Freezing People is (Not) Easy

by Bob Nelson

  Also, they wanted another ten thousand dollars because their father, who had never been frozen, had been disinterred a year after his death and shipped to Chatsworth to reside with their mother. They claimed I had told them that the CSC had plenty of funds and didn’t need any help paying for liquid nitrogen or maintenance. My attorney had his nose in his yellow legal pad, scribbling down notes. It worried me, though, that his hand trembled as his pen flew across the page. He had told me he was confident about our chances, and now he was acting nervous.

  When Nothern spoke, he captivated people in an almost magical way. I couldn’t help but like him; even more important, I couldn’t help but believe him.

  “This was a fraud,” Nothern intoned, his palms resting on the railing of the jury box, “perpetrated on the country and the world. Bob Nelson was the ‘General,’ the leader who deceived people in their grief, when they were ready to grasp at any straw to save or bring back a loved one from death. Yes, ladies and gentlemen, it was all just a scam, designed to rip people off for their money during the most tragic and vulnerable moment of their life.”

  I wanted to scream. If that was true, why was the CSC vault full of people who paid nothing to get frozen? Nothern’s opening statement was powerful, and he made it so damn believable. I battled my feelings of sympathy for him as he struggled to return to the plaintiff’s table on his crutches.

  It was now Winterbotham’s turn to address the jury. My attorney began by asking them to use plain common sense. “Does it seem even remotely possible that my client, Mr. Nelson, would say, ‘Give CSC ten thousand dollars and we will give you a state-of-the-art MVE capsule that cannot be purchased anywhere in the world for less than twenty thousand dollars’? Does it make sense that CSC, an experimental research society that exists solely on donations, would also perform a complete perfusion and cryogenic freezing on the plaintiffs’ mother in Iowa? That CSC would pay all the plane fares round-trip for my client and Joseph Klockgether? Then they would ship the plaintiffs’ mother to California and place her in temporary storage for maybe two years, after which they would put her into a capsule and my client would pay the monthly replacement cost of liquid nitrogen to her capsule forever?”

  Winterbotham stopped to gauge his effectiveness. “The plaintiffs’ argument is silly, and it is easy to show that CSC never agreed to any such nonsense. Both brothers signed the contract that shows the substance of the real agreement made that day. CSC has always expressed in its publications and television and radio appearances that the cost of a complete cryonic suspension was ten thousand dollars plus adequate funds invested to create an endowment for liquid nitrogen replacement, which ranges from ten thousand to fifty thousand dollars. Overall, twenty thousand to sixty thousand dollars is an estimated cost for the complete service, including permanent storage and maintenance.

  “There is not one itsy-bitsy piece of evidence to support the plaintiffs’ claim regarding their deal with CSC. We have documentation signed by both Harrington brothers regarding their true donation to CSC. You will see that CSC did everything possible to continue Mrs. Harrington’s suspension despite their lack of funds. This whole tragedy was an experiment, the capsule failure was an accident, and my client was no longer able to preserve her body.

  “No one was at fault. There was absolutely no intent to cheat or defraud. All the money donated to CSC was used to bring about the desired results of both Mr. Nelson and Mrs. Harrington’s sons. CSC is a nonprofit medical research foundation. I repeat, every suspension and all money received is a donation.”

  Winterbotham paused, his voice becoming softer and more reflective. “We live in an amazing age, full of medical miracles and possibilities. Everything attempted by Mr. Nelson was grounded in the possibilities proposed by top scientists, including the founder of cryonics, Professor Robert Ettinger, and using procedures developed by esteemed medical doctors. This was no snake oil salesman like the plaintiffs would wish you to believe. Nevertheless, cryonics is a long shot. There are no guarantees, and that is why donations are necessary to use these new procedures. The concept of relatives suing for every loved one not revived is truly insane.”

  My attorney went on to explain that we did not even have a permanent storage facility at that time, though we did expect to begin constructing one within two to three years.

  “I certainly understand their love for their mother, but once Mrs. Harrington was in a capsule, all CSC could promise was their best efforts to keep her there. The Harringtons’ responsibility included donating one hundred to three hundred dollars monthly to help with the liquid nitrogen charges. They never did that.

  “CSC kept their promise: They froze her, they shipped her to California, and they kept her in dry ice for over two years. They got her into a capsule, and they maintained that capsule for over a year. CSC did what they said they would do.” He stopped and pointed at the plaintiffs. “They did not.”

  That ended Winterbotham’s presentation, which I thought had sufficiently neutralized Nothern’s lies.

  At that point the judge ordered a recess and invited the attorneys into his private chambers. After about forty-five minutes, they returned and resumed court. Winterbotham was red with anger and white-knuckled his briefcase. Something was very wrong, and I was suddenly frightened. What the hell could have happened in there? When I asked him in a nervous whisper, he mouthed, “Later,” and swatted me away. I recoiled in shock, and he started laughing. After laughing and pointing at my stunned expression, he put his head in his hands, lowered his face to the table, and fell asleep!

  As the jury was filing in and everyone else—spectators, clerks, deputies—was coming to attention, my slumbering attorney began snoring! It took a few minutes before everyone realized what was happening. I could hear Dennis Harrington sniggering, and I began to vigorously shake Winterbotham and yell at him to wake up. Klockgether’s attorney, Mr. Freedman, whispered through clenched teeth, “Bob, get him up; this is making a terrible impression on the jury.”

  No shit.

  I stole a quick look at the jury; they were stifling giggles. The judge banged his gavel and ordered the bailiffs to remove the jury. He then ordered them to wake up Winterbotham.

  Good luck, I thought. I couldn’t do it.

  After fifteen minutes of cold water compresses to his face and being dragged to his feet, he finally began to respond. At first he was angry, almost combative, and was flailing his arms and yelling at everyone to leave him alone.

  Thirty minutes elapsed before he could compose himself enough to properly explain what had just happened.

  Judge Shelby took Winterbotham back into his chambers, alone this time. After thirty minutes my attorney came out looking pale and exhausted. He asked me to drive his car home.

  For a long time on the freeway, I gripped the steering wheel, not speaking, awash with so many questions and concerns. Then I asked him one of the more benign questions: “What happened the first time you went into the judge’s chambers with the other attorneys?”

  He lifted his head and mumbled. His words were slurred, so I asked him to repeat them. This time he shouted, “The judge will not allow the AGA into evidence!”

  My mind exploded with the ramifications, and I nearly veered our car into the other lane as I tried to absorb this death knell. The Anatomical Gift Act had been our security blanket for the past fifteen years. Without it, we never would have frozen anyone. We were now naked and exposed, without the legal protection we had operated under for years. I couldn’t comprehend on what basis the AGA would not be allowed into evidence. It was a legal document, a contract, that the plaintiffs had agreed to and signed, and I had acted in good faith for all those years under the terms of the AGA. For me it made as much sense as a judge summarily and baselessly throwing out someone’s marriage license or property deed.

  “What,” I finally said, flabbergasted, “are you nuts? That cannot be! That wil
l kill our whole case.” I had been thinking that the judge was leaning toward Nothern, and that had just confirmed it for me.

  “I know,” he said, rubbing his temples, I guessed to stay awake. “I’ll have to figure out the basis for why he’s barring the AGA, but it doesn’t matter. I know I can beat this case without it. They have nothing but an unbelievable lie with no supporting evidence. Don’t worry. I can do it. Besides, we’d win an appeal if we needed it.”

  A guarantee of a new trial offered little comfort—I could barely stomach this trial, let alone the prospect of a second one. I was in so much shock over the devastating bombshell, I never asked about his falling asleep. And unlike my lawyer, I’m sure, I couldn’t sleep that night. I just paced my empty and lonely apartment for hours.

  The next morning my lawyer looked refreshed and clear-eyed, and he smelled like clean linen and a pricey cologne I hadn’t been able to buy for years. I didn’t want to risk the positive mood of the day, so I didn’t mention his bizarre behavior in court. I did comment on Nothern’s skill, and he agreed, adding, “But we have the truth on our side.”

  He said he had spent half the previous evening checking the law books and consulting with other attorneys. He had checked our articles of incorporation, and, yes, we were authorized to carry out low-temperature research. The judge had decided incorrectly and had undercut our entire defense.

  The Offense

  We arrived at court when the jurors were settling in. Nothern struggled to his crutches and began, greeting the jury with a sincere smile. With that slow Southern lilt, he called his first witness, Mr. Troy Flower. He was an effeminate and seemingly nice young fellow, but I sat there paranoid and mostly confused about what he would say.

  He testified that he had been a friend of the Harringtons for many years and was present when the brothers researched cryonics. They had contacted CSC, received information on the procedures, and were very excited about the hope it gave them to preserve their mother. They had purchased Professor Ettinger’s book, The Prospect of Immortality, and my book, We Froze the First Man. He claimed he was present when the Harrington brothers made the business deal for their mother’s suspension, and that it wasn’t a donation.

  “Mr. Nelson claimed he could bring Mrs. Harrington back to life just as soon as they could cure her cancer,” Flower said. “He swore that ten thousand dollars was the total cost, and that’s all there was to it.” That was the end of Nothern’s questioning.

  It was now Winterbotham’s turn to cross-examine Mr. Flower. He first asked, “How many times have you met Mr. Nelson?” Flower squirmed a bit, admitting he had never actually met me.

  “Well, then,” Winterbotham asked, “you never did actually hear Mr. Nelson speak to the Harrington brothers with your own two ears, did you?”

  “Well, they told me exactly what Mr. Nelson promised and—”

  “Hold on, Mr. Flower, this testimony is hearsay. You, of your own knowledge, know absolutely nothing about these discussions, do you, sir? And more important, your attorneys know that and had no business putting you on the stand other than to try and corrupt the integrity of these proceedings.”

  Flower looked blank, clueless as to how to answer.

  “No further questions, sir.”

  Winterbotham later explained to me that Flower was just a ploy to set the stage for their first real witness, Terry Harrington. His entrance appeared as grand as a Broadway show. He flounced to the witness stand wearing a purple velvet cape that swung over the wooden divider and a silky, clinging shirt and purple pants. His hair was long and flowing. The jury loved it; they had been expecting a boring trial, not theater.

  He had truly loved his mother, of that I was certain. Nothern took Terry step by step through the first moment he heard about cryonics to the reading of Ettinger and my books to the moment they placed the first call to CSC. Terry said he reached an answering service and left a message.

  “Mr. Nelson called back in about twenty minutes. I explained that my mother was close to death; I guessed about two to four weeks. Mr. Nelson explained the procedures and the expense. He said ten thousand dollars would cover everything. He never mentioned a donation. If I wanted to proceed with my mother’s suspension, we needed to make preparations and find a cooperating mortuary.”

  Hearing his testimony, I sighed. There was just enough truth mixed in with the lies and distortion to make his version seem plausible.

  “He suggested he could come to Des Moines and complete the necessary arrangements. Mr. Nelson then came to Iowa and stayed about four days so that we could sign the paperwork and make all the preparations for my mother’s freezing.”

  Nothern leaned on the jury box for support. He was angled so that when Terry spoke, the jury could see Terry’s emotions play out on his expressive face. “You say you signed all the paperwork. Could you tell me exactly what you signed, and do you have any copies of what you signed?”

  “I have no idea what I signed. I was so distraught I could not think clearly. And Mr. Nelson never gave me copies of what I signed. He promised he would send me copies, but he never did.”

  I scribbled a question on Winterbotham’s yellow pad and poked it at his face, hoping he could decipher my shorthand.

  “So you believed that once your mother arrived in California, your responsibility was over until the day your mother came walking back into your life even better than when she left?”

  Terry pulled out a purple handkerchief and dabbed his eyes. “That is exactly correct, sir.”

  “Your witness, Mr. Winterbotham.”

  Winterbotham took a few minutes before he began his cross-­examination. I think he wanted to raise the tension a little more. Finally he began. “Mr. Harrington, when Mr. Nelson arrived in Iowa, where did he stay?”

  “At my home.”

  “So you had a leisurely amount of time to discuss matters and to talk. I mean, you were not under any kind of time restraint, is that correct?”

  Terry nodded. “That’s right.”

  “So in your discussions with Mr. Nelson, are you telling us that the question of donations never came up? You’re telling this jury that this was just like any other purchase, maybe like buying a car or a boat, nothing unusual, just an ordinary business deal. Right?”

  “It was not really anything unusual.”

  Winterbotham feigned exaggerated surprise for the jury’s benefit. “Your mother is dying and you want to freeze her. By your own testimony, you were feeling so very distraught, and now you’re saying it wasn’t anything unusual?”

  “Objection, counsel is badgering the witness.”

  Winterbotham spun toward Nothern. “I’d like to hear him answer the question.”

  “Sustained,” said the judge, which ended the debate.

  Winterbotham groaned and stuck out his lower lip. “Mr. Harrington, since you claim this was just an ordinary purchase of a service, would it be fair to refer to this transaction as a service agreement?”

  Terry flounced his hair. “I think that would be fair.”

  “Then as you would receive in any ordinary purchase of a service agreement, would you show me a copy of that service agreement that you and your brother signed?”

  “We never got a copy of that agreement. I already said that. Mr. Nelson promised to send me a copy of that agreement but never did.”

  I rolled my eyes at his response. Of course I had sent it.

  “Would you then explain to me, Mr. Harrington, why I have here in my hand documents signed by you and your brother donating your mother’s body and ten thousand dollars to the Cryonics Society of California?”

  “I have no idea what I signed. I was so confused and distraught, I have no idea what those documents might have said. I am, however, positive that I would never donate my mother’s body to anyone.” Terry leaned forward and spoke louder. “Don’t you understand? S
he’s my mother!”

  “I remind you, Mr. Harrington, you are under oath here today.”

  The plaintiffs’ lawyer jumped up. “Objection!”

  “Sustained,” said the judge.

  Winterbotham continued. “Up until the time of the accident at the CSC facility, would you agree that the service offered by CSC was adequate? Would you agree Mr. Nelson made every effort to comply with your wishes? Didn’t the CSC make it possible for your family and friends from Iowa to see your mother in a memorial service after being frozen in dry ice for almost two years?”

  “They did the best they could, I suppose.”

  “After the accident at Chatsworth, did Mr. Nelson come and see you at the airport in Des Moines?”

  “Yes.”

  “Were you alone?”

  “No, I was with my wife.”

  “Where did you meet Mr. Nelson?”

  “We met at the gate and then went to a restaurant at the airport.”

  “Did Mr. Nelson tell you about the capsule failure at the CSC facility?”

  “He may have mentioned it.”

  “Well, Mr. Harrington, I would think that you would remember something of this importance; either he did or he didn’t mention it. I mean it wasn’t as if he was just flying in by jumbo jet and decided to stop for a cup of coffee. It was obviously a very serious matter for him to go through the personal expense and effort to fly to Des Moines to talk to you face to face. I mean, if it wasn’t very important, he could have just telephoned you, correct?”

  “Well, yes, he did say there was a problem at the facility, something about the capsule failing for a few days. But I told him to just start it up again and keep on going. I have enormous faith in the future of science.”

  “Mr. Harrington, have you ever read any cryonics promotional material?”

  “Yes. Mr. Nelson sent a packet to me prior to his arrival in Iowa.”

  “Did you read the material he sent you?”