Rogue Divorce Lawyer

by Dale E. Manolakas

  “Swallow it.”

  She struggled, wishing she had used her gun.

  “I said swallow it, you slut.”

  Fearful he’d see it peeking from her purse, She did and then dry heaved.

  “Keep it down.” He held on tight.

  Shaking and whimpering, she did as he commanded.

  His sadism gave him an erection hard against her cheek. He wanted to pull down her panties and rape her, but he was already late for his wifey thing. Gary released her.

  Brianna crawled to her purse, shoved the gun and keys back in, and struggled to her feet to leave.

  At the door, she paused. “You’ll get the child support for me? I need it now.”

  “Sure.”

  She stumbled out, clasping her purse to her breasts, and ran to her car.

  She gagged and dry heaved again as she shoved the door open. She grabbed her water bottle in its holder. She washed her mouth out and spit it in the street.

  It was the second time she had brought the gun to their “meetings.”

  She cried as she drove home and thought, I’ll never use it … the kids.

  She was condemned.

  * * *

  Gary sat back at his desk. He’d file a continuance for the next hearing in Briana’s case. Brianna was too good to let off the hook.

  Brianna was at his mercy. She had no one who cared. He could drag her case out as long as he had a use for her. Her husband had left for a predatory younger woman with no kids and didn’t give a damn about Brianna or their three brats.

  He had free sailing.

  * * *

  It was almost five and Gary left for home to raid Mary’s well-stocked bar with the expensive stuff she kept for her friends. Off-limits or not, he transgressed frequently. He’d hide in his locked study—his own space—enjoying his contraband while half-listening to Mary bitching at him through the door.

  She would give up eventually. She always did.

  ⌘

  Copyrighted Material

  Chapter 31

  In L.A. it was almost five and Kurt finished a cease-and-desist letter for Pegasus Intellisystems, one of the firm’s major clients. It demanded that a competitor stop infringing on certain of its trademarks and copyrights. Kurt loved intellectual property work. It was a legal specialty that was growing in importance for his firm.

  As he closed the Pegasus file, his cell phone sounded the first bar of his new download from Beethoven’s Fifth Symphony, the “Victory.” What better ring for a successful litigator?

  Gary looked at the screen. It was Eliana. He wanted to decline the call but didn’t want to be harassed by Angela.

  “Hi, Eliana, what’s up?”

  Accompanied by her best symphony of sobs, Eliana said, “Gary sued me for more money. A guy just handed me an envelope with a complaint in it at the door. What am I going to do?”

  Kurt turned down his volume and saved his ear with the speaker. “Get a grip, Eliana. Take a deep breath.”

  “Okay.” Eliana’s sobs slowed.

  “How much?”

  “Seven thousand six hundred fifty dollars.”

  “Can you scan and email it to me?” The last thing he wanted was her running to Angela and meeting with the Greek tragedy when he got home tonight.”

  “Yes. It’s something called “Plaintiff’s Claim and Order to Go to Small Claims Court. But I don’t know—”

  “Slow down, Eliana. I told you this could happen. My email is my name followed by “@Payne.com.”

  “Okay. But it says there is a hearing on January 31. Is that a trial?”

  “Let’s take this a step at a time. First, we have to get this out of Small Claims court.”

  “Why?”

  “Because you can’t have a lawyer there to represent you.”

  “What? I would be alone? I can’t do that,” Eliana screamed into the phone. “You never told me I’d be alone.”

  “You won’t be. Our malpractice and sexual harassment claims will let us remove it from small claims court and I will be there. I’ll have all of your files soon and we’ll get him.”

  “I’m scared, Kurt. What if I lose?”

  “We’re a long way from that, Eliana. Just stay calm and give me a little time. We’ll talk after I get the files from Stockton, okay? There’s nothing for you to do in the meantime. Just sit tight.”

  “Thanks. Without you and Angela, I don’t know what I’d do.”

  “Email the complaint. And call Angela.” Kurt hung up before he was sucked into more hand-holding.

  Let Angela listen to your drama, Kurt thought as he realized he had just been dragged further down Eliana’s rabbit hole of problems.

  * * *

  Thirty minutes later, Kurt printed out Eliana’s emailed complaint. It was bare-bones, but asserted all it needed—Eliana owed Gary seven thousand six hundred fifty dollars in unpaid fees and costs. No exhibits, nothing to support it.

  Small claims was bare bones. It was an abbreviated court hearing where everyday persons had ten minutes to present their “evidence” to a “judge”—more often a lawyer with five years practice and one-day of “Judge School” sitting pro tem.

  A hearing—yes.

  Justice—rarely.

  Kurt’s litigation-win-at-all-costs mode kicked in even at the sight of this admittedly elemental complaint. He was a pit bull trained to tear an opponent apart—even in small claims court. His juices were flowing at the arrogance of this sleazoid Stockton challenging Kurt’s skills and powerful firm.

  He balanced the fight against the costs. He figured if he got the twenty-five thousand back for Eliana he could pay the firm’s expenses if it was a firm matter, and cover his discounted billables—or, realistically, he’d just have to eat them. To streamline the work, he needed the firm’s two-person Family Law Department on board to donate expertise and oversight at a minimum.

  I’ll just get it done. Kurt threw the complaint in his outbox and put a sticker on it to his assistant to create a case file.

  If there was one thing he knew, it was how to use every nuance of legal procedure and case law to crush any opponent who dared challenge him or, in Gary’s case—offend him.

  A demand letter on my firm’s letterhead setting out what I’m going to do to his ass will swat this annoyance, or so he thought.

  * * *

  Kurt’s firm had a formidable Family Law Department that he could use as a resource.

  It had originally been created for two reasons: first, the need of the firm’s for their divorces to be handled well and confidentially; second, to fill the divorce needs of partners in other big firms. Lawyers who could afford it got friendly, supremely competent, and strictly confidential help from Payne. They trusted their own.

  Over the years, the tiny department with its exclusive clientele had expanded. Its reach extended to hotshot politicos, business movers and shakers, and especially those in “the industry”—the entertainment industry that defined Los Angeles in so many ways. They paid dearly for Payne’s discreet and effective divorce lawyers—most at least once in their lives, many twice, and some even more.

  Kurt would enlist this expert help and crush Gary the cockroach.

  ⌘

  Copyrighted Material

  Chapter 32

  On Thursday the following week, Gary came in late, his norm now. After an hour of routine make-work to replenish his coffers, Vicky buzzed.

  “You have a call from Kurt Townsend at that Payne, Jenkins … and whatever.”

  “What does he want?” As if he didn’t know.

  “I’ll see.”

  Vicky buzzed back. “It’s about the files.”

  “Tell him to hold … I’m on another call.”

  “But—”

  “Just do it.”

  With no money, Gary thought Eliana would crawl back to him. He had miscalculated. He also thought the letter from this Kurt Townsend was a courtesy letter to scare him into returning the money. He had mi
scalculated that too. Gary had to think.

  If Townsend was really going to represent Eliana, Gary needed to create credible actual billing hours and clean up his note-taking portion of the file where he doodled nasty things. He had to sanitize everything. Plus he had to create discovery and letters to justify his excessive fictional billing, and the forensic accountant’s inflated bills which included his kickback.

  Gary thought, How the hell did she get a Payne lawyer on her case. A letter’s a favor, but demanding the file and a call? More serious.

  * * *

  Ten minutes later, Gary picked up the phone.

  “Gary Stockton. I was on another call. What can I do-you-for?”

  Kurt hated the cutesy “what can I do-you-for” and hated being kept on a phony-hold—a transparent power play, a petty ploy to give the person delaying time to think. Kurt never used it because he never needed time to think. Resigned to other attorneys doing it, he merely worked and billed to another client while on hold—this time drafting a letter. He had learned this calming, productive maneuver from his mentors at Payne. The satisfaction? Beating lesser lawyers at their own petty gamesmanship.

  “Mr. Stockton, I represent Eliana Thurston. You haven’t gotten me her files yet. They were due yesterday, per my letter.”

  “I’ve been in court and depos … sole practitioner and all.”

  Gary wasn’t afraid of big firm lawyers because he played the busy-sole-practitioner card well before his familiar judges in San Bernardino—his own territory. Every sloppy, lazy solo lawyer who missed deadlines and committed acts amounting to malpractice counted local judges’ misplaced empathy to save their ass.

  Even though judges bent the rules for him—fools that they were—Gary ultimately would have to send the file over, and he knew it. Otherwise, he would earn the ire of the assigned judge for a wasted hearing to compel him to send a file he had absolutely no legal right to keep.

  “I need the file today. I’ll send a messenger.” The sole-practitioner card didn’t move Kurt.

  “No, I have a court appearance. This weekend I should have some time.”

  “Time for what? You have a secretary. Under the Rules of Professional Responsibility, you’re obliged to release the file promptly. Eleven days is enough. You overnight them Friday.”

  “Right.”

  * * *

  Gary spent the rest of the day padding, creatively editing the file, and sanitizing it. Most of the discovery he had billed for had never been drafted, much less sent. He had Vicky prepare and backdate it now, along with other documents. She did what she was told as long as she got to leave early and pick up her kids.

  “Shit. I have to rewrite all of this,” Gary muttered as he flipped through his notes.

  He had to redo and sanitize page after page replete with his doodles—doodles of stick figures doing the nasties to Eliana.

  Gary got a legal pad and a mixture of pens to recreate the file. He was methodical and thorough. He planned his story. Plausible deniability of everything he would be accused of was the key. Truth didn’t matter and, since Eliana hadn’t returned his calls or Vicky’s, his work was naturally thwarted by her. Obviously, that’s why the long-drafted discovery had never been sent and motions lay fallow.

  That would be his story in any event; Eliana had abandoned him—client abandonment.

  That was the truth—his truth—the real truth.

  * * *

  Friday, Vicky fielded another call from Kurt.

  “I’m sorry. He’s in court. I’ll have to take a message.” Vicky followed Gary’s instructions to the letter.

  “In court?” Kurt paused.

  The jerk would never overnight them. So considering the San Bernardino law practice mentality, Kurt calculated that the following Monday would be reasonable.

  Kurt said, “Vicky, isn’t it?”

  “Yes.”

  “Vicky, I don’t believe you. So why don’t you just walk into your boss’s office and tell him I’ll be sending a messenger at noon Monday to pick up the files. If Mr. Stockton doesn’t hand them over he’ll be facing a State Bar complaint and I’ll see him in court.”

  Kurt hung up. With or without Eliana’s files, he had to draft a complaint that would get the matter into the superior court and a motion to compel Gary to hand over Eliana’s client file.

  The best defense was a balls-on offense.

  * * *

  Vicky told Gary about the last call.

  Gary said, “A messenger? Monday? So what? He’ll get them when he gets them.”

  Although Gary puffed for Vicky, he had to meet the Monday deadline. He had the weekend. He would. Eliana’s divorce was still pending, and he had a January 31st trial date for his fee suit. Under the circumstances, no judge, pro tem or otherwise, would condone withholding a client file.

  Besides, Gary’s gift his entire professional life was never being noticed, Not that he couldn’t be for a thousand reasons, but he was an expert at camouflaging his secret world. His integrity was intact—except for that one client and the county bar complaint that failed. Besides, there was a good chance Eliana would pay up when this L.A. jerk got her doctored files with plenty of phony but credibly documented billing.

  Gary thought as he worked on the file, No way this Payne bigwig’s going to do everything he threatened for no money.

  * * *

  Back in L.A. Kurt worked on Eliana’s case while Stockton stalled to doctor her file—backdating and falsifying.

  The question, Kurt thought, is whether his fabrications would be good reading or pulp fiction.

  He didn’t need the file to draft the demand letter and most of the causes of action in her superior court complaint. An allegation of falsification of bills was sufficient and the delay in getting the file would help substantiate it. He did need something important from Eliana—her sexual harassment chronology—beefed up and more accurate.

  The night of his dinner with Angela, he had gotten her three-pages of sketchy recollections with missing dates and general descriptions. Kurt needed more exactitude and detail. He called Eliana to get it. As usual, she cried and talked, and talked and cried.

  “Look, Eliana,” Kurt interrupted. “I have a meeting. Can I call you later?

  Kurt hung up and dialed Angela.

  As he slapped cat hair off his pants, he said to himself, It’s her cat and her sister. She can deal with the emotional crap.”

  * * *

  Towards evening a very pleasant scent breezed into Kurt’s office. He looked up to see Regina shutting his door and locking it.

  That night he did not go home for dinner and crept in late. He showered away Regina’s scent but couldn’t wash her out of his mind and heart. She was so like him—so direct, so strong. So soft.

  He slid into bed. A bed that housed not only Angela but, in his mind, her entire extended family. The weight of their successive, never-ending Greek tragedies were crushing his otherwise ideal life.

  ⌘

  Copyrighted Material

  Chapter 33

  The following Monday, Kurt’s motorcycle messenger waited at Stockton’s office over four hours. Kurt had ordered him not to leave without the Thurston file and he didn’t. Fortunately for Kurt, his orders did not precipitate a disturbance or trespass arrest. Vicky handed the file over at the close of business. The messenger motorcycled it split-laned and fearlessly, passing nimbly through the blocked arteries of the Southern California rush hour.

  * * *

  Early that evening, Kurt had the file in hand. It was thick—thick with everything Gary had manufactured and backdated. He reviewed it with care and a discerning eye.

  This guy is good. Plenty of practice, Kurt thought.

  He scanned the motions, notes, correspondence, and discovery. Kurt compared it to Eliana’s Angela-assisted and now quite thorough chronology. He sought, and found, inconsistencies in Stockton’s back-dated artistry and affirmation of Eliana’s dates and times. He also spotted transp
arently unwarranted bloated billings and the ultimate treasure malpractice.

  He focused on the billing.

  This is a pile of shit, Kurt thought.

  He had indulged in creative billing himself, but not falsification. Kurt’s justified stretch in billing was for time actually spent on impossible-to-categorize legal work or it was billing enhanced for Kurt’s particular areas of expertise—referred to amongst lawyers as “value billing.”

  * * *

  He called Eliana. “Kurt here. It came … the file.”

  “Do I have to pay him the money?”

  “My professional opinion? No.”

  “Thank God.”

  “He has the amount documented, but the documentation is transparently doctored up. He did a lot of churning.”

  “Doctored? Churning?”

  “Never mind. I just called to say not to worry. With this mess, he’ll cave if we push him with a letter threatening a counter lawsuit of our own.”

  “Countersuit?”

  “Your own claims against him.”

  “Oh. Can you do that?” Eliana’s monotone vapid response was devoid of all understanding. “I still won’t have to pay him, will I?”

  “If I can get the firm to take it. I’ll do my best.”

  “Thank you. I don’t know what to say really. I—”

  “Glad to do it.”

  He ended the call, not at all glad to do it. But the file was so bad he was confident he could back the bastard down. He did ninety percent of the time. It might drag out some here because this guy was ostensibly a lawyer experienced in court and would do some small-town San Berdoo posturing.