by Jon Reisfeld
“I sure seem to be,” Sands sighed.
“Gather your stuff together and Jack will escort you to the judge’s chambers.”
Sands smiled “Thanks. Will do.”
Moments later, Sands had all of his items back together, and Jack, the guard who had checked his belongings, took him to Judge Farnsworth’s chambers on the second floor. When they arrived, he opened the door with a key and led Sands inside. “The judge likes to have his hair cut in this chair,” he said, tapping a leather-lined and padded black wooden chair.
“You can put your floor cover underneath it and use these outlets,” he said, pointing to a bank of sockets on the lower wall. “The judge will be in here any minute.”
“OK. Thanks,” Sands said.
“No problem.”
When the guard left the room, Sands crossed himself once and breathed a heavy sigh of relief.
Chapter 27
At 1:00 p.m., as he always did, Judge Farnsworth declared a one-hour lunch recess. When he arrived back in chambers, he thought, for a moment, that he had been transported back thirty years in time. There, standing before him, was his good friend Tony, looking half his age! Sands saw the confused look on the judge’s face and, smiled, extending his hand.
“Hi, Your Honor,” he said, “I’m Tony Jr. I treated Pops and a friend to a charter fishing trip today, so he asked me to fill in. I hope you don’t mind.”
“No, no. Not at all,” Judge Farnsworth said, shaking his hand warmly. “It’s a pleasure to meet you! You know, you are the spitting image of your dad at your age.”
“Yeah, I know,” Sands said, smiling, as he showed Judge Farnsworth to his seat. “It’s uncanny, Pops says. But I always tell him I’m a lot better looking than he was. I say, ‘You may have looked good, back then, Pops, but not this good!’”
The two shared a good laugh.
Sands fluffed the plastic smock, spread it out in front of the judge and then fastened the collar around his neck. “Don’t worry, Your Honor,” he said. “I know exactly what you like. Dad gave me detailed instructions—right down to the Vitalis®.”
“Are you working with your dad now?” Judge Farnsworth asked.
“Yeah,” I used to have my own place downtown. But I sold it several years ago.” Tony Jr. brushed the Judge’s hair and sprayed it with water in preparation for the razor cut.
“What happened?” the judge asked, “Did the neighborhood change?”
“No, my wife and I split up, and it wasn’t pretty. Big custody fight. I ran up a lot of legal bills, and they had to be paid.”
“I’m sorry to hear that,” the Judge said. “Who represented you?”
“Jerry Doyle, of Doyle, Dubney and Fastow,” Tony Jr. said, starting to lightly apply the razor blade to the tips of the judge’s hair, as instructed.
“What kind of fees did you run up with him?” the judge asked.
“Thirty-five thou.”
“Wow, that’s a lot of money! How did he do by you?”
“Not too bad. I had a complicated case and we did all right in the end. I got joint custody of my little girl, and that meant a lot.
Sands kept cutting and combing the Judge’s hair. In a few minutes, he was done. He pulled out a mirror and gave the judge a good look.
“Just like your old man,” Judge Farnsworth said.
“Thanks.”
Now, Sands opened his bag again and brought out the Vitalis and the scalp-massaging unit. “I’ve got a special treat for you today, Your Honor,” Sands said. He waved a small pump sprayer around the judge’s head and Farnsworth smelled a refreshing burst of vanilla.
“What’s that?” he asked.
“Aroma therapy, to heighten the relaxing effects of the massage. It’s also a muscle relaxant. I’m going to spray some on your neck to make the massage even more soothing. OK?”
“Sure,” Judge Farnsworth said, as Sands spritzed the solution all over his neck.
“Pops told me you’re an opera buff?”
“Sure am.”
“He said your favorite opera is La traviata. Did I get that right?”
“Yeah.”
“Well, I’ve got a special, Quadraplex recording of it that you’re gonna love. I’ll put the head phones on you while I massage your scalp and shoulders. It’s incredible—extremely relaxing.”
“Great,” the Judge said with a smile. He closed his eyes as Sands placed the headphones over his ears. The music began with a richness he had never heard before.
“This is wonderful,” the judge said. “Your dad’s going to have to step up his game!” Then, he felt a slight pinch at his neck. “Ouch!”
“Oh, sorry, Your Honor,” Sands said, putting the cap back on the syringe and burying it in his pocket. “I think the massage unit must have pinched you.”
“That’s all right,” the judge said. “I’m fine now.”
Slowly the music grew even deeper and richer in intensity as the massage unit began working the judge’s shoulders. Then, a soothing voice spoke to him out of the music, a voice he didn’t recognize, but a voice he enjoyed listening to, nonetheless. The voice promised to take him on a brief, refreshing journey to a wonderful place created by the music. It told him many things. And it promised he would remember none of them. But it also told him he would be making the journey again, very soon, and that it would seem as real as real could be.
Sands released the paper neck guard and began applying powder to the judge’s neck with the whisk brush. Judge Farnsworth opened his eyes brightly.
“My God,” he said, “that was refreshing! What an excellent rendition of La traviata. It was extraordinary!”
“You fell asleep,” Sands said. “I wasn’t sure you liked it.”
“Oh, no, it was marvelous,” the Judge said, as Sands brushed the rest of. his cut hair off the smock and onto the floor. He removed the smock, splashed the judge’s cheeks with a little aftershave and then began sweeping up.
Judge Farnsworth picked up the mirror and looked his haircut over once more.
“You’re definitely your father’s son,” Farnsworth said, primping a little. “Be sure to give him my best.”
“I will, Your Honor.”
Then, the judge stood up, slipped twenty-five dollars into Sand’s hand, and walked to where his judicial robe was hanging next to the door. He put it back on and smiled. “I haven’t felt this refreshed in ages,” he said. “It’s like I just slept eight hours!”
Then, he opened the door to return to the courtroom. “Tell your dad next Friday, same time, same place, OK?”
“You bet, Your Honor.” he said.
After Farnsworth left, Sands emptied his dustpan into the trash, put away his remaining tools, zipped up his bag and was on his way.
Chapter 28
Martin, as requested, arrived at Swindell’s office ten minutes early for the Saturday morning settlement conference. Swindell greeted him at the door. He was dressed, informally, in khaki trousers, loafers, and a navy-blue polo shirt, and he was smoking a Meerschaum pipe rather than one of his customary cigars.
Swindell smiled broadly at the sight of his client and ushered him inside. “Mahr-tin, thanks for gettin’ here early,” he said, vigorously shaking Martin’s hand. Then, with a twinkle in his eye, he added. “I think we may be in the home stretch.”
Swindell led Martin to a small conference room toward the back of the office’s first floor. “Sit anywhere you like,” he said. “I’m makin’ coffee. Want some?”
“Yeah,” Martin said. “That would be nice.”
“They blinked first!” Swindell had proclaimed in the message he had left on Martin’s cell phone the previous day. “Your wife’s attorney would like to meet with us tomorrow, at eleven, in my office, to discuss a new settlement offer! This is huge, Mahr-tin! Call me as soon as you get this message.”
Martin had replayed Swindell’s message several times while he sat in his motel room, considering his options...He also had wondered wh
y Swindell sounded so excited on the phone. I have to go. Otherwise, it would look suspicious. But I can’t seriously entertain settling the case – not now – not after accepting Brooks’ group’s help.
Martin wasn’t looking forward to the meeting for another reason: He didn’t expect Katie’s attorney to propose any ‘major’ concessions. Katie has behaved poorly and tried to take advantage of me from the beginning. Why should that change now?
When Swindell returned to the conference room, he held two mugs of coffee in his hands. Each had a metal spoon sticking out over the top. He placed one down at his seat and the other in front of Martin. Then, he emptied his pockets, tossing assorted sweeteners, napkins, and powdered cream packets in a pile in the center of the table.
“Help yourself, Mahr-tin,” he said, taking a long sip of his coffee. “Here’s where I think we stand. Beverly West says she wants to save all of us the cost of litigatin’ this case by comin’ up with a reasonable settlement package. She also commented on how ‘nicely’ she thought you and your estranged wife had worked together regardin’ young Justin’s birthday. She said it could be a ‘foundation’ for buildin’ a new spirit of cooperation.
“In other words,” he added, adjusting his seat to a more comfortable height, “your wife’s worried about suddenly havin’ to pay to litigate the domestic violence case, a cost she never anticipated.
“And since you took such an extreme stand,” he smiled, raised his eyebrows and nodded, “and we never stepped in with an offer of our own, they’re getting’ desperate.
“This case could be over by Noon today. You may get a much better deal than they originally offered and a better outcome than we could hope for, even if we were to try the case and prevail. I take my hat off to you, Mahr-tin Silkwood!”
Martin smiled noncommittally.
Swindell was particularly eager to settle the case after learning, earlier that morning, about the existence of some potentially damaging new evidence that his paralegal had picked up on a visit to the police department. He hadn’t seen the documents yet, so he saw no reason to share that information with his client. “Besides, I don’t want him second-guessin’ himself today. It could undermine his perceived bargainin’ power.”
Swindell leaned forward in his chair and looked Martin dead in the eye. “So, Mahr-tin, what’s it gonna take to get you to sign off on a deal today?”
Martin stared back and shrugged. “I have no idea, Mr. Swindell. I guess I’d like to be treated fairly, that’s all.”
Swindell grimaced. “Well, what does that mean? What is fair treatment, in your opinion?”
“Why don’t we just wait and see what she’s prepared to offer?”
Swindell tilted his head and studied his client, while Martin took a long sip from his coffee mug. “In my experience, Mahr-tin, it’s always best to enter a negotiation knowin’ what you want – or, at least, what you will accept.”
“You’re probably right, but I’m still trying to figure that out. I think we should just give her a chance to make her case and then take it from there.”
At that moment, Swindell’s doorbell buzzed. “I guess that will have to do,” he said, standing up, “as it appears she’s here.”
Swindell excused himself and went to the front door to greet his guest. Moments later, he returned, following behind West.
She was a trim, heavily made up woman, in her early fifties, with frosted blonde hair, worn in a page-boy style, and cold gray eyes. The eyes, Martin thought, looked even more intimidating than they had in the picture on Brook’s computer screen. West wore a pale blue running suit. Her jacket was partially unzipped, revealing a white cotton shirt and a pearl necklace. She carried a black leather satchel over her left shoulder and a matching, pale blue leather Coach® bag in her right hand.
“Bev,” Swindell said, once they were both inside the conference room, “this is Mahr-tin Silkwood. Mahr-tin, Beverly West, your wife’s attorney.
Martin stood up and extended his hand. “Ms. West,” he said.
She flashed him the briefest of smiles. “Mr. Silkwood. Pleased to make your acquaintance.”
Her handshake was firm – perhaps a little too firm.
“Have a seat Bev, and make yourself comfortable,” Swindell said, as he placed a mug of hot tea in front of her. “It’s Earl Grey, your favorite.”
“Thank you, Chester.” West surveyed the table with its clutter of sugar and artificial sweetener packets, napkins and powdered creamer and the slightest hint of a smirk formed on her lips. She sat down at the head of the table, with Swindell to her left and Martin to her right. She looked at them both, in turn.
“First, I want to thank you gentlemen for agreeing to meet with me this morning. I also want to apologize for my outfit, but it is Saturday and my next stop is the gym!”
“Don’t be silly,” Swindell said. “You look just fine, Bev.”
Beverly West lifted and dunked her tea bag several times. Then, she squeezed out any remaining tea by placing the tea bag on the spoon and wrapping the string tightly around it. Afterward, she placed the spoon and the spent bag on one of the available napkins that she had slid beside her mug. She closed her eyes and took a sip.
“Mmm. Very good, Chester,” she said. Then, she turned and stared wide-eyed at Martin. “I imagine, Mr. Silkwood, that Chester has informed you about the reason for this meeting, today?”
“Yes,” Martin said.
“Good. Let me start by setting some ground rules that your attorney and I have gone over. Everything discussed in this room, today, Mr. Silkwood, will be considered ‘privileged’ information, meaning no party to this law suit can use anything revealed in our discussions as evidence in court, should this case still go to trial. Do you understand?”
Martin nodded.
“Good,” West said. “As I told your attorney yesterday, I was impressed...and inspired...by how well you and your wife worked together, these past couple of days, to help your son with his birthday party and behavioral issues.
“Consequently, I now think it would be counter-productive and, quite possibly, inappropriate to litigate this matter—especially if that might undo some of the newly established goodwill that seems to exist between the two of you.”
“I’m surprised to hear you say that,” Martin said.
Swindell raised an eyebrow.
“Really?” West asked.
“Yes, because Katie and I always have gotten along well, particularly in matters involving our children and their welfare.”
West took a deep breath. “Well, I’m sure you have at various points in the past, Mr. Silkwood, but–”
“No, Ms. West. That has not changed. At least, it hasn’t changed where I am concerned. Has Katie told you anything different?”
West’s expression went blank and Swindell stepped in. “Mahr-tin, I know you were offended by the nature of some of the charges brought against you in this case, but now is not the time to air your grievances, and Ms. West is not allowed – and quite frankly, would be ill-advised – to disclose the nature of her conversations with your wife to you.
“I suggest that we let her get to the heart of the matter: the proposed settlement that she has come to discuss with us this mornin’. O.K?”
“OK,” Martin grunted.
“Fine,” West said, regaining her composure. “As you both know, our original offer was to give Mr. Silkwood dinner with the children one night a week and visitation every other weekend. We are now prepared to alter that arrangement and, in addition, to offer him up to one week’s visitation a month during the school year and up to five weeks with the kids over the course of the summer.”
Swindell perked up. “Well, that’s certainly a step in the right direction, Mahr-tin, wouldn’t you agree?”
Martin stared at West. “What about vacations during the school year? Right now, it sounds like Katie would have the kids for all their vacations. Are you willing to split those up evenly?”
West smi
led. “You’ve raised a valid point. That was an oversight on our part, I’m sure. I would be happy to work out something along those lines with your wife. I could even call her and get her agreement to specific terms before we break up this meeting, today, if that’s what it will take to get us all on the same page.”
Swindell nodded. “I think that’s the kind of gesture that could go a long way toward helpin’ us reach an agreement. Mahr-tin, what do you think?”
Martin continued to stare at West. “What about the other stipulations contained in your original proposal?” he asked. “Are you still expecting me to pay the full mortgage and must I still agree not to ‘set foot in the house, for any reason,’ over the course of the next three years?’”
West cleared her throat. “Well, Mr. Silkwood, as far as the mortgage goes, you are the primary breadwinner in the family, are you not? So, I don’t think that will be changing. In addition, your wife still wants you to agree not to enter the house, at any time or for any reason, during the next three years.”
“If we work all these issues out,” Martin continued, “then is Katie prepared to drop all the domestic violence and abuse charges?”
“Yes,” West said.
“So, why would she continue to insist on a stipulation that implies she’s afraid of me and that I’m a danger to her and the kids, when I’m not? I don’t understand the logic behind that.”
“I think your assumption may be wrong, in this instance,” West explained. “I think Katie put that item in the original agreement, not out of fear of you, but because she wants to move on with her life without any interference from you.”
Martin stared at West, letting what she had just said sink in. “Well, I’m not going to agree to such terms if I’m paying the full cost of the mortgage, including the part that covers her accommodations.”
“He’s got a point, Bev,” Swindell interjected. “After all, Mrs. Silkwood is a nurse. She has a good job, and she certainly should be capable of paying her own share of the housing costs.”
