by Bob Nelson
“Yes, I looked at it briefly. I had already decided to freeze my mother, so I didn’t feel the need to read every word.”
“How about your brother? Wasn’t he interested enough to read this unique material, to understand the arrangements surrounding this life-saving experiment for your mother? Are you sure, Mr. Harrington, that your self-serving loss of memory is not connected to your effort to extract a large financial settlement out of this lawsuit?”
“Objection! Your Honor, counsel is extremely argumentative,” said Nothern.
“Sustained.”
Winterbotham scowled. Worse still, the judge and jury saw it.
“So, Mr. Harrington, do I understand you correctly that even in the face of knowing all the other cryonics suspended patients in California are acknowledged medical donors, that all the frozen patients throughout the country are medical donors, and that no cryonics organization anywhere in the world will accept a patient for cryonic suspension unless through donation, you still claim you never heard about the medical donor requirement in order to be a candidate for becoming a cryonic suspension patient?”
“That’s right; no one ever mentioned that.”
I was thrilled and had to sit on my hands so that I wouldn’t show my giddiness. Go on, hang yourselves. All the documentation was on our side.
“I have no more questions, Your Honor.”
The next witness was Dennis Harrington. Dennis was muscular; he owned and taught at a karate school. He was a soft-spoken man who had also loved his mother.
Dennis stuck to the script and parroted everything his brother Terry had said. He added that he had wondered how CSC would be capable of bringing his mother back to life; it sounded very expensive. “Mr. Nelson said that with any luck, we should have her back in a few years.”
Winterbotham raised his eyebrows and inched forward, poised for attack. “That’s odd. Wasn’t it stated earlier that Mr. Nelson promised to pay for the liquid nitrogen for a thousand years? So which is it—a few years or a thousand years?”
Dennis looked to his brother and, not receiving any help, merely shrugged.
“Mr. Harrington, why did you and your brother have your father removed from his grave in Iowa?”
“Mr. Nelson said it might even be possible to bring him back too.”
“Yes, but your father had been dead for two years, autopsied, and embalmed.”
“Mr. Nelson said there might be a few cells alive, and if we could find a couple we might be able to clone them.”
I coughed to stifle a laugh. That assertion was so absurd, I couldn’t comprehend how anyone could possibly believe it. I looked at the jury and saw them enraptured by his testimony. Sickening dread washed over me when I realized they believed him. This was not a good omen.
“Was your father frozen after he was delivered to the CSC storage vault?”
“No, he was not.”
“Did they look for any alive cells?”
“No, they didn’t.”
“How much did it cost to transfer your father to your mother’s cemetery?”
“It was three thousand dollars.”
“And whom was the money paid to?”
“I don’t know.”
“Well, Mr. Harrington, I have a record here that shows that Terry and you paid three thousand dollars for mortuary services, which covered the removal from the ground in Iowa and the flight to California. There was no other purpose than to keep both of your parents at the same burial site.”
Nothern stood up. “Is there a question forthcoming?”
Winterbotham turned and glared at him but continued. “Do you expect this jury to believe that Mr. Nelson actually suggested that science could revive your father after he’d been autopsied? And more important, Mr. Harrington, do you think anyone here today believes that even you could believe such nonsense could ever be possible?”
Dennis pointed a finger at me. “He made me believe it.”
“Mr. Harrington, were you aware that Mr. Nelson gave a lecture to a group of doctors at the Iowa Memorial Hospital? The title of the talk was ‘Death and the Dying Patient’ and was arranged by your brother. He discussed how cryonics stalls the dying process after today’s doctors have declared the patient legally dead. Then the CSC brings the patient far into the future for help not yet possible by today’s medical science.”
“I don’t remember that talk exactly.”
“You don’t remember that cryonics was explained to those doctors exactly as Mr. Nelson explained it to you—as an all-volunteer, medical-donation enterprise whose idea was slowly spreading all across the country?”
“No, sir, I don’t remember that.”
“Did you know that Mr. Nelson has been on countless radio and television shows? He’s explained that suspended animation is not guaranteed in any way to be successful. If someone is buried or cremated, only then can we be certain of their future.”
Dennis responded with a blank stare.
“No more questions.”
As Dennis exited the witness stand, I watched him intently, wondering how he could expect anyone to believe such lies.
All of a sudden I heard a pssst. I looked over to see Winterbotham’s head down on the table. He was asleep again, snoring and now drooling! I was mortified. Joseph Klockgether shook Winterbotham’s lapels, and I gave him sharp jabs with my elbows. The jury was laughing their collective ass off at him and, consequently, at me. The judge stared in disbelief and then banged the gavel for the bailiffs to remove the jury.
I couldn’t believe my rotten luck. I could tell that Worthington was thinking the same thing—he couldn’t believe his luck. Worthington, the Worm, grinned like a Cheshire cat and acted like he’d just won the lottery.
For five minutes the two bailiffs tried waking Winterbotham. Spectators were laughing, and the reporters were scribbling in their notepads. I sat there confounded, wondering what kept happening to my attorney. The judge looked pissed and ordered the bailiffs, “Wake him, clean him up, and drag him, if necessary, into my chambers.”
The bailiffs were big men and looked strong, but Winterbotham was over six feet tall and more than two hundred pounds of dead weight. As the bailiffs lugged him to the restroom, his arms slung over their shoulders, he roused out of unconsciousness and struggled against their firm grip. He yelled and gnashed his teeth like a rabid dog. None of his grunts sounded intelligible though, and I just had to breathe fast.
The judge banged his gavel, attempting to restore some amount of order. Most of the gallery quieted, but he still had to speak over Winterbotham’s growling. “When Mr. Winterbotham is able, will the attorneys come to my chambers? Mr. Nelson, will you come also?”
I was shocked, and so was Mr. Freedman, Klockgether’s attorney. He told me in all his years practicing law, he had never heard of a defendant being asked to join the attorneys in chambers. “Bob, you should get rid of him. He is making a laughingstock out of you. Tell the judge you want to become your own attorney.”
Thirty minutes later, Winterbotham returned to the courtroom. The bailiff opened the judge’s door and ushered us in. After we were seated around an imposing oak table, the judge began. “Mr. Winterbotham, yesterday I gave you twenty-four hours to get your medication adjusted so that you could function in this trial, and you fell asleep right in the middle of a sentence.”
“Yes, sir; I knew I’d need more for the trial, but I guess the doctor hasn’t gotten the dosage right yet, Your Honor.”
“Well, I’m going to give you one more chance to get it right, Mr. Winterbotham. If you don’t, you’re going to be found in contempt of court and will be sentenced to jail. This is your very last chance, do you understand me?”
My attorney nodded, drool stains still on his shirt. “Yes, sir, I do.”
I jumped in and asked, “Wait a minute, what’s going on he
re? What kind of medicine is he taking?”
The judge swung his head to me, and his eyes grew wide. He took a deep breath and said, “Are you telling me you don’t know that Mr. Winterbotham is manic-depressive and takes lithium?” I could only shake my head. He turned to my attorney. “Mr. Winterbotham, you don’t have a signed release from Mr. Nelson allowing you to represent him in your present condition?”
There was no response.
“Oh, boy,” said the judge. After what seemed like an eternity, the judge looked at Nothern and said, “Let’s get brutally honest here. What you and your clients are after is money, and unless I’m wrong, Mr. Nelson has none.”
“That’s right, Your Honor,” I answered. “I had to sell my car just to pay Mr. Winterbotham to represent me.”
The judge reminded the plaintiffs’ attorneys that I had a guaranteed appeal because of Winterbotham’s failure to obtain a written release to represent me while using lithium. I also had an equally good shot at a new trial because of the judge’s denial to allow the Anatomical Gift Act to be introduced.
Well, this is an unexpected development, I thought. I was surprised at his candor and had assumed judges tried to avoid their decisions being overruled, since it might make them look bad. Obviously, with this judge, I was wrong.
“Now I would suggest that you gentlemen let Mr. Nelson out of this action and continue one against Mr. Klockgether, who has the malpractice insurance and the money you’re after. Otherwise, even if you win against Mr. Nelson, you can’t collect until after his appeal is heard and there is a new trial. Believe me, gentlemen, he will be granted a new trial.”
Nothern and Worthington exchanged conflicted glances and asked the judge if they could have fifteen minutes in private. My one indulgence was enjoying the look of panic smear across Worthington’s face as they left the room.
Those next fifteen minutes sitting in the judge’s chambers felt like hundreds of years. It felt so long, I wouldn’t have been surprised if reanimation had become possible during that interval. I couldn’t look at Winterbotham or the judge. I just fidgeted, swallowed up by my deep leather chair. When the attorneys returned, they informed the judge they did not want to release me from the lawsuit. I learned later they felt they needed me, the General, to win their case. These guys were great chess players, and they had some brilliant moves planned.
I saw my opening and said, “Your Honor, I would like to make a motion here.” I had never made a motion in my life. Before the judge could reply, I continued, “I would like to make a motion to fire my attorney and represent myself, on the grounds that he keeps falling asleep.”
The judge looked at me with a barely concealed grin. “I’m sorry, Mr. Nelson. I cannot allow that, but if he falls asleep one more time . . . well, we will see what happens then. That’s all for today.”
The ride home was a nightmare from hell. Winterbotham looked like a pale, unblinking zombie from a horror movie, and I felt like one of his captured victims. I think he was so addlepated that it didn’t register with him that I had asked the judge for permission to fire him. We didn’t speak a word, and when we arrived at his house, I jumped out of the car without a good-bye and jogged to my vehicle.
That night I tried to sleep, but my eyes remained wide open as I wondered how much crazier this trial could get. I had never before been in a sinking vortex where things kept spinning faster and faster out of control. I could not comprehend that my attorney, who had gotten my last nickel, was mentally ill and taking lithium, which causes people to fall sleep. People on this medication should not be representing clients in court.
This manic-depressive was representing me, fighting for my honor, my reputation, and my financial future. Yes, he was fighting for my fucking life.
And he was nuts.
On the other side of the courtroom aisle, there was Mr. Nothern, who was so smooth and beguiling that he could convince my mother to side with the plaintiffs. And even more unbelievable, I liked him.
The next morning I had simmered down. I resigned myself to just riding this nutso trial to its conclusion and then deciding how to proceed with my life. Winterbotham always looked great in the morning but deteriorated as the court session went on. He thought I would take the stand that day. We arrived at 8:45 a.m., and court began at 9:00 a.m.
The next witness for the plaintiffs was Marie Brown, Louis Nisco’s daughter, who wanted her own piece of the malpractice pie. Years earlier she had called CSC and begged me to move her father’s capsule to our Chatsworth facility so that Ed Hope wouldn’t kick his body into the street. She essentially testified that I had agreed to pick up her father’s capsule and replace the liquid nitrogen for free, forever! That was all Marie offered the court.
Her statements were another pinprick to my soul, an additional betrayal of my decade of service and sacrifice.
Winterbotham asked why anyone would go through all the work and enormous expense of picking up that capsule, moving it to California, storing it, and replacing liquid nitrogen for perhaps centuries. “All of that free of charge,” he said. “Did that make any sense to you, Ms. Brown?”
She shrugged. “I just thought they wanted to do that.”
“You just thought they wanted to accept this responsibility forever for free; that is your testimony before this court today?”
“Yes, sir.”
“How much money did you give Mr. Nelson?”
No answer.
“It was zero. How much did he pay on your behalf?”
“Fifteen hundred dollars,” she replied after an interminable pause.
“He was doing you a favor. He rescued your father.” He pointed his finger at her. “You washed your hands of your father’s care, and Mr. Nelson stepped up. Isn’t that what really happened?”
No answer.
“Please answer the question.”
She said softly, “He deceived me.”
I tried handing Winterbotham her handwritten note that she had sent me after I took charge of her father’s capsule. I glanced through the flowery cursive she had sent me then as I listened to her testimony; the startling disconnect wounded me yet again.
Mr. Nelson,
This letter is about my father’s care and continued suspension. I am simply unable to find the money to help keep his suspension going. At this point in time, I am donating the capsule and my father to the Cryonics Society of California, and whatever happens will be in your hands. I am unable to donate any money whatsoever. At this point in time, I find it necessary to walk away from this responsibility. I wish you good luck and thank you with all my heart for your amazing work in the field of cryonic suspension.
Best wishes,
Marie Brown
I willed Winterbotham to keep pushing her for the truth, but he didn’t. He spun on his heel, stomped back to our table, and sat down.
With that, the plaintiffs rested their case.
The Defense
Winterbotham called me as his first witness for the defense. As I stood with my hand on the Bible being sworn in, I looked across the courtroom and noticed he was laughing. A few minutes earlier he had been glowering, as though he might kill someone.
He sat at the conference table, swinging his legs and giggling like a schoolkid. The judge waited for several minutes before asking if he was ready to proceed with questioning me. Winterbotham snapped to and stood up, but he was still laughing, presumably at me. Oh, God, I thought. What am I doing here? Am I the laughingstock of this entire courtroom?
I was upset. I had hoped my testimony could salvage my case and convince the jury I hadn’t deceived anyone. Instead, the focus was entirely on my attorney and his mood swings.
His first question was: “Mr. Nelson, what do you do for a living?”
“I’m an electronics technician, and I own my own business, which gave me the opportunity to function at
CSC as president.”
“Mr. Nelson, are you a scientist, an inventor, or a doctor?”
“No, I am not, sir.”
“Then how were you qualified to run a cryonics society and freeze people?” His question had a harsh, sarcastic edge.
I could not believe what the son-of-a-bitch was doing to me! He was treating me like a hostile witness! Well, I had to go on—hoping it would get better.
I said, “It’s a matter of faith, Mr. Winterbotham. If you believe—no, strike that—if I believe in something, I give it 100 percent of my support. I felt like this was my calling. Does that make any sense?”
“Certainly it does.” Winterbotham looked at the jury. “Certainly it does. Would you explain to this jury how you became involved in cryonics?”
I answered that I attended one of the first meetings about low-temperature biology as it applies to human beings. After CSC was formed and I was elected president, I enlisted professionals to help discover reliable methods of human suspended animation.
“Tell us, Mr. Nelson, how much money did you or CSC receive for freezing the first man, Dr. James Bedford?”
“We never received a single penny or a thank-you. As a matter of fact, CSC paid for all the chemicals, the dry ice, and a specially constructed storage container. We also paid for transportation, ten days’ storage, and the delivery of Dr. Bedford’s body to his son, Norman.”
“Who was the next person frozen by CSC?”
“That was Marie Sweet. She was a valued and active member of CSC.”
“When did Marie Sweet get suspended?”
“August 27, 1967.”
“How much money did CSC receive for Ms. Sweet’s suspension?”
“We received three hundred dollars; that was all the money the family had to their name. She and her husband, Russ Van Norden, lived on Social Security. Professor Ettinger also donated one hundred dollars for Marie.”
“Tell us, Mr. Nelson, about the next cryonics freezing.”
“That was Ms. Helen Kline. Helen was the first person I ever spoke to about human suspended animation.”