The Reform Artists: A Legal Suspense, Spy Thriller (The Reform Artists Series Book 1)

by Jon Reisfeld

  Gradually, things were starting to make sense to Swindell. He felt he was beginning to understand what it was about Martin that initially had awakened his sympathies. It was a combination of Martin’s inherent decency and naïveté, coupled with Swindell’s growing awareness of the size, scope and intensity of the hidden forces aligning themselves against his client. On reflection, Swindell thought Martin’s situation was beginning to resemble that of a young buck suddenly caught in the glare of an onrushing tractor-trailer’s headlights.

  He realized Martin could have no more idea of the true nature of the legal juggernaut tearing his way than a deer would have had of the sophisticated mechanics propelling a Mack truck toward it at sixty-five miles an hour. Both would remain ignorant right up to the point of impact, when the fender and grille would crush and flatten them into fresh road kill.

  Swindell could clearly see that truck bearing down on his client with a malevolent inevitability that was painful to watch. He could see diesel smoke coughing up out of the exhaust pipe above the cab and the cold, harsh headlights locking in on their prey. Meanwhile, Martin just stood there, alone, in the middle of the road, in his dark business suit, freshly pressed shirt, and power tie, his face frozen in dumb terror and framed by a full head of salt-and-pepper hair.

  Unlike Martin, Swindell also could discern the four, bold letters painted straight and tall on the side of that truck. He knew what the “V-A-W-A” stood for. They were the initials of the “Violence against Women Act.”

  Congress had passed the Violence against Women Act back in 1994, and President Bill Clinton immediately signed it into law. On its face, the VAWA was supposed to protect women against a broad range of legitimate threats, including violent spousal abuse. But the law’s vast, overreaching nature and its general disregard for due process and men’s civil rights quickly turned it into something altogether different: It became enabling legislation for the radical feminist movement’s takeover of the family law courts.

  Swindell initially watched with alarm as the VAWA, backed by relentless lobbying from lawyers with the National Organization for Women, overturned centuries of carefully crafted common-law and due-process protections. It achieved this, primarily, by allowing women to bypass the criminal courts altogether to bring what were essentially criminal actions against their husbands. In the Civil Court, which tried these cases, both the legal protections for the accused and the standard of proof demanded of the accusers were far weaker. Swindell felt a great many of these cases were highly suspect, to say the least.

  In civil court, under the VAWA, women could now level charges of “assault, aggravated assault and battery” against their unsuspecting husbands through one-sided, and secret, ex-parte proceedings that were not even permitted in true criminal cases. A Civil Court petitioner only needed to show the judge a “preponderance of the evidence” to prove a case, while Criminal Court demanded proof “beyond a reasonable doubt.”

  In civil court, the alleged guilty parties had to provide, and pay for, their own counsel. They were not entitled, as they are, in criminal cases, to free legal representation from the Public Defender’s Office, and this held true even if they had no money. Meanwhile, the term ‘alleged’ was never used, in the text of the VAWA, to refer to an “abuser.” The law repeatedly referred, indirectly, to women as the ‘victims’ and to men as the ‘abusers’ (as if they already had been tried and convicted of the ‘alleged’ offenses.)

  The VAWA also was funded legislation. Each year, it poured tens of millions of federal dollars into programs designed to document and aid female victims of domestic violence—and to indoctrinate judges on how to try the cases. Funding recipients immediately had a stake in portraying men as the perennial abusers and women as the eternal victims—despite a growing body of empirical evidence to the contrary.

  For a brief time, Swindell and several of his cronies bemoaned the damage the VAWA was doing to family law, as heavy-handed tactics and unethical maneuverings quickly became the order of the day. But soon—surprisingly soon—the VAWA showed them another side: the positive effect the law was having on their practices’ bottom lines, through the heightened conflict it generated between estranged spouses.

  Marginal cases that would have settled quickly in the past were suddenly going to trial—with legal fees mounting all the while—as men fought either to get even with their wives or to avoid losing their children, their reputations and their prior standards of living. Swindell and his fellow lawyers watched in amazement as this runaway tractor-trailer miraculously morphed into a big, fat, legal gravy train.

  Swindell was ‘old school’ enough that he never exploited the VAWA for his own tactical advantage. But he never fought against its misuse by others, either. He had read the subtext in conversations with his peers. He had attended the government-funded Continuing Legal Education workshops that tirelessly beat the drum about the growing menace of male-initiated domestic violence. And he had reviewed his law firm’s now permanently inflated balance sheet often enough to know better.

  So, in the face of what his legal training and his own good sense told him to be a great and terrible wrong, Swindell remained silent. He resolved, simply, to give his clients his best efforts. He would ‘fight the good fight’ exclusively in the courtroom, where the odds grew increasingly long for the men he typically represented.

  Meanwhile, like an oncologist treating a terminal patient, Swindell learned to manage the information he shared with his clients. He would withhold bad news as long as possible, in order to give them hope, to boost their spirits—and to keep his fees flowing.

  As he watched his clients struggle, like so many lost souls, to climb out of the legal quicksand they found themselves in, to end the horrible nightmare and to break free of the vicious snare divorce court had become, Swindell assumed the role of quiet confidant. He was part philosopher, part silent witness to their misery. If he could not help them, he would try his best to understand them or to make them feel understood. That was the least he could do.

  As long as he received his fee, Swindell, like a modern-day Charon, would calmly guide his clients across the deep and terrible waters of divorce, steadily rowing forward, ever forward, until they reached the far shore. Once in the shallows, he would lift his oars and allow the boat to glide forward the last, few remaining feet, as the awful mists cleared and his clients found themselves staring up at the dark, and foreboding, Gates of Hell.

  Swindell took the cigar from his mouth and tapped it twice against the edge of his ashtray. Two inches of gray, spent tobacco ash fell away, revealing a glowing, orange core. He looked down at his case-management program. The counter showed seven minutes had elapsed on his yet-to-be-placed call to Beverly West. Already, with the software’s rounding-up feature, the call had cost his client sixty dollars. If he was efficient and could limit his actual time on the phone with West to less than five minutes, Swindell could prevent the ‘meter’ from adding yet a third, thirty-dollar increment to Martin’s bill. Buoyed by this uncharacteristically altruistic thought, Swindell picked up the phone and threw himself back into his work.

  Chapter 10

  Beverly West bit her lower lip so hard that it bled, when Swindell called her just before noon, Wednesday, to say that Martin had completely rejected her client’s settlement offer. Fortunately, she managed to keep her cool when it finally became her turn to speak.

  “Your client,” she said into the phone, with all the nonchalance and bravado she could muster, “is either a brave man or an ignoramus. Our offer is extremely generous. This case is a slam dunk.”

  “On the other hand,” Swindell countered, “maybe you’re the ignoramus, Bev, and your case is anythin' but –. Well, we’ll all know soon enough.”

  “Don’t forget to tell your client about the many risks associated with going to trial, Chester. I wouldn’t want you to give him future grounds for suing you for malpractice.”

  Swindell chuckled. “Thanks for lookin’ out for
me, Bev. It’s quite comfortin’.”

  “My pleasure, counselor. Call me if the ‘lunatic’ changes his mind.”

  “I certainly will, but I wouldn’t hold my breath. He seems quite determined.”

  “That’s splendid! I’ll send my victory suit out to the dry cleaners this afternoon. You know, it’s the one I wore for the last three cases of ours that went all the way. See you in court.”

  “It sure looks that way.”

  As soon as the call ended, Beverly dialed Katie Silkwood’s cell phone. “Katie,” she said, “we’ve got a problem.”

  Katie, who was at a patient’s bedside, cupped the phone with her hand and stepped away for some privacy. “What’s the matter, Beverly?” she whispered.

  “I presented our settlement offer to your husband’s lawyer yesterday, and he just called me back.” She paused. “Your husband has rejected it out of hand.”

  “Well,” Katie said, stepping out into the hallway, “you told me it was just our opening position, so, I didn’t expect him to accept it without some changes. What’s his counter offer?”

  “That’s just it, Katie. There is no counter offer. Martin doesn’t want to settle. We’re going to trial.”

  “What?!” Katie shouted, as orderlies, visitors and a few gowned patients, who were walking down the hall, towing their drip lines behind them, all suddenly turned their heads in her direction. Her voice quickly returned to a whisper. “You said Martin had way too much to lose to risk a hearing!”

  “I know, Katie. And he does. As I told you, almost all of my domestic violence cases settle at this point for precisely that reason. I must admit, your husband’s response caught me completely off guard. I thought you said he was as an extremely conservative, deeply private, risk-averse man?”

  “That’s how I’ve always thought of him. He’s certainly not a gambler, if that’s what you mean.”

  “Well, my dear, you may want to dust off the old dossier. It appears ‘hubby’ has grown himself an impressive, new pair of balls.”

  “Wonderful! So, what do you intend to do about that?”

  “Katie, ‘gelding’ is not a skill set you’ll find listed anywhere on my resume.”

  “Well, after talking to your references, it probably should be.”

  “Really?”

  Katie’s tone became far more serious. “Listen, Beverly, you promised me this would all be over quickly and cleanly. I cannot afford a full-blown trial now. I mean, this isn’t even the actual divorce case. I trusted you, when you said there would be no surprises. Now, you need to make this right.”

  “I understand how you feel, but as I have told you, repeatedly, Katie, there are no ‘guarantees’ in divorce cases. As your lawyer, I can express my opinion about how things might turn out, but I can’t promise or guarantee you anything.”

  “I don’t know, Beverly. ‘No surprises’ sounds an awful lot like a guarantee to me.”

  “That’s not a place you want to go with me, Katie.”

  Katie thought about that for a moment. “Fine, but I expect more from a lawyer with your reputation, and your hourly rate, than: ‘Katie, we’ve got a problem.’ I would think you would have a solution or two in mind before picking up the phone and ruining my day.”

  “Point taken, Katie.”

  “So, what can we do now? Should you go back to them with a more generous settlement offer, one that possibly gives Marty more time with the kids, but not nearly enough to approach joint custody?”

  “No. To return to the bargaining table now with any revised offer, after we’ve been completely rebuffed like this, would make us appear desperate. That would only make matters worse.”

  “Great. So what do you propose we do?”

  Beverly considered the options. “For the moment, nothing.”

  Katie wanted to scream, but she held back. “How much extra could this little domestic violence hearing wind up costing me, Beverly?”

  “It all depends. I don’t see it lasting for more than a day, but then, there’s considerable prep time involved. You’re probably looking at costs of somewhere between $4,000 and $5,000. But, Katie, that’s –”

  “I know, ‘not a guarantee?’”

  “Right. In addition, a bad outcome in the domestic Violence case, while still a remote possibility, is something we must now consider. That could further complicate matters.”

  “Meaning it could cost me even more in legal fees?”

  “I’m sorry, Katie, but that is how the system works.”

  Katie could now feel a panic attack coming on. Her head throbbed and her pulse quickened. She steadied herself against the hallway wall, as inconspicuously as possible, to counter her sudden light-headedness. Then, she made her way toward a small, rarely used family waiting area.

  “Katie? Katie, are you still there?”

  “Yes, Beverly. Hold on a minute, please.”

  Katie opened the door a crack and looked inside. The room was empty, so she went in, closed the door behind her, and took several deep breaths. “My plan—our plan,” she said, slipping into a seat, “had been to use the money I withdrew from the household checking account to pay my divorce expenses. What am I supposed to do now? I’m not sure I can manage this, too.”

  “First of all, Katie, this is no time to panic. I know it may not seem like it, but next Monday is still five days off. That’s an eternity in this kind of case. So, you need to get a grip on yourself. This probably is just a minor bump on the road. We have not driven into a sinkhole.

  “You wanted to know what I think. I suggest we start by reassessing the situation. Right now, we know your husband is angry. OK, maybe this is just his way of blowing off steam. He already may have come to his senses—or he probably will soon. If his attorney, Mr. Swindell, does his job—and I have every reason to believe he will—he probably will push Martin to come up with some sort of counter offer. That way, Martin might be able to get most of what he wants without the added costs, and risks, of a trial. Believe me, Katie, this matter is far from over.”

  Katie’s breathing had finally returned to normal.

  Beverly continued. “I gave your husband’s attorney plenty to think about, when he told me about Martin’s decision. As a tactical matter, I think we need to give them a day or two to stew on this. Meanwhile, you probably should start working on our contingency plan.”

  “What is that, again?” Katie asked.

  “The plan is for you to pass the hat around to family, friends and acquaintances and ask them to help underwrite your attempt to break free from an abusive marriage that now threatens you and your kids.”

  “I’m not sure I’m ready to start making those calls just yet, Beverly.”

  “That’s OK. I just want you to start compiling your list of people to call.”

  “All right,” Katie said. “I can certainly do that.”

  Chapter 11

  Martin felt elated after his phone call with Swindell. Despite his attorney’s renewed warnings about the risks of trying cases in the female-biased Family Courts, Martin had stuck to his guns. He cupped his hands behind his head, put his feet on top of his credenza and smiled. He had seized the initiative, rejected Katie’s lopsided settlement offer and, more importantly, demanded that they go directly to trial.

  The decision had been bold and gutsy. Katie would never expect it. He wished he could be there, like the proverbial ‘fly on the wall,’ to see the panic register on her face when she would hear the news. At least, Katie would now know that she had a fight on her hands. Her husband was not going to be a pushover.

  On another level, Martin felt he had no choice but to reject Katie’s proposal. Even if she had intended it merely as an opening gambit in their negotiations, her offer sought to marginalize Martin’s role in his kids’ lives, and he would have none of that. In marriage, Martin and Katie had been equal partners in parenting. He expected no less in divorce. After all, he reasoned, he loved his kids and they loved him. Why should a chang
e in marital status suddenly affect that?

  By reaffirming his commitment to his children and his principles, Martin also hoped to send a clear message to Katie. If she could be fair and reasonable regarding the divorce, then he would cooperate, but if she preferred to behave selfishly and without regard for his interests, or the best interests of their children, then he would oppose her with all the resources at his disposal.

  The decision had re-energized Martin. For the first time in days, he walked with a spring in his step and a glint in his eye. He seemed more upbeat, more optimistic. But Martin’s newfound confidence would not survive the afternoon.

  At four o’clock, Monique buzzed Martin on the intercom and asked if he had time to meet, briefly, with Santori and Feldman, in Santori’s office?”

  “Sure. When?”

  “Now, if possible.”

  “OK. Just give me a minute to finish what I’m doing, and I’ll be right there.”

  Martin quickly wrapped up his work and, once more, headed for the hexagonal office at the south end of the building.

  The scene that greeted him there bore little resemblance to the relaxed, congenial atmosphere he had experienced the previous day. When Martin came through the door, he found Santori and Feldman seated side-by-side in chairs, intently pouring over copies of some type of report. Rick Wainwright, the firm’s long-time legal counsel and trusted advisor, sat across from them on the couch. His briefcase lay open beside him, and he held a third copy of the report in his hands.

  At six-foot-four, with a rugged, stocky build, Wainwright still looked the part of a former all-American lacrosse player. Wainwright had paid his way through undergraduate school, by earning a full athletic scholarship to Johns Hopkins University. From there, he went on to Georgetown University Law School, where he ranked seventh in his class. His jet-black hair, now graying at the temples, and his ruddy complexion were the only hints of his mixed ancestry. Wainwright was third-generation Irish-American on his father’s side and full-blooded Cherokee Indian on his mother’s. Cratered scars from severe childhood acne added further character to an otherwise handsome, youthful face.