SS 18: Shark Skin Suite: A Novel
Page 19
“What’s this case about?” asked Serge.
“The newspaper wants a strong lead-in for their feature ‘Florida Man Crashes Through Skylight of Couple’s Residence, Goes on Defecating Rampage in Living Room.’ This is where four years of journalism school has brought me?”
Serge patted him on the shoulder. “Keep the flame burning.” He turned toward Coleman sitting on the other side. “What do you think of the testimony?”
“Let’s get out of here.”
“Of all people, I thought you’d get a big kick out of this case.”
Coleman stood up. “Hits too close to home.”
They checked out the action in the other courtrooms. Various writs and motions. Serge made notes of how the attorneys spoke.
Just before five o’clock, the pair left the building and drove away in the Cobra, passing a parked Datsun where the driver prepared to take a photo of someone standing on the sidewalk: “Hold on a second while I put up the window.”
KEY WEST
Another lamp shattered in a spacious resort suite.
“I couldn’t believe my ears this morning!” screamed Red Moss. “Was I the only person listening to their opening argument?”
A hand raised timidly to shoulder level. “I was listening.”
“Shut the hell up!”
The attorney from Dartmouth cleared his throat.
“What!” snapped Moss.
“But we spent weeks extensively scripting our opening, and all the partners approved it. Then we rehearsed day and night.”
“Ever watch boxing?” asked Red. “You start with a game plan, but then you move when you see a goddamn fist. He anticipated your opening, and then you got up and stepped right into the punch! These are two rookies, for Christ’s sake!”
“But we haven’t shown them our easel yet. It’s expensive.”
“Out! Before I kill you!”
Another miniature stampede.
Another trip to the minibar. A disposable cell phone was dialed. “Yeah, it’s Moss again . . . You wouldn’t believe what happened in court this morning. Thank God it’s Friday and we have the weekend to recover . . . What do you mean you have even worse news? . . . He asked a private investigator to look into what? Grand-Bourg Holding? Damn! That changes everything . . . Yes, I’m calling from an untraceable phone . . .”
Chapter TWENTY-SEVEN
DOWNTOWN MIAMI
It was the type of thick metal sign with raised letters that suggested it weighed a lot and that the building behind it was on some kind of historic register. They laid the cornerstone in 1925. Used to be the tallest thing in town.
Today it’s in the shadows. If you’ve never seen the Miami-Dade courthouse, think of old cop shows like Dragnet and Adam-12 where the police badges featured Los Angeles City Hall with a tower capped by a pyramid.
The foot traffic was determined in the midday heat. Folded newspapers, briefcases, take-out bags with Cuban sandwiches. A teenager sprinted up the middle of the street with a fistful of wristwatches. A whiskered man on the corner of Flagler had been screaming and kicking his own bicycle for five minutes. A shopowner chasing the shoplifting teen was hit by an ambulance. One of the folded newspapers told of a mysterious eyeball the size of a cantaloupe that had washed up on the beach. Everything was normal. Pedestrians continued chatting on cell phones.
At the courthouse curb stood a row of satellite trucks. Somewhere near the middle was a seventeen-year-old blue Datsun. Half the paint job had been baked off, with fluttering, ragged flaps along the edges of each blotch that made people think they could easily peel off the rest. Behind the wheel sat a young man with a loosened polyester tie and a white dress shirt with frayed collar.
“Sure you don’t want to get out of the car?” asked the city councilman.
Reevis shook his head. “Hip dysplasia, comes and goes.” Click, click, click.
Behind them, an ambulance loaded an expert at timepiece repair who now mainly just sold weird batteries.
The politician maintained an awkwardly frozen smile. Then, like a ventriloquist without moving his lips: “Are you done yet?”
“We’re good.”
The official headed down the sidewalk; the reporter jumped out of the car and ran up the courthouse steps.
The judge was already on the bench, an avuncular type who had seen everything. He sighed and glanced over at the plaintiff’s table.
“Your Honor,” said an inexperienced attorney, “if you can just give me a few more minutes.”
“You said that an hour ago when I called a recess.”
“But my investigator will be here any minute with key evidence that is the whole foundation of my case, which is part of a vast pattern across the state where the powerful have exploited some of our finest citizens.”
From the other table. “Your Honor, this is highly unfair to my client, who is an upstanding member of the business community, as opposed to the plaintiff, who falsified her loan application and is here solely in an onerous shakedown that offends the sensibilities—”
“I did not!” shouted a delicate widow across the aisle. “That man stole my life savings!”
The judge banged his gavel. “Ma’am, no more outbursts or I will be forced to hold you in contempt . . . Counsel, control your client.”
“I’ve got it,” said the attorney. He put a reassuring hand on the widow’s shoulder and whispered in her ear. She sobbed into a handkerchief.
“Your Honor, I have a motion before the court,” said the defense attorney. “Summary dismissal.”
The judge nodded and held up a hand for everyone to stop talking. It meant he was ready to sit back and mull his decision. The nameplate on the bench said COOLIDGE. The judge tapped his fingers. He chewed a forty-five-year-anniversary fountain pen from the state bar. He didn’t like what the law required him to do next. The people coming before the court sure had changed since he became a jurist. At least back then most of the crooks had a code of honor. But these defendants today were smooth-palmed, no-dirt-under-the-nails country-club cowards who targeted the weakest first. The judge thought: What is happening to my country? He looked down. He touched his mouth. His pen had leaked ink on his lips. Crap.
He looked up again and held a hand over his mouth like he was coughing. “Under the circumstances, because the plaintiff has failed to produce certain promised evidentiary documents, I am left with no choice but to . . .”—he raised his gavel high—“ . . . dismiss this—”
Both doors in the back of the courtroom dramatically burst open. “Yo! Beak! Ice the gavel.”
The judge’s head jerked back. Beak? He hadn’t heard that slang for a judge in decades. He studied the man marching up the center aisle, waving a stack of papers over his head, wearing a tweed jacket and rumpled fedora. His necktie had a pattern of derringer pistols. He continued approaching the bench, talking loudly to himself as he walked.
“It was a bona fide Perry Mason moment. Mahoney’s baby blues glommed the defense table like a bagman putting the arm on a dice-fiend holding the vig. The paperwork bombshell itched in my hand like a case of crabs you swore came from the mattress of a fleabag joint called the Night Owl, but the wife kept packing her bags for Poughkeepsie anyway.” He reached the front of the bench.
The judge stood and leaned forward. “What are you mumbling about down there?”
Mahoney tossed the papers upward and pointed at the defendant. “Robo-Hancock shyster bread-crumbed the res ipsa loquitur like a bloody West Side Story switchblade.”
Judge Coolidge picked up the pages. “ ‘Robo-Hancock’? You mean ‘robo-signed’?” Another slang the judge recognized, but this one much more current, from the new tongue of foreclosure fraud. Housing defaults weren’t flowing furiously enough for the most predacious, and courts began seeing a proliferation of mortgage assignments and affidavits from
the same loan officers who couldn’t possibly attest to the volume of facts they were autographing. So they just signed as fast as they could. The judge flipped through the stack of identical signatures and looked up. “Where’d you get these?”
“Dealt Franklins to the flunkies.”
“What?”
“Paid a few hundred dollars to some low-level employees.”
The defense attorney sprang to his feet. “Objection!”
“What is your objection?” asked Judge Coolidge.
“Your Honor, these so-called robo-documents, or whatever they’re alleged, are completely inadmissible as stolen confidential company property. This fedora-wearing jester just admitted to bribing employees . . .”
Mahoney’s toothpick stopped wiggling in his teeth and snapped in half.
The judge turned toward the plaintiff’s attorney. “Son, what do you have to say?”
“Well, uh, I believe that the probative value of those documents outweigh any—”
The judge shook his head. “Wrong argument. Probative value is weighed against unduly inflaming a jury. Want to try again?”
The rookie looked down at his shoes and scratched his head.
The judge waited longer than was fair, then took a deep breath of reluctance. “In that case, I must rule that this evidence cannot be admitted—”
The doors in the back of the courtroom burst open again. “Hold everything! Did I miss any good parts? Could you have the court stenographer read back the juicy stuff?”
Defense counsel spun around. “What the hell’s going on? First the fedora and now this joker. Who are you?”
The judge repeated the question with emphasis. “Yes, who are you?”
“Serge A. Storms, attorney for the plaintiff.”
A front-row reporter looked up from his notepad. “Serge?”
“Shhhhh! Play it cool, Reevis.”
The judge removed his glasses. “But the plaintiff already has an attorney.”
“Just hired as co-counsel to assist with the admittance of the dynamite evidence recently discovered by my associate.” Serge extended an upturned palm toward the private eye.
Mahoney tipped his hat in return.
The judge pointed at each of them. “You know each other?”
“Worked together many years.”
“Who’s that behind you?”
Coleman smiled and waved at the judge, wearing a T-shirt: ALSO AVAILABLE IN SOBER.
“My paralegal,” said Serge, plopping his briefcase on the plaintiff’s table. “Now, if the court would indulge me a brief moment to confer with my legal colleague.”
“You have exactly one minute.”
“Thank you, Your Honor.” Serge turned and smiled at the young attorney. “Scoot over, bright boy. I need some elbow room.”
The lawyer looked at Serge like he was a space alien. “Who are you?”
“The guy who helped Mahoney steal those documents. I’m not about to go through all that work and have them thrown out.”
“Are you really a lawyer?”
“Not remotely.” Serge flipped open the latches on his briefcase. “But you can’t tell anyone because of attorney-client privilege.”
“You’re not my client.”
“My word against yours. And who’s going to believe an attorney who broke the privilege?” A sideways grin. “Have to admit I’m good.”
The younger man stared in mute shock.
The judge tapped his gavel. “Can we?”
“Just another sec,” said Serge.
“Make it quick.”
Serge leaned into his new partner. “Where did you leave off just before I came in?”
“Defense objected to the new evidence because it was stolen . . .”
“Exactly what I’d expect,” said Serge.
“ . . . So I said the probative value—”
Serge shook his head. “Wrong argument. That’s for inflaming the jury . . . Okay, I’ll take it from here. Just dummy up and nod along with everything I say.”
The gavel banged hard several times.
Serge beamed his biggest smile. “Ready, willing and able!”
The judge rolled his eyes at the ceiling. “Could the stenographer please tell me where the heck I was before all this?”
“Your Honor, you were just about to disallow the evidence because it was stolen.”
“That’s right,” said the judge.
Serge sprang to his feet. “I object.”
“You can’t object.” The judge pointed with his gavel. “He objected.”
“I mean I have another argument you must consider before rendering your decision.”
The judge fell back in his chair and let his chin sag to his chest. In a listless voice: “What?”
“Your Honor, stolen evidence is admissible if the parties involved were not agents of, or acting in concert with, the plaintiffs.”
The judge pinched his upper lip in thought. “Interesting theory . . . what’s your citation?”
“John Grisham’s movie The Rainmaker.” Serge gleefully stomped his feet. “There was a totally excellent marathon on cable last week, and in this movie the same thing happens except with an insurance company, and Danny DeVito calls Mickey Rourke, who’s hiding out in Florida—that alone made my day!—and Rourke tells DeVito—”
“Stop!” said the judge. “Just stop! You can’t cite a movie!”
“Why not?” said Serge. “It’s precisely on point.”
“It’s a movie!”
“And a great one. If you haven’t seen it already, do yourself a favor—”
“Are you really a lawyer?” asked the judge. He turned the other way. “Bailiff, check his credentials.”
A thick-armed sheriff’s deputy stepped forward from the side of the courtroom.
It didn’t slow Serge: “ . . . then Mickey Rourke cites U.S. v. DeSoto.”
The judge did a double take. “Wait, I know the DeSoto case. It’s exactly on point.”
“That’s what I’ve been trying to say all along,” replied Serge. “Grisham does his research.”
“As you were, bailiff.” The judge turned to Serge. “But didn’t your associate say he paid for the documents? That would make him an agent of the plaintiff.”
“Not if the documents were already stolen by someone else,” said Serge. “The whole foreclosure-fraud epidemic has sired an avalanche of outrage, in this case disgruntled employees who read the papers and spend lunch breaks at the copy machine.”
“On point again,” said the judge.
“This is a farce!” said the defense.
“Counsel!” snapped the judge. “You know the proper way to address this court.”
“Then I object.”
The gavel slammed. “Overruled! And the evidence is in. And your motion to dismiss is denied.” Another gavel slam. “Court is in recess until tomorrow morning at nine.” The judge looked toward the defense table a final time. “Given the turn of events today, I strongly suggest you consider working out a settlement.” He disappeared into chambers.
The reporter checked his wristwatch and ran out of the courtroom.
Serge caught up to him near the street and stopped in puzzlement. “Reevis, what the heck are you doing?”
Reevis finished strapping on a battery belt for the TV people. “I don’t want to talk about it.”
“Fair enough,” said Serge. “So what’s next on your calendar?”
Chapter TWENTY-EIGHT
MONDAY MORNING
A fist banged on an upstairs door of the Southern Cross Hotel.
“Are you in there?” Brook checked her watch. “We’re going to be late.”
She pounded the door again and dialed Shelby’s cell phone. No answer. “Where is he?”
When she arrived, the defense table was empty. She got out her cell phone again. This time it rang before she could dial. “Hello?”
“Hi, Brook, this is Ken Shapiro. Hate to throw you a curve like this, but Shelby had a family emergency. His mother.”
“Is it bad?” asked Brook.
“Don’t know. The family called him and he called me. That’s all I got.”
“What about the trial?”
“We’re sending another attorney down to assist you. Don’t worry, he’s intimately familiar with the case.”
The bailiff opened a side door.
“When’s he supposed to get here?”
“Shouldn’t be long.”
“But they’re already bringing the jury in.”
“Relax, you’ll do fine.”
The bailiff looked in her direction. His eyes telegraphed: No cell phone in court.
“Got to go.” She closed the phone.
The doors in the back of the courtroom opened. “Brook!”
She turned around. A man smiled and waved.
Brook grabbed her stomach. “Holy Jesus, this can’t be happening.”
The man strolled to the plaintiff’s table and set his briefcase down.
“Ziggy!” said Brook. “What the hell are you doing? This table is just for the trial lawyers. The substitute attorney will be arriving any second.”
“He just did.” Ziggy took a seat and inched up. “Your firm called and said they needed someone to fill in until Shelby got back . . . Are you okay?”
Brook doubled over with cramps. “Oh, no.” She jumped up and ran out of the courtroom.
Ziggy followed and knocked on the door of the women’s room. “Are you all right in there?”
“No. Go away! . . .”
Eventually the door opened and a pale-white attorney emerged.
Down the hall, the bailiff motioned from an open door. “Judge is waiting.”
The mixed pair reentered the courtroom under the gamma-ray gaze of Judge Kennesaw Montgomery Boone. “Call your first witness!”