by Larry Hill
Mark and Mitzi met for end-of-workday drinks in the St. Francis hotel lobby. Their relationship had progressed from one of great sex to one of true friendship. Mark felt twinges of guilt when he realized that he was more comfortable talking with her than he had been with Teresa. Mitzi was comfortable, aware that she and Mark would never fight about whether or not to produce children.
“You’ll never believe what happened to me today,” Mark said, on his second Glenfiddich on the rocks.
“Oh, do tell me,” Mitzi answered, sipping her first whiskey sour.
“I get a call from an attorney named Schofield. Never heard of him before. I almost hung up on him, figuring he was cold calling for business. But he tells me that he’s representing a client who can’t be named. The client, he says, has put a quarter million dollars in an account for Meagan to take care of her education for the rest of her life.”
“Amazing. Who would do something like that?”
“It can only be Fred Klein.”
‘Who is Fred Klein?” Mark and Mitzi had never discussed the specifics of his wife’s death. He proceeded to tell her about Klein, his reputation as a philanthropist and his medical conditions. “Is a quarter million going to take care of her college, let alone private school and maybe graduate school?” asked Mitzi. “I bet that little girl is going to end up in law school, she’s such a good talker.”
“The lawyer told me that he will be investing the money so that the quarter million could end up being a million by the time she goes to college. I’ll have to send any bills for tuition, books, school bus to the lawyer and he’ll send me a check to cover them.”
“Why didn’t Klein, if that’s who it is, just give you the money?”
“I guess because he thinks I’d just go out and spend it. He doesn’t know me. Maybe he thinks that I’d buy a Ferrari.”
“And why do you think he did it in the first place? Guilt?”
“For sure, there’s some guilt. He’s Jewish. But I’m thinking that he reckons that I won’t sue him.”
“Will you?”
“I sure as hell will. If he thinks he can get out of this paying $250,000, he’s out of his fuckin’ mind.”
THE JUDGE
Judges of the Superior Court of California are appointed by the Governor, with approval by the California Commission on Judicial Appointments. The position, unlike that of Federal Judges, is not guaranteed for life. Every six years, each judge must go before the voters of his or her county in a non-partisan election. For most of California’s history, the great majority of judicial elections were unchallenged; the twenty-four hour news cycle changed that. Every decision made by a judge was scrutinized by investigative reporters and bloggers and there were few judges who did not occasionally rule controversially. The number of electoral challenges had grown dramatically.
Louis Gasparini had not had any challenges at the conclusion of any of his three six-year terms. He had not done anything controversial. His cases had been of little consequence to anyone but the plaintiffs and defendants, their loved ones, and their litigating attorneys.
He did, indeed, aspire to a higher calling. There was the rumored opening on the First District (San Francisco and other Northern California coastal counties) Court of Appeals. Plus, the US Congress had created two new slots for Federal District Court Justices in the Ninth Circuit, that circuit which included California. Gasparini, who loved criminal cases and, for the most part, found civil ones terribly dull, envied his federal brethren who, by US law, adjudicated all bank robberies, counterfeiters, and interstate kidnappings. The idea of having FBI agents, rather than the often mentally challenged local cops, testify in his court room was titillating.
California was the ultimate Blue State – lots of Democrats and few Republicans. Gasparini was a Republican but he knew he was popular enough to make him a good candidate for either a state appellate or a federal district court slot even with the Democrats in power.
He knew, however, that he had to make a name for himself. The way he was going to do so was on the back of Frederick Klein. The case had to go to trial. He couldn’t overtly influence the plea bargaining. Interference in such matters, even through friends or colleagues of associates of the District Attorney, could get him disrobed. But he had heard from unnamed sources that the Klein family was not going to accept any jail time and that the DA was unwilling to accept house arrest. The Judge was pretty sure that he was going to get his high profile case, even though it appeared to be open and shut. Gasparini, like most attorneys with any knowledge of the case, could not guess what possible defense the great Greenberg was going to invoke during the trial. Gasparini already had it figured out that, in spite of the DA’s stance, if the jury rendered a guilty verdict (and how could they do anything but that), he’d probably hand down a sentence to be served in the home of the convicted. After all, if it’s OK for Martha Stewart, Lindsay Lohan, and Paris Hilton to get house arrest, why not for Fred Klein, 76 and chronically ill? Even Lt. William Calley of My Lai Massacre fame spent his entire three and a half year term in house arrest as the only military man to serve any time whatever for that tragic episode. Gasparini did not discuss his sentencing ideas with anybody, not even his wife of 32 years, herself a one-time public defender.
Mark Spencer was not the only one sporting a new girlfriend. Jason Klein, now firmly committed to a permanent change of venue to the Bay Area, had been on the prowl for some weeks. Like Spencer, he searched electronically, choosing a service that appealed to Jewish singles, and hooked up with a Marin County divorcee, mother of two, Rebecca Grodzinsky. It appeared a heaven-made match. By the third date, he had met her kids and took more of a liking to the two girls, 8 and 10, than he ever had to his own children. Hers acted like kids, his like obnoxious gifted adultlets. Rebecca was a legal aide for a firm with which his firm did business. Her ex had been a womanizing internist who moved in with his front office secretary after showing no interest in couples’ therapy. She had been left with a view house in Sausalito, ideal for grown-up sleepovers. Jason had paid little attention to real estate, happily ensconced as he was in free Pacific Heights lodging. He was not about to invite girls to bed down with him in the same abode as his elderly father and fetching stepmother.
Rebecca knew criminal law. She had spent three years in the Philadelphia District Attorney’s office, helping prosecutors in case preparation, communicating with victims and witnesses, and suggesting plea deals. She moved to Marin when her husband finished his residency and took a job with a prestigious group of internists in San Rafael. She was fed up with the public sector and signed on with a big San Francisco firm that performed no criminal work whatever. She missed it, finding civil law nothing more than a way to make rich people richer.
Ms. Grodzinsky was a welcome addition to the Klein family discussions vis á vis the upcoming trial. She, like Jason, Robert, Phillip, and Jennifer couldn’t envision a logical legal defense. Greenberg had, in their last meeting, offered that his strategy was to convince the jury that Fred was unaware that he had hit Ms. Spencer. He knew it was a stretch. But even if he couldn’t raise enough doubt to win a not guilty decision, he could put his client on the stand and show the jurors, and the judge, that Mr. Klein was not somebody that society would benefit by incarcerating. He had decided on his witnesses: Jennifer, the loving wife, Schofield, the loyal friend, aware of Fred’s mental state immediately after the alleged felony, and Jameson, the august physician who could attest to the defendant’s exaggerated reaction to the news of his abnormal lipid readings and the need for a change of diet. The star witness would, of course, be the philanthropist himself. Fred truly had no recollection of the event and evidence would show that he did not act like a man who had run down a young woman and left the scene to escape arrest. Enough to exonerate? Probably not, but worth a try.
“I killed that young woman. I know I did…now. But I didn’t know then. I swear it. God, I wish that I could go back and undo everything.”
&n
bsp; “I know you do, Dad,” said Jason. He and Rebecca sat with Fred and Jen during predinner libations. The television was on, but muted, during the five o’clock local news. Fred was enamored of Rebecca – a great change from Emily. He hadn’t met the daughters yet, but had heard nothing but good reviews from Jason. Fred had never enjoyed the company of the biological grandchildren, now in New York.
“So, what do you think, Rebecca? Am I going to jail? There’s no goddam reason for me to go to jail. They’d kill me there.”
“I don’t know, Mr. Klein.”
“Don’t call me that. Call me Dad.”
“They aren’t married, dear,” said Jennifer.
“Oh. OK. Call me Fred.”
“I’ll do that…Fred. You’re right that there’s no reason for you to go to jail. But that’s going to be up to the jury and the judge. I have heard that this judge, Gasparini, can be tough and that he wants to get promoted. So, it’s hard to be real optimistic.”
“My father doesn’t need to hear that,” said an obviously perturbed Jason.
“Sorry. That’s just what I heard and he asked me the question.”
“Lay off, Jason,” said Fred. “I can handle it. Don’t be nasty to this lovely lady.” Fred loved the fact that his son had made contact with a Jew, even though she appeared to be one in name only.
The four dined on knackwurst and beans plus potato salad fresh from Costco. Fred visited his wine collection, returning with a 30 year-old Bordeaux, hoping to impress Jason’s new beloved. She drank it as if she was consuming something out of a box. The internist had been a beer drinker and her parents eschewed all forms of alcohol, except Manishewitz at Passover. “Wonderful wine, Dad,” Jason said, knowing that the bottle was worth in the neighborhood of $200 and making eyes at Rebecca so that she, too, would toss in a compliment.
“Delicious,” she said. She left at least $15 worth in her glass at the end of the meal.
As Jennifer was serving the cheese cake, the phone rang. Jason answered. It was Phillip.
“Did you watch the local news?”
“It was on, but the sound was off. Why?”
“Gasparini was arrested for DUI!”
“Jesus Christ! How did that happen?”
“I don’t know. I just saw it come across on the bottom of the screen. They must have reported the story before I turned it on. I looked on the Web but there’s nothing there yet. I’ll let you know as soon as I learn anything, but watch the eleven o’clock news. They’ll have something.”
Within seconds of the brothers hanging up, the phone rang again. Jason again answered. It was Art Schofield.
“Did you hear the news?” asked the lawyer.
“Our brother just called and told me that Judge Gasparini was pulled in for a DUI.”
“Right. But did you hear how it happened?”
“Huh-uh. What?”
“Irv Greenberg just called me and told me that it happened last night, after midnight. Gasparini was driving his Cadillac and ran into a stop sign. Banged up his car pretty good. But that’s not the whole story. He wasn’t alone in the car. There was a sweet young thing who hassled the cop when he showed up.”
“What sort of sweet young thing?”
“Don’t know yet, and we’ll probably never know who, but it certainly wasn’t Mrs. Gasparini. Gotta believe that it was a pay-for-play girl.”
“Anybody hurt?”
“I don’t think so. Certainly not the Judge. But he spent a few hours in the jug. I guess he didn’t do so well walking the straight line.”
“What does that mean for us?” asked Jason.
“One thing it obviously means is that your father doesn’t go to trial in two weeks like scheduled. And, it’s a pretty safe bet that the presiding judge in San Francisco vs. Klein is not going to be Louis Gasparini.”
“Amazing. Any chance they’ll just dismiss my father’s charges?”
“No way. You father is still a Public Enemy. The DA isn’t about to let this case disappear. They’ll assign a new judge to the case and, with the backlog in the courts, it’s going to take some time getting it on the schedule. I bet it’ll be at least six months.”
“So, what do we do in the meantime?”
“Can’t answer that. You gotta talk to Greenberg. My guess is that you don’t do anything different.”
“Do you think that the DA would be any more willing to take the offer of house arrest?”
“Interesting thought. Who knows? He obviously wants to get this behind him with a guilty verdict. Again, check with Greenberg.”
Jason thanked Schofield and hung up. “Pop, it looks like you won’t be going to court any time soon.”
“Oh, OK.”
DOM PERIGNON
Fred had improved markedly but was not back to his pre-morbid state. He read more and watched TV less. He talked politics and sports with a degree of expertise, knowing more about Clinton and the 2002 Giants than he did Obama and the ’10 and the ’12 Champs. He wrote checks; Jennifer approved them. He walked the streets by himself, commenting, on his invariably successful return, that it was time to get another dog.
Fred didn’t fret over his legal jeopardy. Unless someone else brought up the matter, he said nothing about it. When it was mentioned, his only contribution was that he absolutely could not go to prison. It would kill him. Strategy, timing, and offers of a deal were the bailiwick of his lawyers and his sons. Just keep me out of jail.
Fred was an old man. Older than other 76-year-old men. He looked older, lots older than he had before the episodes. His aching joints, a mere nuisance earlier, limited his activities. The orthopedist wanted to replace his hip, but the cardiologist refused to sanction the operation. His prostate, the only organ in any human that continues to grow throughout life, had him in the bathroom multiple times every night. Flomax, the medication that was supposed to be so effective, made him dizzy. Twice he almost fainted, scaring the hell out of his wife, who thought the pacemaker had stopped working. His pacer worked just fine but the bulge on his chest was a source of constant displeasure. Something needed to be done with the cataracts but again, the heart doctor refused to sign on. He hated his new hearing aid; he usually left it on the bedside commode. He had a bout of diverticulitis and during the workup for his abdominal pain was found to have a gall bladder full of stones. Fred Klein was both an alleged felon and a walking geriatric textbook. He spent a meaningful percentage of his life in doctors’ offices, physical therapy and nutrition facilities, clinical labs and imaging centers. He took fifteen different pills, some twice, one three times daily. Jennifer would take him to most of his appointments, but occasionally he had to go in a taxi, to him a financial setback and cause for complaining.
Mentally he was sharper, but not sharp. He could participate in discussions about politics, movies and TV, sports, and weather. He didn’t make his own appointments but remembered that he had them. He rarely said anything terribly astute; he rarely said anything terribly off base. Someone who hadn’t known Fred before would find him a fairly normal, but not very interesting, senior citizen. He would not be invited to MC an awards dinner, something he had done several times before, nor would he be invited as a new member of a non-profit board.
Those boards that he had been on did not kick him off. After all, he was innocent until proven not-innocent. His term on the American Heart Association board expired and he was not reappointed, even though he was eligible. His favorite board, that of the SF Symphony, had, naturally, not reelected him as its Chairman. On the other hand, they offered him another term. He attended some meetings when he felt up to it, but said almost nothing, certainly nothing that changed anybody else’s mind. He would always try to be the member to move the approval of minutes. When someone beat him to it, he was there with a sprightly second of the motion. He’d vote with the majority or he’d abstain. He didn’t want anyone to be mad at him.
Prior to his indictment, Fred tightly controlled his reputation as a philanthropist
. He would listen to the pitches of the pitchmen and pitchwomen from the NGO’s, the hospitals, the institutions of learning and the cultural centers, watching their Power Points, drinking their 95 point Chardonnays and Cabernets, and meeting their award-winners, their post-operative congenital heart and cleft palate cases, their summa cum laudes, and their visiting virtuosos. He was always good for four figures, often for five and occasionally for six. He had his name on doors, marquees, plaques, and marble floors. There was a Klein Dormitory, a Fred and Barbara Klein Cancer Wing and a Frederick Klein Theater for Emerging Artists.
Even though Fred had improved significantly, his family was not comfortable with him making solo decisions to contribute large sums of money. One of the clan was always present for the pitchpersons’ visits. That family member would do everything possible to convince the patriarch that he was the decider while making the decisions him- or herself. The four figure donations grew, the five figure ones diminished in number and the sixes disappeared from the Klein tax forms.
Fred bought a Prius. One of the television news magazines did a feature of hybrids. Fred decided then and there that he wanted to go green. His now well-entrenched guilt over the death of Teresa Spencer made him see his Lexus as an instrument of the devil. It was time for a trade-in.