Silicon Beach

by Davis MacDonald

"I'll see you and raise you 20,” said the Judge, putting three additional twenty dollar chips into the center of the table.

  Roberts focused on how the Judge had taken the chips from his stack. The Judge supposed his fingers had been a little sticky releasing them to the pot.

  Roberts slid another chip into the pot, matching the Judge, and then another six chips. An additional hundred and twenty dollars. The pot now sat at $280. It would be at $400 if the Judge matched Roberts’ bet. Did the Judge want to risk another $120 on the chance to recoup his $80 already lost to the pot, and perhaps win $200 from Roberts? Not on a pair of eights.

  The Judge folded.

  Roberts smiled warmly at the Judge as he swept the cash and chips from the table and buried his hand in the deck.

  "You an honest man, Judge. I like that."

  "Then perhaps you’ll tell me about you and Carl?"

  The pale blue eyes regarded him again. Always assessing.

  "Carl and I were old friends. We grew up together. He was mostly a nice guy.”

  “Until he wasn’t?” asked the Judge.

  “Carl was a clever engineer. A clever inventor. A lousy poker player, like you, Judge." Another smile.

  What was Carl’s new technology about, George?”

  “Don’t know much about it. Carl claimed it’d change the landscape of the oil industry."

  "Was this technology a spinoff of the technology to convert excess flare off gas at the well head into usable crude for transportation? The one Carl had patents on. The one embroiled in my arbitration?”

  "Don’t know, Judge. Carl was very secretive.”

  "Why didn’t Carl apply for a patent on his new technology?"

  "He told me he wasn’t quite ready, but close."

  “Did Carl have a silent partner in the technology?”

  “I’ve heard rumors, Judge, like you. But Carl never talked about it. I honestly don’t know.”

  "I understand a lot of people want to buy Carl’s technology, even though there was no patent yet?"

  "Yes, Judge. Everyone wanted to buy the technology. The highest bidder was some outfit called DFERR."

  "What's that?"

  "The International Association for the Development and Funding of Environmentally Responsible Refineries. They wanted worldwide exclusive rights, or so Carl said. I guess they have deep pockets."

  “Could DFERR be behind Carl’s death, George?”

  “I doubt it. I think they had a handshake with Carl to buy it. But in any event they’re businessmen. They don’t kill people. They’ve got more money than God. Why would they bother chasing a chicken-shit little technology like Carl’s? I think they could have bought it. And paid handsomely. But I don’t think they much cared if the deal didn’t go through. There’s always another technology around the corner these days.”

  “No one seems to have the schematics or the technical information for this new technology. I’ve been to Carl’s shop. To his condo. No plans, no specs, no description of his technology, no nothing about it. It’s all disappeared. Do you know where it might be?”

  “No.”

  “Could you sketch out the science behind Carl’s new technology, George?”

  “Me? No. I’m just a dentist.” George smiled. “And a poker player. I’m not technical at all. Carl never shared information like that with me, and I’d never have understood it in any event. Sorry, Judge. I can’t reproduce the technology for you. I understood you were given a report that laid it all out in detail. Working drawings, protocols, menus, studies, calculations, lab results and initial trials data. Carl told me it was all in a report he was delivering to you.”

  “Yes, well the report’s gone missing. I never got a serious look at it. You wouldn’t know who might have a copy of that report, would you?

  “No.”

  “Are you sure George? Perhaps it’s in the documentation for your loans?”

  George looked at his hands for telltale seconds, but controlled every feature in his face. Finally he responded softly. He might have been talking about the weather.

  “What loans, Judge? I made no loans.”

  “Oh but you did, George. You made substantial loans to Carl Greene to fund the development of his new technology.”

  “No loans, Judge.”

  “Let’s not be coy, George. I haven’t the time right now. I know about your loans. I have documentation. This is no bluff.”

  George stared at the Judge, all effort to hide his discomfort dropped. He hadn’t anticipated the Judge would know about his loans. He looked… trapped. He took a deep breath and let it out.

  “Alright, Judge. You’ve got me. I did loan a considerable amount of money to Carl so he could develop his technology. We weren’t partners or anything. Too risky for me. I was merely the bank.”

  “How was Carl going to pay you back, George?”

  “Well, that’s where we had our falling out. I had to mortgage my dental practice to the hilt to come up with the development money to loan Carl. It wasn’t a forever loan. Carl was supposed to license or sell his damn technology and promptly pay me back.”

  “And?”

  “Carl kept horsing around with all these buyers but never making a deal. So he had no money to pay me.”

  “That would be a problem.”

  “It shouldn’t have been. Carl had agreed to apply all revenues from his earlier patented device, the one for capturing gas flare off at the well head, to repayment of my loan. Until such time as he could pay it off in full by licensing or sale of this new technology. If he’d done as he’d promised we’d still be friends.”

  “But he didn’t, George?”

  “No. He kept stealing that money to do more work on the new technology. He hung me out to dry. We’d been friends for a long time. But avarice hides at the bottom of us all to some degree, Judge. I’d misjudged the extent of that greed in my old friend. He was screwing me into the ground while I had to make my loan payments to protect my dental practice loan. Just so he could build out his stupid new tech. It wasn’t the deal we’d made.”

  “You must have been angry?”

  “Disappointed is a better word, Judge. I’m a gambler. The loan to Carl was a gamble. But the technology worked. There were serious bidders for it, willing to pay far more than the amount of my loan and its accrued interest. This wasn’t a situation of cutting my losses. I was going to come out okay in the end. It was just the damn timing. I needed my capital back soon. And Carl kept futzing around, not making a deal. Not coming up with new money to pay me out.”

  “So what did you do, George? Did you kill him?”

  “God no, Judge. How would that help? His death has seriously complicated things for me. I need to get my money back. To save my dental practice. Now that Carl’s dead, I’m just another creditor of Carl’s Estate. I haven’t a chance in hell of getting my loan paid anytime soon. Carl’s death has been a disaster for me.”

  George folded his hands in front of him, emphasizing his position.

  “I can see that, George, unless of course…..”

  “What?”

  George leaned forward now.

  “Well, just suppose you actually were Carl’s secret partner, George. Suppose Carl double crossed you. Squeezed you out of your ownership interest in the new technology and dumped you into a lender position after it became clear the technology worked and would be extraordinarily valuable.

  You might have been so angry you decided to kill Carl, steal all the plans and specs. Sell them to this DFERR for a big number. The technology wasn’t patented. Who would know?”

  George stared at the Judge, his faded blue eyes blazing.

  “You’re a real piss-ant, Judge. You know that.”

  George got up then. Turned and stalked away without another word.

  CHAPTER 45

  10:00 AM Wednesday

  The Judge pulled his car up the ramp to the 405 freeway after descending the Palos Verdes Hill and traversed the flats in a frenzy
of traffic that never seemed to abate. Going north. At least in theory. The 405 wasn't going anywhere. The Judge screeched to a stop at the top of the ramp, joining a parade of frustrated motorists idling fuel and belching fumes. Life in the LA fast lane wasn't fast this morning.

  The Judge used the time to play with his cell phone, a Nokia Lumia practically the size of a small TV. The original round black and white TV tubes of the early days hadn't been much bigger. This cell phone was flat of course, perhaps a quarter inch thick, and was really a computer. The Judge put up with its size and the difficulty of fitting the damn thing in his pocket because he could mostly read it without his reading glasses, particularly if he spread his fingers just a little to make the images bigger. The trouble was, month by month, to read the damn thing he seemed to need an ever bigger finger spread. Just like his paunch. He hated getting old.

  He got on the internet, keeping his phone discreetly below the dash to avoid a getting a ticket. He fumbled around in an effort to hit the right letters with his too fat fingers and the too small keys and his too short eyes, splitting his attention with the too stop and go traffic. Finally entering Gerald Jenkins, attorney, Santa Monica, and then the google search button. Next time he’d spend the damn two dollars and call information.

  The law firm came up, Jenkins, Jenkins and Halsey, and he hit the make a call symbol, still keeping his phone below the dash. A young-sounding girl with a tweedy voice answered. He asked to speak to the senior Jenkins and was immediately passed through to the great man himself without further screening. Apparently the senior partner at this law firm had lots of time, little to do and no staff.

  “Hello, Jenkins here,” said a crackly voice, the kind that matures over many years of smoking, drinking, and fighting the good fight in court. He spoke a bit louder than normal, suggesting a hearing impairment. That would be him next, mused the Judge. First eyes, then ears, then the dick. And last thing to go would be his mind. Ooh Rah!

  The Judge explained he was the arbitrator in Carl Greene's patent case, and understood Mr. Jenkins was Greene’s long time lawyer. He wanted to talk about the current status of the arbitration.

  "Are you in the area? Come on over," grated Jenkins.

  "I'll be there as soon as the 405 lets me."

  "Good luck with that, son," Jenkins snorted. "Get off and come overland. Like we used to do back in the day."

  The Judge maneuvered his car back to the right lane, leaving a path of disgruntled drivers in his wake, and pulled off at the Manchester ramp. He cut over Manchester to Lincoln and rode it into downtown Santa Monica. Twenty minutes later he pulled into an office building on Wilshire Boulevard, a stone’s throw from the Third Street Mall. It was a small office building, only four floors, with open air balconies. But the massive bronze letters pasted above its entrance proclaimed who owned it: JENKINS, JENKINS & HALSEY. The Judge rode the elevator up to the fourth floor, the penthouse suite.

  The elevator doors opened to dump him into the middle of a large lobby. Apparently the law firm had the entire penthouse floor. The offices were all done with tongue and groove wood floors, stained a driftwood white fashionable at the turn of the century. Matching interior walls were an off white. Framed black and white photos of Santa Monica in the 40s and 50s were interspersed with large plants, manicured and cared for, anchored in bleached out pots. The firm had a daily plant service.

  Opposite the elevators was a large conference room defined in glass. The view through the conference room looked out the exterior windows and over a long balcony, to the rugged Santa Monica Mountains. A peaceful view.

  The Judge checked in with a teeny bopper receptionist. All scraggly bleached hair and gaudy tattoos running down one arm, dressed in a pale pink blouse and tight white pants that looked uncomfortable. She sat behind a large wooden table desk, also stained white. There was no modesty panel, so pants appeared the only option. She seemed to be the only one around. There was none of the hustle bustle in the lobby the Judge expected to see in a thriving law office.

  The receptionist bopper seemed quite chipper and efficient, buzzing the elder Jenkins at once and directing the Judge to a white cotton sofa after inquiring if he wanted coffee or water. He'd barely settled in and picked up the Wall Street Journal when a brown spotted hand was shoved under his nose from above.

  "Howdy, young man. Nice to meet you. I'm Gerald Jenkins."

  Jenkins was tall, thin, and gangly. Definitely old. He had dark bruises under his watery blue eyes. His paper thin skin showed light veins and sunspots, offset by bright blush cheeks. His bristly white eyebrows needed a trim. He'd combed a few wisps of fine white hair over his bald pate in an attempt to subdue its shine, and plastered overly long curly strands flat against the side of his head with gel.

  He wore an uncomfortable looking starched white shirt over his bony body, set off by a red plaid bow tie that drooped a bit at the edges, suggesting long use. Grey slacks surrounded the middle of his lean frame, suspended by plaid suspenders.

  Jenkins partially walked, partially hobbled, showing the Judge back to his office. It turned out to be a modest affair next to the big corner office that likely belonged to his son, now the powerhouse partner in the firm. A mini balcony connected the two offices along the exterior of the building.

  Many larger law firms still had mandatory retirement after age 65. A policy designed to make room for the younger up and coming partners. Senior partners were sent out to pasture with a strict non-compete agreement and a generous pension. Perhaps with a small office at the firm and a minimal staff commitment so the senior could dabble in non-profit matters if he chose.

  But no practicing law for hire. Clients were carefully repositioned with younger lawyers, usually over a period of months or even years before the plug was pulled, to assure clients didn’t wander off when the old partner retired. Elder lawyers didn't breach their non-competes for fear of losing their pensions. It was all very civilized. Very corporate. And absolutely sucked. Particularly if you enjoyed practicing law, were in good health and had nothing else you knew how to do.

  Ironic. You took the people with the most experience and likely the best skills and declared them magically obsolete at the stroke of midnight on the beginning of their 66th year. Like Cinderella's coachmen they suddenly turned into field mice. Swept under the carpet and forgotten.

  The Judge wondered if that's what had happened to Gerald Jenkins. Jenkins’ small office carried more of the white wood theme. Off white walls, white stained desk and bookcases, and one potted plant that dominated the space. The bookcase was loaded with plaques, framed certificates and awards, some dating back to the early 60s when John Coltrane and Ray Charles were going strong.

  Jenkins limped in behind his desk to his chair, gesturing the Judge to a matching black winged-back chair in front, the only non-white pieces in the office.

  “I don’t get many clients anymore,” said Jenkins. You’re my first visitor of the week and likely my last. You may be my last visitor ever. It’d be better if I were gone. Anyway, choose your questions well, young man. You won’t get a second chance.”

  The Judge gave the old man a rueful look. He wasn't use to being called "young man". He supposed it sounded okay. It was all relative.

  "As I explained, I'm the arbitrator in Carl Greene's arbitration. As you've likely heard, Carl's now deceased. His estate, however, is carrying on the litigation. Carl's attorney had given me a sealed envelope in response to a discovery request from the Defendant, a Randall Hicks. Carl was claiming the material it contained was privileged as confidential trade secrets and not relevant to the current arbitration. I was to review it and make a ruling whether the material was discoverable.”

  “And what did you decide?” asked Jenkins, snapping into the seasoned lawyer he was. Questions direct, right to the point.

  “That’s the problem. Unfortunately, the material was stolen before I had a chance to look at it.”

  “You didn’t lock it up in a safe or a safe
ty deposit box, young man?” Jenkins shook his head. “In my day that would be malpractice.”

  The Judge could feel his collar getting tight as a light blush spread upward from his neck. This old guy didn’t mince words. And unfortunately for the Judge, Jenkins was probably right.

  “It's my understanding you're familiar with what was in the report, Mr. Jenkins. In fact I’m told you helped prepare it."

  “And you want me to provide you with another copy,” said Jenkins, beating the Judge to his request.

  “Exactly,” said the Judge.

  The old lawyer just stared at the Judge for a while, not moving. Then he leaned across his desk and using his deepest crackly voice, asked:

  "You got some identification on you?"

  "My wallet was stolen a week and a half ago. I have a temporary driver's license I can show you."

  "No picture ID?"

  "No."

  "No State Bar card with your picture on it?"

  "No."

  “You don’t have your passport with you by chance?”

  “I’m afraid not.”

  "So how the hell I know who you are? You could be anybody. I don’t open my files or give out client information to any shmuck, wanders in with a story."

  The Judge sighed. This was a difficulty he hadn't anticipated.

  "Look Mr. Jenkins, why don't you look me up on Google. You'll find lots of information about me and many pictures that identify me."

  "I’m not much for this online crap. Don't trust it. I'm an old fashioned lawyer. I like to see hard paper identification with your smiling face on it. Sides, even if you are who you say you are, I don't think I can provide you a replacement set of that report. I’d need specific instructions from the legally appointed executor for Carl Greene's estate, with concurrence of the estate's attorney. And maybe even a probate court order. I’d have to think about it."

  "So you did represent Carl on this matter. And you do have a copy of the report."

  "I didn't say that."

  The color was creeping up the old man's face from his cheeks. The Judge could see he was getting riled. He didn’t want him to keel over his desk.