Die Laughing 2: Five More Comic Crime Novels

by Ben Rehder

  “So why’d you offer to settle? Why the seventy-five grand?”

  “Strictly the client’s idea.”

  “So why not just sue me for the half million I don’t have?”

  She reached out through the window and stroked my cheek. “Because I care about you.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “And I don’t want to see you get hurt.”

  “Right.”

  Her fingers crept around the back of my neck and played at the hairline. That kiss I’d predicted seemed to be in the offing. “And I miss you.”

  I pulled away. “You’ll get over it.”

  I started running south, toward Matheson Hammock, sneakers pounding the pavement, but not loud enough to drown out her voice. “You’re a sorry-ass loser, Jake! That’s why I dumped you.”

  21. Welcome, Truth Seekers

  I did not have time to worry about Farrell’s lawsuit against me.

  Or the disbarment proceeding.

  Or whether my bougainvilleas were getting enough water.

  I was in trial in the county courthouse downtown. Or rather in a hearing before Judge Willard Colton on Krippendorf’s motion for summary judgment. If I lost, there would be no trial, and a jury would never hear the case.

  A black vulture was perched on the limestone ledge outside the courthouse window. Two more soared in the updrafts. Maybe they were the same ones that parasailed outside Krippendorf’s high-rise offices, or they could just be cousins.

  The computer printout at the door to the courtroom read: “William Johnson, a/k/a Cadillac Johnson vs. Percival Morton a/k/a M.C. Silky.”

  Percival?

  Then there was this sign above the judge’s bench: “We Who Labor Here Seek Only the Truth.”

  What a crock!

  It’s part of our cultural heritage. We believe we have the best legal system in the gosh-darned world. To which I reply, What about trial by battle?

  We believe that justice will prevail, and I say, Only if it has more money.

  We believe that judges protect the weak from the strong. But I say listen to the down-and-out lawyer played by Paul Newman in “The Verdict” when he angrily tells the judge: “I know about you. You couldn’t hack it as a lawyer. You were a bag man for the boys downtown, and you still are.”

  Now back to that sign. “We Who Labor Here Seek Only the Truth.”

  I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again. There ought to be a footnote. Subject to the truth being concealed by lying witnesses, distorted by sleazy lawyers, and excluded by inept judges.”

  With that thought echoing in my brain, I went to court.

  ***

  Cadillac Johnson sat on the witness stand, strumming his guitar and singing.

  “I’m leaving you, baby.

  Got to say goodbye.

  I’m leaving you, baby.

  Don’t ask why.”

  Judge Colton had cut me one small break. Ordinarily, motions for summary judgment are decided on the paperwork. No witnesses testify, except by affidavit. If the evidence and facts overwhelmingly favor the moving party – in this case Silky – so that a jury could not legally find for the other party, the motion is granted. The judge was going to listen to both songs. Krippendorf had submitted a tape of Don’t Cry, Baby. I had no tape, score, or vinyl, so the judge allowed Cadillac to perform live.

  In one respect, it was a victory for the good guys. On the other hand, the judge was just covering his ass. If he ruled against us, the appellate court couldn’t overturn on the basis he didn’t give us a fair hearing.

  The judge thumbed through Professor Ciani’s musical score overlays – and his affidavit asserting no plagiarism – while Silky’s tape played.

  “Don’t cry, baby.

  You my sexy lady.

  Don’t cry, baby.

  Baby, baby, baby.”

  The judge called for a fifteen minute recess so he could consider the issues alone in chambers. I figured he either needed to call his bookie or take a dump. Either way, he returned to the bench, as promised, and spent roughly ninety seconds in silence, trying to appear judicial but succeeding only in driving up my blood pressure.

  Colton was a heavyset man in his fifties with flowing silvery hair. He’d been a prosecutor in the State Attorney’s office for twenty-five years. A lifer. After serving on several Florida Bar committees that re-write the Rules of Criminal Procedure – a task no sane man would undertake – and contributing some dough to the state Republican Party, Colton was appointed by the Governor to fill the unexpired term of a judge who landed in prison for offering to sell the names of confidential informants to various hit men. Miami Justice, I like to call it.

  Judge Colton cleared his throat with a judicial har-rumph, nodded to the court stenographer, and began in stentorian tones: “The Court finds that the plaintiff has proved the two songs are similar and rejects the defense argument that, as a matter of probabilities, nearly every musical phrase will be repeated without plagiarism.”

  So far, so good. Next to me at the defense table, Sherrell Johnson was latched onto my forearm in a death grip. Cadillac seemed relaxed. I figured the old guy had been in tougher spots.

  “However…” the judge continued.

  I hate the word however.

  “The plaintiff has failed to prove – or to create a triable issue – that the defendant had access to the first song.”

  “Your Honor,” I said, getting to my feet. “Under Heim versus United Music–”

  ”Let me finish, Mr. Lassiter. The songs are not so strikingly similar as to allow the Court to infer access under the Heim case.”

  Now, Cadillac stirred in his seat. “You saying that punk didn’t steal my music, judge?”

  “I’m saying your lawyer hasn’t proved Mr. Silky even heard your music.”

  “Hasn’t proved it yet, Your Honor,” I said. “If you let this case go to trial, we’ll have sufficient time to prove it up. Mr. Krippendorf set this motion on short notice, and we haven’t had the opportunity to fully develop the evidence.”

  “Then let me help you out,” the judge said. “Mr. Silky, have you ever owned a recording of the plaintiff’s song?”

  “No, sir,” Silky said, from the defense table.

  “Ever hear his song before you wrote your own?”

  “Objection to the phrase ‘your own,’” I said.

  “Overruled. Mr. Silky?”

  “I don’t believe so, Judge. At least, I can’t remember ever hearing it.”

  The judge turned back to me with a self-satisfied look. “As I said, Mr. Lassiter, there’s no proof of access.”

  I slid out from behind the plaintiff’s table, took three steps and planted myself like an oak in front of the bench. “Your Honor, if you don’t mind my saying so, you take a lousy deposition.”

  “Sit down, Mr. Lassiter.”

  “You couldn’t bust a Girl Scout for possession of cookies.”

  “I’m warning you…”

  I didn’t sit down. Didn’t move a millimeter. “Now, maybe I don’t play golf with you, or contribute to your campaigns….”

  “Careful, Mr. Lassiter.”

  I heard a Krippendorfian chuckle coming from the defense table,

  “But I know my rights,” I continued.

  “Got your toothbrush in that briefcase? Because you’re this close to being held in contempt.” The judge held his thumb and forefinger an inch apart.

  “Is that the size of your brain or your penis?” I fired back.

  The judge’s neck turned red. “You apologize this instant!”

  It was the first time anyone demanded an apology from me since I punched out James Farrell and Krippendorf was all over my ass. Which, come to think of it, wasn’t that long ago.

  I stayed silent.

  “Mr. Lassiter! Are you going to apologize?”

  “No way.”

  “No way? Wrong Way! No wonder they call you that. You are hereby–”

  ”I move to recus
e on the ground of bias.”

  “Denied!”

  “Move for a hearing on bias.”

  “Denied!”

  “Move for an adjournment.”

  “Denied!”

  “Fine. Do what you want. I’ll appeal your ass all the way to–”

  The judge banged his gavel, the echo ricocheting like a rifle shot through the courtroom. “You are hereby held in direct contempt of court. Bailiff, escort Mr. Lassiter to the lock-up.”

  The bailiff was the uncle of the Chief Deputy Clerk. He was a jangly-jointed man in a baggy uniform who looked fearful as he approached me. As if I might give him a forearm shiver. But I fell in step with him, turning only to Cadillac and Sherrell and saying, “It ain’t over. Not by a long shot.”

  22. Set the Shyster Free

  It was just after sundown when three burly corrections officers began the dangerous task of transporting me from the courthouse lock-up to the county jail. I guess they thought two weren’t enough.

  My hands were cuffed behind my back, but I was spared the indignity of leg irons, a blindfold, and a gag. We had just exited the courthouse onto Flagler Street where a sheriff’s van was parked. Which is when my hero arrived.

  Doc Charlie Riggs wasn’t riding a white horse. He squealed to the curb in a muddy Dodge pick-up and hopped out, waving a piece of paper.

  “Unhand that man!” he demanded, somewhat archaically.

  They did no such thing. One of the officers examined the paper. It wasn’t a court order, but rather a handwritten note on Judge Colton’s personal stationery. The puzzled lawman read aloud: “The contempt citation against Attorney Jacob Lassiter is hereby rescinded and he may go forth henceforth as a free man.”

  “What the fuck?” the officer said.

  “Henceforth,” I said, cheerfully.

  “That ain’t official,” the other officer said.

  “I just came from Judge Colton’s house,” Doc Riggs said. “He asked to be called to confirm the authenticity of his order.”

  Doc Riggs offered the first officer his cell phone. His face registering skepticism, the officer dialed the number emblazoned in fancy script on the judge’s stationery, then walked off a few paces and had a conversation out of earshot. When he returned, he said to one of his cohorts: “Set the shyster free.”

  ***

  “You want to tell me how you did this?” I asked.

  Doc Riggs sipped at his Jack Daniels. “Nope.”

  We were sitting on adjacent bar stools at a downtown watering hole, just minutes after my release. “You went to the judge’s house?” I asked.

  “Lovely Mediterranean architecture. Near the Biltmore just off Anastasia.”

  “I’m assuming you weren’t carrying a bag full of cash.”

  “Didn’t need to. I just called in an old debt.”

  I took a pull on my beer and spent a moment trying to figure what the judge could owe the former Medical Examiner and came up blank.

  “As long as we’re playing Twenty Questions, let me ask how old that old debt is?”

  “Back before Colton was a judge.”

  “Okay. He was in the state attorney’s office. Deputy Chief of Homicide. You were M.E. What could he owe you?”

  “None of your business.”

  “You didn’t lie for him on the stand, did you?”

  “Screw you, Jake! You know me better than that.”

  “What then? He’s a necrophiliac and you provided him bodies.”

  Doc Riggs took a long drink of his sour mash whiskey. “Close, but no cigar.”

  “What? Now you gotta tell me.”

  Doc Riggs sighed and said, “Long time ago, Colton was seeing a young C.S.I. on the side, and I covered for him. Hell, I gave him the spare office in the morgue where I kept a cot and a liquor cabinet. Colton would tell his wife he had to watch an autopsy or meet with one of the deputy examiners, and if she drove by the morgue, sure enough, his car would be there. He always told me if I needed anything, not to hesitate to ask.”

  “And tonight you asked.”

  Doc Riggs drained the rest of his drink and motioned the bartender for another. “I told him you weren’t quite the horse’s ass you often appear to be, and you really believe in your client’s case.”

  “Yeah?”

  “Colton won’t enter an order dismissing Cadillac’s suit for 72 hours, and he’s ordering Silky to give you a full deposition. If you come up with any evidence he had access to Cadillac’s song, he’ll deny the summary judgment and let the case go to trial.”

  “Holy shit.”

  “I assume that’s your way of saying ‘thank you.’”

  “Thank you, Charlie.”

  “You’re welcome.”

  “Why didn’t you reach into your bag of tricks before I got thrown in the can?”

  “I was hoping you wouldn’t need extra-curricular help.”

  “I always need help. But now, we’re gonna win this thing.”

  “Don’t start celebrating yet. How do you know Silky’s lying when he says he never heard the song?”

  “I know it in my bones. We’ve been over this. Silky’s a major collector of early rock and roll. He’s got 45s of all of Cadillac’s contemporaries. Why doesn’t he have any of Cadillac’s songs? Especially his most famous? It doesn’t compute.”

  “Okay. Say you’re right. How do you crack him?”

  I took a handful of peanuts and tossed them in my mouth. As I chewed, I said, “I’ve spent the last several hours in a jail cell thinking about that.”

  “And…?”

  “I’m sure Silky is hiding the record. All I have to do is find it.”

  “And how do you propose to do that?”

  “Simple, Charlie. I have to make him move it, and be there when he does.”

  23. Rage Control

  “Mr. Lassiter is an agnostic lawyer,” Dr. Moira Golden said.

  “Meaning what?” Judge Willard Buckstrom asked.

  “He doesn’t believe the concept of justice exists. Or at the very least, he strongly doubts it.”

  I fidgeted in my chair. I should be taking M.C. Silky’s deposition, but instead, I was trapped in Judge Buckstrom’s chambers where Dr. Golden was delivering her report on my mental status. Seated around the long conference table were my antagonists. James Farrell, his jaw no longer wired shut, glared at me. Kim Coates made eye contact with a look that could only be called rehearsed concern. Florida Bar investigator George Grumley scribbled notes furiously, hoping to hear something that would justify pulling my ticket to practice law.

  “Mr. Lassiter believes passionately in his clients and takes their cases to heart,” Dr. Golden continued. “So when he loses, which is quite often, he takes it as a personal affront. He feels especially aggrieved by the case of his friend, Dr. Riggs, the former medical examiner, who lost his job in what Mr. Lassiter considers to be an unjust manner. As time goes on, his distrust of the system grows.”

  “I get that,” the judge said. “But tell me how that affects Mr. Lassiter’s capacity to practice law.”

  “Mr. Lassiter feels rage at the judicial system. Wherever he looks, he sees fraud, deception, and chicanery.”

  “What’s crazy about that?” I chimed in.

  “Quiet, Mr. Lassiter,” the judge instructed. “No one says you’re crazy. Or do they?”

  “Crazy is a word that lacks meaning in my profession, Your Honor,” Dr. Golden said. “I would venture to say, however, that Mr. Lassiter is delusional.”

  I stifled my desire to quack like a duck.

  “Is he dangerous?” the judge asked.

  “Certainly, he needs anger management counseling and rage control therapy. He should be closely monitored for signs of increased instability.”

  The judge chewed that over for a moment, then turned to Kim Coates. “What’s the status of the lawsuit, Farrell versus Lassiter?”

  “No progress to report, Your Honor,” Kim said.

  “Settlement neg
otiations?”

  “None.”

  “Mr. Lassiter, the Court would look favorably on your settling the assault allegations by your former client.”

  I wanted to argue. I wanted to holler that threatening me with the loony bin was an improper way to force settlement. I wanted to say that, damn right, the justice system is run through with fraud, deception, and chicanery. That the Krippendorfs of this world are sleazy and corrupt and His Honor was a major tool.

  But instead, I said, “Your Honor, I agree. Mr. Farrell can have everything in my bank account.”

  “Which is roughly what?”

  “Roughly, overdrawn.”

  The judge narrowed his eyes and looked as if he wanted to throw his gavel at me. Instead, he put on his judicial voice and intoned, “Mr. Lassiter, I’m ordering that you report to Dr. Golden three times weekly for anger management treatment. Doctor, you’ll report back to me in thirty days on Mr. Lassiter’s progress or lack thereof. Ms. Coates, I’m ordering mediation of the underlying lawsuit involving Mr. Farrell.”

  The judge turned back to me. “Finally, Mr. Lassiter, until next time, don’t hit anybody, and in case you didn’t hear me a moment ago, settle the damn lawsuit!”

  24. A Kiss Is Not Always a Kiss

  Krippendorf offered his conference room for Silky’s deposition.

  I declined.

  Fine, he said. My office – such as it was – would work.

  I declined that, too. I told him I wanted Silky to be comfortable, so let’s do it at his house. Krippendorf agreed.

  I wasn’t even lying. I wanted Silky to be relaxed and confident. At first. By the time we finished, I wanted him confused and afraid.

  Silky’s house was a mini-manse on Star Island with about 300 feet of waterfront and dockage. A gazebo, cabanas, and entertainment area next to the infinity pool. Soaring spaces inside of marble, fine woods, vaulted ceilings, French doors, and – who can do without this in south Florida? – a magnificent stone fireplace. We set up for the depo in the library, a cool, dark wooded room with floor-to-ceiling shelves and thousands of record albums.