I called . . . I wanted to tell you that—there was a big shake-up at the firm. And I lost my job.”

  “But you worked so hard for them all those years.”

  “I know.”

  “What about that big partner, Phil? I thought he’d taken you under his wing?”

  “They made some bad business decisions, had to thin the herd. Know what I mean?”

  “All too well. I’m so sorry. I’ll do anything I can to help if you’ll let me.”

  “No, thanks, Dad. With any luck, I already have something else in the works.”

  “Well, you’ve done it all on your own.” His father choked up a little. “You know how proud I am of you, no matter what. But I’m serious. Why not come home, spend some time till you get squared away?”

  “I have résumés to work on, job interviews and all that, but as soon as I have a free weekend, I promise.”

  “When I tell Mom you called, she’s gonna ask me—you seeing anyone special?”

  “Could be. Give Mom . . . just make sure you tell her I said hi, okay?”

  “Will do. Better get back to what I was doing before I lose track.”

  Later that night, after he went to bed and turned off all the lights, he lay alone in the dark.

  Finally, he whispered, “Dad. Jesus . . .”

  CHAPTER 20

  By Monday at 1:00 a.m., Robert had finished redrafting several critical parts of Alison’s complaint and grabbed four hours of sleep. Then he got up and rechecked her legal file against every assertion he made in her complaint.

  At 8:45 a.m., he pulled near the
Santa Monica courthouse and fed a two-hour meter on Olympic. By 9:05, he’d passed through security and was standing in line to see a filing clerk. At this stage of the game, he didn’t want a clerk telling him, “Sorry, sir, the court’s website is out of date. Filing fees have changed.” Or “Sorry, sir, you will need to use our new civil summons form. Wasn’t that posted on our website?”

  No need to be a litigator to know things go wrong, and even though he had no intention or desire of filing these papers, he didn’t need Jack to be right: “Told you, Worth. You couldn’t find the right courthouse.”

  That was not an image he wanted lurking anywhere in his mind.

  The filing clerk let him know that his check was made out properly and the forms he’d used and the boxes checked were in order. Then, before the clerk stamped the first page of his complaint, he pulled it and walked back outside. Knowing for sure, if forced to file the complaint, it would be accepted.

  He fed his meter, then strolled to the end of Santa Monica Pier and back. Down at Urth Caffé on Main, he ate a bowl of granola and drank a decaf. No caffeine today—he was as jacked up as he could ever remember. By the time he made it back to the courthouse, it was 10:45. Unlocking his car, he took out his notebook and papers—make-work—and strolled back to the front stairs.

  At 10:50, he pictured the Brightwell study and saw himself telling Jack: Front steps. Santa Monica courthouse. Eleven a.m. sharp.

  At 11:00 a.m. sharp, he looked around. Food trucks had pulled up on Main Street. Civil servants trickled out for sustenance. He walked back to his car and made a show of feeding the meter, all the while looking for a sign that Jack was driving up. Or getting a ticket. Or lying dead in a crosswalk. But he was nowhere to be seen.

  Fuck him, he said to himself and walked back inside the courthouse. Back through security, delaying the process as long as possible. Once his keys were snug in his pocket, his belt rebuckled, it was 11:06. The Filing Clerk door, thirty feet away. No choice now—he could not back down. He eased toward the door, but this wasn’t what he wanted. Pierce calling him out. Pierce a no-show. He eyed the front door. No one was coming through it. He was out of options, but as he cleared the Filing Clerk’s wooden threshold, he heard Jack’s voice.

  “Hold up, Worth.”

  Robert turned around and looked down the long hallway. Jack was sitting on a bench. Beside him was an attractive woman in her forties, and because she wore a black robe, he knew she was a circuit court judge. Jack had been inside the courthouse all along.

  “Want you to meet someone, Worth,” Jack said, waving him over. “Come on, I want you to meet Judge Rosen.”

  More of Jack’s fun and games. His every instinct as a lawyer told him to speak to this Judge Rosen. To any judge, for that matter. It was never a choice—it was disrespectful not to do it. But walking over to Jack, who didn’t show up by the deadline? Who was still playing games? He couldn’t let that happen.

  “Can’t do it,” Robert said, not sure if Jack heard him or not.

  He walked into the clerk’s office and stood in line. It was all he could do to keep his breathing under control.

  Cocky asshole, fuck him. That’s what Robert was thinking when Jack walked up to him.

  “I had an early trial conference with her. What was I supposed to do?”

  Robert didn’t answer. Jack said, “Let’s go outside, talk this over.”

  “If I walk through security again, we’re done talking for good.”

  Without another word, Robert headed outside. Jack followed him onto the lawn. They each held up their iPhones and powered down.

  “Look,” Jack told him, “I thought about what you said this weekend and had a thought.”

  Robert gave him nothing in return.

  “For right now, and for purposes of settlement only, how’s this sound? You kept coming back to that meeting at the firm with Chase, your client, me, right?”

  Robert shrugged. “I mentioned it once.”

  “After she left the room, a four-hundred-thousand-dollar jury verdict might have been kicked around. That is, if the case had even gotten to a jury, so I was thinking . . .”

  He knew what came next. Jack offering $400,000 for Alison to go away, offering to call a few colleagues, set him up with a job. Right then, he saw the wisdom in holding back Alison’s strongest allegation against Jack.

  “Hold on, I’m confused,” Robert said.

  “Well, what I’m saying is—”

  “No, no, I hear your four hundred thousand, all right, but when you add that to my nonnegotiable one million eight, that’s more than two million. Even more than I’m asking for?”

  “You’re out of your fucking mind. You think I’m paying her a million eight over that dirtbag brother?”

  “You trial boys call this bluffing, right?”

  “No, Worth, we call it take it or leave it.” Jack was in his face now.

  But Robert kept his cool and shoveled Jack what he’d been holding back. “Three more things you should know about her complaint. One: I’m serving the lawsuit on you at Stone Canyon Road—not at Fanelli and Pierce. Two: I’ve added use of amyl nitrite to my complaint, as in use of a dangerous drug during commission of felony assault. That item might even get the DA’s attention. Who knows? Maybe your pal Judge Rosen can get involved. And a big number three: I don’t care if Brian Maxwell was snorting asbestos flakes off a hooker’s ass on his deathbed—this is her case, not his—and she won’t take a million seven point nine nine nine nine nine. She won’t take one penny less than one million, eight hundred thousand dollars.”

  Jack definitely reacted, hearing about his use of amyls for the first time. Looked to Robert like someone just put a blowtorch to Jack’s Ferrari. Robert headed back inside the courthouse, made it to the steps, but already knew what was coming next.

  “All right,” Jack said.

  Robert turned around. “All right, what?”

  “One point eight.”

  Jack looked different to him now. Not defeated, but something was missing from his shoulders and arms. Not beat forever, he knew that, but beat for the moment, and seeing that felt good. Robert held up his phone and turned it on. So did Jack. Once he gave Jack his cell number, he said, “Text our deal to me.”

  Jack texted him: I accept offer of 1.8 million to settle our case.

  Robert could have insisted on more detail, but for now this would do. They had only one case between them, so our case could mean only one thing. And he understood why Jack was vague. It was a text. Phones get lost, misplaced, and phones get picked up by spouses.

  At that point, they took it out to Robert’s car, where they covered the details with an economy two lawyers can bring to the table if they want to.

  First, Jack didn’t want to meet him in public again. Everything would happen outside the firm. Robert could e-mail Jack at his personal e-mail account, which Jack furnished. They agreed Robert was to draft the document and that two things mattered most: the money to Robert and to Jack, secrecy in the nondisclosure.

  “No games,” Robert said. “You pick up a typo, I make a mistake, fine. We’ll initial the change right there. Short of that, it’ll be ready for your signature.”

  Jack nodded.

  “The release will cover all of her claims against you and—”

  “And the firm.”

  “And the firm,” Robert said. “And my client’s release to you will be very broad.”

  “Better be. Talk to me about how you see nondisclosure working.”

  “Well, I have my client’s power of attorney to dispose of any and all—”

  “No good. I want her signature on the nondisclose. Not your signature for her.”

  He’d already thought about this. Jack had the winning argument. Why should it be left to Jack to check Robert’s power of attorney to make sure no loopholes favored Alison?

  “Agreed,” Robert said, taking notes on his laptop. “It will bind her. It will be all-inclusive. She has, of cours
e, discussed the underlying facts of the case with me.”

  This was the heart of the matter for Jack. Robert knew he had to make sure there was no wiggle room permitting Jack’s behavior to leak out without a severe penalty. Jack would reject any such proposal and be justified doing so.

  “The nondisclosure, it will also bind you,” Jack said.

  Robert knew that this point would be a deal breaker for Jack. No way Jack would allow Robert to dine out on his big win like lawyers tend to do. No—always do. Robert got it. In Jack’s shoes, he would ask for the same protection.

  “All right, I’ll sign the nondisclosure agreement, too,” he said.

  There was one other deal point Jack might bump on. Robert decided to bring it up now: “You should know I already discussed the underlying facts of your case with a nonparty.”

  Jack closed his eyes. “Who?”

  “Fanelli. That night.”

  Jack looked at him for the first time since they’d sat down in the car. He looked almost sad.

  “Exactly what did you tell Fanelli?”

  “Everything my client told me to that point. That you berated her in the meeting. That you were in her apartment and assaulted her. That you threatened to withdraw from her case unless she had sexual relations with you. You hadn’t withdrawn yet, so your actual withdrawal didn’t come up.”

  “And the drug-use allegation?” Jack asked.

  “At that point, I was unaware of the allegation, so I never discussed it with Fanelli. I haven’t spoken to him since I left the firm.”

  “And Fanelli’s reaction to what you told him that night?”

  “He told me it was impossible to know what had happened. And that I should keep quiet about it, leave it up to her to take legal action, if any.”

  Robert omitted learning from Philip that he was on the brink of partnership. It had no bearing on this case and might cause friction later between Philip and Jack.

  Easy for Robert to guess what Jack was thinking: counting in his mind the times he’d seen Philip at the office, in partners’ meetings, at the firm party. Philip had even seen Robert with Alison, and Jack had to realize that Philip would have already mentioned her accusations if he planned to do so. Jack would conclude what Robert had already concluded: get this thing done, and get it done fast.