by Ben Rehder
“How about three words? ‘You’re a pig.’”
“You’ve got ten seconds to accept the offer or get the hell out.”
“I know you, Krip. You never pay a dime, unless you’re gonna lose a dollar.”
“Five seconds. Four. Three…”
“You know what you can do with your seventy-five thousand?”
“Jake, please,” Kim said.
“You horse’s ass,” Krippendorf added.
“You’re your own worst enemy,” Kim said, her voice tinged with sadness. “Why can’t you bend a little like everybody else?”
“Because I live by no laws but my own,” I said, as I stood and headed for the door.
13. A Client’s Confidence
In the elevator on the way out of Krippendorf’s office building, I told Cadillac and Sherrell that I turned down the seventy-five thousand. Cadillac seemed to suck on his rear teeth while Sherrell started grilling me.
“So we’re going to trial?” she asked.
“Damn right. They tried to buy us off.”
“I thought that was the idea.”
“Actually, they tried to buy me off. Krippendorf thought I’d jump at a quick twenty-five grand. Get my new firm off the ground.”
“So Grandad would get an even fifty?”
“Would an apology be coming with that?” Cadillac said.
“Just the opposite. No admission of liability and a confidentiality agreement that would forbid you from even mentioning the case. Silky would own the song like nothing ever happened.”
The old man made a rumbling sound in his throat. “That’d be a lie. They’d be paying me to accept that lie.”
“Precisely.”
Sherrell wouldn’t let it go. “If you win in court, Grandad just gets money. There’s no apology, right.”
“That’s right.”
“And you could win less than seventy-five thousand.”
“Of course.”
“Or lose altogether.”
“It’s possible, but I’ve got a great expert witness. A professor at U.M. Plus Eddie Burns promises to find the original recording. That’s our one-two punch. With them, we’ll win a lot more than seventy-five thousand. And when the jury comes back with its number, I want you to watch the look on Silky’s face. That’ll be all the admission of guilt and all the apology you’ll need.”
“You’re sure about that?” Sherrell asked.
“Yeah, what about it, young man?” Cadillac said. “I’d hate to go through all this and walk away with nothing but a kick in the ass.”
I don’t like to lie to clients. After all, I warn them about the necessity of telling me the truth. But sometimes clients need bucking up. Their confidence grows shaky. Used to losing, they can’t believe they’ll finally be the victors.
The ethical rules lawyers are supposed to live by advise us not to guarantee results. There are too many variables to say with certainty how a judge or jury will rule. In addition, the smart guys who write the Bar rules know that a “guarantee” puts the lawyer under pressure to do anything to win, thereby becoming a threat to break other, more substantive rules. But then, as I’ve said before, I follow my own rules.
“We’re gonna win more than seventy-five thousand, Cadillac. I guarantee it.”
14. Fight to the Death
I sat on the front porch of Doc Charlie Riggs’s sagging house on the edge of the Everglades, taking my old friend’s abuse.
“What are you trying to prove, Jake?” Charlie asked. “That you can beat your ex-boss and your ex-girlfriend?”
“That’s not it. Krippendorf’s hiding something.”
“What?”
“No idea.”
“Then you should have settled.”
“I know the guy, Charlie. He’d never make an offer unless he was afraid of something.”
“And you think you can find out.”
“That’s what I do. It’s called lawyering.”
Charlie harrumphed and picked up a half-empty bottle of Jack Daniels. He poured a few ounces into a Mason jar and offered me some. I’m a beer guy and shook my head.
“Let’s talk about the money,” Charlie said. “Let’s say for the sake of argument Krippendorf doubled the offer. A hundred fifty thousand. Wouldn’t you have to take it?”
“Silky wants a confidentiality agreement and no admission of liability.”
“So what?”
“Cadillac would give up all rights to his song. It’d be like I’m Leaving You, Baby never existed.
“But he gets the money.”
“And loses his legacy. It’s not right.”
“It’s not right to get that old man’s hopes up, then lose.”
“You want me to compromise, Charlie?”
“Why not?” He took a long pull on his sour mash whiskey. “That’s called lawyering.”
“Not my style.”
“Sometimes, I think you played football without a helmet, Jake. It’s fine to have ideals. Lord knows I’ve paid a price for sticking to mine. But lawyers live in a gray area, make their living in the shadows.”
“This is black and white to me.”
“Keep thinking like that, you’ll fail. You want to fight to the death, the Krippendorfs of the world will be happy to oblige.”
I waited for him to take a long, slow drink, then said, “If you’re done criticizing me, I could use some help.”
Charlie gave me a crooked smile. “What took you so long to ask?”
15. Shyster vs. Shrink
The psychiatrist’s office was in the old DuPont Building in downtown Miami, or as I like to think of it, the City of Lawyers, Pickpockets, Whores, Vultures, and Thieves. The building was the first skyscraper in town, unless you count the courthouse, which in my line of work, you ought to count.
The seventeen-story DuPont dates from the late 1930s, its architecture called “Depression Moderne.” It’s a limestone edifice with bas relief elevator doors, brass gates, Cypress ceilings and marble floors and balustrades. But those are the public areas. The office of psychiatrist Dr. Moira Golden was jammed against the elevator shaft on the 12th floor and occupied a cramped, dimly lit space of musty carpets and mismatched African art. It was enough to make a guy depressed.
Judge Buckstrom had ordered me to be evaluated by Dr. Golden. I briefly wondered whether a finding of insanity would help my defense. Probably not. The boys in Tallahassee don’t need any psychopaths on the team roster. I decided to play it right down the middle and be myself, which is to say, a calm man of pleasant disposition, who cannot be ruffled or flustered by insult or injury.
“You don’t want to be here, do you, Mr. Lassiter?” Dr. Golden asked.
“Hell, no. Who would?”
I made a mental note to lower my voice.
Moira Golden was in her early forties, an attractive brunette a bit broad in the beam, perhaps from sitting all day long. She had expensively manicured nails of a turquoise color, which I found distracting. She took notes on a legal pad, which made me feel right at home.
“I want you to watch something and get your reaction,” Dr. Golden said.
“Whatever you say, Doc.”
She punched a button on a remote and fired up a VCR. In a couple of seconds, the television came to life with a video clip of an old football game. I didn’t have to be told it was the Dolphins versus the Jets at the old Shea Stadium in New York. A cold, foggy, snowy day. Misery was in the air on that Sunday afternoon about a million years ago.
The Dolphins had just scored and were kicking off, which meant that if you looked very closely, you could see number 58 on the suicide squad, hopping up and down, trying to stay warm and stir up the blood for a vicious hit. Number 58, you see, was me.
The kickoff was short, reaching the twenty or so, and the Jets’ return man caught it in full stride. I was moving fast, too, and the blocker assigned to put me on his ass slipped on the icy field, and I shot past him.
The collision occurred near the Jets’ thirty
-five yard line. My form was perfect. Head-up, legs churning, shoulders aimed at the returner’s sternum. We crashed into each other, an explosion I felt from my teeth to my tailbone. At first I wasn’t even aware that the ball had squirted loose, sailing over my head and skittering across the icy field.
“Ball! Ball! Ball!”
It was one of my teammates, telling the troops that a fumble was there for the taking. One of the Jets’ blockers had a clean shot but couldn’t control the slippery spheroid. Two of my fellow Dolphins knocked each other off the ball. The kicker had a shot, but he wasn’t about to get pounced on by a ton of beef, so he sashayed toward the sideline.
Somehow – I don’t know how – I had gotten up and galloped toward the action. And there it was, the ball, spinning across the ground at my feet. Did I mention I suffered a concussion making the tackle? No matter. In those days, fretting over head injuries was for sissies.
I scooped the ball up and was immediately hit by one of the Jets’ reserve running backs, who doubled as a blocker on the kick-return team. He couldn’t tackle for shit, and I swatted him off me. Another hit and I was knocked sideways, bracing a hand against the ground. Then, suddenly, I was running and on the video, the announcer was screaming.
“Lassiter has the ball and he’s taking off! The wrong way! The wrong way! He’s headed for the Dolphins’ end zone.”
My teammates were chasing me and yelling what I thought was encouragement. I reached the end zone and tossed the ball into the lower deck. A safety. Two points for the Jets, and we lost the game by one. The headline the next day read: “Wrong-Way Lassiter Dooms Fins.”
Dr. Golden fast-forwarded through a commercial until she got to the instant replay. “Look at that!” the play-by-play announcer shouted. “Lassiter’s knee was clearly down after he recovered the fumble. It should have been the Dolphins’ ball at that spot on the field.”
These were the days before coaches could challenge officials’ calls, so all the replays in the world couldn’t change the outcome.
“Watching that now, Mr. Lassiter, what do you think?”
“I run like a drunk stomping grapes.”
“What I mean is, how do you feel about such a public humiliation?”
“I was robbed. You saw the replay. I recovered the fumble and should have been ruled down by contact.”
“So the system didn’t treat you fairly?”
“That’s one way to put it.”
“Your team lost and you were held up to scorn and ridicule. How do you feel about that?”
“What do you want me to say? Angry? Violent? Insane?”
“If that’s how you feel.”
“I was pissed. I still am. I walk into a bar, and some fat turd calls me ‘Wrong-Way Lassiter.’ But I don’t punch the guy out.”
“Are you saying you’d like to?”
“No. Jeez, don’t put words in my mouth.”
Dr. Golden scribbled a note on her pad.
“What are you writing?”
“Not your concern, Wrong-Way. Do you get ‘pissed’ when I call you that?”
“Aw, this is bullshit.” I stirred in my chair as if to get up.
“If you leave, I’ll have to tell Judge Buckstrom that you’re uncooperative and having difficulty controlling your anger.”
“I’m not angry, goddamit!”
“Be honest, Wrong-Way? When I call you that, you want to hit me, don’t you?”
“My Granny taught me that only low-life scumbags ever hit a woman.”
“How do you think failing so spectacularly on national television affected you?”
“You’re the shrink. You tell me.”
“I think it fits a pattern. You feel the system failed you, just as it did your friend, the former medical examiner.”
“What do you know about that?”
“Enough to know you were on the wrong side.”
“Charlie Riggs got hosed because the boys downtown thought he should roll over for the state and not be impartial.”
Dr. Golden took some more notes. That probably shouldn’t have irritated me, but it did. I felt that, no matter what she was writing down, it would be damaging. Why did the judge pick this monster to examine me? Was there a conspiracy to bring me down? Or was I being paranoid? Maybe I should ask the shrink.
“So you rebel against the system, Wrong Way,” she said. “You purposely flout the rules.”
“Basically, I just live by my own.” Forcing myself to remain calm.
That prompted yet more note taking.
“What is it you want for yourself, Wrong Way?”
The question stopped me. It’s not something I think much about. But the answer was there, honest and true. I wanted the same thing for myself I did for Doc Charlie Riggs and Cadillac Johnson, and everyone else who’s been fucked over.
“I just want a second chance,” I said.
16. Wrong-Way Lassiter
The iron gate outside Eddie Burns’ bayside home was emblazoned with a treble clef. The place was on Treasure Drive just off the 79th Street Causeway, a North Bay Village mini-manse with floor-to-ceiling glass overlooking Biscayne Bay. Eddie Burns wore a blue blazer with gold buttons, a paisley ascot, white linen pants, and white patent leather loafers with no socks. His ankles were lined with purple veins. He looked to be somewhere between 80 and purgatory.
At the moment, he was shaking some bitters into a cocktail glass. He’d already poured bourbon over ice, added a hint of water and sugar, and then plopped a maraschino cherry on top.
It had been a while since I’d had a maraschino cherry in a drink. But then, I don’t usually sit around at 11 a.m. drinking Old-Fashioneds with Eddie Burns.
Twenty-four hours ago, I’d spoken to Eddie on the phone. He’d found the master tape of I’m Leaving You, Baby, as recorded by Cadillac Johnson in 1959. It was a crucial piece of evidence.
“So kid, you know how Cadillac got his name?” Eddie asked.
I shrugged in the direction of Frank Sinatra, or rather his autographed photo on the wall. “Ring a Ding Ding, Eddie,” it said.
“I owned this red Eldo ragtop,” Eddie continued. “Cadillac would run his hand over the upholstery like he was stroking a broad’s ass.”
A broad, I thought. I half expected Sinatra to be singing The Lady is a Tramp in the background.
“Cadillac liked the Eldo so much, I bought him one just like mine. That’s the kind a guy I am, Lassiter.”
Burns pulled a Torpedo, the huge Cuban cigar, from his blazer pocket, and lit up. He seemed damned satisfied with himself.
“The way I heard it, Mr. Burns, you bought the Caddy wholesale and deducted the retail price from Cadillac’s royalties.”
Burns waved his giant cigar as if the smoke could obscure all notions of his sleaziness. “Musicians been complaining about their managers since Dick Clark was in diapers. I never took the copyrights like Irv Mills did with Duke Ellington or Phil Spector with the Ronettes.”
“You sound regretful about that.”
“Hell, no, I love Cadillac too much for that.” He blew some cigar smoke my way. “But had I taken the copyrights, you’d be representing me against M.C. Silky. Wouldn’t that be something?”
Burns moved to a piano, sat down, played the first few bars of I’m Leaving You, Baby, and warbled the lyrics in a scratchy voice.
“I’m leaving you baby…
Don’t ask why.
I’m leaving you baby…
Baby, baby, baby don’t cry.”
“So could I get the master tape from you?” I asked, when he had finished.
“Wish I could.”
“What’s that mean?”
“You’re a day late. And mucho dinero short. I sold it yesterday.”
“Sold it! What bullshit is that?”
“It’s the emmis. Young guy in a dark suit. Said he was a collector. Paid fifty thousand cash.”
“That’s no collector! He’s gotta be one of Krippendorf’s dwarves.”
“Who?”
“Some kid lawyer who’s working for Silky’s firm. Stealing the evidence so they can deep six it.”
“He didn’t steal anything. He bought it.”
“From you, Eddie! You just helped the enemy!”
“That’s life, kid.”
“What about, ‘I love Cadillac?’ You son-of-a-bitch!”
“You’re kind of new at this, aren’t you, Lassiter? The guy with the cash always wins.”
“Bullshit.”
“The strong, the fast, the rich. They’re the winners. Guys like Cadillac Johnson, losers all the way.”
“You’re a heartless bastard.”
“Cadillac thought his talent was enough. That he’d keep on writing and singing and recording. That he didn’t have to take crap from shit-bird promoters. The man never learned how to kiss ass.”
“Funny, me neither.”
“So look at him now. What’s he got? Bupkes! Nothing is what he’s got.”
“Ever stop to think you might bear some responsibility for that?”
“Anyone ever call you naive?”
“That and a lot worse.”
Burns tapped ashes from his phallic cigar and said, “I was there that day.”
“What day?”
He tapped out a tune on the piano and started singing:
“Buy me some peanuts and cracker jacks,
I don’t care if we never get back.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I said.
“‘Wrong Way Lassiter. The day you scored for the other team.”
“That’s a football story, and you’re singing a baseball song.”
“Poetic license, Lassiter. Besides, ain’t no good football songs.”
I didn’t know what point he was making, other than trying to embarrass me.
“I was living in New York then,” he said. “Had Jets’ season tickets.”
“Congratulations. I hope you got frostbite.”
“I watched the whole play through binoculars.”
“So?”
“When you recovered the fumble, your knee was down by contact. The play was dead right there, or should have been.”