The Case of the Unhealthy Health Club

by David Staats

  “I heard its gonna be a really bad winter. Bad. There’s gonna be a shortage of road salt. I can put you in touch with a guy’s bringing some down from Canada. Buy it now, and when the shortage hits, make a ton of money. Interested?”

  “Thanks for the tip – what’s your name, by the way?”

  “Jimmy Ridger.”

  “Jimmy. I’m Benton. Yeah, well look, my capital’s tied up in other ventures. That’s why I’m looking for a guy knows how to talk – and it has to be somebody who’s familiar with this town.”

  “Man, I’ve lived here my whole life.”

  “That’s what I need,” said Wright, “but, I don’t know. You sound like you’re intelligent, but can you keep something under your hat if you have to?”

  Jimmy Ridger laughed, and turned his head away from Wright to look straight ahead, maybe at something on the shelf behind the bar. “There’s no problem about that with me. Man, if I told what I knew ….” He shook his head and drained the last of his beer.

  Wright now sought to find a place where he could give him the necessary instructions and pay him. He could not very well do those things sitting at the bar, and there were no booths, just those few tables in the open area. The expectation started to hang heavy between them that he would order another couple of beers; but instead, Wright stared at the dozens of bottles of liquor ranged behind the bar, pondering his problem. “Do me a favor, Jimmy,” he said. “The engine in my car is making a funny noise. Can you give me an idea what it might be?”

  “Yeah? What kind of car?”

  “Come on out and look at it.”

  Reluctant in body, but with eyes glinting in eager hope that there might be some possibility for gain, Jimmy hefted himself off the bar stool, and they went out to Wright’s car. Wright got Jimmy Ridger to sit in his car while Wright explained what he wanted. He showed Jimmy ten fifty dollar bills, and gave him five of them. The other five he could have when the assignment was done.

  All Wright had left to do was hire a lawyer and then he was done here, at least for a time. As he understood things, he – the Fidelicity Insurance Company, that was – had to intervene in the existing lawsuit over the insured’s death for two reasons: one, so that it would not risk being bound by a legal determination that the insured had died due to negligence or natural causes, and two, most important, so that there could be a final judgment that the cause of death was suicide and he could collect his bonus. He had hired attorneys in other cases he had investigated, and so this last task was something about which he felt confident and capable.

  The large house on Darlington Street, just a block from the Justice Center, had once been a grand residence; it had fallen on hard times; and finally it had been refurbished for use as professional offices. Inside the stained glass front doors was a foyer with an old, but nicely refinished hardwood floor. Raymond Easey was the lawyer Wright was seeking. The door on the left.

  Inside was a square waiting room. A young woman sat typing on a computer keyboard behind a large wooden desk in the far corner. He gave her his card. She picked up the phone and said, “Mr. Easey, your four o’clock is here.” Putting down the phone she said, “He’ll be just a few minutes. Please have a seat.”

  The young woman – she could not have been more than twenty – looked so pretty, so clean, and so healthy she might have been Eve before the Fall. Reluctantly, he turned from the desk and went to sit in one of the spindle-backed wooden chairs.

  It was a full ten minutes before he was called into Mr. Easey’s office. This lawyer was overweight, bald, and his tie was askew. But he had shrewd, small eyes and an energetic manner. Wright explained the situation and what it was that he wanted.

  “You’re right,” said the lawyer. “You have to intervene in that lawsuit. Is a trial date set?”

  Wright had become familiar with the local Prothonotary’s office and knew how to access and read a court docket. He had kept an eye on the case. “It’s in a little over three weeks.”

  “Three weeks! Holy sh----! You might have come to me earlier.”

  “I’ve got all the evidence lined up,” said Wright. “We’ll be fine.”

  “The court might not even let us intervene so late. And I’ve got other cases. I’m not sure I can help you, Mr. Wright.”

  In Wright’s view, if you give an attorney a lot of time to work on a case, he’ll run up the bill. He had intentionally left little time for the lawyer. It would be okay, because he had done all the leg work to develop the evidence necessary to win the case. “Fidelicity is a very substantial insurance company. And the reason I am consulting you is that Fidelicity does not yet have an attorney in Canterbury. I expect that doing a good job on this case could lead to further business. And the beauty of this case is that I’ve already got the evidence. It won’t be hard for you to look good.”

  “Fidelicity,” said the lawyer. “Yes, yes.” He turned slightly in his seat to address his computer. He tapped some keys and hit the return button. “I’m pulling up the on-line docket,” he explained. In a moment, he leaned towards the computer and tapped some more keys. “Judge Richards has the case,” he said. “I don’t know. He can be very strict.”

  “Look,” said Wright, taking a set of papers from the folder he had brought with him. “Here’s the expert psychiatric report of Dr. Sadsbury.” He handed it across the desk.

  The lawyer looked over the report for a few seconds. “This is excellent,” he said. “But the doctor will have to be deposed. Getting an expert’s report admitted is not an easy thing. And scheduling a deposition with two other attorneys … within the next three weeks? … I don’t think it’s doable.” He closed the report, but did not slide it back across the desk to Wright.

  Wright went over the other evidence for the lawyer: there would be testimony of excessive alcohol consumption; of Hargrave’s familiarity with the dangers of mixing sauna usage and alcohol; there would be testimony that Hargrave was depressed on account of his young wife’s apparent unfaithfulness; there would be testimony of the wife’s meeting with another man, a co-worker. He drew from his pocket a company check and, placing it in front of him on the lawyer’s desk, wrote in the date. Then he looked expectantly at the lawyer.

  The lawyer turned to his computer again. “The pre-trial conference is scheduled for not quite three weeks from now, and the trial three days after that.” He shook his head. He opened the front page of Dr. Sadsbury’s report, but didn’t read in it. He sighed. He flicked a surreptitious glance at the check sitting on the other side of his desk.

  If there was one skill that Wright had in a high degree, it was negotiating. He looked expectantly at the lawyer and kept silence while the lawyer wavered.

  “It would mean an extraordinary effort,” said the lawyer. “I’d have to put other things aside. It wouldn’t be cheap.”

  Wright took up his pen and set his hand on the check, poised to write.

  The lawyer breathed heavily through his mouth, the way overweight people sometimes do, his chest heaving slightly. “Make the check, uh give me a retainer for, uh twenty-five thousand and we’ll see what we can do,” said the lawyer. “No guarantees.”

  “It’ll be fine,” said Wright, writing out the check and smiling. He handed it to the lawyer. He also gave the lawyer the folder he had brought with him. “There’s a copy of the complaint in there in Mrs. Hargrave’s case. And a copy of my notes of my witness interviews.”

  The lawyer picked up the telephone. “Samantha, bring me a blank retainer agreement.”

  The lawyer took up Wright’s manila folder and began to look through it. The stunning young woman came in. Wright could hear the crush of her footfalls on the carpet. With no ceremony she placed a document on the lawyer’s desk, turned, gave Wright a pro-forma, client-welcoming smile, and left.

  Wright signed the retainer agreement.

  “Come back tonight at eight o’clock,” said the lawyer. “I need you to review the papers before I file them.”


  Wright hesitated. He had planned to drive out of town immediately on leaving the lawyer’s office. But he sensed he had pushed the man as far as he could, and so agreed.

  * * *

  Around nine thirty the next morning Cyrus Wakefield called Walter Dure. “Have you seen the nonsense Raymond Easey filed last night,” said Wakefield.

  “I haven’t, no” said Dure. “In the Hargrave case I take it?”

  “Three weeks before trial he files this nonsense! I’ve dealt with him before. He’s a real ass, pardon my French.”

  “What did he file?”

  “Motion to intervene. Declaratory judgment action against my client and against your client’s kids, and a motion to consolidate the two cases.”

  “I guess he really wants into this case,” said Dure.

  “What a jerk. I’m going to oppose his motions. He can’t wait until three weeks before trial and pull this crap. I thought we might file a joint response in opposition.”

  “What are his allegations?”

  “He’s claiming that suicide nonsense, claims that the insurance company has to intervene in our case to avoid inconsistent verdicts.”

  “I’ll look at his pleadings,” said Dure. “Just looking at the matter from my client’s point of view,” said Dure, “a verdict of suicide would mean that your client loses. I don’t know why my client should oppose the intervention.”

  “Because it’s three weeks before trial! Let him pursue his own action. If there are inconsistent verdicts, that’s his problem.” Wakefield, generally an upbeat, well-controlled personality, seemed uncharacteristically annoyed.

  “Judge Richards will not be pleased. I don’t think Easey’s going to get away with it.”

  Dure had nothing to say to this. He merely made some non-committal noise into the phone.

  “So will you join in my opposition to Easey’s motions?” said Wakefield.

  “I’ll have to look at Easey’s papers. What would be the harm in a delay of the trial by a couple of weeks?”

  “You know as well as I do that a trial cannot be delayed by ‘a couple of weeks’,” said Wakefield. “Who knows when the next open trial date is on the judge’s calendar? It could be months.”

  “I can’t commit without having read the papers. And really,” said Dure in a thoughtful tone, “this claim has been hanging around the edges of this case anyway. It needs to be resolved. We shouldn’t be completely shocked at this development.”

  “I should have known,” said Wakefield. “Delay, delay, delay. Defendants always want to delay.” He hung up the phone abruptly.

  * * *

  In a hastily arranged teleconference among the judge and the three lawyers, the judge allowed Fidelicity to join the lawsuit, granted both of Easey’s motions, refused to change the trial date, and ordered expedited discovery. To demonstrate, however, his gracious flexibility, he extended by one day the due date for the pretrial stipulation and he rearranged his schedule to delay the pretrial conference by one day. It was understood, but unstated, that working twelve hours a day, including Saturday and Sunday, was just part of the practice of law. In a last-ditch effort to get the judge to reconsider, Wakefield observed, “The Court has scheduled this trial for three days. With a new party and new claims in the case, I don’t know that we can get it done in three days.”

  “We may have to go longer on each trial day,” said the judge blandly. “But we have competent counsel in this case. I’m sure we can surmount any difficulties that may arise. Thank you, counsel.” And he terminated the teleconference.

  * * *

  Mr. Dure called me in for yet another consultation with Ms. MacCreedy. It had a shocking outcome. We had just begun our session with Ms. MacCreedy. There was no hint that anything was amiss. Mr. Dure asked her, “If your ex-husband was murdered, as far as motive is concerned, what about Mr. Golden?”

  “None that I could imagine,” she began. “Mort’s been a colleague and friend of Rich’s for years. He’s the executor! and he’s been very nice to me.” Her voice started to get louder. “The next thing you’ll be wanting to know if I killed him. I tell you this: I don’t believe that anyone murdered Rich. And it just now occurs to me: you’ve never said how it was done! How was it done? You tell me right now,” she demanded, “how was it done?” She smacked the top edge of his desk with the fingers of her hand, and the sound of the rings hitting the wood resounded.

  Mr. Dure looked annoyed. “Cleverly,” was all he said. His tone might have been angry or it might have been defiant.

  “Cleverly!” she threw the word back at him. “You know what? You’re a kook! You’re fired! I’m going to get another lawyer.” She put the handle of her purse on her wrist and scooted forward in her seat until she could lean forward and lift her thick torso out of the chair. Giving me a dirty look, she huffed out of the office.

  I felt sorry for Mr. Dure. He sat quietly in his chair behind his desk. Little emotion was visible on his face. After a moment he told me to stop working on the case, put everything away in good order in case another lawyer should call and want our file, “Odds are,” he said finally, “she’ll be back. Unless she finds some lawyer who is inexperienced and desperate for business. No experienced lawyer will step into a case this close to trial. Oh,” he said, “prepare a motion for withdrawal of counsel. The grounds are, use these exact words, ‘Counsel has been discharged by the defendants.’ We’ll have to file it today.”

  Chapter 15. Two puzzles explained

  Five days later was my last day working for Mr. Dure. It was time to go back to school. I went to his office to say good-bye. With the Hargrave case closed, Mr. Dure was catching up on other work, but it did not seem to have the urgency that the trial preparation had had. I’m guessing that’s why he spent some time talking with me. When it seemed like we were done talking – there was a quiet moment, and I decided to ask about something that had been puzzling me. “Mr. Dure,” I said, “what did you mean when you said, on my first day here, that I was either a tough cookie or a naif?”

  He looked at me intently, then he studied his desk top and rubbed his lower lip with his finger. He sighed. “Alright,” he said. “Probably not one person in a thousand would tell you this, but I will. Your game leg is probably on balance an asset to you in the practice of law. Its effect will be to disarm people. They won’t perceive you as being as much of a threat as they do most lawyers. You’ll probably have an easier time with witnesses, court clerks, all kinds of people. And a lot of lawyers may tend to underestimate you, they won’t prepare thoroughly, and that will help you. But,” he said, and he looked me in the eye, “your eye is another matter. A lot of times in the practice, you have to gain somebody’s trust quickly. A potential client, a negotiating adversary, a judge. And a lot of people – subconsciously, I’m sure – judge trustworthiness by the way you meet their gaze. The old cliché about looking somebody straight in the eye. With you, even though you do look people straight in the eye, many people are going to be distracted by the way your left eye looks off and away. And they may not know why, but it will just give them a twinge of reserve and suspicion.”

  I was feeling tense and cold as he spoke.

  “So what I meant was that you had already – I assumed you have been dealing with this issue for your whole life – you had already developed your own ways of dealing with this reaction on the part of other people, in which case you would be a tough cookie; or you were taking up the practice of law without realizing that this might be a serious handicap, in which case you would be a naif.” He paused and cocked his head slightly as he regarded me. “I hope you realize that I intend only benefit to you in telling you this.”

  I was blinking, but there was no way I was going to cry. I forced a smile. “I hadn’t thought about it in those terms,” I said, “but I think I’m a tough cookie.” The idea quickly flashed in my mind that this might be a part of the reason why I often favored sunglasses when out in public. When I wear sunglasses, with m
y long, dark hair, I’m quite the number.

  He nodded. “Good. I’ve been happy with your work and wish you best success in your career.”

  * * *

  Things were quiet in Mr. Dure’s office, with Christine Bonneville having gone back to school and the Hargrave case off the calendar. Dure took advantage of the lull to drive up to the Big Bell Mountains, where he spent a day of glorious late summer weather hiking.

  The following Sunday evening, for entertainment and distraction, Dure attended a presentation by Martel University’s Chemistry Department: “The Magic of Science and the Science of Magic.”

  Just inside the doors of the auditorium in the University Science Center stood a small table on which were modest programs, a single sheet of paper folded in half to make four pages. Dure took one and stood for a moment surveying the auditorium for a good seat.

  Canterbury was too large to be properly called a small town. Nevertheless, it seemed a small town; one was always bumping into the same people. Just entering at the other set of doors to Dure’s left was Raymond Easey. Dure was surprised because he would not have expected to find Easey at a science exhibition.

  The presentation was a disappointment to Dure; there was nothing he hadn’t seen before: a student poured a small beaker of clear liquid into a large beaker of clear liquid; the liquid changed to a bright, ruby red color, changing “water” to “wine”; another small beaker of clear liquid changed it back to water; the same old freezing of a rubber ball in liquid nitrogen and having it shatter when dropped on the floor; then the use of liquid nitrogen to extinguish a candle by depriving it of oxygen; a demonstration of chemoluminescence, using luminol to react with iron, and an explanation of how the police use luminol to test for blood stains: it reacts with the iron in hemoglobin.

  Being bored with the presentation, he paid attention to the professor and the students who were putting on the show. Then he examined the audience, studying the backs of the heads in front of him and gazing to his right and left. He probably missed several demonstrations through inattention.