Irving Sliman’s response, two days later, opened: “Unless you were smoking crack cocaine during our discovery conference or were otherwise under the influence of a hallucinogen, young man, there is no excuse for the outrageous misrepresentations contained in your letter. What you purport to confirm is nothing more than a slapdash and scurrilous pack of mendacities.”
And things went downhill from there. They were in court three times over discovery disputes that first year—and the transcripts from those three hearings were, to put it mildly, incendiary. During the third hearing, Irving Sliman announced to the Court that from that point forward he would no longer engage in a conversation with Adam Fox without a witness. Specifically, as he stated, he would have his secretary, Gladys Parsons, present or listening in on every conversation with Mr. Fox and transcribing the entirety of each one.
And so she did. A folder labeled “Transcriptions” contained transcripts of more than a dozen telephone conversations, including one—a dispute over scheduling the deposition of Marsha Knight—that ended up as Exhibit A to Sliman’s motion to compel that deposition.
That first year of the lawsuit was the litigation equivalent of a mud-wrestling match with the trial judge in the role of referee. Adam Fox received far more penalties than Irving Sliman that year. The mud-wrestling continued into the early months of the second year of the lawsuit. By the time my document review had reached the fourth month of that second year, however, I had gone through all the files in the first two boxes of documents and was almost two-thirds of the way through the last box. Obviously, something was about to happen.
The first indication came on September 28th in the form of an e-mail that Irving Sliman’s secretary, Gladys Parsons, sent to Adam Fox at 10:47 a.m. Irving apparently didn’t use a computer and didn’t have e-mail. It read:
Mr. Sliman requests a meeting with you to discuss an important matter. Are you available tomorrow afternoon at 3 p.m.? He will meet you in the 14th floor lounge at the St. Louis Club?
Fox responded at 11:21:
Yes, I am available. Who else will be attending? And exactly what is the nature of this purported “important matter”?
Her response, sent at 11:28:
The attendees will be just you and Mr. Sliman. As for the nature of the matter, Mr. Sliman will explain that in full at the meeting.
And then six weeks of silence until the following e-mail from Irving Sliman’s secretary to Adam Fox on November 5th:
Attached for your review is the real estate deed that Mr. Knight’s LLC is prepared to execute in connection with the divorce settlement.
Attached to that e-mail was a draft of the real estate deed. I reviewed it. With just minor modifications, it was the version of the deed for the apartment complex that was at the heart of Jerry Knight’s widow’s lawsuit against Marsha Knight.
That was the last e-mail to Adam Fox.
The only other communication with him in the file was the transcript a telephone conversation eight days after that November 5th e-mail—the one that had included as an attachment the draft real estate deed:
Call commenced: 2:02 pm
Mr. S: What’s the problem now, Fox?
Fox: You know exactly what it is.
Mr. S: Cut to the chase, son. What’s the problem?
Fox: That deed you sent me. That’s the problem.
Mr. S: I don’t see any problem with that deed. The instrument accomplishes precisely what it is intended to accomplish.
Fox: Come on, Sliman. What you apparently intend to accomplish is not exactly consistent with my client’s interests.
Mr. S: I represent my client, not yours.
Fox: I can’t believe this.
Mr. S: You can’t believe what?
Fox: This isn’t right.
Mr. S: I disagree.
Fox: Come on. My concern is easy to resolve.
Mr. S: Oh, really? How so?
Fox: Make it a trust. I checked.
Mr. S: You checked what?
Fox: Chapter 456 of the Missouri Revised Statutes. Section 456.025. It solves the issue.
Mr. S: I hardly think so.
Fox: What do you mean?
Mr. S: My draft solves the issue. I checked the rules.
Fox: You checked what?
Mr. S: Come on, Adam. We play by the rules.
Fox: You mean 4-1.8? Come on, Irving. This is bullshit.
Mr. S: Your issue, not mine. My client has approved the draft. Get your client’s consent and we’re done.
Fox: This is bullshit.
Mr. S: Get her to consent to the deed, Fox. You have until Friday to send me the signed consent.
Call ended: 2:13 pm.
***
Marsha Knight’s signed consent arrived two days later, and twenty-three days after that the court entered the divorce decree.
The final document in the file was a printout of an e-mail exchange between Sliman’s secretary and Norma Cross. The e-mails were dated March 9th of the following year—about three months after entry of the divorce decree.
To: Norma Cross
From: Gladys Parsons on behalf of Irving Sliman
Subject: In re Marriage of Knight
Mr. Sliman requests a meeting with you to discuss an important matter. Are you available tomorrow afternoon at 2 p.m.? He will meet you in the 14th floor lounge at the St. Louis Club?
------------------
To: Gladys Parson
From: Norma Cross
Subject: RE: In re Marriage of Knight
He’s mistaken. This was Adam’s case.
---------------------
To: Norma Cross
From: Gladys Parsons on behalf of Irving Sliman
Subject: RE: In re Marriage of Knight
Mr. Sliman is not mistaken. He requests only you. It will be strictly private.
To which Norma responded with one word:
Okay.
And that was the last document in the last box of The Sliman Law Firm’s case file for In re the Marriage of Jerome R. Knight and Marsha B. Knight.
Chapter Twenty
My cell phone buzzed just as our waitress set down our drinks—an iced tea for me, a draft beer for Benny. I read the text message.
“Jacki?” Benny asked.
I nodded. “Just got out of court. Be here in ten minutes.”
The waitress said, “Can I get you two something while you wait?”
I looked at Benny. “Your call.”
He looked up at the waitress. “I’m having a powerful yearning for chicken wings.” He glanced over at me. “Okay?”
I shrugged. “Fine.”
“Dry, mild, or hot?” she asked.
Benny gave her a wink. “Hotter the better.”
She smiled and nodded as she wrote it down. “Extra hot.”
“And make it a large.”
I looked down at the menu. “Benny, large is two pounds of wings.”
“To quote Immanuel Kant, ‘You can never have enough chicken wings.’”
The waitress looked at Benny and then at me. “So a large?”
I sighed. “A large.”
After she left, I looked at Benny. “I can’t believe you.”
“It’s an appetizer.”
“You call two pounds of wings an appetizer?”
“Just a forshbeiz. Something to hold me over until Jacki gets here.” He took a sip of beer, looked at me, shook his head, and sighed. “Ah, Rachel.”
“What?”
“You have many awesome qualities: killer legs, great courtroom skills, all-world tush, a deeper knowledge of baseball than most men. But you also have a tragic flaw.”
“Which is?”
“Your blasé attitude toward chicken wings. Frankly, I don’t und
erstand. We’re talking about one of the greatest inventions of the twentieth century, right up there with the airplane, the computer, and Internet porn.”
“I’m just not a fan.”
He shook his head. “It boggles the mind.”
The waitress arrived with a huge, steaming platter of wings. “Here we go, kids. Enjoy!”
I watched as Benny dug in. After three wings, he wiped his chin, took a big gulp of beer, and smiled at me. “Nu?”
I frowned. “Nu?”
He gave me a wink. “Abe Rosen, eh?”
“You’d like him, Benny.”
“Your mom sure does.”
“Oh, my God. My mother? Don’t get me started. I met him for coffee last Saturday morning, and now she’s ready to hire a wedding planner.”
“What did you expect? He’s every Jewish mother’s dream: a nice Jewish doctor.”
I swatted my hand in the air. “Next topic.”
Benny finished another wing. “How’s that zombie case coming?”
“Which zombie case?”
“The one with the widow whose husband mysteriously schtupped her from the grave.”
“That would be Cyndi Mulligan.”
“Right. Last time we talked, you’d learned that the sperm bank had no records of her husband’s alleged sperm deposits. Which means—what was her husband’s name?”
“Bert Mulligan.”
“Right. That means if Bert ain’t the daddy, Cyndi’s kid inherits bupkis and that creepy son from his first marriage—what did that asshole change his name to?”
“Grimsley. Formerly Bert Mulligan, Junior. Now Bert Grimsley.”
“Grimsley. Right. So if Cyndi loses, the Grim Reaper inherits the dead man’s company. Right?”
I nodded. “That’s pretty much the scenario.”
“Scenario? I believe the correct legal term is clusterfuck.”
“Probably.”
Benny gave me a wink. “So?”
“So?”
“To paraphrase Johnny from Dirty Dancing: Nobody puts Rachel in the corner. Let’s hear your Plan B for beating the Grim Reaper.”
I smiled. “This is a paternity case, right?”
“Right.”
“What would you normally do in a paternity case?”
“Have the alleged father submit to one of those DNA tests.”
“Exactly.”
“Are you shitting me? You’re going to actually dig up old Bert?”
“No. Cyndi doesn’t want that, and, frankly, neither do I. I’d need to get a court order to have him disinterred, and then Grimsley would know what I was doing. That’s way too risky.”
“Why too risky?”
I raised my eyebrows. “Benny…”
“What?”
“It’s too risky because I don’t know how a paternity test would come out. I believe Cyndi, Benny. I really do. But I wasn’t born yesterday. I can’t eliminate the possibility that Bert Mulligan isn’t the father. And that’s one of only two possible outcomes of a paternity test—and probably the more likely of the two.”
“So what are you going to do?”
“I talked to a family law lawyer. Turns out that many of these genetic testing outfits offer more than just paternity tests. They have various kinship tests. The results aren’t as definitive as a paternity test, but depending on the DNA analysis they will be able to say, for example, that the potential uncle is ten times more likely to be the actual uncle than to be just some unrelated guy. Keep in mind that Grimsley has the burden of proof. He has to prove that Bert Mulligan isn’t the father. If I can get an expert to testify that it’s more likely than not that Bert Mulligan is the father, how is Grimsley going to refute that?”
“Assuming you can get an expert to testify to that.”
“Right.”
He munched on another wing and washed it down with a gulp of beer.
“Do you have a potential uncle?” he asked.
“Not above ground. Cyndi has a copy of Bert’s family records. We went through them yesterday. He had an older brother and a younger sister. They’re both dead. The brother never married, but the sister did, and she had a daughter.”
“Still alive?”
I nodded. “Barb. She lives in Omaha. I spoke with her this morning. Nice gal. I explained the situation. She agreed to participate.”
“What does she have to do?”
“Not much. The DNA testing outfit has an office in Omaha. They’re going to send someone over tomorrow morning to get a cheek swab. That’s all they need from her. They’re getting some blood from Cyndi’s daughter today. The added bonus is that it’ll all be confidential. If the test results are bad, well, Grimsley will never know.”
“When will you have the results?”
“Next Thursday.”
“Next Thursday. And the trial is the following Monday.” Benny shook his head. “Cutting it close, woman, especially if you’re doing this trial all on your own.”
I smiled. “As I recall, you don’t teach class on Mondays, Professor.”
He grinned. “You are correct, Ms. Gold. I try to reserve my Mondays for drilling new assholes in creepy litigants.”
I held up my glass of iced tea and tilted toward him “Then there just may be a role for you in court that day.”
We clinked our glasses.
“You’re adding this wild man to your trial team?”
We both looked up. Jacki was standing at the head of our booth.
She looked down at Benny. “Scoot over, stud.”
Benny grinned and slid down the bench toward the wall.
“Help yourself, sexy.” He gestured toward the platter of wings. “I ordered them with you in mind.”
Jacki’s eyes widened. “Whoa.” She turned to Benny and placed a hand over her heart. “A wild man, yes, but also my hero.”
Chapter Twenty-one
After the waitress set down our lunches—a chef salad for Jackie; a cup of gazpacho and a grilled cheese sandwich for me; a cheeseburger, fries, onion rings, and an order of fried cheddar cheese balls for Benny—we got down to business, namely, the other zombie case, a/k/a Marsha Knight’s Rule Against Perpetuities battle with her ex-husband’s second wife, Danielle.
“You’re helping Rachel on that one, right?” Benny asked.
Jacki nodded. “I got dibs on Norma Cross.”
“Who makes a cameo appearance,” I said, “in the very last document in the Sliman case file.”
“That e-mail asking her to meet Sliman, right?” Jacki said.
I nodded. “Three months after the case was over.”
“That’s some weird shit,” Benny said.
Jacki turned to me. “Did you figure out those cites in that last conversation between Sliman and Adam Fox?”
“The first one was easy. The second one, though—” I smiled. “Intriguing.”
“How so?” Jacki asked.
I unzipped my briefcase and took out three copies of the last page of the transcript of that telephone conversation. I handed one copy to Benny and one to Jackie.
“So they’re talking about Sliman’s draft of that real estate deed,” I said, pointing to where that part of the conversation started. “The version that violates the Rule Against Perpetuities. Adam Fox says he’s found the solution. Make it a trust, he says. He’s checked. Checked what, Sliman asks? Fox answers, Section 456.025. It solves the issues.”
“So what is that?” Benny asked.
“The Missouri legislature’s solution to avoid the Rule Against Perpetuities. I had to read it a few times to figure it out.”
“So you need a trust?” Jacki asked.
“Exactly.” I took out my notes. “The statute says, and I quote, ‘The Rule Against Perpetuities shall not apply to a trust if the
trustee has the power to sell the trust property during the period of time that the trust continues beyond the period of the Rule Against Perpetuities that would apply to the trust but for this statute.’”
“In English, please,” Benny said.
“So long as you put the property in a trust, you can have a crazy time frame and a crazy inheritance scheme that would otherwise be invalid.”
“But Sliman refused to do it,” Jacki said.
Benny frowned. “So Adam Fox knew at the time of that call that the deed was probably invalid under the Rule Against Perpetuities.”
I nodded. “It seems so.”
Benny chewed on an onion ring. “But he let his client go forward anyway.”
“Yep.”
“Sounds like malpractice to me,” Benny said. “Why would he do that?”
I pointed at the transcript. “Look at what Sliman says. He rejects the idea of a trust and says, ‘My draft solves the issue.’ He says, ‘I checked.’ Adam Fox asks what he checked. And Sliman says ‘Come on, Adam. We play by the rules,’ and Adam says, ‘You mean 4-1.8? Come on, Irving. This is bullshit,’ and Sliman replies, ‘Your issue, not mine.’”
“4-1.8?” Benny said. “What is that rule?”
“It took me half the morning to figure it out,” I said. “I thought it might be a rule of Missouri civil procedure, but there isn’t one numbered one-point-eight. I checked the real estate statutes, the rules governing trusts, the rules governing every Missouri administrative body I could think of that might regulate real estate transactions or apartment complexes or trusts.”
“Nothing?” Jacki said.
“Nothing. But then I thought back to Danelle Knight’s deposition testimony, the part were she blurted out that Adam Fox was sleeping with his client.”
“And?” Benny said.
I smiled. “And I went to the Missouri Supreme Court Rules. Guess what? There is a Rule 4-1.8.”
“Huh?” Benny said.
“Rule 4 contains the Rules of Professional Conduct—the ones governing attorneys. It starts at Rule 4-1.0 and goes to Rule 4-9.1.”
“Okay.”
“Rule 4-1.8 governs conflicts of interest for attorneys. Specifically, it governs prohibited transactions.” I looked down at my notes. “There are ten subparts—subparts (a) through (k). Each one sets forth a different type of prohibited transaction.”
The Dead Hand Page 8