Brent Marks Legal Thriller Series: Box Set Two

by Kenneth Eade

  “What’s going on here?” Coach Nieman’s voice boomed through the locker room. Brent wouldn’t let go. He pushed harder on Steinman’s arm until he thought it would break and ground his face into the locker. Steinman’s wire-rimmed glasses bent at the nose, fell off, and hit the filthy locker room floor.

  “No fighting, Marquez. Let him go, now!” barked Nieman. Brent let go of Steinman and gave him a push to the floor. “You two: back outside. Marquez: to the VP’s office, on the double!”

  “This isn’t over, faggot!” said Russ, walking backwards and pointing his finger at Brent threateningly.

  ***

  Brent left the Vice Principal’s office with a two-day suspension from school, which was fine by him. It was nothing but a wasteland of adolescent scum, as far as he was concerned. The classes were a joke, and the so-called students seemed to be in a popularity contest over who could be the most ignorant.

  As Brent closed the door of his locker and turned around, there stood Russ Carlton and about eight of his friends. What a surprise.

  “You wanna fight, pussy?” said Carlton, shoving Brent against the locker, the combination dial digging into his spine. “I’ll kick your ass!” Brent dared not shove back. There were too many of them. He popped back on his feet and Steinman shoved him back into the locker, followed by a body slam from Nate, another push from Joe, and a sock in the stomach from Briscoe.

  “You call this a fair fight?” Brent said, gasping for air. “One against five?”

  Russ cackled like a chicken. “The Mexican wants a fair fight!”

  “I’m not Mexican.”

  “Sorry, I forgot. I guess that’s not your brown skin, is it? You must have just rubbed shit all over it.” Russ laughed again, accompanied by his band of delinquents. He leaned into Brent so closely that Brent could smell his dead-fish breath, and he sniffed at Brent’s neck and grimaced.

  “Smells like beans to me. How ‘bout you Briscoe?”

  Briscoe stuck his big, long nose right under Brent’s earlobe and sniffed.

  “Yup, beans and tortillas.”

  “It’s official, Marquez: you’re a beaner!” said Russ, and roared with laughter, to the chorus of guffaws and chortles of his entourage.

  “Tell you what. Steinman, here, has to earn his wings. Plus, that wasn’t a fair fight in the locker room today.”

  “Yeah, he ain’t been initiated yet,” said Briscoe.

  “Did I ask you, dog breath? Like I was saying, Steinman needs his first fight. Saturday, 12 noon, Knapp Park. Be there or we’ll come and get you, and I don’t have to tell you what that’ll be like.”

  Russ slammed Brent back into the locker and walked away, followed by Steinman and each of the boys, until Brent fell on his butt on the concrete. He picked himself up, dusted off the knees of his filthy blue jeans, and decided right then and there that he would never back down from any bully.

  CHAPTER ONE

  Matthew Kronenberg (affectionately referred to as “Kronendork” by many attorneys who appeared in his courtroom) had a Napoleon complex, which was typical among many federal judges. Appointed for life by President George W. Bush through the recommendation of the local Congressman, he, like his brethren, marched his short frame up the stairs and roosted high above the court on his bench every day, passing judgments on strangers he had never met. Judge Kronenberg had made his mind up today to kill Brent Marks’s libel case and there was nothing that was going to change it, although he did express that his decision was a “tentative ruling” and he invited Brent, whom the tentative decision was against, to exhaust any arguments he had before lowering the boom. The judge had a permanent grimace, as if he were constantly plagued by constipation. As Brent’s mother always used to say about people like that: “If he smiled, his face would crack.”

  The case was all about defamation on the Internet – and it was all directed against Brent. It wasn’t the first time he had faced down a pack of bullies, but it was easier before in a way because they couldn’t hide behind an anonymous wall like the Internet. Through much of his adolescence Brent had faced them down, so much so that his father had to change the family name from Marquez to Marks. Bullies select a trait or traits that are unique to you to exploit. In this case, it was Brent’s surname. His father, Jose Marquez, had emigrated from Spain before he met Brent’s mother. When Brent was born, Jose had never anticipated the future problems that his name would cause his son. The bullies concentrated on the name, calling Brent a Mexican, and Brent always wondered why that would be such a bad thing. He could have passed for Mexican himself, with his dark brown hair. His hazel eyes often looked brown, but he was much taller than most Mexicans. He was fluent in Spanish, which had helped him in the old days when many of his clients in Santa Barbara happened to be Mexican.

  Brent faced the judge at the podium. He was dressed to impress in his best two-piece grey suit with a cobalt blue shirt and button-down collar, but that was not going to protect him from the storm that was about to hail down on him. Never back down. Great mantra, he thought as he stood facing judgment from the man who was about to turn him from the plaintiff into a defendant.

  “Your Honor, for this motion to dismiss to succeed, the defendant has to prove that the statement in issue was protected speech. That is impossible, because this speech is, per se, defamatory, and defamatory speech is not protected free speech under the Constitution. Secondly, he has to prove that the speech related to a matter of public interest.

  “The defamatory statements were all about me, Your Honor. I’m not a movie star, a president, or Congressman; or even a Federal judge like you. I'm just a regular person who doesn’t take kindly to my reputation being dragged through the mud by a mob of Internet cyber-stalkers. Therefore, I am not a person in the public interest, and this case cannot, by definition, be a Strategic Lawsuit Against Public Participation. The defendants in this case are trying to seek immunity from liability for defamation, which is an improper use of the SLAPP statute under the Hilton case.”

  Brent’s opposition, Geoffrey Kelley of Noble, Saperstein and Kelley was so anxious to speak, he looked as if he would pop out of his three-piece suit like a brand new tube of toothpaste that had been squeezed too hard. He kept biting his lip and wiggling in his seat, eager for his turn to spout. But Brent was determined to use his ten minutes of allotted argument time. If the motion to dismiss his defamation case was granted, there would be two consequences. He would have to pay a hell of a lot of fees, and there would be more libelous postings against him on the Internet; this time with impunity. It would be a libelous free-for-all; an opportunity to throw sticks and stones, and call Brent any names they wished, as well as accuse him of any vile, illegal or immoral conduct they could think of.

  “Further, Your Honor, your tentative ruling states that the anonymous postings that accuse me of stealing money and running scams are non-actionable opinions. These are not opinions. They are accusations of a crime, and that is libel per se, which implies malice, and this is a question for the jury. It cannot be resolved by this motion.”

  Brent would have liked to have given his opinion of Kronendork, but that would only have earned him a one-way ticket to jail on a contempt of court citation.

  “Mr. Marks, you sued the website in this case. How is the service provider not immune from the posters’ statements under the Communications Decency Act?” asked the judge.

  Communications Decency. What a name for a law that allows people to smear other people anonymously on the Internet, thought Brent. There was nothing “decent” about these communications. Kronendork already knew his answer to that question. Brent’s was irrelevant to him.

  “Your Honor, I sued the website because they are not just acting as a service provider, giving their users a forum to post their defamatory statements, but because they also moderate and contribute their own material to the conversations, making them a content provider as well; so they have no immunity under the Communications Decency Act, according t
o the Kruska case that I’ve cited in my brief.

  “Moreover, without the defendant's website in this case, I’ll never know who the libelous posters are. This is a smear site that caters to cyber-stalkers, Your Honor, who are nothing more than grown-up bullies. They shouldn’t be allowed to publish my address, pictures of my house, and my unlisted home telephone number. That is a violation of my right to privacy.”

  Brent was going down in flames. The slimy cyber-mob was probably enlisting new members and readying another onslaught of slander and libel against him. 'Brent was a crook and a shyster, and should be disbarred': all these were statements of opinion, protected by the First Amendment.

  “Mr. Marks, your time is up. The Court will now hear from Mr. Kelley.”

  Judges speak never of themselves in the first person; always the third person, like the Queen of England. Kelley stood up and almost stumbled over his shoelaces. He was so excited, he nearly bumped into Brent on his way to the lectern. Brent resisted the urge to “accidently” put out a foot to trip him. His gut lopped over his belt and some fat skin showed through where his button had popped open.

  “Thank you, Your Honor. The defendant has made a sufficient showing that the statements made were Constitutionally-protected opinion and that, since they concerned matters about Mr. Marks, who is a licensed California lawyer, these are matters which the public may be interested in. Therefore, under the Nygard v. Uusi-Kerttula case the statements are in the public interest.

  “Since we have proven that the statements are Constitutionally-protected speech and in the public interest, the burden now shifts to Mr. Marks to demonstrate that he has a probability of succeeding in his claim. This is something he has not, and cannot, show.

  No shit. I haven’t even had the chance to do any discovery yet.

  “Finally, Your Honor, the Communications Decency Act gives immunity to service providers who merely publish user-generated content, like my client. Mr. Marks is free to sue the third party users who generated the content, but not the interactive computer service which enabled them to put it online.”

  Yeah, all I have to do is sue 007, Shyster Crusher, and Attack Dog, who are all hiding behind your client’s skirt, Gee-offrey.

  “The Court will adopt the tentative in this case and grant the motion to dismiss,” said the judge. “The case is dismissed and Mr. Marks, you are ordered to pay $50,000 in defendant’s attorney’s fees.”

  Okay. Let me just run to the car and get my checkbook. Or do you take American Express?

  It was official now. Brent Marks, once a private citizen who happened to be a lawyer, was now a public figure with no right to privacy. Anyone from now on could say anything about him, whether it was true or not, and there was nothing he could do about it.

  Instead of shaking his hand like a good sport, after the judge left the bench, Kelley smiled at Brent with a big mouth of jagged teeth and said, “See you in the malicious prosecution case, Marks.” Venus flytrap.

  The spark had gone out of Brent’s sometimes-green, sometimes-brown hazel eyes. Brent Marks, once the defender of lost causes and a champion of civil rights, and now officially a crook, a shyster, and a scammer, crawled out of the courtroom a defeated man.

  CHAPTER TWO

  To top off his misery, in the days before the disastrous hearing, Brent had had an argument with his girlfriend Angela. Next time, don’t argue with an FBI agent, he told himself. They both had broken the cardinal – and only – tenet of their relationship: the “no fighting” rule. As a lawyer, Brent had always thought that there were too many laws against things, but this simple regulation had been his own idea. The rule was simple. It was kind of like Alcoholics Anonymous. They don’t drink – we don’t fight. Since most arguments between couples are petty and you will both always regret them in the long run, just don’t have them. But when they did have a fight, it was always a doozy. After this last one, they hadn’t spoken to each other for three days.

  Brent was glad to get back to Santa Barbara. Anywhere but L.A. would be good for him right now. As he entered his office on State Street, at the front desk his secretary, Melinda Powers, smiled and asked, “How’d it go in court?”

  Brent just held his hand up and headed for his office.

  “I guess you don’t want to share,” said Melinda. She was attractive, still far from 30, and had the typical “dumb blonde” look, although she was anything but dumb. Melinda got up and hesitatingly knocked on his door, which was ajar.

  “Come on in, if you must.”

  “I know you don’t want to talk, boss, but here’re your phone messages,” she said, handing him a stack of slips. "And you’ve got an appointment at 5 p.m. New client – credit reporting case, as far as I can tell.”

  “Great. I probably have to take anything I can get, given the result in court today.”

  ***

  The new client was Allen Bekker, a charismatic immigrant from South Africa who had made a name for himself as a financier of start-up ventures in the beginning of the dot-com bubble. In those days, most of the e-commerce deals tanked; but, if you were lucky enough, as Bekker was, some of them stuck. Still, there were those pesky deals that crashed and burned, and Allen Bekker had experienced more of them than the successful ones.

  Bekker had a pleasant smile, honest eyes, a receding hairline, and wore “John Lennon-style” round wire-rimmed glasses. He exuded the confidence of an accomplished salesman. He spoke in a strange accent that sounded like it could be British, but trilled his “r’s” like a Scotsman.

  “Brrent, I’ve reached a point in my life where I’m back on top and ready to clean up my mistakes of the past.”

  “How can I help?”

  “I want to have perfect crrredit. Because of a quite nasty divorce, there’re a lot of bills hanging around. I’d like to settle them all, provided that we can clean up my crredit rrrecord.”

  Bekker fronted small change start-up money for ventures that he thought could be big. He had a small following of investors who would jump into anything he was in. Sometimes they made it; sometimes they crashed and burned. Welcome to Wall Street. He drove a Rolls Royce Silver Shadow and lived in mansion in Beverly Hills. Not bad for an immigrant from South Africa.

  “Mr. Bekker…”

  “Allen, please. 'Mr. Bekker' sounds too old.”

  “Okay, Allen. I can probably help you on this. I’ll need a full file on all the debts, as well as some authorizations from you.”

  “I’ll have my secrretary gather everything for you.”

  Exactly the kind of client I like. No nonsense and to the point.

  “And if you send me your wire instructions and retainer agreement, I’ll get the retainer right to you.”

  Even better.

  Bekker shook Brent’s hand.

  Why do I feel like I just bought a used car?

  ***

  It was not Brent’s dream case, but it was income, so he couldn’t refuse it at this point. He had to gear up to defend himself on the upcoming malicious prosecution suit and the barrage of Internet libel that would come along with it, not to mention paying the huge fine that Kronendork had levied on him. He checked his computer for the latest comments on Attorneys.net. The headlines brought on an instant headache.

  Shyster Marks loses lawsuit. Bigger one to come.

  Brent Marks is a lowlife, scamming, unethical lawyer. Oh, did I mention that he is also a crook? Just my humble opinion, JMHO.

  He switched off the box and decided to go home. He could always turn on his laptop if he needed more humbling.

  Home, for Brent, was a beautiful two-story in Harbor Hills with glass windows facing the Pacific Ocean. He had always considered himself lucky to have it. Hopefully, now he would be lucky enough to keep it. Brent rolled into the driveway and dragged his weary body through the front door. Calico, his fuzzy orange and white cat, slinked against his legs, purring. It was dinnertime.

  Brent couldn’t relax until the chores were done, so he poure
d Calico a generous portion of cat food, poured himself a glass of Malbec and reclined on the balcony to enjoy the tastes of blackberry, plum and black cherry. He swirled the wine and inhaled its heavenly aroma.

  Marks is a thief.

  He leaned back in his chair, sipped a mouthful, and let it sit between his tongue and pallet.

  Marks stole my money. He’s a crook, IMO.

  Brent set the glass down and looked out at the harbor. He couldn’t get the damn slanderous bastards out of his mind, and his thoughts drifted back to Angela. She was always on his side, and now she wasn’t, anywhere. Between her, the FBI agent, and him, the lawyer, there would probably be no end to their argument; so, as the man in the relationship, Brent decided to offer his apology first, and set out on his mission.

  First, a fresh bouquet of lavender peonies from the florist; then it was off to Angela’s apartment. The sweet smell of plumeria in the courtyard garden overpowered Brent’s offering as he prepared to present his apology. He rapped on the door, then paced backwards a few steps so he could see Angela peeking out the window on the second floor.

  She peeled back the curtains and stood there, hands on her hips, shaking her head and tossing her ginger-brown hair from shoulder to shoulder. Even when angry, she was beautiful. Brent thrust the flowers toward the second story, like Lady Liberty’s torch. No dice. Time for the secret weapon. Brent got down on one knee and belted out his interpretation of Brenda Lee’s number one hit from 1960, I’m Sorry.

  I’m sorry, so sorry,

  Please accept my apology

  But love was blind

  And I was too blind to see…

  Instantly, Angela disappeared from the window. That either spelled success or a continuation of the standoff. Within seconds the front door opened, and Angela stood there smiling. Brent may not make the top 40, but he was back with Angela again. Even her 80-year-old neighbor, Mrs. Friedland, had popped her head out of the window to listen to the song and watch the young couple reunite.