“But your honor, we believe that it’s clear on its face that Dr. Prendergast can’t testify for Defendant Jones,” said attorney Mike Langdon.
“Counselor,” said Rubino with a raised voice, “at the risk of repeating myself, I order you to make a written motion and it will be placed on the calendar. I thought I had made it clear that we wouldn’t be addressing any substantive issues today.”
I noticed that Josie smiled and gave a snap of her head, as if to say, “Go get him, big guy.”
We had been at this for almost two hours. If there’s one word that can describe a large pretrial conference, it’s “tedious.”
Rubino looked at his watch and said, “Okay, it’s 2:30. Let’s take a 20-minute break and be back here at 2:50.”
“Sharp,” Josie barked.
***
I thought I’d hug the judge for calling a break. I needed a little horse ride. I grabbed my briefcase and headed to the men’s room. I entered a stall and reached into my case. Shit. Oh my God. My bag of H wasn’t there. Then I recalled leaving it in the glove compartment of my car. I had driven straight to court that morning and parked in the municipal lot across the street. It’s not like I need a hit, I thought, it just would help get me through this endless fucking hearing. I didn’t have time to grab my overcoat, so I just set out into the 32-degree air and walked quickly to the parking garage. It was starting to snow, mixed with sleet. I opened my car door and sat, reaching for the glove compartment. I tapped on the bag and poured the powder on top of my briefcase. I took a business card and arranged it into a line. Hell, I thought, why not two lines. I breathed in the wonderful white stuff, and began to feel better. Because I knew it could be a long hearing, I figured I better snort a couple more lines, just to make up for lost time. I felt the calmness, the wonderful euphoria as I climbed onto Mr. White Horse. I glanced at my watch. 12 minutes to go. No problem, I thought. Let me just close my eyes for a bit and enjoy the feeling.
I woke up from my nod at 4:10 p.m. Holy shit, I thought, I fucking blew it. I grabbed my briefcase and left the garage. It was snowing and sleeting heavily. As I walked up to the entrance of the Daley Center, my foot hit a puddle of icy slush and I fell forward. Fortunately I didn’t hit the pavement with my nose, but my face was covered with filthy slush, although I didn’t realize it.
I strode to Judge Rubino’s chambers and opened the door slowly. The room was empty, except for Josie Johnston. She looked at me like I was a freshly dropped pile of dog shit. She reached under her desk and handed me a box of Kleenex. “You may want to wipe that crap off your face, counselor.” She snapped a picture with her cell phone.
“I’m sorry. I fell, I guess, and, well, I guess I missed part of the hearing.”
“After you fell it took you two hours to get up?”
“I, I, I don’t know. I’m sorry.”
“Because you’re the plaintiff’s attorney, you were the most important one in the room. You didn’t even hand in your list of experts. That’s why the judge let everybody else go after 45 minutes of waiting for you. Your case has been dismissed, counselor. You will have to bring a motion to reinstate, and it better be good. You first have to get it past me and then the judge. Expect a lot of opposition to your motion.”
I handed her my list of expert witnesses.
“I can’t accept that and you know it. The case was dismissed and time-stamped over an hour ago. I can’t accept any papers on a case that has been dismissed.”
I mumbled something, and I can’t recall what it was. As I walked slowly down the hall, I heard a shout. It was Josie. I turned to face her. She walked up to me and put a hand on my shoulder.
“Matt, what the fuck is going on with you?”
Chapter 15
My father once told me that trying a case is nothing more than telling a story, a story that a jury will buy. I found myself in the need of a story. For as long as I can remember, I’ve always told the truth, especially to those close to me. But how can I tell the truth about this? How the hell can I tell my father and Bill Randolph that I got fucked up on heroin and nodded off instead of appearing in court? How can I sign an Attorney’s Affidavit on the Motion to Reinstate when I have to lie?
Wait a minute—I fell asleep. I didn’t get a good sleep the night before, and that’s the golden truth. I never seem to get a good night’s sleep lately. So I did fall asleep in my car. I don’t have to describe it as the “nod of Mr. White Horse.” I just fell asleep. God’s honest truth. I’ll tell that to my father, to Bill Randolph, and I’ll put it in my affidavit to attach to the Motion to Reinstate. I simply fell asleep. It can happen to anybody. It’s not like I’m a drug addict, I thought.
But, of course, I was.
***
Bill Randolph and my father bought my story about falling asleep. And why wouldn‘t they buy it? It was the truth. Bill even told me a story about him once falling asleep as opposing counsel was making his opening statement.
I prepared the affidavit to attach to the Motion to Reinstate Langley v. Goodyear, et. al. In it, I explained just what I told everybody, how I hadn’t had much sleep recently and I simply dozed off in my car.
Bill Randolph, like my father, is a well-respected player in the game of Chicago litigation. Bill made an appointment to visit Judge Rubino, his old friend and law school classmate. He couldn’t discuss Langley v. Goodyear, et. al., of course, because of the strict rule against a judge hearing an argument on a matter before the court unless all sides are present. He just chatted with the judge and discussed in general terms the problem of a lawyer dozing off at a critical time.
“Bill,” said the judge, “do you have any idea how hard it is for me to stay awake through a lot of this bullshit? I hear you, my friend. Of course I assume you’re not referring to a specific case,” he said with a wink.
“Of course not, your honor,” Bill said.
Langley v. Goodyear, et. al. was reinstated in time for the return of my friend Scotty Jenkins, the attorney in charge of the case. I told Scotty all about the dismissal and reinstatement fiasco and he bought it. I’m getting good at telling stories, I thought. Maybe I should write a novel.
Chapter 16
In the three months since my enlightening vacation in sunny Florida it slowly it dawned on me that I was in trouble. Getting a case dismissed highlighted my recent fucked-up life in that regard. Thank God it got reinstated, but I started to have doubts about what was happening to me. Actually I had no doubts at all. I knew exactly what was happening. I was becoming a heroin addict, a fucking junkie. My research into the dangers of addiction was limited to a stoned conversation with Jimmy. He said it was not a problem, nothing like crack or even just straight cocaine. Just inhale a line every now and then and life is good.
But life wasn’t good. Between doses, I realized that my life had taken a weird turn. A few hours after a snort or two, it was time to mount Mr. White Horse again, and fuck everything else. At least it was predictable.
Snorting heroin is a goal-oriented business. Your goal is simple, to achieve the same level of euphoria that you got the last time. Problem is, for some people, people like me, it takes more of the shit to achieve that goal. I remembered the first time—only three months ago. I was pleasantly wasted over one line, and it lasted for a good while. In between snorts I wasn’t uncomfortable or in any kind of pain. It’s just that after a while my mind would tell me it would be awfully nice to take another snort. Then the time periods started to get closer, and the dose never seemed to be enough.
A couple of weeks ago I bumped into Woody Donovan, our investigator, at Stroger Hospital.
“Hey, big guy, what the hell are you doing here?” said Woody.
“I just wanted to check on some medical records that I haven’t received yet.”
“That’s what I’m for,” said Woody. “I’m here a lot, taking statements and interviewing witnesses. Anytime you need something, Matt, just let me know.”
Of course I didn�
�t tell Woody that I was there to meet Mike Jonas, my heroin dealer. I’m going to have to meet Mike somewhere else, I thought.
People say that practicing law is a stressful business. Deadlines to meet, papers to file, people to interview, trials to prepare for. It’s a steady routine of keeping the balls you’re juggling from falling to the floor. Being a heroin addict and a trial lawyer makes it even trickier. The one ball you never want to drop is the time for the next dose.
I comforted myself with the realization that I at least recognized the issue. I always thought of it as an issue, not a problem. Junkies are masterful bullshitters, especially with themselves. But I did recognize that my addiction was there, and that it wasn’t getting any better. So all I had to do was keep an eye on it, and make sure I didn’t overdo it. But isn’t overdoing it the point?
I know, I thought, I’ll call Jimmy Escobedo. I don’t blame Jimmy one bit for my “issue.” I’m a big boy. I could have refused the heroin and gotten smashed on Scotch instead. Jimmy didn‘t cause anything. He’s a good guy. But I needed to talk to him. It’s been three months.
I called Jimmy’s office number.
“The number you are calling is no longer in service.”
What the fuck? Jimmy is nothing but organized, I thought. He’d never lose a valuable number like that. The phone number for a successful recording studio is an asset in itself. If he moved his studio, I’m sure he would have taken the number with him, or paid to have the calls forwarded.
I called his cell phone.
“The number you are calling is no longer in service.”
This is nuts, I thought. Has Jimmy decided to join a commune somewhere?
I was sitting in front of my computer, so I figured I’d just Google his name and see if there was some kind of announcement. I put in the search string “James Escobedo Delray Recording Studio.”
The return page showed a lot of search hits, which was not surprising because Jimmy is somewhat famous. Oh my God. The first article was a headline from the Sun Sentinel Delray Beach News.
“Delray Beach Music Impresario Jimmy Escobedo Dies of Heroin Overdose.”
The article went on to explain that a hypodermic needle was found next to his body.
My friend Jimmy, the recreational heroin snorter, had turned to main-lining. And now he’s dead.
Chapter 17
Maggie laughed hysterically as we galloped along the surf in Malibu. I rode a black horse with gray spots. Maggie rode a big, muscular white horse.
“I’ve got to get me one of these, Matt,” she yelled.
Ouch, my neck was killing me as I came out of my sleep. After a long nod, my neck always hurt. Looking in the mirror after I showered one morning, I noticed a red mark on my upper chest. I realized it was a discoloration caused by my chin.
May announced itself gloriously. Tiny snow piles from a late April blizzard were still melting along La Salle Street. Today was my day to start wrapping myself around The Estate of James Spellman and Diana Spellman v. Gulf Oil Company and Harold Morgan. Even after a casual glance at Woody’s intake notes, it was obvious that the case was worth easily $10 million or more. The decedent, as we call the dead person in a wrongful death case, James Spellman, collided with a pickup truck that swerved into his car and caused him to hit a utility pole. From what Woody had learned so far, eyewitness testimony would prove that the defendant was on his cell phone either texting or talking at the time of the impact. Spellman was an investigative journalist, and a talented one at that. His income history showed that he earned an average of $200,000 annually over the previous five years. He was only 30 years old when he died, so the economic damages would be enormous. You don’t need to be an economist to see that a large income spread over many decades of a normal life expectancy adds up to a large pot of gold, even when you discount it to present value. Besides the economic damages, the evidence showed that he suffered for a long time before he died. This is the survival action, or the pain and suffering part of the case. It would also be a big number. The pickup truck, driven by defendant Harold Morgan, was owned by Gulf Oil, Morgan’s employer. Talk about a deep pocket? No policy limits, no bullshit insurance adjusters. The sky was the limit.
I looked at photos in the file. There was a picture of James Spellman’s wife, Diana, standing next to him. My god what a beautiful woman, I thought. Her current age is 31. According to Woody’s thorough intake sheet, Diana was 5’9,” brunette, and had pale blue eyes. Woody didn’t use an adjective to describe her eyes, but from the photo I thought they were mesmerizing. My father and Bill Randolph said that Diana Spellman watched me try the Andres case. Apparently she wanted to see someone from our firm in action. I didn’t recall seeing her. When you’re on trial, you blot out a lot of things around you. I must have been really focused not to remember this gorgeous lady. In his intake sheet, Woody didn’t describe her body. The photos did that. My thoughts turned to Maggie, as usual. Whenever I look at a beautiful woman, Maggie’s image always floats before me.
I hadn’t met our client Diana Spellman yet. She was in Scotland on a trip with her parents visiting relatives.
I made extensive notes of my impressions and my questions on both liability and damages, and looked at my watch. It was almost noon, and I was about to meet the famous Dr. Benjamin Weinberg, or Bennie as everybody calls him. Woody had told us that the Spellman file had an odor all over it, based on the information we had on the witnesses. Woody is a seasoned detective, and can spot inconsistencies like a bloodhound can sniff a trail.
“There’s a lot of bullshit going on here, Matt,” Woody had told me. “That’s why I convinced your dad and Bill to spend the money on Bennie Weinberg. Nobody bullshits Bennie.”
My intercom buzzed. “Dr. Weinberg is here to see you Matt.”
Chapter 18
Ben was on the short side, about 5’7.” The top of his head was bald, and he was a bit overweight, but his suntan and broad smile gave him a handsome appearance. He wore an expensive spring suit, which he could definitely afford with the money we were paying him. From reading up on his background, I knew he was recently with the NYPD as a detective as well as a psychiatrist. He still works for the NYPD as well as the FBI on a contract basis. My military training focused my attention on the gun that was strapped to his chest under his suit. He saw me looking, patted his chest, smiled and said, “Never leave home without it.”
He thrust out his hand, gave me a firm grip, and told me to call him Bennie.
“So you’re the young courtroom tiger your dad has been telling me all about. $12 million for your first verdict ain’t bad kid.”
“Thanks for the compliment, Bennie, but to be honest with you, the defense had such a shit poor case my secretary could have won it.”
“Don’t be so modest, but I appreciate honesty. That’s why they call me...”
“Bennie the Bullshit detector?” I said, finishing his sentence.
“The one and only. But tell me a bit more about you, Matt. I’ve been friends with your dad for longer than I can remember, but I always like to get to know who I’m working with.”
That got me nervous, really nervous. This guy is legendary for his ability to see through people. I’d have to be careful to conceal my little secret, my romance with heroin. I filled Bennie in on my life for the past few years, skipping lightly over my vacation in Delray Beach, Florida. I told him all about Maggie, and how I still wasn’t over her.
“Your dad told me all about that, Matt. I can’t tell you how sorry I am. My wife is named Maggie too. Maybe that helped make your tragedy more personal for me. I’ve seen her picture. A beautiful young woman and her life was snuffed out by some asshole on a cell phone. So how are you coping with your loss?”
“I just keep myself busy, which is easy to do in this firm. Bill Randolph has been a lot of help. He lost his wife a few years ago and he’s been coaching me on how to accept what’s happened.”
“I heard that you almost got your leg blo
wn off in Iraq. How’s that going?”
“Still hurts, but I just live with it.”
“Anybody who doesn’t realize that war sucks has never seen it. When I was an internist I was a combat physician with the 82nd Airborne in the First Gulf War. I’ve seen enough blasted bodies to last me a lifetime. Now I’m happy to be a psychiatrist. I just deal with liars and fuckups.”
I laughed. It was hard not to like Bennie. I could see how he gets people to open up to him. But damn, he asks a lot of questions.
“So you almost got yourself killed, then you lost the love of your life. That’s a lot of heavy shit for a young guy like you. You must be one tough hombre to put up with all of that.”
“Well, I just do.”
“Have a cold coming on, Matt?”
“No, why do you ask?”
“I just notice that you wipe your nose a lot.”
I thought that the Bullshit Detector had caught a whiff of something.
“Ben, do you want to ask me something?” I couldn’t believe I said that, but something from deep in my gut wanted to engage with the famous psychiatrist. Was I asking for him to throw me a lifeline? I don’t know. I could sure as hell use a snort, but if I excused myself to go to the john, Bennie would know that I took a nose-full from the way I acted, even though I had convinced myself that my behavior didn’t change after a hit.
“Well let me put it this way, Matt. Your dad’s firm is paying me a shitload of dough to come here and work on a big case. My presence is professional, but Jim Blake is an old friend, and I don’t think I can live with myself if I don’t ask you a couple of questions.”
“Did my father put you up to this?”
“Not exactly, but he did say, ‘Keep an eye on Matt. He’s been under a lot of stress.’ ”
Sideswiped: Book One in the Matt Blake legal thriller series Page 5