by John Decure
I had a sick, sinking feeling about that old man Rudy, though, with this little snuggle-bunny wife angling so openly for the privileges that power of attorney would bring her. It made Dale’s situation seem all the worse as well. The old man’s exploiters had come to Dale’s place of employment, which probably was no coincidence because the law center most likely had a shady reputation among shady characters such as these. I wanted to believe that Dale was being used, just like the old man, but that yearning did nothing to lift my spirits. Instead I was left with the sad inkling that Darwin was right, and the wolf ravages the lamb, and the world, well, maybe it keeps spinning along not in spite of these truths, but because they are so.
The savings and loan was set up inside like your standard bank, with ropes and metal standards for herding customers toward the row of teller windows on the right. A loose conglomeration of desks and low-slung cubicles filled the wide-open spaces. A single teller was open for business, waiting on a white-haired guy in a wheelchair with a money pouch in his lap. No lines to see the teller, maroon carpet everywhere, the quiet hum of bank employees at work. No one looked up from the afternoon’s business at Dale and me.
Angie was getting after a wispy man in a dark gray suit who looked like management, his forehead rippling as he shook his head. I could read his lips as he said no, ma‘am, no, ma’am, to whatever proposition she had for him. The lawyer with the Caddy must have found quick parking outside, for he was already on the scene, barking into the manager’s other ear. When the lawyer turned toward us, I saw his western belt buckle rubbing the sag in his beer gut, which triggered a memory.
“The tubby guy, the one who rushed you at the law center,” I said to Dale.
“The concrete cowboy?”
“I think his name is Robert Silver.” I’d come across him at work, but I couldn’t remember how or when. I felt certain he was some form of legal douche bag.
The wheelchair-bound customer was buzzing through on motor power and we stopped to let him pass. The money pouch in his lap looked bulky. I gave him a friendly nod but he clenched the pouch tighter with a hairy forearm and shot me the stink-eye from under his Dodger ball cap. Probably thought I was patronizing him, but I told the guy to have a nice day anyway.
“Let me guess, you disciplined Silver before,” Dale said.
The memory was coming into focus. “Not me. But I think he was in our office a couple months ago. One of our lawyers took his deposition.” That lawyer was a recent hire named Therese Rozypal, young and smart and politically conservative, I guessed, based on the autographed photo of Richard Nixon she kept on her desk.
“She got a case against him?”
“Not exactly. I think he had his ticket pulled a while back and is seeking reinstatement now. It’s his case to prove.”
Lawyers who are disbarred or resign with disciplinary charges pending can wait five years to petition the bar for reinstatement of their licenses, but it isn’t easy. The reinstatement petition is a lengthy document calling for a detailed employment and financial history, a narrative describing what the attorney has been up to during his years spent in professional exile, and personal income tax returns for the past three years. A trial is automatically set with the filing of each new reinstatement petition, and the hopeful lawyer must prove by clear and convincing evidence that he has been rehabilitated from his former bad behavior, has paid restitution to any clients he ripped off back before he lost his license, and is current with changes in the law and therefore fit to practice again.
I’ve done a half dozen reinstatements in my time as a bar prosecutor, and have come away from the experience with the rather cynical view that it is hard to buck human nature—particularly when that nature runs toward the procurement of ill-gotten gains through fraudulent means. Put another way: Once a legal douche bag, always a legal douche bag.
“Don’t look now,” Dale said. Angie’s boyfriend was also in on the meeting, guarding Rudy. He’d spotted us and was headed over.
“He can’t touch us,” I said, sizing up my advancing opponent. One sixty or seventy, not in bad shape, maybe he lifted. He was probably ten years my junior and no real match for me in the pushto-shove department. His bad ass glare could be broken down into equal parts of “Fuck you” and “Boy, I’m stupid,” and it didn’t rattle me, not here at least, in a well-lit bank full of employees. I felt my fingers twitching at my sides.
The boyfriend stepped into our path with his arms folded like Mr. Clean. “Better split, gen-tle-men. Now.”
He had the black eyes of a mongrel and his teeth were small and tightly packed. The face was brown and smooth and far too handsome to have had much experience tearing ass on people. The little shit was so close he was looking up at me, and that smirk was beginning to grate.
“Thanks,” I said, “but you don’t own the bank.”
I proceeded to step around the guy, but he took exception and clamped a hand on my right shoulder, harder than I anticipated.
“I said split, you stupid fuck.”
He’d gone over the line, putting his hands on me, and I felt that sweet burst of anger that helps me temporarily override my initial chickenshit instincts when it comes to confrontations. Meeting his stare, I quickly snatched his wrist at my collarbone and twisted it, corkscrewing his arm inward as my free hand swung up from behind, the butt of my palm nestling under his exposed elbow joint. He was bent over badly and panting already.
“You’re about to hear a large pop,” I said.
“Followed by a lot of girlish screaming, I’m guessing,” Dale added. Dale looked pale, but he hadn’t backed away any, which I appreciated.
The boyfriend strained, thoroughly off balance. I tightened my corkscrew twist, hunching him over until his black beret flopped onto the floor.
“Okay,” he whispered. “Leggo.”
“You first,” I said. He released his shoulder grab on me and I let him loose in turn. Dale scooped up the beret and handed it to the guy.
“This isn’t over, man,” the guy said, fixing his beret onto his head as if he was replacing a bird’s nest laden with fragile eggs.
My heart was banging a double-time beat, but I wanted to deny him any edge of intimidation he might think he still had.
“Wearing a beanie doesn’t make you a Guardian Angel, pal. Next time, I’ll put you down and you’ll get no warning. Now do something smart for a change and bail.” I leaned into his space, almost daring him to take a swipe.
Just then, I recognized something in me that I didn’t much care for: I only fight when I’m attacked, or sure to be attacked, that’s my rule. But lately I’ve caught myself taking chances, as if I’m coaxing that rule into play—bending it, even. Like giving this character a clean shot right after I’d humiliated him. I knew I should pull back, but the adrenaline buzz I was getting was too sublime to cut short. Shit, I knew full well what I was fighting against.
In a word: boredom. Monitoring a has-been lawyer’s probation, saving the free world from the unauthorized practice of law, twisting the arm off a dumbshit bully. I was extemporizing heavily, no doubt, but I was alive and alert and free from the usual routine, avoiding another tedious, ass-numbing, clock-watching afternoon at a computer screen. Were I not here now with Dale Bleeker, I’d be ten floors up and inside those four walls, zoning at the keyboard, drafting charges against another schmuck lawyer who couldn’t resist skimming his clients’ settlement funds, a coke addict who missed the first day of his client’s murder trial, an overstressed divorce attorney who mailed opposing counsel a used tampon with a simple note that said “Thinking of you.” Filing, filing, filing, keeping the damned assembly line rolling, only to come up for air to see a scowling Eloise Horton in my door, seeking more of her precious stats.
I pulled back to a safer distance and told Angie’s boyfriend to stay the hell out of my face. He pointed a finger at me. “You’re dead.”
“You talk a lot,” I replied. I walked on, intent on showing no further
emotion.
“My,” Dale said, regarding me as if I’d been halfway brave and halfway foolish. “That was … interesting.”
We walked by a few startled-looking women at their desks, one who was dabbing at a puddle of spilled coffee. They probably weren’t used to seeing a man in a suit square off for action inside their bank.
“Yeah, interesting,” I said.
“These guys are serious,” Dale added.
I wanted to ask him what that was supposed to mean. He’d seen his share of lowlifes as a prosecutor. The one thing you never do is carry on as if their shtick impresses you. Otherwise, you give them an edge.
“So are we,” I said.
Dale looked at me slightly askance. “I mean, they’re serious.”
Had he lost his nerve?
“That should come as no surprise. One thing I’ve learned from this job is that money brings out the worst in people.” I stopped to face him. “You know that.”
Of course a guy like Dale knew.
We continued across the lobby and were not twenty feet from the young bride and her ancient husband when Dale said, “So, what’s your take on this? You really think they’re jobbing him?”
Christ, he had lost his sack.
“I do.”
As we approached the manager, I saw the old man Rudy’s ball cap pulled down too low again for decent visibility, saw him standing there on the margins of a conversation about his own fucking stake, no doubt, and felt something else breaking loose in me. I’d seen that wrinkled, timid face piling into the Caddy back at the law center, that strange quality of looking lost and carefree at the same time, the kid going out for ice cream but with a blind, sorely misplaced trust in his companions. And I knew I’d been wrong about feeling bored. Whatever was going down, this was not about a few cheap thrills away from the office.
Dale stopped before we reached the others. “What’s our tack, J.?”
“Maybe this is a stretch, but technically, you’re still the old guy’s lawyer. I think he needs you to step in for him, Dale.”
Dale seemed to teeter a bit beneath the weight of the responsibility I’d hoisted onto him. “I dunno. It’s a big stretch, don’t you think?”
I didn’t answer him.
“I mean, I only met with him for a few minutes, and the girl did most of the talking.”
“Listen,” I said, “think about all the files back at that center with your name on them. That Julian character wasn’t going to pay you that fat salary out of the goodness of his heart. Remember, they came down there to meet with a lawyer, and for better or worse, right now you’re that lawyer.”
“Right,” he said. “I know.”
We pushed past a final cluster of white-faced bank employees. Angie was privately scolding old man Rudy when she saw us coming.
“We don’t need you no more, lawyer,” she said to Dale with a hint of Chinese accent. “So get lost, huh?” A peach of a girl. Behind her, the sad-eyed bank manager silently beseeched us to do something.
Dale caught Rudy’s eye and smiled widely. “Hi, Rudy, I came by to discuss your affairs with you some more.”
“This is his lawyer,” I said to the manager, nodding at Dale. “Is there somewhere they can talk in private?”
“Hell no, he ain’t his lawyer!” the cowboy lawyer snapped. “I am.
The bank manager looked thoroughly confused. “Somebody please help me out here.”
I introduced myself, then Dale. I also managed to vouch for Dale without mentioning the probation aspect of our affiliation.
“The question is, who is this guy?” I told the manager, nodding at the cowboy lawyer.
The lawyer sneered, rubbing his protruding gut. “That is none o’ your damn business.”
“Nice,” I said. “An attorney who won’t give his name.”
“The name’s Sawyer, for your information.” He winked at the manager. “Now I’d like to get back to what we were discussing before Mr.—”
“Sawyer,” the manager said, chewing on the name. “Just a minute. When you came, I thought you said your name was Silver.”
“Now just hold on a minute, aah think you’re mistaken. What aah said was—”
“No,” the manager said, “I’m sure of it.”
Angie huffed. “Fuck, Bobby, that was smart.”
“Bobby Silver,” I said. “How could I forget. You came in to my office to have your deposition taken, remember? So, you still trying to get your law license back?”
“I don’t know you, sir, but you can kindly go to hell just the same.
“Mr. Silver is not currently licensed to practice law in this state,” I told the manager.
Silver’s face reddened and his eyes got rounder. “That’s a damn lie!”
“Which means he can’t represent anybody.”
“Aah am still this man’s lawyer!”
“We can sort this out with one quick phone call to my employer,” I told the manager. “Do you have an office?”
He looked over his shoulder. “Right over here.”
“Let’s.”
Angie turned to look for her boyfriend’s backup, which wasn’t there, and in that instant, Dale Bleeker found a way to really help his new client. In a flash he snatched Rudy by the hand, yanking him out of Angie’s reach as he led him away.
“Come on,” Dale told the old man, “we need to talk about some things in private.” Rudy didn’t appear to know what was happening, and offered Dale a smile and no resistance.
Angie was hot. “Hey, fucker!” she snarled at Dale. Then she whirled to find her boyfriend. “Carlito!” But Carlito was still rubbing his elbow where I’d tweaked it. “Hey, you, hold on!” she shouted as we headed in full-tilt-boogie mode for the manager’s office. “Stop ’em, Bobby!”
We made it to the office door, but Bobby Silver and Carlito had come up fast on Dale and the slow-footed Rudy. Then, just as Angie made a stab at Rudy’s free hand, a wide-bodied uniformed security guard stepped into the action and addressed the manager.
“Mr. Dobbs?” he said, reporting for duty with one hand on his black leather gun holster.
“These three are causing trouble,” Mr. Dobbs told the guard, nodding at Angie and her merry band of idiots. “Please escort them out.”
Silver and Carlito went rather quietly, but not Angie. “He’s my fucking husband, goddamn you! No!” The guard waltzed her by the elbow toward the glass doors. “You’re making a big mistake! My husband got one big-ass account! We’ll take our business right out of here!”
Christ, I thought, where is this poor man’s family? And where were they when the girl got her hooks in him? I felt disgusted with the whole spectacle, the blatant money grab.
Angie’s final threat had apparently resonated with Dobbs the manager. “She’ll be back,” he said, watching her go. Then he turned to us. “Mr. Kirkmeyer,” he said to Rudy, “these men and I are going to try to help you.”
Rudy tugged at the bill of his Rotary Club ball cap. “Hi there.” His memory was obviously coming and going like a breeze through an open side window.
I glanced across the lobby, where Bobby Silver, Carlito, and Rudy’s new wife, Angie, were getting the royal sendoff. For the first time since Eugene Podette’s wife, Trixie, had stepped to the podium in state bar court and so convincingly stolen my thunder, I sensed that I was in charge again, controlling the play.
Or maybe I was deluding myself again.
Mr. Dobbs led us into a square office with two big burgundy leather chairs facing a no-nonsense oak desk with a gold nameplate that read “World’s Greatest Dad.” He was fair-skinned, with round Howdy Doody ears and brown hair as fine as peach fuzz on a smallish head, like a boy who didn’t quite fit in an adult’s body. I watched him close his office door rather mechanically, like a blind man following directions, and I realized that he had been seriously shaken up and was having trouble concentrating. I had Dale and Rudy sit down and told Dobbs I wouldn’t need a chair, but another empl
oyee was knocking at the door with one for me already. People at this bank apparently aimed to please.
“Anything I can get you?” Dobbs asked. I thought of Carlito adjusting his beret out there on the sidewalk, waiting for me, and almost made a joke about taking that security guard on loan. Dale wanted coffee, black, and I wondered again if he’d been drinking earlier. Shit, what an afternoon.
I called Honey Chavez, my secretary at the state bar, and had her look up Bobby Silver on her computer. Robert E. Silver. The E stood for Earnest. He’d been disbarred six years ago on multiple counts of misappropriation of client funds, charging unconscionably high fees, client abandonment, and various acts of moral turpitude involving the proffer of false documents and perjured statements. Not exactly living up to his middle name.
His petition for reinstatement had been filed nine months ago, Honey went on, trial date set for February 22—shit, that was next Monday. I’d guessed right a minute ago that Bobby Silver was ineligible to practice law, yet here he was “representing” a dubious wife and her rather out-of-it husband in an inside fleece job.
“Thanks, Honey,” I said, which always sounds sexist, but what am I supposed to say?
By the time I handed the phone back to the manager, I was already certain I would testify against Silver on Monday. He would pay a price for the crap he’d tried to pull today.
I told Dobbs and Dale about Silver’s history. “But forgetting Mr. Silver for a moment, what do you think this means?” Dobbs said. He shoved a sheet of paper stamped “confidential” at me. It was a marriage certificate: Rudolph John Kirkmeyer and Angelina Ho. Two days old. “I’ve never dealt with a situation quite like this,” Dobbs added.