by Paul Levine
On the other side of the table, Grumley snickered.
"Meaning what? You don't abide by the statutes of the state of Florida?"
"It's always my intent to follow the law, Your Honor."
"But? Do I hear a 'but' coming?"
"But sometimes the law doesn't achieve justice."
"You don't say." The judge's voice was thick with sarcasm. "And here I've been sitting on the bench all these years thinking everything worked perfectly."
"I get your point, judge."
"Do you? There's nothing wrong with the law. The law draws lines. When you cross that line, you create chaos. We depend on the justice system to restore order. Sometimes the system works, and sometimes it doesn't, but not because the law is flawed. It's the humans who run the system who break down."
"All I'm saying judge, sometimes you have to walk pretty close to that line to do justice."
"Like your friend Dr. Charles Riggs did?"
"What's he gotta do with this?"
"I know all about your so-called pro bono work for that old coot."
"He's a good man."
"He tanked a murder case, let a scumbag walk free."
"The prosecutor hid exculpatory evidence from the autopsy. All Doc Riggs did was tell the truth."
The judge harrumphed. I'd violated one of the primary rules of the trial lawyer. Never contradict a judge in his own arena. Wearing his robes, the judge is king of his chambers and courtroom. The rest of us are his humble supplicants. Or at least, we're supposed to be.
"So just what entitled you to cross the line and slug your client?"
"That's what I've been trying to tell you, Your Honor. The man wanted to perjure himself and have me help him do it."
"Thash a lie!" Farrell said through his locked jaw. Grumley put a calming hand on his wrist.
"Even if it's true," the judge said, "you don't hit the man. You just withdraw from the case."
"He took a swing at me with a baseball bat."
"In your office?"
"I collect bats. "Barry Bonds. Mark McGuire. Sammy Sosa."
"You collect any from guys who didn't break the rules?"
"Edgar Renteria. That's the one Farrell swung at me."
Farrell was shaking his head and saying something that sounded like "No shir!"
"I still don't get it, Mr. Lassiter. You say, number one, your client wanted you to use perjured testimony then, number two, he swung a baseball bat at you. What are you leaving out?"
"In between one and two, I called him a liar, a scum-sucking bottom feeder, and a coward."
"Anything else?"
"I think I might have questioned his manhood, too."
The judge clucked his disapproval. "Do you have anger management problems, Mr. Lassiter?"
"Hey, Judge. I'm not the one who swung the bat."
"No, but you're the one who incited the incident and broke your client's jaw." The judge took one last puff, then stabbed out his cigarette. "I'm having you tested."
"For what?"
"Mental illness! I'm sending you to a shrink."
-9-
Last Chance Lassiter
From somewhere in a practice room, a student plucked away on a cello. Or maybe it was just a cat screeching.
I was in the Music Department at the University of Miami. My meeting was with Louis Ciani, a conductor, songwriter, and professor. I'd already given him a cassette of M.C. Silky's Don't Cry Baby. Cadillac didn't have a cassette or even an early 45 of I'm Leaving You, Baby, so I'd had him play the song into a tape recorder. If Professor Ciani's analysis backed up my client, I'd walk out of here with my expert witness. Unless the scratching cello killed me first.
The professor's office was filled with posters of the New York Philharmonic, the Bolshoi Ballet, and curiously, the Miami Heat. Floor-to-ceiling shelves were packed with books and musical scores. A Sony Walkman sat on his desk. The man himself was in his late fifties with a fine head of white hair tinged nicotine yellow at the temples.
He hovered over a music stand and pointed to a plastic sheet overlay on which he'd written a musical score. "The one on top, that's Silky's Don't Cry Baby. The one below is Cadillac's I'm Leaving You, Baby, as I've re-created it.
He placed the plastic sheet carefully over the lower score so that certain notes fit identically, one over the other. But to my untrained eye, many other notes did not.
"Silky uses the same musical intervals and rhythmic repetition," Ciani said. "That's the key, and once you combine that with similar lyrics, I can make a good case for plagiarism."
"Great. So you'll testify for me."
"I'll need one of the original 45s to compare to the score."
"Don't have one."
"Surely your client does."
"Cadillac's got nothing from those days. Everything he owned he carried in an Army AWOL bag."
"A collector, then..."
"I've looked online. There are people willing to pay ten grand for an original, but no sellers."
"So where do you go from here?"
"Eddie Burns. Cadillac's old manager is still around. Lives in North Bay Village. He says he's got every master tape from every musician he represented and every song he produced. He's looking for it now."
"When you get it, call me."
Suddenly, the cat-wailing cello down the corridor sounded better to me. "So you'll be our expert?"
"As soon as you pay me a fifteen thousand dollar retainer."
"Ouch. I've got the case on a contingency. No deposit for costs."
"So front the costs. Isn't that what you lawyers do?"
"I'm just out of my own a few days. But you have my word. Win or lose, I'll pay."
Professor Ciani started humming something classical that sounded like Mozart's "Marriage of Figaro." I figured it was his way of thinking out loud.
"You feel strongly about your case, don't you Mr. Lassiter?"
"I feel strongly about my client. Cadillac Johnson is a helluva talented guy who never got a break. I'm his last chance."
"Last Chance Lassiter?"
"For better or worse," I said.
"Can you pay me five now and the ten before trial?"
"I'll find a way. Yeah, I'll do it."
"Then I'm your man."
We shook hands. As I left his office, Professor Ciani was humming again. I couldn't name the song but it sounded joyous, and that was good enough for me.
-10-
The Grilled Cheese Truck
"There are two dozen great restaurants within a few blocks, but you wanted to eat at the grilled cheese truck?" I said.
"You love grilled cheese sandwiches," Kim Coates said.
"Right. I do. But you don't. You like to hit the Biltmore for lunch, when you don't have time to cross the causeway for Joe's."
"I like lunch with you, anywhere."
Okay, so sincerity wasn't one of Kim's strong suits. But after all, she was a lawyer, so her blatant lie was forgivable.
We were standing at the intersection of Brickell Avenue and 10th Street, about a block from Biscayne Bay. A sweet, soft breeze was blowing, but something else was in the wind, and I didn't know what.
"C'mon Kim. What's up?"
"I was a little rough on you the other day."
"Why? Because you broke up with me and called me a loser, and those were the nicest things you said?"
"Oh, Jake." Kim gently touched my cheek, the way you would a baby or lovable puppy. She wore a glen plaid jacket over a black pencil skirt. Professional and sexy at the same time. I wore Miami Dolphins' green polyester shorts and a Marlins' t-shirt. Looking like a beach bum.
"Since you won't answer what we're doing here, let me ask you this, Kim. Are you billing time right now?"
She took a tiny bite of her melted brie on cranberry walnut bread. "Why would you say that?"
"Your firm reps M.C. Silky. You're sitting second chair in a case with me on the other side. You offer to buy me a French onion melt. What do you wa
nt?"
"To help you."
I took a healthy bite of the bread, rich with Gruyere and onions. "Okay, help me."
"Silky wants to settle."
My mouth fell open, with a sticky thread of cheese sticking to my lips. "Really? Why?"
"He wants to make a gesture of good will to a legendary musician he admires."
"Let's try it again, this time without the bullshit."
"Krippendorf will fill you in. He'll see us at five."
"Why didn't we go straight there? Why the cheese-covered preview?"
"That was my idea. I don't want you to blow it with Krippendorf. So lose the attitude." She tossed her uneaten sandwich into a garbage can. "And for God's sake, wear a tie."
-11-
Old Meets New
I didn't wear a tie. I wore Miami Dolphins sweat pants and a t-shirt reading: "A Friend Will Help You Move. A Real Friend Will Help You Move a Body." It's one of my favorites.
My client, Cadillac Johnson, wore a tie. A skinny black and gold striped tie made of rayon or acetate, or something that shouted 1959. His shirt was white, his suit black with shiny pants bottoms. His granddaughter Sherrell wore charcoal slacks and a frilly blue silk blouse. She gave me a sharp look when she got off the elevator.
"I don't get your outfit," she said.
"It reinforces Krippendorf's feelings about me."
"And that's good?"
"It also pisses off a woman I used to be involved with."
"And that's good, too?"
"Trust me. It gives me a psychological edge in a room of suits."
I approached the reception desk where Doris Cartwright sat, guarding the door to the interior office.
"Hey Doris," I said. "You miss me?"
"Flag football team does. They've lost every game since you left." She pushed a button on the intercom and informed Krippendorf's assistant that Mr. Lassiter was here with his clients.
A moment later, Cadillac, Sherrell, and I were walking down an interior corridor toward Krippendorf's conference room.
"If they want to settle, that's a good sign, right?" Cadillac asked.
"It means they're afraid of something," I said.
"What?"
"That's what I have to find out before we accept anything."
"Wouldn't it be better to settle and not risk going to court?" Sherrell asked.
"If it's the right amount, yes. But so far, we've gotten no documents, no discovery, no nothing. Not even a notion of how much they'll pay and why. This comes straight out of left field."
We paused in front of the door to the conference room. "I've got arthritis, you know," Cadillac said.
"Yeah?"
"That retirement home down in Kendall. It's got a pool with one of those hot tubs."
"Sounds real nice, Cadillac."
"What Grandad is saying," Sherrell said, "is don't blow this case."
"I get it, Sherrell. I get it."
"They got a Rec Room, too," Cadillac said. "With a little stage up front. The people that run the place said I could put on shows for the folks."
I clasped Cadillac's arm. "Save me a seat in the front row."
We were two steps from the conference room door when I heard the footsteps behind us. Turning, I saw M.C. Silky, wearing a tailored, sleek black sharkskin suit. All his shirts must have been in the laundry, because he wasn't wearing one under his suit coat. Around his neck hung a gold chain big enough to tow an R.V.
Nodding to us and holding up one hand, as if telling us to stop, Silky spoke into a cell phone. This was back in the days of those beige Motorola monstrosities with the rubber aerials. They looked like World War II walkie-talkies and were nearly as heavy.
"John Lee Hooker's tapes?" Silky was saying. "I'll go thirty thousand. What else? The original 'Shake, Rattle and Roll.' Whatever it costs."
He was quiet a moment, listening. "Not Bill Haley! Big Joe Turner."
He clicked off the phone and nodded to Cadillac. "Mr. Johnson, I am privileged to meet you."
The politeness surprised me but didn't seem to move Cadillac.
"How much did you pay for my record?" he demanded.
Silky shrugged. "Wish I could find one. That's a real item. You collect, too?"
"Sure. Social Security."
"Look, man. I really admire you."
"Yeah."
"You guys who crossed over from R and B to rock. You opened all the doors."
"What do you know about it?"
"I know what you think, but I didn't bite your lines."
Cadillac grunted his displeasure.
"I wouldn't copy your stuff 'cause you're better than me."
Silky was trying hard, but Cadillac wouldn't budge.
"Bought me a Tele," Silky said, "but I can't get that twangy sound of yours."
Still the cold shoulder from the old man.
"What'd you play, a Strat?"
"Why?" Cadillac said. "You want to steal my guitar, too?"
Silky laughed and said, "Why don't we all go in? Maybe by the time we're done, we'll all be friends."
Cadillac ignored him and turned to me. "I ain't sitting at the table with this punk ass. Me and Sherrell will be in the lobby. You just do what you think is right."
With that, he turned and Sherrell followed him back down the corridor toward the waiting room.
"Old fool don't know what's good for him," Silky said. "I just hope you do, lawyer man."
-12-
See You Bastards in Court
Lyle Krippendorf was hunched over his finely polished conference table, scribbling on a legal pad. His prodigious bulk and odd posture made the pin stripes on his Italian suit as crooked as he was.
"Where's your client?" he said, by way of hello.
"In your waiting room. The air's better there."
Next to the Kripster sat Kim Coates, hands folded in front of her, hair pulled back into a bun, scowling at me or my outfit, or both. Next to her, M.C. Silky was just sitting down.
"Here's our starting point," Krippendorf said. "Mr. Silky does not admit plagiarizing your client's song. In fact, Mr. Silky denies ever hearing the song until after you filed suit."
"That's hard to believe," I said. "Silky is a collector and very knowledgeable about R&B and early rock. I can show you a dozen interviews where he boasts about his knowledge and his collection."
"Does he ever mention your client's song?"
"If he did, we'd already be ringing up the cash register."
"Fine. Prove he heard I'm Leaving You Baby or that he read the score. That's your burden. The song is never played on radio. The old 45s are nearly impossible to find, and the score was never published."
"It's still the first quarter of the game, Krip. I've barely begun discovery."
He smiled like a barracuda. "That's what brings us to this propitious moment. Before each side wastes money on discovery, we're prepared to make a substantial offer to settle your client's claim. Without admitting any infringement, of course. And total confidentiality as to the settlement."
"Just how substantial would that offer be?"
"Seventy-five thousand dollars."
"That's lowball."
"Not where there's no liability."
"A notion I reject. You've got to look at your downside. I have an expert who'll point out all the numerous similarities of the two songs. Then all I have to do is prove Silky had access to I'm Leaving You, Baby. Silky's gone platinum. His song – and I say 'his' in the loosest meaning of the word – plays over the opening credits of Tyler Perry's new movie. This case could be worth millions."
Kim Coates looked away, shaking her head. My disappointing her was starting to become a habit.
"Pie in the sky, Lassiter."
"You willing to take that risk?"
"Seventy five thousand is a lot of money to someone in your client's position."
"What position is that? Old? Black? A sucker?"
Kim stirred. "Jake. It's twenty-five thousand in y
our pocket."
"Really? Call me old fashioned, but I thought lawyers weren't supposed to consider that."
Krippendorf aimed a finger at me. "If I was starting my own shop, I'd take the money and run."
"I'm not you, Krip."
Krippendorf snorted his displeasure.
"I haven't even taken depositions," I said. "Why the rush to settle?"
"Client's idea."
Krippendorf nodded toward Silky, who flashed me his celebrity megawatt smile. "'Cause I respect the old man. Thought I could make his life a little easier is all."
I resisted the urge to get all weak in the knees at the rapper's charitable nature. "Then you wouldn't mind giving a sworn deposition before we accept or reject your offer," I said.
"No way!" Krippendorf thundered, his triple chins quivering. "This is a one-time, pre-discovery offer."
"Then I'll see you bastards in court." My way of combining Sue the Bastards with See You in Court.
Kim spoke up. "Even if you manage to win Jake, which is far-fetched enough, we'd appeal."
"The George Harrison case, where he got sued for 'My Sweet Lord,'" Krippendorf chimed in. "How long did it take?"
"Fifteen years," Kim answered, right on cue. They were tag-teaming me now.
"By then," Krippendorf sniffed, "your client will be worm food."
"You bastard!" I shot back. "That's not what I see when I look at that man sitting in your waiting room in his one good suit."
"Oh, spare us, God, the pious lawyer."
"I see an old man who's depending on me. A man people have screwed over his whole life. And all he wants now is a safe place to live and acknowledgment of the song he wrote, the art he created."
Krippendorf laughed, but it was a dead laugh and his eyes were mirthless. "Is that your idea of lawyering, Lassiter? Breaking out the violins."
"You don't care about justice."
"This is hardball, Lassiter. Care to play?"
"I know your tricks."
"Jake, please stop," Kim pleaded.
I ignored her. "You buy off witnesses, Krippendorf, and you play footsie with judges."
