Single Jeopardy

by Gene Grossman

  “Yes, I heard the sirens. Probably a fire engine going by.”

  “No, not this time, Peter. Those were police cars. They were responding to a nine-eleven gunshot call... the elderly owner of that Chinese Restaurant was gunned down in his parking lot… in broad daylight!”

  Just as our brief dock conversation ends, I turn and see the trio speeding away in their electric cart.

  *****

  Chapter 3

  I want check this event out myself. By the time I reach my car the kid’s electric vehicle is already out of sight, but I know where they’re going, and my car can outrun their little cart. The Chinese restaurant is around the corner on Washington Boulevard, only a few blocks away from the Marina so I have no problem beating Saint Bernard & Company there. Approaching the restaurant, the sight is much like one you might see in a science fiction movie, where a spacecraft crashes and all the local police agencies show up. There must be twenty black and white squad cars sitting there with those light bars on top flashing and up to fifty cops milling around the parking lot. This must be one of those Tuesdays when the inter-agency police lunch meeting takes place here. Who said there’s never a cop around when you need one?

  Try as I can, there’s no way to get close to where the action is, especially not being able to wave a current ‘active’ State Bar I.D. Several rings of uniforms surround the parking lot. All civilians are being told to “go home – the show’s over.” Off to the side, I notice something remarkable: the police line is parting like the Red Sea, but it isn’t Moses coming through… it’s the little electric vehicle with the dynamic trio. The cart drives straight though the police lines and pulls up to where the Culver City Police have set up their temporary command post. The police look relieved when she shows up. The little girl and her partners are escorted over to where a group of restaurant employees are seated next to the police van. Accompanied by several uniformed officers, she starts to talk to one employee after another, while the uniforms tape the conversations and feverishly take notes. She must be helping the police get witness statements from the non-English speaking people there.

  My main purpose in coming here is because I’m concerned about the little girl. She was crying when I heard about the murder and I want to make sure she’s holding up… but with fifty police officers to look after her I guess she’ll be okay. This is one of the afternoons when Melvin has his regular appointment at the massage parlor that’s almost next door to the restaurant. I’d like to see the look on his face if he walked out and saw all those uniforms. He’d probably think they were there to raid the massage parlor, because of his insurance/therapy claim.

  After hanging around for a while I pick up the same gossip that will probably be on the evening news. I think that the local news stations have a universal witness or two tucked away that they bring out for occasions like this – a woman with her hair in curlers, or some old fart who needs a shave, and they all say the same things: “gee, he was a quiet guy, always kept to himself,” or “I never thought anything like that would happen in this neighborhood.” All the statements of witnesses and neighbors on local news shows are about the same quality of statements made by professional athletes during locker-room interviews. There must be someone somewhere who teaches these people how to talk without saying anything even remotely interesting… and it passes for local news.

  By the time I pick up the evening’s frozen dinner and newspaper it’s almost six P.M. and I’m not surprised to see who’s on her front porch waiting as I come down the gangway. No doubt she’s already heard about the shooting on the news and wants me to join her for a glass of wine to discuss it. Fortunately my TV dinner is sticking out of the grocery bag, so I have something to point to as I politely give her an apologetic ‘not tonight’ expression and keep on walking to my boat. It sure is a strange feeling to be the one using a ‘not tonight’ excuse, because I’ve been on the receiving end of it so many times.

  After a day or two the parking lot murder no longer gets any time on the local news shows, having been pushed out of the way by more important news events like car-chases, car-jackings, car accidents, drive-by shootings, auto thefts and the auto show - now appearing at the downtown convention center. One gets the impression that if there were no cars in Los Angeles, there would be no news at all.

  Fortunately another job has come in. I receive an e-mail assignment instructing me to look into a certain matter and that a police report is being faxed to me. I’m supposed to dig up whatever info is available on a Robert Palmer, who supposedly lives nearby in a sixteen stories tall group of crescent shaped towers called the Marina City Club that I can see from my boat. The assignment specifies digging up details on corporations he’s involved in. The Culver City police report that comes in by fax is the official crime report on the murdered Chinese restaurant owner. This is strange because those crime reports are supposed to be confidential and I don’t see any connection between it and my present assignment.

  Not being bi-lingual, I decide to do as much research as possible in the nearby Santa Monica Courthouse, instead of the downtown Los Angeles Civic Center. Most of the case files I need are there, as well as the main office of an attorney service my boss authorizes the use of… they can dig through the files downtown, if necessary. Another part of the assignment is rather good to hear... until my investigation is completed, the attorney service is to be given all the papers that needed to be served on people, including Summons & Complaints and subpoenas for depositions.

  When an attorney gets suspended, all of his active clients must be notified so they can seek other counsel to handle their cases. Because most of my clients are now serving time, the only client that the State’s computer came up with was Stuart. My name appears as Attorney of Record on that asbestos lawsuit I filed for him. He was notified and given my new phone number so that he could have another attorney call for his file... but Stuart is a loyal friend, so instead of using the Bar’s Referral Program, he’d rather have me find another attorney for him. He calls to let me know that he’s pleased to hear that Melvin has associated in on the case, and that I’d be doing the trial work after my suspension is over. And while he has me on the phone, he tries to lure me into a new business, which he insists on explaining to me: you can use a 1991 federal law that clamps down on people who send out unsolicited faxes to people. The law gives each fax recipient the right to sue for five hundred dollars, and for triple that amount if the fax sender had previously been notified not to send again to that specific number.

  Being at least as clever as Stuart, the Santa Monica-based Foundation for Taxpayer and Consumer Rights filed lawsuits in the Superior Court against two California-based mass fax broadcasting companies, alleging that their transmissions of unsolicited faxes violated that federal law Stuart is so fond of – the powerful Telephone Consumer Protection Act (TCPA).

  One of the Foundation’s defendants was a firm sending out thousands of unsolicited faxes to the Santa Monica area on behalf of the new owner of Arnold Schwarzenegger’s restaurant, ‘Shatzi’ on Main Street, notifying everyone of the management change. The Foundation won a class action judgment against the new restaurant owner and its fax broadcaster, thereby setting a new precedent in the Superior Court, and more specifically in Santa Monica.

  Stuart heard about that case result and saw an open opportunity. He established a business address in one of those private mailbox stores in Santa Monica, placing him inside that judicial district. He then started soliciting people who were receiving unsolicited faxes from Southern California marketers and had the recipients assign the matters to him for collection. He filed Santa Monica Small Claims Court actions on their behalf against the senders. If you’ve been assigned a matter for collection, the Federal law says you can take it to Small Claims Court without being an attorney. Stuart advanced all of the filing fees and costs to have the Marshall’s office serve the papers. If he goes to Court and wins, Stuart gets his costs back and then splits whatever damag
es the Court awards with the ‘client.’

  From what he says, it sounds like business is booming. After talking to a few friends of mine, I learn that everyone is getting those pesky unsolicited faxes, and it’s a real pain... it uses up fax paper, depletes ink supply and most annoying, keeps the fax line busy so that customers can’t get through. Stuart claims that business is so good he’s thinking of expanding. He wants me to join in with him to make the appearances. Reading between the lines, what he’s really looking for is someone to also advance money for the filing fees and service costs. Not being in a ‘partnering’ mood at the time, I politely beg off… and also turn down another invitation to get together with him and his boat-owning uncle Label.

  I think my present position occupies a place about as low on the legal food chain that I’d like to be at, and Small Claims Court would be a step down from there. As politely as possible, I tell him my social and business calendars are both on hold for the next couple of weeks so that I can tend to an urgent wiring problem on my boat – which really isn’t too far from the truth, but far enough away to keep me from actually tending to it.

  A day or so later the attorney service e-mails us that our Robert Palmer is involved with a whole bunch of things, but to really get to the bottom of it requires a trip to the State Capitol in Sacramento where all the original corporate records are kept. They must have quoted Melvin a really high fee for the job, because he turned them down and has instructed me to go up there and do it instead.

  I like visiting Northern California, so it’s good news. The expenses Mel offer are quite generous and there’s no specific time deadline mentioned, so I decide to use the airline allowance and rent a new yellow Hummer from the local Budget Rent-a-Car on Lincoln Avenue, and take a leisurely drive up there. This will give me a chance to stop off in San Francisco to visit Fisherman’s Wharf and see that barge they used for filming the old Nash Bridges TV series. The last time I was up there was when I was almost ten years old: it was the seventies, and when my parents took me on the cruise-boat Alcatraz tour, some American Indians who had taken over the abandoned prison for their months-long sit-down demonstrations, were shooting arrows at us… what a day to remember – being seasick and getting shot at.

  Before leaving, I see that retired ophthalmologist on our dock. He’s supervising the Asian crew do some varnish work on his boat. I’m still sure I’ve seen him somewhere before, but just can’t place where… it’ll come to me someday. I sure wish there was some answer as to how that old cocker managed to get a gorgeous girlfriend like the stewardess who visits him each week. I start to perspire every time she walks by and smiles at me.

  *****

  Chapter 4

  IT’S A HOT, sticky day in Memphis, and the small office is buzzing with activity. Though only the middle of June, the August anniversary of Elvis Presley’s 1977 death is rapidly approaching and the office staff wants to do something special in remembrance of that date that so affected their lives. This particular branch of the Elvis A. Presley Fan Club has just received some big time donations from a couple of older broads who really loved the King and want to remember him on that date that will live in infamy. Patty Sue, one of the females (most Elvis Presley fans are middle-aged women with middle names) excitedly jumps up with an announcement: she has found what they were looking for... Elvis’ old yacht!

  In 1967 Elvis appeared in the film “Easy Come, Easy Go,” in which he played the part of a singing, gyrating scuba diver looking for buried treasure. A portion of the movie centered around some people on a forty-foot Chris Craft cabin cruiser. In real life, Elvis’ company actually owned the boat during that period of time and rented it to the production company for use in the film, giving him that extra few dollars he really needed so badly in those days. Patty Sue’s computer screen shows that the vessel has changed hands quite a few times, but was most recently transferred to the family of Mr. And Mrs. Peter Sharp in Brentwood, California.

  Her inquiry to California’s Department of Motor Vehicles comes back with Peter and Myra Sharp’s address on Waterford Street in Brentwood Glen. In California, if a vessel isn’t documented with the Federal Government, it’s registered with the State’s DMV and gets a pink slip (proof of title), just like all California cars do.

  Patty Sue’s next step is to locate the new owners and offer whatever it takes to buy that boat so it can be trucked to Memphis for the August ceremonies. A local boat surveyor tells them that if it’s running and restored to original condition, it might be worth a quarter of a million dollars... and they believe him, because they want to. People have always believed that those high beehive hairdos had some affect on the female brain, but they never could prove it. If the scientists went to an Elvis Presley fan club office and did some brain scans, they’d probably be able to re-write the medical journals.

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  Deputy District Attorney Myra Scot Sharp has just returned home from a trying day at the office. On her way past the picket fence, she stops at the mailbox and removes some letters. One in particular catches her attention, because in the return address it has a fancy logo consisting of three the letters TCB, which was a gaudy ring Elvis Presley used to wear and had monogrammed on the white sequined jump suits he wore while performing. The letters stand for ‘Taking Care of Business,’ a catch phrase he was fond of. Of course Myra has heard of Elvis. Everyone has. Once inside the house, the fancy envelope is the first one she opens. It’s short and to the point, and absolutely makes her day. What she is staring down at is a wonderful opportunity to stick another pin in her favorite Peter Sharp effigy doll.

  Dear Mr. and Mrs. Sharp:

  It has come to our attention that you have become the registered owners of one 1963 forty-one-foot Chris Craft cabin cruiser, hull number CC16506156.

  Our organization is desirous of obtaining that boat for a celebration to be held in Memphis in August of this year and we would like to make you an offer to purchase the vessel, if you still own it.

  If the vessel floats, is seaworthy, and capable of restoration, we will pay you the sum of One Hundred Seventy-Five Thousand Dollars for it, by certified cashier’s check drawn on the Bank of Memphis. Due to the time limitations, we must have your answer in ten days.

  Very truly yours,

  Elvis Aron Presley Fan Club, Patty Sue Ehrstrieme, exec. Secy.

  Myra puts down the letter, laughs an evil laugh out loud and calls her divorce attorney Gary Koontz. He’s out of the office, so she leaves a message on his machine: “Hello Gary, it’s Myra, and here’s what I need. Do whatever it takes to get my jerk of an ex-husband to sign that crummy boat of his over to me. If you have to, threaten him with breach of our property settlement agreement. He should have known he was going to get suspended when he signed that promise to give me half of his law practice earnings. If he wants to avoid more trouble with the State Bar and a suit for fraud, he’ll sign over the boat – and if you want to sweeten the pot a little, tell him that in exchange for the boat, I’ll give up my claim to half his future earnings, but the boat must be delivered to me at the Marina boat yard no later than five days from now. And, if you succeed in pulling this off, there’s a special bonus in it for you, and I think you know what I mean. It’s something you’ve always wanted from me.”

  Defense attorneys claim that the only efficient railroad in this country is the Los Angeles County District Attorney’s office. A black comedian named Richard Pryor once said “if you want to see justice in the Los Angeles Criminal Courts, go there, and that’s what you’ll see, just us!” Prosecutors have a special outlook on life. Right is on their side, so whatever they do is justified - no matter who gets threatened, bullied, put in jail, or forced to sign over a boat.

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  The Coast route is a beautiful trip from Los Angeles to Northern California, and the Hummer is a great ride. This big yellow brute is king of the road and gets looks from absolutely everyone. I’m going to make the almost five-hundred mile t
rip a two-day drive each way, so at the first evening’s motel stop I check my voice mail to pick up messages. There’s one from beady-eyed Koontz. He has great news for me. I’ve heard the old warning that after you shake hands with some fast-talking operators, make sure to count your fingers. Well, the same thing applies to this slimeball attorney: when you hang up the phone after talking to him, make sure to count your ears.

  By the time I return his phone call it’s after office hours, so instead of his answering machine I get his answering service and then get patched through to him at home. His pitch starts. “Listen Peter, I know we’ve had some differences over the years, but believe me, this could be a great opportunity for you.” I don’t say anything in response. A book I once read said that when someone is trying to sell you something and you clam up, they go into their ‘I’m not okay mode,’ and that’s where Koontz is now going. He breaks the silence and his speed picks up. “Now this was against my advice, but Myra insisted on it. She wants to give you an opportunity go get your life back together again without the burden of paying her half your net income once you start practicing again, so she’ll sell out that right for a paltry sum. And if you haven’t got the cash on hand to pay her the forty thousand she’d like to get, she’ll take that old boat off your hands.”

  I may have been born at night, but it wasn’t last night. Myra wants the boat and is willing to give up future income she values at forty K to get it. Am I missing something? We both know I paid only eight thousand for it, and with the extra ten or twelve thousand put into it over the years, it’s still an old piece of crap, probably not worth more than ten thousand, even if it was running. Maybe the best thing to do is try to talk her out of it. That way she might not be able to come back at me with buyer’s remorse later on. “Listen Koontz, the boat doesn’t even have engines installed yet, and it really needs a lot more work. I don’t think she should…” He cuts me off.