by Tim Dorsey
“That’s a wrap!” The producer folded his chair.
The lawyers stood bewildered in their spots marked with tape on the sidewalk.
“That’s it?” said Sparrow. “No more filming?”
“Why try to improve perfection?”
“I have a question,” said Reinhold. “Why were we all swinging gavels like axes?”
“To bang justice into the system.”
“Why were we waving a pom-pom in the other hand?” asked Nash.
“To cheer for the underdog.”
“Why did we all have to jump in unison at the end?” asked Reinhold.
“That’s your signature move. Everyone needs a signature move,” said the producer. “I know you’re new at this. Trust me.”
The trio of attorneys removed medieval knight helmets and handed them to the prop assistant. “When is this supposed to air?”
“Tonight.” The producer began packing up a van that featured gray primer paint on rust patches. “I purchased several prime time blocks on local cable between two and four a.m.”
“The middle of the night?” said Nathan. “That doesn’t sound very prime.”
“It’s the most prime of all,” said the producer. “Everyone in the business knows that. It’s when a key demographic is watching.”
“Who’s that?”
“Drunk people inclined to pick up the phone for an emergency order of easy-listening hits from the eighties. And in your case, the most likely to get injured.”
The next morning, in the conference room of a high-rise office building, lawyers had arrived extra early. A flat-screen was on. Waves of shuddering buyers’ remorse. The partners finished watching an overnight recording of the commercial for the third time, and Reinhold hit the remote control for a fourth viewing.
“Stop it!” said Nathan. “I can’t look at it anymore!”
“We come off as buffoons!” said Nash.
“What’s with the fucking helmets?”
“Thank God it’s only aired on the graveyard shift so far.”
“Can we pull it from the stations?”
“Do you even have to ask?” said Nathan. “I’m calling as soon as their business offices open at nine.”
“What time is it now?”
“Eight fifty-nine.”
They went out into the lobby. At precisely nine o’clock, the law firm’s automated answering service switched over to their live receptionists.
The phone rang. A secretary answered. “Reinhold, Nash and Sparrow . . .”
Then another ring. “Reinhold, Nash and Sparrow . . .”
Another, and another. “Hold, please . . .” “Hold, please . . .” “Please hold . . .”
The partners exchanged looks.
It went on like that the rest of the morning and into the afternoon. All the lawyers’ dance cards were full for the next month.
Back to the conference room:
“Never saw it coming,” said Nash. “If that’s what a bad commercial does, imagine a good one.”
“But we don’t have the capacity,” said Reinhold. “Everyone’s calendar is now blocked solid.”
“Get out all the résumés on file of people we turned down,” said Sparrow. “And I’ll call the landlord to see about leasing a bigger office.”
Thus entered the age of opulence.
If the partners thought they had trouble spending all their money before, this was the stuff of ancient Rome.
They moved into a coveted downtown office address, and bought waterfront homes on Palm Beach. Side by side in the parking garage: a Rolls, a Bentley, a Ferrari.
They got trophy wives with pre-nups, and divorces with restraining orders. They had full domestic staffs, including nannies for unexpected children they never saw. Steinway pianos and Swiss watches, vases from the Ming dynasty and paintings from Sotheby’s auctions.
It became like that montage from the movie Scarface, when Tony Montana finally hits it big in the cocaine business, with people carrying duffel bags of cash into the bank. No extravagance was too over-the-top for the law firm, except for the movie’s live Bengal tiger in Montana’s backyard.
The parties started, every weekend bigger and more outrageous, quickly becoming the fodder for local legend. One soiree featured a real oil-pumping derrick in the foyer, spewing champagne. The next saw contortionists and fire-breathers. Then they rented a Bengal tiger.
It continued unfettered for almost a decade, right up until the aftermath of a most recent shindig, which found the three partners sitting alone out back overlooking the water, puffing hundred-dollar cigars.
“It doesn’t get any better,” said Nash.
“We finally have everything we always wanted,” said Reinhold.
Sparrow puffed his stogie. “I want more.”
There were no complaints from his law partners. But again: “How?”
“Easy,” said Sparrow. “We just increase our contingency fees.”
“Contingency” meant that if the law firm wasn’t able to collect any damages, then the client didn’t owe them any legal fees. But if the attorneys did win, the partners received a third of the total. It was standard.
Since the projected settlements were quite large, especially considering how poor many of the clients were, and since it was a no-risk deal for injured parties, they all happily jumped at the arranged split. It was standard . . .
The towering office building had the look of a luxury condominium. It rose thirty-five stories over Flagler and Clematis in the heart of downtown West Palm, a monument to raging modern architecture and gaudy gold-mirrored glass windows. The law firm of Reinhold, Nash & Sparrow was the sole occupant of the top floor on a long-term lease. They had negotiated a sweetheart deal for the prime space. Thank TV. The presence of the law firm and their local celebrity in the building helped attract other occupants and drive up rent.
The trio of lawyers sat in a conference room overlooking Lake Worth, the tony island of Palm Beach and the endlessness of the Atlantic Ocean. The door opened and they uniformly shut up. Assistants brought in a catered lunch from a gourmet restaurant so popular that nobody could get in. The plates featured shrimp-stuffed lobster. The day before, it had been lobster-stuffed shrimp. They required variety. The assistants left. The door closed.
“Now then . . .” Phineas Reinhold dipped a bite in a tiny metal bowl of melted butter. “What were you thinking our new contingency fee should be?”
Sparrow stuck his own fork in a bowl. “Thirty-nine percent.”
“How’d you come up with that number?”
Nathan bit off the end of an imported bread stick. “Sounds better than forty.”
“I don’t know.” Shelton Nash sipped a glass of sparkling water from a natural spring at the foot of the Matterhorn. “It could look bad. Remember when the Miami Herald ran an article on that firm that charged a mentally challenged client ninety percent? All hell broke loose. They got threats.”
They remembered the case. Everyone did. Because it was too true to be fiction.
“That was just wrong,” said Sparrow. He didn’t mean immoral. He meant tactically short-sighted.
“You do realize that we’re already receiving six percent above the declared contingency,” said Reinhold. “Through other fees hidden in the fine print.”
“Even better.”
“What if this gets out?” asked Nash. “I’m still worried about the PR.”
“I considered that,” said Sparrow. “So now we make all of our clients sign non-disclosure agreements, binding them not to reveal the terms of our contracts, including the existence of non-disclosure agreements.”
“But why would people agree to our extra terms?” asked Reinhold.
“Because our customers are different from the customers of almost any other business.”
“How’s that?”
“They’re very desperate.”
“Looks like you’ve got it all covered.”
Sparrow nodded and took
a leafy bite of arugula, and they finished their lunch in silence.
The next week, the trio was already seated in the conference room. A woman pushed a wheelchair inside. No telling how long her son would need it, maybe forever, thanks to a texting driver. She had to quit her waitress job to provide home care.
“It’s a tragedy,” said Sparrow. “And there’s no way anything we say can alleviate the sadness in your heart. But if it’s any solace at all, you’ll never have to worry about money again.”
“How can you be so sure?” asked the woman.
“We have commercials,” said Nash.
Reinhold placed a hand on her shoulder. “You haven’t signed anything yet? Not with the insurance company or any other attorneys?”
She shook her head.
A contract was placed before her. “Then sign this.” Sparrow handed her a pen.
She leaned over the signature line. She stopped. “This is a pretty thick contract. Shouldn’t I read it first?”
“No, it’s standard.”
She leaned again. And stopped again. “Wait, what’s this?”
“What?” said Nash.
“Thirty-nine percent? I’ve got an uncle who knows an attorney, and he told me before I came here that the standard fee is one-third.”
“That’s right,” said Reinhold. “This isn’t standard.”
“But why should I agree to more?”
“To pay for commercials,” said Sparrow.
“It’s a bargain,” said Reinhold.
“And if you could initial each page,” said Nash.
The woman reluctantly put pen to paper.
Four months later, the mother sat rigid in the front row of the courtroom, her son’s wheelchair parked nearby. The jurors were already seated in their box. Everyone waiting for the judge to emerge from chambers.
The insurance company’s lawyers arranged documents at their table. But none of the jurors were looking at them. They were all gazing agog at three attorneys seated behind the other table. Because they had been on TV.
The team of Reinhold, Nash & Sparrow looked in unison toward their opponents’ table. Blank expressions. The insurance attorneys returned the countenance. It became a staring contest. The defendant’s lawyers blinked first. One of them made a motion with his thumb: Let’s meet out in the hall.
Minutes later, the judge dismissed the confused jurors and thanked them for their service. The mother hugged Nathan Sparrow so tightly around the neck that he thought he might need an injury attorney.
“Oh, thank you! Thank you! Thank you!” She began to weep. “You’ve been a godsend!”
A pre-trial settlement of fifteen million will do that to people.
Sparrow gently pulled her wrists away. “No need to thank us. It’s what we do. Just take care of your son.”
That evening, a family celebration at the woman’s house. All the kin were there, hugging and crying. The TV was on, and the local news began.
Three attorneys stood behind a bank of microphones on the courthouse steps, basking in the announcement of the massive settlement. This was even better than commercials. It was free.
An uncle watched the television in the family’s living room. He turned around. “Ellen, how much did you say you got?”
She told him.
“That can’t be right.” He got a pen and some paper and did the math. “I was right. That’s way more than a third.”
“I know,” said Ellen. “But it was well worth it. They were great.”
“They were bullshit artists,” said the uncle. “They took advantage of you.”
“No, they didn’t,” said Ellen. “I’m happy.”
“You were desperate.”
The next day, a phone rang on the top floor of an office building in downtown West Palm Beach. The incoming phone call was so loud that the secretary had to hold the receiver away from her head. “I’ll call the newspapers! You won’t get away with this!” the uncle shouted before he hung up.
That afternoon, the firm’s most junior attorney drew the short straw. He sat in a living room with a mother and her son in a wheelchair. An uncle stood fuming with his arms crossed. He wanted to scream and punch someone, but abided by his solemn promise to remain mute.
The young lawyer fidgeted uncomfortably as he laid it out. The family’s share of the settlement had just dropped by a hundred thousand. And the penalty schedule for subsequent violations of the non-disclosure clause only staggered upward. The uncle was welcome to blab to journalists, if they felt it was worth it.
“But I was bragging about you to him!” said the mother. “I was overcome with joy!”
“Doesn’t matter,” said the young attorney, standing up with his briefcase. “The law is the law.”
Chapter 14
The Present
Sunlight glistened off a majestic dome and a ring of twenty-three stained-glass windows. Just as it had since 1943.
Serge pointed up. “That’s what gave me the final clue!”
“What?” said Coleman. “It’s just a church.”
“Not just a church,” admonished Serge. “It’s Saint Nicholas Greek Orthodox Cathedral, the crown jewel of Tarpon Springs. I’ve been searching forever!”
Coleman scratched his head. “How hard was it to find such a big building?”
“Not the building.” Serge snapped photos. “Sea Hunt!”
“I remember that TV show,” said Coleman. “It was cool.”
“More than cool. The legendary Lloyd Bridges, father of Jeff and Beau, played former navy frogman Mike Nelson, who roams the country, inexplicably getting into a series of dramas that can only be solved with a scuba tank.”
“It rocked.”
Click, click, click. “But here’s the best part: Many of the episodes were shot right here in our fine home state. Silver Springs, Cypress Gardens and, last but not least, the very spot where we’re standing today.”
Coleman looked around his feet. “But there’s no water.”
“I know.” Serge pulled out a switchblade and began cleaning under his fingernails. “During the first season back in 1958, an unknown actor named Larry Hagman made three guest appearances as the dangerous diver Johnny Greco! That was pre–I Dream of Jeannie, and way before ‘Who shot J.R.?’ from the height of Dallas. This discovery makes my whole week!”
“Still drawing a blank.”
“Okay, here’s how TV used to work.” Serge handed Coleman the knife. “Two characters meet for the first time and have a huge fight, which automatically makes them best friends. The formula continued right up through the pilot of Miami Vice, when Crockett and Tubbs punch each other on the sailboat. That was the golden era of television.”
“And today?”
“The simmering nastiness of The Bachelor,” said Serge. “I started watching it once, and I thought, ‘This is great! They’re all going to be best pals!’ But it just led to worse shit. Times have changed.”
“What am I supposed to do with this knife?”
“Point it at me.”
“But I don’t want to. You’re my friend.”
“And after you point it at me, we’ll be better friends.” Serge hopped on the balls of his feet. “Go ahead.”
“If you say so.” Coleman weakly held out the knife.
Serge quickly disarmed him, making a spinning wrestling move and pinning Coleman to the sidewalk.
Coleman’s eyes looked up from where his face was pressed to the pavement. “When does the friend part get better?”
“It just has.” Serge helped him up. “This is the precise location where, in episode eighteen of the first season, called ‘The Sponge Divers,’ Hagman pulls a knife on Bridges. I know because they were standing in front of this ornate old stone wall in front of the house.” He slapped it. “And the wall is still standing to this very day! When I initially saw the episode, I said to myself, ‘I recognize that wall. This should be an easy find.’ So I came over ten years ago and realized a whole bunc
h of houses around here have walls like this, a needle in a haystack, so it was back to the DVD player for more analysis, but no landmark clues. I toiled for years with a soul-wrenching emptiness that increased carb intake.”
“Then how’d you find it?”
“Dumb luck,” said Serge. “When I knew we were coming back over here, I watched the episode again, but I accidentally watched it at regular speed instead of my usual super-slow-mo archaeological method, and right at the end as I’m about to turn it off, Bridges arrives back at the house to say goodbye before his next underwater jam. Except he approached the house from the opposite direction of the knife fight, and there it was behind him, big as day, Saint Nicholas Cathedral diagonally across the road, and that’s how I nailed it, the first house on Orange Street off Pinellas Avenue. Let’s bow our heads in memory of Hagman and Bridges . . . That’s enough.” He ran back to the car.
The blue-and-white Cobra wound its way slowly down tight Dodecanese Boulevard, past family-owned pastry and souvenir shops. “I can’t get enough of Tarpon Springs! The historic Greek enclave of sponge divers! The sponge market dried up when they started making cheap synthetics, but the people remained, tending the flame of their old ways with traditional restaurants and museums for the tourists. But fortunately the Goldilocks phenomenon is in effect: just the right amount of tourists so the heritage isn’t drowned out by some fucking sponge roller coaster.”
“I hate that,” said Coleman.
“Damn straight.” Serge turned onto an empty side street and passed the shuttered Zorba’s belly-dancing lounge. “But my favorite parts of town are the little places where the locals shop, like that one on your right.”
“It’s just a little bakery.”
“Yet Greek Americans go in and out all day just to get a loaf of Greek bread. It’s so simple it’s outrageous! . . .”
Ten minutes later, the Cobra sat parked at a curb three blocks away. Serge knocked on the door of a modest bungalow.
An old voice inside: “Just a minute.”
It was more than a minute. A white-haired woman with a walker opened up. “Hello?”
“Mrs. Diamandis?”
