by Don Winslow
Attorney-at-Law
3615 Monterey
Palm Desert, CA
Ms. Pamela A. Holmstrum
Claims Superintendent
Western States Insurance Co.
801 Flower Street
Los Angeles, CA
29 July 1983
Dear Pam,
You’ve never heard of Eugene “The Wolverine” Petkovitch?! Where have you been?
Eugene Petkovitch is the most despised, loathed, feared and respected plaintiff attorney in California, if not the known litigious world. Over the past ten years the Wolverine has hit every major insurance carrier in the state for seven- and eight-figure punitive damages awards.
When that security guard in mid-Wilshire shot the big toe off the would-be bank robber and the bank robber got $2,000,000? Eugene “The Wolverine” Petkovitch.
When the security guard sued the company that made the gunsight and won $3,000,000? Eugene Petkovitch.
When the would-be bank robber sued his insurance company for failing to pay his legal costs, citing “Chronic Recidivist Syndrome” and won $5,000,000? Eugene Petkovitch.
When the security guard sued his insurance company, the bank’s insurance company, and the would-be robber’s insurance company, citing “Severe Post-Victimization Stress Disorder” and won $6,000,000? Eugene Petkovitch.
These are just a few of the judicial highlights of the Wolverine’s recent career.
The guy’s cross-examinations are brutal. I’ve seen them. I remember. I wish I could forget.
I’ve seen hardened insurance executives break down and sob on the stand during one of Gene’s cross-exams. I’ve seen homicide cops blubber like babies. I’ve seen guys develop permanent eye twitches and stutters. In fact, one of Gene’s victims was a claims superintendent who happened to be a deaf mute. Gene crossed him in sign language and I swear the guy’s hands were shaking. The jury concluded he was lying.
Eugene Petkovitch is Satan.
He rarely even has to go to trial anymore, everyone is that afraid of him. He just writes the demand letter, fills in the amount, and the insurance companies pay.
Pay the money, Pam. I’m begging you.
You don’t want this trouble. I don’t want this trouble.
Sincerely,
Craig
Ms. Pamela A. Holmstrum
Claims Superintendent
Western States Insurance Co.
801 Flower Street
Los Angeles, CA
Craig D. Schaeffer
Attorney-at-Law
3615 Monterey
Palm Desert, CA
1 August 1983
Dear Craig,
Where have I been?
I’ve been in Nebraska, Craig, where—naive and old-fashioned as this may seem—we still take a dim view of extortion. I’ll admit that I’m just the new kid here in sophisticated California—a hayseed, a hick, a corn-fed farm girl with the mud barely dry on her clodhoppers—but I guess I just don’t think that the best way to start my job as the regional claims superintendent for Western States Insurance is to fork over $15,000,000 of the company’s hard-earned money to a Nazi money-launderer, the male, Lebanese counterpart of Imelda Marcos, and an extortionate, blackmailing shyster with a candy-assed name like Eugene who embodies everything that I feel is currently wrong with this country.
I just ain’t a-going to do it.
In the ringing words of Thomas Jefferson, “Millions for defense, not one penny for tribute.”
Get to work.
Sincerely,
Pamela A. Holmstrum
Craig D. Schaeffer
Attorney-at-Law
3615 Monterey
Palm Desert, CA
Ms. Pamela A. Holmstrum
Claims Superintendent
Western States Insurance Co.
801 Flower Street
Los Angeles, CA
4 August 1983
Dear Pamela A. Holmstrum,
Realizing now that you have recently emigrated from the unsullied moral purity of the prairie, I understand just how shocking and offensive you must find the corrupt stench of the former Bear Flag Republic. How awful it must be to emerge still fresh-faced and dewy-eyed from your white clapboard Methodist Church, hymnal clutched in your firm hand, to find that not all the world is as honest as the yeoman tillers of the land who were your plain, straight-shootin’ kinfolk in Omaha.
Nevertheless, when in Sodom and Gommorah …
Pay the money, Pam. Pay it now. Without an eyewitness to this arson we are hosed.
You are a small insurance company. I am a small-time lawyer. And even Thomas Jefferson was never cross-examined by Eugene Petkovitch.
Sincerely,
Craig D. Schaeffer
P.S.: Doubtless you are a tall, blonde, blue-eyed right-wing Christian conservative who reads National Review, is a member of the NRA, voted for Reagan and sits around her house watching John Wayne videos. Am I right?
Ms. Pamela A. Holmstrum
Claims Superintendent
Western States Insurance Co.
801 Flower Street
Los Angeles, CA
Craig D. Schaeffer
Attorney- at-Law
3615 Monterey
Palm Desert, CA
7 August 1983
Dear Craig,
Small is as small does.
Western States Insurance Company is small in the sense that it does not have $15,000,000 to give away. I’m afraid we are saving this money for foolish things like hurricanes, tornadoes, earthquakes, and accidental fires.
The question is: Are you a small lawyer? We need proof? Get proof. We need an eyewitness? Get an eyewitness.
Cheers,
Pamela
P.S.: As a matter of fact, I’m a short, brown-eyed brunette. Yes, I am a Methodist, no I am not a member of the NRA, and yes I voted for President Reagan. And yes, I do from time to time like to watch the Duke. You are probably short, have black hair, bottle-thick glasses, read The New Republic, are a member of the ACLU, voted for that loser Carter, and go to Woody Allen movies. Just curious.
P.P.S.: And it’s Lincoln, not Omaha.
Craig D. Schaeffer
Attorney- at-Law
3615 Monterey
Palm Desert, CA
Ms. Pamela A. Holmstrum
Claims Superintendent
Western States Insurance Co.
801 Flower Street
Los Angeles, CA
8 August 1983
Dear Pamela,
As the Muller household was built in a failing real-estate development, he had only one neighbor, a Mr. Nathan Silverstein. Mr. Silverstein is eighty-six years old and, when I contacted him in my initial investigation, claims to have seen “nothing—bubkus.” Nevertheless I have tried to recontact Mr. Silverstein but he does not seem to be in town. I shall keep trying.
But I must still recommend that you lower your testosterone level and settle this file.
Sincerely,
Craig
P.S.: Thank you for your characterization of me as your stereotypical “Jew lawyer.” Sorry to shatter your dearly held illusions, but I am six-three, blue-eyed with straight black hair. Yes, I am a Democrat, a proud member of the ACLU, and voted against Ronald Reagan numerous times. I liked Woody Allen before he decided that he was Ingmar Bergman.
By Fax
Dear Craig,
If I get rid of some excess testosterone as you suggest, shall I send it to you? Sounds like you could use some.
Pam
By Fax
Dear Pam,
I am the Palm Desert triathlete champion in the 35-43 age bracket.
Craig
By Fax
Dear Craig,
I could run, swim, and bike you into the ground.
Pam
By Fax
Pam,
Want to meet for lunch Monday and discuss it?
Craig
By Fax
Craig,
>
You bet.
Pam
Chapter 11
Of course I didn’t have the benefit of seeing this epistolary yuppie romance until it was too late. Ditto the tapes that the testosteronally challenged—by Pam Holmstrum—Craig Schaeffer went out and got from Heinz Muller’s telephone:
10 August. From a tape made by Attorney Craig D. Schaeffer of a conversation between Heinz Muller (HM) and Amin Abdullah (AA).
AA: Hello, Heinz?
HM: This is my home telephone.
AA: I know, this is why I called you here, okay?
(Seventeen seconds of silence.)
AA: Hello? Hello?
HM: Did you take care of it?
AA: Take care of what?
HM: The old Jew.
AA: Sure, okay. I took care of it, okay?
HM: Ja, good. It’s about time you did some—
AA: Don’t worry, okay? I scared him off.
(Twenty-three seconds of silence.)
HM: You did what?
AA: I scared him away, okay? I called him up, told him maybe fire could happen at his house, you never know, okay? I told him—
HM: You are an idiot.
AA: No, I didn’t call him an idiot, but I—
HM: No, I’m calling you—
AA: No, I’m calling you, remember, okay? Anyway, I don’t think the old Jew ever is coming back.
HM: Idiot! Moron!
AA: Heinz, what’s the matter, okay?
HM: You were not supposed to scare him off, you were supposed to take care of him.
AA: I thought we didn’t like him.
HM: No, idiot. Take care of him.
(Thirty seconds of silence.)
AA: You mean kill him?
HM: I suppose I was trying to not actually say it.
AA: Heinz, you think the phone is bugged?
HM: No, the stupid Jew lawyer belongs to the ACLU.
AA: Heinz, when do we get the money, okay? The insurance company stopped sending me my checks and I’m getting low on cash, okay? And I lose bundle in casino just now, okay? Damn Vegas, I—
HM: You get the cash when you finish the job.
AA: Heinz, the house is burned to the ground, okay?
(Twelve seconds of silence.)
HM: The old Jew.
AA: You want me to burn his house to the ground?
(Fifteen seconds of silence.)
AA: Hello? Hello?
HM: The old Jew saw you leave the house when you set the fire, ja?
AA: I saw him looking out his window, okay?
HM: So he is a witness, ja?
AA: I guess so. It was dark, okay.
HM: If there is a witness to setting the fire, you won’t get any money.
AA: Okay, okay.
HM: So you must take care of him.
AA: But Heinz, I scared him off, okay? I don’t know where he is.
HM: I suppose this is my point, Sami.
AA: Ah.
HM: Sami.
AA: Yes, Heinz.
HM: Find the old Jew. Find Silverstein!
(Call terminated.)
Then there’s this one, made on the same day I was cruising I-15 looking for Nathan myself: 14 August. From a tape made by Attorney Craig D. Schaeffer, of a conversation between Heinz Muller (HM) and Amin Abdullah (AA), and an unidentified voice (UV).
HM: Ja, hello.
AA: Heinz, hello.
HM: Ja?
AA: I’m driving on my way back from Vegas.
HM: Ja, good.
AA: Allah is good, Heinz, okay?
HM: If you say so, Sami.
AA: I see a car off the side of the road. I see an old man standing beside the car. I picked him up.
HM: This is fascinating, Sami.
AA: An old man, Heinz, okay? An old man.
(Ten seconds of silence.)
HM: An old man.
AA: An old man, okay?
HM: An old man.
AA: An old man. He’s sitting here now.
HM: What old man?
(An unidentified voice in background of calling party.)
UV: Ask me who’s on first?
AA: Not now, please. I’m talking on the phone.
UV: Ask me who’s on first?!
AA: Who’s on first, okay?
UV: Right.
AA: Right’s on first.
UV: No, who’s on first.
AA: That’s what I ask you, okay? Who’s on first?
HM: Hello? Hello? Sami?
AA: What?
UV: What’s on second.
HM: Second? What? Who?
UV: No, who’s on first.
AA: I don’t know!
UV: Third base.
HM: What?!
UV: What’s on second.
AA: It’s the old man talking!
HM: Who?!
UV: Who’s on first.
HM: What?
UV: What’s on second.
AA: I don’t know.
UV: Third base.
The tape goes on for quite some time but I think you get the idea. Judging by the timing of the tapes, it was about an hour later when Sami pulled off the road to let Nathan use the men’s room.
Then:
HM: Ja,, hello?
AA: Heinz, it’s me.
HM: Where is the old man? Did you take care of him?
AA: Yes, he’s in the men’s room, okay?
HM: You left the body in the men’s room?!
AA: No, he went by himself. Listen, Heinz, good news! The old man didn’t recognize me so we don’t have to kill him!
(Fifteen seconds of silence.)
HM: He’s smarter than I thought. He is pretending not to recognize you.
AA: Why would he do that?
HM: So you don’t kill him. They’re clever, these old Jews.
AA: Not clever, Heinz—crazy. He keeps talking about sandwiches and naked ladies with birds and some guy named Mincemeat who knew Dali.
HM: Who?
AA: Please don’t start that again, okay?
HM: You know what you have to do, Sami.
AA: I don’t think it’s necessary, Heinz.
HM: When did you start thinking, Sami? Do what you’re told.
AA: Heinz, I have to hang up, okay? He’s talking to someone.
(Call terminated.)
Chapter 12
Guess who nathan was talking to.
Bingo.
Of course, I didn’t know about any of this when I rolled up and saw Nathan coming out of the men’s room. I stopped the car, jumped out, ran over and…
Okay, I hugged him. It wasn’t out of affection, mind you, it was from sheer relief.
After I finished hugging him, I held him at arm’s length and yelled, “Where have you been?! I’ve been worried sick about you! I called the police, the hospital, the mor—”
“Did I tell you…”
“No jokes now, Nathan,” I said. “Why did you take the car? Where have you been?”
Nathan started to answer when a voice behind me said, “He’s been with me, okay? He’s okay, okay?”
He was a little guy, late thirties, curly black hair and big brown eyes. I couldn’t quite place the accent, but it was Middle Eastern of some sort. He was wearing a ridiculous Hawaiian print shirt with a lot of flowers, white chinos and Gucci loafers with no socks.
“I picked him up,” the guy continued, “and I’m giving him a ride home.”
“I really appreciate that,” I answered. “But I can take him from here.”
The guy said, “I’m going his way, okay? No trouble. I live in Palm Desert.”
“I’m going his way, too.”
“Who are you?” the guy asked.
“Who am I?” I asked. “Who are you?”
You can take the boy out of New York … et cetera.
“Who are you?” the guy asked. “Mr. Silverstein, do you know this guy?”
“He knows me,” I said. “I sort of work for him. Come on, Nathan,
let’s go.”
“Neal, you—”
“He doesn’t have to go with you, okay?” the guy said. “He’s going with me.”
“I don’t think so,” I said.
“I do,” he said.
Now this was a little guy. I figured even I could take him if I had to, and I’m no fighter. I have virtually none of the attributes of a good fighter: size, strength, speed, coordination, or courage. And even I could have handled this guy.
Except for the gun.
A sleek little automatic that suddenly poked out of the ridiculous Hawaiian shirt and pressed into my stomach.
Did I mention I’m not especially courageous?
Now if you’ve seen a lot of private-eye movies or television shows, you’ll know that this is the point where the hero gets a glinty cold look in his eye, then brings a lightning-quick karate chop down on the villain’s wrist, knocking the gun to the ground. Then they struggle until the hero aims a punch to the villain’s jaw and knocks him cold.
None of that happened. None of that happened because a) I am not especially courageous; and b) while it is true that there are no Nobel Prize committees waiting outside my door, neither am I a complete moron, popular opinion notwithstanding.
And while it is true that the hand is quicker than the eye, a bullet is quicker than either of them. So when someone shoves a gun into your tummy, you do several things: tremble, have an instant religious revelation, and sweat profusely. I guess that my whole life would also have passed before my eyes, but I was depressed enough already.
There’s something else you do when someone shoves a gun into your tummy: You do what he says, which in this case was, “Get into the car, okay?”
As we were walking back to the car Nathan whispered to me, “I was trying to tell you.”
“I know that now.”
“You are the dumbest Irishman I have ever met.”
“Shut up,” the little guy hissed.
He put Nathan in the passenger seat then climbed into the back while he held the gun on Nathan and told me to drive.
I slid behind the wheel.
“Okay, drive,” said the little guy.
