Conspiracy of Innocence

by Gene Grossman

  Because Sherwood was the most injured claimant, the chiropractor referred him out for an orthopedic consult with an M.D. specialist. The result was a diagnosis about some disc injury, so Sherwood was ordered to spend the next two months in a wheelchair, due to his alleged inability to walk for more than a few feet without great pain.

  Stuart’s assignment, if he chooses to accept, is to get videotape footage of the claimant in the act of normal mobility. I’m sure that Stuart would have appreciated receiving his assignment on a tape-recorded message that would have selfdestructed in five seconds, but it came by fax instead.

  I’ve handled quite a few personal injury cases over the past twenty years and from what I hear about this one, it’s a classic ‘set-up,’ complete with a cooperative chiropractor and an extremely willing patient. The insurance company’s file indicates that the claimant’s medical bills already are more than eight thousand dollars, and the ambulance-chasing attorney handling all of the injured people in the car has made a settlement demand of over onehundred thousand dollars for the most injured, the one that Stuart has been asked to get the goods on.

  Members of a jury don’t have the same background as attorneys like me, so they sympathize with the poor plaintiff and try to act like Robin Hood by taking large sums from the insurance companies and giving it to the poor injured plaintiffs.

  The courts don’t allow the fact that a defendant is insured to be mentioned in a trial, but any jury who takes a look at the defendant driver and sees his well-dressed Anglo-Saxon, White, Protestant legal team marching in step into the courtroom, usually can put two and two together and figure out that the defendant’s attorneys aren’t from the local Free Legal Aid office. Those free volunteer lawyers usually wear jeans and corduroy jackets with elbow patches when they come to court.

  I explain to Stuart that merely getting some footage of the claimant walking normally or dragging out his garbage won’t be enough, because at trial, his lawyer will simply argue that the guy was ‘having a good day,’ without the normal amount of pain. He might even bring in his own videotape to show how stressful the claimant usually is on those days that aren’t so ‘good.’

  If Stuart’s going to catch this guy, he’s got to be caught on tape doing something that’s so obviously indicative of a healthy normal person, that it will be impossible for even the slimiest plaintiff’s lawyer to rebut the evidence.

  Insurance companies nickname this type of assignment a ‘rope job,’ because it gives a claimant enough rope to hang himself and destroy his claim.

  We all brainstorm the situation for a while and finally settle on a plan that also involves Olive and Vinnie, and if we’re right about the claimant, it should get him out of his wheelchair very nicely.

  Previous surveillance has established that the Mister Sherwood comes out of his first floor apartment each day in the wheelchair, using the ‘handicapped’ ramp that the insurance company paid to have installed over the steps at his front door. He usually wheels himself down the ramp at about one in the afternoon and goes down the street a half block or so to the liquor store, where he buys a six pack, and then has someone push his wheelchair back up the slight incline on his street and all the way up through the ramp to his front door.

  Stuart takes one of his armored trucks and goes to Home Depot to purchase a four-foot by eight-foot sheet of plywood that will be carried by Vinnie. The planned action will coincide with the time that the claimant wheels himself down the ramp for his daily beer trip.

  The sheet of plywood that Vinnie will be carrying has some hooks screwed into one side. Olive will be walking down the street in a skimpy two-piece sun suit, and I must admit that she looks really nice in it.

  Stuart has covered up the company slogan with a magnetic sign that identifies his ‘he’s taking it with him’ truck as one belonging to a plumber, and will park the armored truck across the street of the claimant’s place with a video camera peeking out of one of the gun-ports. We spend the next hour or so going over the details until everyone knows exactly what to do and when to do it. They all agree that tomorrow afternoon will be a good time, because that’s the day of the week that Sherwood’s disability check comes in the mail and he’ll surely want to take it to cash down at the liquor store. His mailman gets there just before one each afternoon, so plans are made to get everyone in place at least an hour in advance.

  If this plan works, Uniman’s company will save almost a hundred thousand dollars in claim payments and legal fees, and he’s being very generous with Stuart. Overtime is no problem, so the planning is meticulous. They all appreciate my expert advice in making the plan and insist that I come along and direct the action from inside the truck. Stuart bought some inexpensive walky-talky devices and both Olive and Vinnie will be wearing ear-pieces to receive direction as to the split-second timing required for success in this operation. My curiosity gets the best of me and I agree to go along with them.

  The next day, right on schedule, we’re parked across the street from Sherwood’s apartment building in Stuart’s ‘plumbing’ truck. Olive is standing by the curb in front of Sherwood’s place, leaning on a mailbox. She’s chewing gum and keeps looking at her wristwatch, like she’s waiting for someone to come and pick her up.

  Vinnie is stationed further up the block and he’s slowly walking down the street carrying the sheet of plywood. He’s stalling, waiting for the mailman to reach Sherwood’s apartment building.

  The mailman gets to Sherwood’s door and slides a few envelopes through the mail slot. Seeing that, I cue Vinnie to start walking down the street a little faster.

  Our plan is working. Sherwood’s door opens and his wheelchair comes rolling down the ramp towards the sidewalk. I instruct Olive. “Okay kid, start looking at your watch, like you’re getting sick of waiting for whoever it is that’s supposed to be coming to pick you up. Vinnie, it’s your turn, so start moving. The mark has almost reached Olive, so you’ve only got another twenty or thirty seconds to get there with the plywood. Okay Olive, you see him wheeling up to you. Start your act.”

  Olive starts her routine for Sherwood’s benefit. “Damn. Where the hell is she?” Olive slams her hand down on the mailbox in anger. Sherwood sees her, hears her complain, and can’t resist speaking.

  “What’s wrong miss - got a problem?”

  She looks down at him. “Hey what’s a good lookin’ guy like you doin’ in a chair like that?”

  Just as their conversation starts to get rolling, Vinnie comes walking by and turns toward the apartment building, making sure that he walks in between Olive and Sherwood. He looks at Olive. “Excuse me miss, is this building 15293 Gault Street?”

  Olive answers him with the exact words we prepared for her. “How should I know? I’m just waiting for my sister to pick me up.” She points down towards Sherwood. “Ask him, he lives here, not me.”

  Sherwood looks up at Vinnie. “Yeah, this is 15293, you here to repair something?”

  Vinnie has an answer for him. “No, I always walk around with a four by eight sheet of plywood.” After giving this answer, Vinnie slowly starts to walk towards the apartment building. As instructed, Olive hangs one of her brassiere straps onto a hook that’s screwed into the plywood sheet. She screams out to Vinnie. “Hey, hold it asshole, one of your damned hooks has my bra.”

  Vinnie pretends that he doesn’t hear her and continues carrying the plywood slowly toward the building, while Olive is shouting at him to stop and appearing to be dragged along with him.

  Suddenly, her top flies off and over the top of the plywood sheet, leaving her standing there bare-breasted, with her hands covering herself up. Vinnie stops. Sherwood knows that a bare breasted babe is standing on the other side of the plywood, so using his arms, he pushes down on the chair, straining to see over the top of the plywood.

  Olive looks at Sherwood and uncovers one of her breasts to point at Vinnie and shouts to Sherwood. “Hey pal, would you please get my top back from his hook and help m
e on with it?”

  Sherwood can’t resist this request. He jumps up out of the wheelchair, grabs the loose top and walks around to Olive’s side of the plywood sheet. I direct Vinnie. “Okay Vin, he’s out of the chair and looking at Olive, so gently nudge it along.”

  Vinnie follows my direction and with his foot, gives the wheelchair a little push, so that it turns and starts to roll down the slightly inclined street. While Sherwood is still helping Olive put her top back on, Vinnie walks toward the apartment building carrying the plywood sheet that had been blocking Sherwood’s line of vision. He can now see in the direction of the wheelchair, which is now picking up speed as it rolls down the street. Olive waits another few seconds and then alerts him. “Hey mister, your chair’s rolling away.”

  Sherwood looks in astonishment at the chair rolling away and as he starts running down the street he shouts to Olive. “Wait a minute, beautiful, I’ll be right back.”

  Sherwood then proceeds to run at top speed down the street. He grabs the wheelchair and starts to drag it back up the street to where Olive is standing. Olive looks at him and exclaims. “Oh my God, it’s a miracle. You’re cured. Does that mean you can make love to a woman now?”

  Sherwood smiles and speaks a line for our tape recorder that’s better than anything we could have written for him. “Honey, my lovemaking was never in trouble. This whole wheelchair act is my crooked lawyer’s idea.”

  At this point, a Toyota Camry pulls up, driven by Stuart’s secretary. Olive hops in and tells Sherwood “sorry honey, gotta go. Maybe I’ll be back this time tomorrow, so watch for me.” The Camry pulls away.

  By now Vinnie has deposited the plywood sheet up against Sherwood’s apartment door and walked across the street to our armored truck. We wait for another minute until Sherwood sees the plywood against his door. He walks over, picks up the heavy plywood sheet and tosses it out onto the lawn. The whole event has been videotaped for posterity. Our work is done here. That’s a wrap.

  5

  Our Mission Impossible team meets at Mi Ranchito for a victory celebration, to be paid for by Mister Uniman’s company, whether he knows it or not. The Margaritas are flowing and some chocolate statuette awards are presented to Vinnie and Olive for ‘outstanding performances in the line of deviousness.’

  Vinnie isn’t happy the way that Olive let Sherwood help her put the top back on. He was under the impression that she had a back-up bra underneath that sundress top, but Olive insists that she’s a ‘method’ actor and wanted to go for reality.

  Stuart’s deal with Uniman will probably result in a reward of as much as ten thousand, and he promises to distribute two thirds of it among the other team members, so that his secretary gets five hundred for the pick-up, with the remaining surplus of what will be more than six thousand going to Vinnie and Olive for their honeymoon fund. I’m told that I wasn’t a true member of the team, so I’ll have to settle for an extra Margarita.

  Vinnie informs everyone that on future assignments, he’d be much happier if Olive switches roles with Stuart’s secretary.

  Olive is their designated driver, so she’s wisely not drinking. While the others are getting plastered Olive lets me know that she’s deeply into astrology and wants to do my chart. The only information she needs from me is the date of my birth and the hour.

  I give her the date and time and she starts a whole discussion about how important date and time are to her calculations. After two minutes of what seems like an hour of her lecture, I ask her if it makes any difference where I was born. This stops her for a second and she asks what I mean.

  “Olive, if I tell you I was born at twelve Noon, that doesn’t take into consideration whether it was Noon here in Southern California, Chicago, or New York, because when it’s Noon here, it’s two PM in Chicago and three PM in New York. And if I was born somewhere on the other side of the earth, which I’m sure you’ll agree is round, it might even be a completely different date. Doesn’t that make any difference to you?”

  I don’t mean to put her on the spot like that, but it doesn’t make any difference because just then, everyone decides it’s time to leave. They all want to get home in time for the final episode of some stupid reality show.

  Olive drives the armored truck and they drop me off at the Marina del Rey Liquor Store, where I purchase a box of Laverne’s favorite wine.

  There are some interesting boats on our dock. On the end tie is what I’ve been told, and firmly believe, is George Clooney’s mega-yacht. Closer to the gangway ramp that leads up to the sidewalk and parking area are a few boxy houseboats that the Marina rents out to people, and Laverne occupies one of them. She’s a midforties broad with quite a few miles on her. On many past occasions she’s heard the gate slam shut as I walked down the ramp to the boats and this time should be no different. By the time I get to where her houseboat is, I see her at the window holding up two elegant plastic wine glasses, clinking them together and winking at me. I’ve affectionately nicknamed this act the ‘clink and wink,’ and tonight I’m ready for it.

  Our usual procedure is to make sure that the wine is finished and then we get in bed to watch whatever crap the network has to offer.

  By the time I get up the following morning, she’s already gone, having been picked up for work by someone, who has taken her to do whatever she does for a living. My reward for the evening’s performance is some greasy French toast left out for me.

  I never worry about leaving the kid alone on our boat, because I know she’s got my cell phone number on her speed dial, and absolutely no one could get past that dog to do her any harm. Also, whenever she notices that I’m not there for the entire night, she looks for my big yellow Hummer in its parking space. If it’s there, she then knows that I’m only a few boats down the dock, with Laverne. I’ve discovered in the past that if she ever needs me for anything while I’m on the houseboat, dog-mail can be effectively delivered. My life must really be an open book if even the dog knows who I’m sleeping with.

  There’s a note waiting for me next to the French toast this morning. Laverne wants me to know that her vacation time is coming up soon and she would like me to be her guest on a oneweek trip to Cancun, Mexico. She’s written down a URL for me to check out that is supposed to have all the vacation details. Returning to my boat, I visit the website she suggested. Hmmm… it sure looks like a nice place to go, but Laverne neglected to mention that the flight from Miami to Cancun is aboard Naked-Air, a new clothingoptional airline that allows passengers to fly in their birthday suits. The trip will be on a Boeing 727-200 that can carry 170 passengers, and the rules state that the undressing doesn’t commence until the plane reaches cruising altitude. They do stress hygiene though, so everyone will be provided with a towel to sit on – and no sex is allowed during the flight. Darn. But it doesn’t end there. The travel agency that handles these flights has taken over an entire Resort & Spa for the week, so that the Nude Week activities can continue, which will include a ‘Toga Night,’ body painting, a Karaoke night, completely nude beaches, volleyball, and restaurants. What ever happened to the ‘no shoes, no shirt, no service’ days? If there’s anything that I think would act as an appetite suppressant for me, it’s a completely nude restaurant.

  I have to admit that the idea looks kind of interesting, but one main thing stops me from doing it… it’s insane! I can just picture in my mind the exact scenario that would be sure to play out if I ever allowed myself to be on a flight like that. Somewhere over the United States a situation would suddenly develop that requires all passengers to immediately return to their seats, buckle up, and prepare for an emergency landing. The plane is cleared to land at one of the country’s largest airports, and with news camera crews from all over the world waiting and watching, the plane safely touches down, the emergency inflatable exit slides deploy, and I can then join more than one hundred naked passengers sliding out of the plane to safety, all captured for posterity by new crews and cameras. Film at eleven. No tha
nk you.

  6

  The Luskin murder didn’t attract much news attention. With so many drive-by shootings in Southern California, Luskin’s murder was just another one of the type that the public is sick and tired of hearing about. The only reason it got a few extra days of coverage was probably because the victim was a successful white guy in a small town, instead of some innocent black bystander, or child in a South Los Angeles drug-infested neighborhood.

  What’s really surprising isn’t the small amount of coverage our local news had about the Luskin murder in La Verne, it’s the total lack of coverage on another apparent murder that was supposed to have taken place in Oregon. Local television news programs usually lead off with something bloody, and I can’t remember one mention of this one. The fact that it supposedly took place in Oregon shouldn’t make a difference, because any murder within a thousand miles or so should still be close enough for a bloodthirsty local news show.

  The only reason I know about it is because Mister Uniman called again, asking if I’d look into it. Apparently the body was never found, but the deceased’s widow is going to court to have her husband legally declared dead so that she can collect on his Life Insurance policy with Mister Uniman’s company.

  As much as I appreciate the opportunity to work for him again, digging into insurance claims really isn’t my main field of interest, so I suggest that he turn the matter over to Stuart’s private investigation firm. Uniman sounded extremely pleased with the way that Stuart handled that phony Sherwood claim, so he agrees with my suggestion and says he’ll have his secretary call Stuart. In the meantime, my curiosity gets the best of me and I start to snoop around to find out about this murder. I know it sounds ghoulish, but wherever there’s a murder, there’s a murderer who needs a lawyer.