Single Jeopardy

by Gene Grossman

  “Mister Bibberman, do you recall the day that I visited your place of employment to inquire about a certain mailbox there?” He answers immediately, without any hesitation. Somehow I get the feeling that he’d like to help me if he could. “You mentioned that someone came in one time to pick up a UPS package.” He nods in agreement. “Do you remember telling me that?” Again, he complies quickly with a ‘yes’ answer. “If possible, could you please give the Court a description of that person?”

  “Sure, he was a slender guy, probably in his forties with a mostly bald head. The thing I remember most about him was that he had these ‘beady’ eyes. He looked sort of like a guy you wouldn’t buy a used car from. I never saw him before that day, but he did have a key to the box, because he used it to identify himself as a person authorized to pick up the package. I saw him out in the hall, when I came in earlier today. Maybe he was in here, too.”

  Ricky Hansel is in his twenties, a little pudgy and has a full head of hair. The court must have realized this too because he no doubt had been in front of them for over an hour of testimony earlier this week. Koontz had also been in the witness chair today, and even the kid’s Saint Bernard would be able to tell that it was him who Bibberman was describing as the guy who had the mailbox key and picked up the package.

  I go silent for a minute, trying to figure out the best way to continue my attack, but the judge interrupts my train of thought. “Mister Sharp, we have read and considered the brief filed on your behalf, as well as evidence from both Attorney Gary Koontz and Mister Jack Bibberman, the clerk at Mail Boxes Unlimited in Van Nuys, California. We are now going to take a brief recess to confer in chambers. This hearing will resume in ten minutes, and we suggest that you not go very far from this room Mister Sharp, because when we say ten minutes, we mean ten minutes.”

  How nice of them. Instead of calling in the carpenters to nail me to the cross here and now, they’ve decided to toy with me for a while. They’re probably going to spend their ten minutes having a beer and laughing about me sitting out here ‘dangling in the wind.’ I hope that Stuart’s offer to make appearances in Small Claims Court is still on the table, because when these old farts get through with me, for sure there’ll be no practicing of law in my future.

  The Sergeant at Arms sticks his head in the door and informs me that the Judges will be taking an additional fifteen minutes. Why not? They can use the extra time to figure out how to add some criminal charges too. I’m going to sit here with my elbows on the table and my head in my hands. They can come back in whenever they feel like it. At this point, I don’t care what they do.

  True to their word, their fifteen-minute extension period is up and they’re slowly walking back into the room and taking their seats. The head judge is leaning over and conferring with the others. They all nod in agreement. Good, it’s a unanimous decision to hang me from the ceiling light fixture and leave me up there for another year or so, as a deterrent to all other lawyers who trust their paralegals.

  The head Judge bangs his gavel on the table and starts talking. I hear the voice, but the words are just drifting through my head as he states the case name, case number, a brief description of the facts, yada, yada. I wish he’d get it over with already. When he says my name, I reluctantly regain my consciousness.

  “Mister Sharp, we have fully considered the facts and points of law cited by your attorney Mister Unger in the Petition For Reinstatement that he has caused to be filed with this Court. And, in view of the contentions stated therein, and testimony you have elicited from Mister Jack Bibberman, contrasted with the testimony we have heard in this matter from Attorney Gary Koontz, we have come to the conclusion that the facts alleged in your attorney’s brief are true. Therefore, this Court finds that it was attorney Gary Koontz who rented the mailbox in Ricky Hansel’s name. Further investigation that our outside staff conducted has revealed more about this Ricky Hansel’s criminal past and affected his credibility before us. Apparently, his transcripts submitted to enter law school were forged, and his continuing association with Attorney Koontz before, during and after your disciplinary matters has led us to believe that you have been wrongly accused of unethical conduct.

  “Accordingly, your previous suspension has been expunged from your record and you are now reinstated to the active practice of law in the State of California, said rein-statement to be considered retroactive, back to the date of your original wrongful suspension. Furthermore, we have decided that new disciplinary proceedings should be instituted against Attorney Koontz.

  “You will be notified if your testimony is required at his disciplinary hearing and if so notified, we expect your cooperation in full without the need of a formal subpoena.

  “That’s all Mister Sharp. This hearing is now concluded.”

  That’s it. He bangs the gavel down and the panel of judges all get up and walk out of the room.

  *****

  Chapter 6

  My head is reeling. Can this really be happening? The Sergeant at Arms slides a document in front of me and gives me some instructions.

  “If you would please sign this standard agreement releasing the California State Bar from any liability for its past handling of this disciplinary matter, your reinstatement as an active member of the California State Bar in good standing to practice law will be effective immediately.” I knew there would probably be a string attached, but I don’t care. I don’t even read the statement. I seem to remember signing it.

  Everything that’s happening now is just a blur. I must have signed the document, thanked him, and walked out of the room. At least I hope that’s what I did. All I know is that I’m now in my rented Hummer, driving back to the Marina with a CD blasting. I’m singing a duet with Frank Sinatra. The song is That’s Life.

  L. Martin sure did get the job done. I can’t wait to meet him because an in-person thank-you should definitely be made… and to Melvin too. Evidently the info I turned in about Ricky Hansel working with Koontz panned out. I don’t know who did the rest of the investigation, found Jack B. the mailbox clerk, served the subpoenas and made the case airtight, but whoever did it pulled off a bang-up job and I’m forever grateful. When the Bar’s through with Koontz, my wife will probably be looking for another jerk to represent her. She should have no problem. There’s no shortage of them out there.

  A celebration is definitely called for now, so on the way back to the Marina I stop off at Mi Ranchito, a gourmet Mexican restaurant on Washington Boulevard just east of Centinela, and order the most expensive burrito on the menu, along with several topless Patrón Margaritas. The first time I heard that description, I thought that it was the waitress being described, but as usual, I was wrong. With respect to Margaritas, all it means is without salt on the rim of the glass, and has absolutely nothing to do with the waitress’ attire. And that’s a good thing, because today the owner’s morbidly obese wife has been bringing my drinks to the booth.

  After about 32 ounces of Patrón Margaritas I’m partially anesthetized, so I have them call a cab for me. I can always come back for the rental car tomorrow.

  As the dock gate slams behind me and I happily stroll down the ramp to the dock I’m in a weakened state and have no energy to resist the abduction as Laverne grabs my arm.

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  I must have had a good time last night. All I can remember is that I made a wonderful discovery concerning the reverse correlation between alcohol and aging.

  In my eyes, every Margarita I drank erased ten years from Laverne’s appearance, so I was able to journey backward in time and sleep with a very, very young Laverne. Unfortunately the magic spell only lasts as long as the Margaritas, so the sobering-up process reversed the fountain of youth and she aged back to the present while I was sleeping.

  Melvin’s office already knew about my reinstatement before I could tell them and I’ve just received my next assignments, which are five court appearances in Santa Monica. Now that I’m a full-fledged attorney
again, I’ll be paid the full one hundred dollars for each one of those appearances. This money, along with the five hundred owed to me for the past two weeks’ assignments gives me over a thousand extra dollars to waste, so I’m now making a request to Mel’s office. Because I’m not due in Thailand for another four days, I suggest a slight change in my travel arrangements: I’d like to leave the next morning and stop over in Maui for a few days before continuing on to my appointment in Thailand.

  Surprisingly there is no objection, and as a congratulory gesture, the office will be picking up the extra charges incurred by the flight changes, as well as my two-night stay at Lahaina’s Pioneer Inn on Front Street, across from the huge Banyan Tree.

  When we discuss my travel plans, Laverne apologizes for not being able to make the trip with me because I’m going during the week, and she just can’t get away from work. I try to look disappointed and say to myself “as if!”

  Several years ago my wife and I spent a week’s vacation in Hawaii and visited Maui, a 729-square-mile island seventy miles southeast of Oahu. Maui has a population of less than one hundred thousand people and it’s a charming place to visit. After landing at Kahului Airport, we took a thrilling 27-mile ride on winding roads to the island’s main tourist area, the small oceanfront village of Lahaina. While we were there, our conversation with some people we bumped into at one of the Island’s many art galleries turned to the boat I was restoring in our back yard. John Williams and his wife, the people we were talking to, happened to be members of the local Lahaina Yacht Club, and upon learning we were interested in boating they graciously invited us to be their guests for dinner at the club.

  We spent several more days in Lahaina, and always seemed to gravitate back to the friendly atmosphere of the Yacht Club, where we were allowed to purchase a fifteen-day guest membership privilege card, courtesy of arrangements made by our new friends.

  Before leaving the island, John offered to sponsor me for membership in the club. At first it seemed like a strange idea, but upon hearing that as a member I’d be entitled to reciprocal privileges at thousands of other yacht clubs around the world, the idea sounded like a good one so I accepted. Six months later I received my membership card in the mail and have kept it current to this date. It’s only for an Associate non-voting membership. In order to be a Regular Member with charging and voting rights you must have a residence on the Island. The club’s logo of a large whale looked very impressive on the triangular burgee that I had fastened to my boat’s flagpole, and it was the last thing I saw as the burnt-out remains of my Chris Craft were being towed away. I’ll have to buy another one when I get back there this time.

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  The flight is a little over five hours and I’m spending most of it reading some Sherlock Holmes stories. I can’t help but think of a strange coincidence: Arthur Conan Doyle, the Holmes’ creator, was an ophthalmologist, just like Doctor Sherman Gault. But unlike Gault, Doyle was never accused of killing anyone.

  Doyle was born in 1859 and got his medical degree from the University of Edinburgh, where he studied under Dr. Joseph Bell, who used to tell his students that no matter how good the eye can see, many times it doesn’t observe. To prove his point, Bell would have a student go outside on the street and bring in any passer-by at random. Bell would then amaze his students by doing a Sherlock Holmes-type of ‘rant,’ telling all about the stranger by just observing him. According to Doyle, every one of Bell’s observational presumptions would invariably wind up being correct.

  Having a slow medical practice, Doyle began creating stories featuring the fictitious Sherlock Holmes, influenced to a great degree by Doctor Bell. There have been some new versions of the Holmes stories, written with the permission of the Doyle estate, but a pure Sherlockian won’t read them. All that we would consider poring over is referred to as ‘The Canon,’ the set of sixty original stories (fifty-six short stories and four novellas) by A. Conan Doyle. Any book written by another, while still being a Holmes story, is considered outside the Canon and not to be read.

  I sometimes wish I could have been around in 1887 to read Sherlock Holmes’ first appearance in A Study in Scarlet, which was an addition to the Beeton’s Annual Christmas publication. Someday I plan to visit London to see Mrs. Hudson’s rooms at 221b Baker Street, where Holmes and Watson allegedly resided from 1881 to 1904. The tourist guides say that Holmes’ study overlooking Baker Street is still faithfully maintained. Only the non-believers doubt its existence.

  My timing is perfect. At the last page of The Adventure of the Speckled Band, the announcement of our approaching landing is being made, so we straighten up our seats, put up our food trays, fasten our seat belts and with white knuckles, wait to touch down. You can always tell when a flight is about to end when you hear those flaps on the wings being lowered to slow the plane down. I think they’re called ailerons.

  The twenty-seven mile taxi ride to Lahaina is as exhilarating as ever. As I look out the left-side rear window, I see a sight that always fascinates me: waves are coming in toward the shore, but the wind is blowing very hard against the waves. This conflict of waves versus wind causes a spray off the top of each breaking wave to be blown back offshore, toward where the wave was coming from. Next on my list of interesting sights is a certain empty bar stool at the Lahaina Yacht Club which, after showing my membership card and signing in, is filled by my rear end while the bartender serves my first topless blended margarita of the day… ordered in advance via cell phone when we’re about five minutes from the club’s Front Street location.

  Lahaina Yacht Club is only the width of a slightly larger-than-normal storefront, as are most of the places on Front Street, whose back-ends are balconies hanging out over the Pacific Ocean.

  It’s very relaxing sitting on the balcony, sipping Margaritas and having pleasant conversations with other members of the club. They all notice my small suitcase and are aware of the fact that I just flew in. I get some respect for placing a higher priority on visiting the club than trying to get a hotel room down the street at the Pioneer Inn. Being surrounded by people who you can immediately bond with, and who all share a common interest and would like to get to know you better is a wonderful experience. It makes you feel like a celebrity. Probably a lot like being a black Republican.

  The time flies by and in no time at all I’m looking at the club’s dinner menu. This is great: no fax, no phone, no Stuart, no Laverne, no ex-wife, no distractions. My before-dinner cocktail is brought over to the table and the waitress tells me that someone at the door wants to see me.

  “I’m sorry honey, but there must be some mistake. Tell whomever it is that I’ve recently deceased and am therefore not accepting visitors. I only know one person on the island, and that’s my club sponsor John Williams. He’s also a member, so he wouldn’t be waiting at the door.”

  I was hoping that would do the trick, but I notice that she’s still standing here.

  “Mister Sharp, I can assure you that it’s not John Williams who wants to see you.”

  “My dear, I don’t intend to get off of my chair until it’s either time to pee or go to bed, hopefully in that order, so you might as well usher whoever it is over here to my table.”

  It’s a good thing I’m partially embalmed, because it helps to absorb the shock of discovering who my visitor is. I feel a gentle tap on my shoulder. Without turning around, I once again instruct the waitress.

  “Honey, I told you that I don’t know any non-members on the Island, so please tell whoever it is that I’m not…”

  I don’t get a chance to finish my sentence because I feel some warm, wet lips on the back of my neck. If the waitress thinks that a stunt like this will increase the amount of her tip, she is absolutely correct. I turn my head around to give her an opportunity to earn the biggest tip of the year and am stunned to see who’s kissing me. It’s not the waitress. It’s the doc’s girlfriend, Rita.

  *****

  Chapter 7

&
nbsp; By reflex action I stumble to my feet and graciously pull out a chair so Rita can sit down. She has another type of greeting in mind and after the longest, wettest kiss of my life, my red face and eyes and I sit down next to her. I hear some applause from the bartender and the waitress.

  Her presence makes my head start to clear up enough to try a conversation. “Well, well, it’s a small world, isn’t it? What’s a nice girl like you doing in a place like this?” Hearing that lame remark come out of my mouth tells me that my head really isn’t cleared up enough to try being clever. She knows that her showing up here must have shocked the hell out of me.

  “Hello sailor, wanna have a good time?” I look around the room to make sure she came by herself.

  “Not if you’re with Doctor Death.” I can tell immediately that was the wrong thing to say to her, so I back off on insulting her boyfriend. Like a real trooper, she lets the remark slide right past her.

  “Peter, honey, where are we sleeping tonight?”

  “Frankly, my dear, I don’t give a damn. But to answer your question more seriously, I’m afraid it will be right here at this table if I don’t get down the street pretty soon and register at the Pioneer.”

  Standing in the lobby of the Pioneer while leaning against the counter for support, I am informed that the Inn is completely filled, and has been since yesterday.

  As expected, Rita comes through perfectly. There’s some sort of underground network of stewardesses [who from this instant on I’m informed, are to be referred to as ‘flight attendants,’ any violation of said rule to result in a loss of consortium] who have an international chain of apartments available to them. On Maui they have one a few miles north of Lahaina at the Hale Kai Apartment Home Complex on Lower ‘H’ Road, which is where we taxi to after completing one of the most enjoyable dinners I can ever remember having. That was the first meal during which I rushed to get through the first dessert, looking forward to the upcoming second one.