That does it. Vincent and Myra both jump up out of their chairs. Vincent is shouting. “We strenuously object, Your Honor. Respondent hasn’t the slightest basis of fact upon which to base that accusation and we demand, er, we request that the court have that portion of his statement stricken from the record. Furthermore…”
It worked out just right. The buttons were pushed, the expected reaction occurred, and the judge is getting sick of it. He taps his gavel a couple of times to shut Vincent up and interrupts him mid-sentence with a pronouncement that will ultimately help me get what I’m going after.
“All right, counsel, this is a court of law, and I don’t want to see it become a pissing contest between separated spouses who obviously are not enamored of each other. All I’ve heard so far is this ‘he-said, she-said’ argument about evidence that’ll surely be mostly hearsay and innuendo.
“I’ve read the complete file on this case including all of the documents, exhibits, pictures of burning boats, affidavits, etcetera, ad nauseum, and at this point, I’d like to give you both an indication of my leaning in this matter. The Petitioner may have gotten screwed royally, but the Respondent also got a raw deal. I don’t think that a deputy district attorney would have gotten involved in that mess with former attorney Koontz. He’s appeared in this Court many times and I have the greatest confidence in his ability to have done the entire frame-up of this Respondent without the help of Petitioner.
“Here’s the bottom line. Mister Sharp, I’d suggest very strongly that you and Mister Vincent take the opportunity of the recess I’m about to take to sit down and work this problem out, because if this hearing goes to its conclusion, you may wind up with the short end of a very big stick.
“I’ll see you both in chambers in thirty minutes. And Mister Sharp, I hope you’ve brought your checkbook with you today.”
With that, the learned judge rises and exits the bench, lighting a cigarette as he opens a door leading to the chambers hallway. Looking over to the other table I see my dearly departed wife grinning like a Cheshire cat. It is now time for my Academy Award performance. I intend to take a dive so spectacular, that if in the ring, it would make boxing history. Vincent gets up from the table and nods toward the jury room, and we all step into that unused area to settle this matter.
Once in the room I decide to keep my mouth shut and let Vincent and Myra do the talking. When this settlement is locked down, I want it to be more of their doing than mine. Vincent sums it up. “Sharp, the party’s over. You’ve been nailed and you know it. Forget about the burning boat bit, that deal’s dead. Your original agreement is back in place and you now owe Mizz Scot a substantial amount of money.”
My turn. “Okay, okay, but there’s no way I intend to reimburse her for the money spent towing that boat to the yard or having it demolished and removed.”
This tactic is called ‘closing on a collateral issue.’ A perfect example of this is when I once sold an old restored Mercedes Benz to a guy who offered me several thousand dollars more for it than I thought it was worth. I didn’t want to accept too eagerly, but I also didn’t want to give him time to re-consider the fact that he was voluntarily overpaying for the car. So, referring to the new set of custom wheels on the old car, I said: “okay, but that price doesn’t include the wheels.”
At that point he started arguing about the wheels. For the next fifteen minutes all he could do was concentrate on how badly he wanted them to be included in the price, so that when I finally gave in, he was happy to write out the check. I took his mind off of the main item, the total price, by distracting him with a non-important ‘collateral’ issue. And it works in law too. To some extent, it even applied to the dead dog case. It usually works every time.
Myra jumps right up and grabs the piece of candy that I’m holding up and dangling. She temporarily loses it. “There’s no way in hell I’m going to be out that seven hundred dollars. I had to have the damned…” Her lawyer stops her.
“Mister Sharp, we’re talking about some serious money here, so what exactly is your intention?”
“Mr. Vincent, if we can settle this matter up, I’m willing to come up with her fair share of my fees on the wrongful death cases with only two conditions: first, I’m not paying for towing that boat away. I had no idea it burned. I was out of town at the time, and having been exposed to a new saltwater environment the old wiring gave away. Those old wires…”
“All right Sharp, enough with the wires. What’s your second condition?”
“I want your office to prepare the settlement agreement and I want it made clear that this is her last trip to the well. No mas, and that we each pay our own legal fees.”
Vincent is almost as sharp as I gave him credit for. A settlement agreement was already prepared for us to sign. He opens the door and signals to his paralegal sitting out in the courtroom. The assistant comes in to the jury room with a laptop computer and a small portable printer. They briefly discuss the new terms and the paralegal makes some changes and prints out three copies of the new one-page agreement. After looking it over, we all sign the copies and tell the court clerk that counsel would like a chambers conference to have a settlement agreement approved.
The announcement that a settlement has been reached is the best news that any judge can hear. They love to see cases settled without the necessity of a trial. Thirty years ago there was a judge in Burbank who was so anxious to help lawyers settle, that if they said they were close and would like to finish up in chambers, he’d meet them in the courthouse parking lot at seven A.M. Using his own key, he’d bring the parties in through the back entrance and up to his chambers, where he’d serve them coffee and Danish. If they actually settled then and there, he would give them Green Stamps, a marketing device item that merchants gave out in those days for people to earn discounts on purchases, much like air miles are used as premiums nowadays.
The clerk ushers us all into the judge’s chambers. “Well, I’m glad to see that you guys finally came to your senses. Now, what have you got for me?” The clerk hands him the settlement agreement. The judge nods at the court reporter, letting her know that the record is about to begin. “Okay boys and girls, in the matter of Sharp versus Sharp, California Superior Court case number 8222985, the parties have agreed to a settlement whereby…” He reads the entire settlement agreement into the record. And then looks up at me. “Mister Sharp, it’s now time for the commercial. Did you bring your checkbook?”
“Yes, your honor. I have my checkbook right here, and also brought along confirmed copies of the court documents showing settlement amounts and legal fees.”
My favorite movie of all time is Jose Ferrer in Edmond Rostand’s ‘Cyrano de Bergerac.’ I love to watch the opening act, where an insult is made about Cyrano’ s nose and he starts a prolonged swordfight with the insulter, all the while composing a lyric poem. At the end of the fight (and end of the poem), Cyrano thrusts his rapier into the chest of his opponent with a majestic “thrust ho!”
I never got around to taking up fencing, but I’ve always dreamed of some day being able to end a battle victoriously with a “thrust ho…” and now, ‘some day’ just arrived.
I remove all of the documents that Jack Bibberman had prepared for me from my briefcase, along with a check made payable to ‘Daniel Vincent and Myra Scot,’ in the sum of one dollar and, wielding them like an epee, (with a ‘thrust ho’ being said to myself mentally), lay everything down on the judge’s desk. I then thank the judge very much, pick up my copy of the agreement and exit the now-silent chambers. I think it best to get out of the room quickly before Myra’s head starts to explode.
Once back at the boat, I call the court and ask to speak to the court reporter for a blow-by-blow description of what happened after I left the judge’s chambers. Myra must have been on good behavior that afternoon, because she didn’t give Vincent the ‘briefcase-on-the-head beating’ that Koontz got. Instead, I’m told that her mouth dropped open when she saw the check
. She started sucking air like a fish out of water, then grabbed at the documentation and read it in disbelief. The judge sat there with a contained smirk on his face and thanked them for their cooperation, letting them both know that the conference was over and it was time for them to get out of his chambers. Myra and Vincent walked out and went in separate directions. The last words the reporter heard said were Vincent’ telling Myra “My invoice will be mailed to you.”
After hanging up the phone I notice that another call had come in. The caller ID shows a telephone number I recognize. It’s the defense firm on Stuart’s asbestosis case. They don’t know it, but at this point I’d recommend that Stuart take their settlement offer for anything more than fifty dollars, so if they’re calling with an offer of any amount, this case is closed. I’m just about to return their call when I hear a knocking on my hull; it’s doc, my wife-killing neighbor.
He asks if we can talk in private. It’s a beautiful Southern California day, so we climb up to the Grand Bank’s flybridge. It’s completely covered with a custom canvas awning and enclosed with clear side-curtains, like a mansion’s sunroom. He starts with a semi-confession. “I suppose, being involved with the criminal justice system, you’ve heard of my past problems with the law.” I nod, wondering if he’s finally going to admit that he really had her put down, or if he’ll continue with that old ‘I didn’t do it’ routine. He does a combination of both, which really surprises me. “She’s dead, you know, and there’s an insurance policy on her life that I’d like you to help me submit.”
That’s it. This guy’s really got stones. I’ve heard a lot in almost twenty years of practice, but this takes the cake. Here’s a guy who kills his wife and wants me to help him collect on her life insurance policy. He obviously needs some professional help, but not legal. It should be psychiatric. I know there’s absolutely no way I’m going to get involved in this mess, so I try to get out of it as politely as possible, because there are some people you just don’t want to antagonize. “Doctor Gault, there are so many reasons why I can’t help you that it’s hard to list them all. First, I’ve read that your wife disappeared and has never been found. For you to now claim that she’s dead implies that you know where the body is and therefore were responsible in some way for causing her death, and there’s no statute of limitations on murder. Second, there’s no way I can help you perpetrate a fraud on an insurance company…” He stops me mid-sentence.
“Peter, I didn’t kill her eight years ago. She just died last week.”
*****
Chapter 13
This guy is certifiable and should be institutionalized immediately so he can get some sort of drug therapy. That’s supposed to do wonders. Like professional athletes, who are capable of putting on their ‘game face,’ cops, lawyers and judges learn how to have a ‘non-reaction’ face, no matter what’s being said to them. I’ve been using that face successfully for many years now, but it never got tested in a situation like the doc is creating now.
“That’s right, Peter, she’s been alive all this time. She just died last week, and in anticipation of your next question, no, she hasn’t been locked up in my basement. She was in a private convalescent home up above Avalon, on Catalina Island.”
Out of the corner of my eye I spot a uniformed Rita walking down the dock, wheeling her small carry-on luggage case behind her. She doesn’t see us up on my flybridge as she enters the doc’s boat. “Does Rita know about this?” It’s probably no business of mine, but I want to know to satisfy my own curiosity.
“Yes and no. She knows about the long confinement, but I haven’t told her about the death yet. He turns and sees Rita stepping into his boat.
“I’m going to do that now.”
The only sure way to positively avoid sticking your foot in your mouth is by keeping your mouth shut. I’ve heard that saying before, but never seemed to get the knack of it, so I go right ahead and start to wedge a size eleven boat shoe between my pearly whites. “Well, now that you’re finally single, I guess that paves the way for you and your girlfriend.” He looks surprised.
“My girlfriend?”
I can’t figure out why he should be surprised. If she’s not his girlfriend, what’s she doing sleeping with him? Oops. Maybe I did it again. What if he’s a bigamist and he married Rita while his wife was alive? I make a concentrated effort to painfully extract my foot from my mouth.
“Yes, you know, Rita.”
For the first time since I’ve met this serious man, I see him crack a smile. He gets up, and as he starts to climb down the ladder from the flybridge, he tosses a closing line at me.
“She’s not my girlfriend, Peter, she’s your girlfriend. She’s my daughter! Please, join us for dinner tonight.” The look on his face lets me know that he realizes I was caught off-guard, and that he’s always been aware of my awkwardness being with her in his presence. This old doc is one sharp cookie. I just hope he’s not a killer too.
Every non-fatal illness usually has a recovery time; a number of minutes, hours, days or months that it takes before the afflicted fully gain their senses and can perform as good as before the illness. In my case, a chronic illness seems to be making a complete fool of myself, and the recovery time varies from minutes to years, depending on the severity of the attack and the number of witnesses.
My mind flashes back to a past foot-in-mouth incident, when I was given my first court appearance to make. In most courtrooms, as you face the judge’s bench, there are usually two counsel tables. The trick to knowing which one is designated as yours is to notice on which side of the bench the jury box is located. The bench nearest the jury box is for the moving party, the one who has asked for this matter to be heard by the court. This is usually the plaintiff, prosecutor or petitioner. The other table, the one that’s farthest from the jury, witness box and court reporter’s station, is reserved for the defending party, which is the defendant, or respondent. Not wanting to be discourteous to the court, I arrived about thirty early minutes for my first appearance. This gave me time to spread out my papers on the counsel table so that I might possibly look like I knew what I was doing. Opposing counsel was an old pro who timed his entrance into the courtroom exactly as the judge was taking the bench. The court clerk announced the case we were appearing on, just as opposing counsel came through the swinging gate (the ‘bar’) that separates litigants from spectators. Seeing me standing up behind the counsel table, he uttered the first three words that appear on the court’s official record. Three words he said to me that I ordered a transcript of and had perma-plaqued to forever hang prominently on my office wall: “other table, dummy!”
That first incident of foot-in-mouth disease happened twenty years ago, but every time I look at the wall hanging I’m reminded of it, and a minor relapse occurs. This time it had more serious ramifications. I not only embarrassed myself in front of a potential client, I also found out that I was involved in a serious relationship! This looks like it is going to be one helluva dinner tonight.
Before trying the usual cure of standing in the shower for about thirty minutes, I decide to request that a little homework be done. I send an e-mail to our office manager requesting all the information that could be dug up on Doctor Sherman Gault, his wife, daughter, everything. By the time I get out of the shower, there’s an answer on my flat-panel screen. How this happened so fast is almost as amazing as the facts uncovered.
Apparently, the gang in the forward cabin has inadvertently been receiving copies of e-mails that were being sent to doctor Gault’s boat. This was probably due to a glitch in the wireless network our boat neighbor Don Paige had set up that all of us on the dock shared. I don’t know if our messages were being sent to anyone else, but that’s not the issue now, nor do I care. What’s important now is what those accidentally intercepted messages to doc’s boat reveal. They include several royalty statements for the doc’s wife, Robin Gault, who was a successful writer of self-help books. It also reveals invoices and pay
ment receipts from a convalescent home on Catalina Island where she had been a resident for these past years.
Armed with this information, I feel a little better about the dinner I’m going to. It will probably still have its awkward moments, but there’s a good possibility that with enough concentrated effort, I may be able to avoid making a complete fool out of myself again, at least tonight.
I decide not to waste time returning the defense lawyer’s call on Stuart’s case until tomorrow and instead get ready for the evening on doc’s boat.
The dinner looks delicious, and it is. Ditto for the daughter. She sits as close to me as possible, never letting go of my hand. It’s a good thing it isn’t the hand I eat with. She looks like she’s been crying, but lets me know that she’s okay now. Her mother’s death was something that had been expected, but dreaded for several years. Doc goes on to explain that when she was first diagnosed with Alzheimer’s, they couldn’t believe it. She was so bright, so creative, so successful in writing, public speaking and counseling people with their problems. They were certain that the diagnosis was wrong. But as the months and then years went on, it became apparent that the diagnosis was correct. Due to her pride and love for her family, while still lucid, she requested that she be placed in the convalescent home on Catalina Island. They had made many trips over there over the years, and she thought it would be an ideal place to live out the rest of her life, at least the part she could still appreciate.
Doc and Rita both argued against the idea and wanted her to stay at home. Money was no object, and they offered to hire professional caregivers around the clock when the situation called for it. But no, she wouldn’t have it. One of her concerns was the loss of her public image as a brilliant writer. She feared that having that disease would cause her reputation to diminish and cause a loss of royalties that were supposed to go into a trust fund for her daughter and future grandchildren. No, she just wanted to have the public know that she was retired and wanted to live the remainder of her life in privacy. To make sure that her remaining years went uninterrupted, doc purchased the land that the convalescent home was situated on. That way, he could be certain that she’d be allowed to stay there in privacy for the rest of her life.
Single Jeopardy Page 13