The sheriff hunched down on the sand closer to the Judge to talk. He was a veteran, early sixties, square jaw, crinkly eyes that had seen it all. He had a large paunch, but looked still able to run the police academy drills with a minimum of fuss. His badge said: Officer Saunders, Los Angeles Sheriff’s Department.
“What's your name?”
The Judge offered his given name, adding that mostly he was called the Judge.
Officer Saunders leaned closer, as if to hear better the Judge's words, not so subtly sniffing the Judge’s breath.
“Been drinking?”
The Judge now regretted the Chardonnay. But damn it’d been good.
“No… I mean yes… just now. I borrowed a gulp of their wine. But not before.”
“Uh huh,” said Saunders. “Where's your pants?”
“I took them off in the surf when I got away.”
“Uh huh,” said Saunders again.
The Judge didn't like his tone.
"See you're bleeding,” said Saunders. “Hit the pier in our little swim, did we?”
"I was attacked with a knife."
“Oh… Uh huh. You often swim in your underwear?” asked Saunders. Face blank now, watching. Each pass of his flashlight across the Judge’s face was more disorienting.
“Look, Officer Saunders, I was surrounded by a gang. They meant to kill me. One of them attacked me with a knife. There were four of them. Coming at me from three sides. So I dived in the water and swam for it."
“Uh huh.”
“And I couldn't swim very well in my shoes and pants, so I shook them off as I headed to deeper water."
“Uh huh. What kind of gang was it?"
“What do you mean?”
"Well, was it a black gang? A Latino gang? Perhaps an Asian gang?"
“The guy I hit was white. There was at least one black. And there was an Asian. And a Latino I think.”
“Uh huh…. So you're saying this gang was sort of 'mixed'?"
“I guess.”
“Gangs don’t come mixed, sir. They’re sort of homogenous.” Patronizing now.
“And you say you hit somebody?”
“I fended off a knife thrust and hit him in the face.”
“Uh huh. That how you got those scrapes on your knuckles?”
The Judge looked down at his right hand. Saw for the first time the red patches of serrated skin across three knuckles. Nodded.
"Can I see your ID?"
"It was in my wallet, which is in my pants, which is somewhere out there in the surf." The Judge waved his hand toward the beach.
“Uh huh. You have any arrest record? Maybe for indecent exposure or something?” The cop was using a soothing voice now. Had leaned back a little. Creating distance.
The Judge got mad. He could feel the adrenaline racing. Could feel his face getting red.
“Look officer, I'm bleeding to death here on the sand. You think you can get me some medical attention? We can chat about this later.”
Officer Saunders sat back on his heels. The Judge could see he wasn't expecting the tone, or the attitude or the… the… arrogance. Fuck him. The Judge needed medical help. Now.
Wheels were turning behind the officer’s eyes. The Judge could see emotions playing out across Saunders’ face. He wouldn't be any good at poker. Reassessing everything. Officer Saunders was in over his head.
"Let's get you into my cruiser and we'll run you over to the ER at St John’s," Saunders said, gently taking the Judge's good arm now to help him stand. “We don’t want you to bleed to death.”
But now there were more flashing lights, and a siren, as an ambulance rolled up to the edge of the beach, casting the sand in an second alternating glow of red as its beacon swept.
"You don't look like you need an ambulance," said Officer Saunders. "Come on, I’m glad to give you a ride."
Taking a firmer grip on the Judge’s arm. Apparently thinking the Judge might try to escape. Trying to maintain control.
The Judge shook his arm away.
"My arm's throbbing. I've lost a lot of blood. I'm cold. I'm wet. And I'm probably in shock. I'll take the ambulance. Besides, I like sirens."
“Look buddy, you’re running around the beach with practically no clothes on. You’ve got alcohol on your breath. You’ve got no identification. I’m taking you in.” Standing up over the Judge now. Asserting his dominance.
A Santa Monica police cruiser pulled into the parking lot across the sand, lights flashing. Backup.
Officer Saunders looked like he was wanted to grab the Judge by the collar and drag him up and across the sand. He looked at the couple and the lifeguard watching intently, at the paramedics loping across the sand with their equipment boxes, at the backup police arrival. He apparently thought better of it.
The Judge could almost read Saunders’ mind by the emotions playing across his face. The Judge had used a certain tone that connoted intelligence and power. Best let someone else play cops and robbers. The Judge might be somebody important. The cop wasn't going to screw up his retirement now he was so close.
"As you wish, sir." he said, rising and putting his light away. “I’ll follow behind in case you need any additional help.” He handed the Judge his card and stepped back as the two paramedics pounced on the Judge and checked vital signs.
Three minutes later the Judge was prone on a stretcher inside the ambulance. Screeching his way through the Santa Monica traffic for Saint John's Hospital and its emergency room.
The paramedics were trying to staunch the flow of blood out of the Judge's arm, intermittently chatting with the ER over a dedicated frequency, forwarding the Judge's numbers. No one seemed too concerned. The Judge wasn't wearing oxygen. He decided he wasn’t going die. Although hospital care being what it was with all the cost cutting and bickering over billing codes, you couldn’t be sure. The Judge would just enjoy being in the ambulance and at the center of attention. Life was often unexplainable. Sometimes you had to lay back go with the flow.
If he’d known then where this ride was taking him, he’d have been less sanguine.
CHAPTER 3
9:20 Thursday
The ambulance skidded to a halt at the entrance to Saint John's emergency room and the Judge was trundled out to be assessed.
But "assessed" was a two-step process. First he had to be assessed to see if he could afford to pay the bills he might run up. A pinch-faced nurse demanded an insurance card, a credit card, or cash. He had lost his wallet with his pants. He had neither cash nor a credit card nor an insurance card. The nurse gave him a sour look and seemed disinclined to hear his explanation.
After some reluctant searching on the internet under his direction, she was able to find his insurance company, verify his personal information, and confirm he had insurance coverage. She looked disappointed.
Now he was established as a financially competent patient. She moved on to part two of assessment. The preliminary examination of his injuries. She judged he was indeed injured. He'd lost a lot of blood. But in his current state the injury wasn't life threatening. She shunted him off to the waiting room with a look of satisfaction.
The waiting room was filled with perhaps 60 people, all ages, sizes, shapes, races, and conditions. And all economic levels. This was the great Obama Care experiment. It gave everybody health care and nobody good service. He'd have to wait his turn. He supposed it was very democratic and fair and all. But he'd just as soon pay the freight and see a doctor now and avoid the four hour wait in less than sterile conditions. That is if he'd had any cash and any identification and car keys for freedom of movement.
He borrowed a phone at the reception desk and called Katy. He didn't like to call for help. It was unmanly. But he had no choice.
Katy was the love of his life. His new bride. And his junior by 20 years. They were continually negotiating over cross-generational expectations and values as they tried to settle into marriage that had only begun the month before. Something of a shot
gun wedding, he mused. Katy was two months pregnant. She had subtly given him an ultimatum. He wasn't at all sure he wanted to be a father. But he wanted Katy. It became a package deal.
Katy picked up the phone at once. "Hello!"
"Katy, it’s the Judge," he croaked, feeling sorry for himself now he could hear her voice. In need of a little mothering and sympathy, despite her being 29 and he 50.
She caught the distress in his tone. He could feel her standing up, anxiety rising. "What's the matter Judge? Where are you? What's happened?"
"I'm kind of in a jam."
"Tell me."
"I'm in the emergency room of Saint John's. Cooling my heels in the waiting area.”
The Judge looked down at his bare feet, protruding out from the blanket they'd given him. He'd discarded the socks. But was still wearing the soggy underwear. Polo. And his wet dress shirt. His feet were cold. His entire body was chilled now. From the swim, from the knife wound, from shock, from… everything. He felt even sorrier for himself.
"Are you hurt?" asked Katy.
"Not seriously."
"Were you in a car accident?"
"No."
"Did you fall down?"
"Not exactly."
"Can you drive? Shall I come get you?"
"Yes, I think you'd better. But I'm not sure they'll let me go."
"The hospital?"
"No… the police."
"Oh honey, I'm coming right now. What's the address?"
The Judge gave her the address; then said, "Can you do me a favor?"
"Anything."
"Can you bring me a pair of pants and some underwear? And some shoes, and a shirt. And a warm coat. Oh, and socks and a hanky." This came out in a rush.
“Jesus, Judge, what happened?”
“It's complicated."
"It sounds almost like you've lost your clothes….?”
The Judge went silent.
“Well, Judge?"
"Well……..only my pants."
"Okay Judge, I'm leaving now. When I get there you can explain. And it better be good!"
"Yes, well… Oh, honey?"
"Yes?"
"Better grab my passport, and last year's copy of my state bar card, and last year's medical card, and bring cash. Oh and my second set of car keys."
"I'm on my way."
The Judge pulled the blanket closer around him for warmth and security. It seemed nothing else could go sideways.
He was wrong. As he turned from the phone, barefoot, huddled in the hospital blanket, dried hair askew, a flash went off in his face.
He snarled at the photographer, who was backing away now, suddenly scared. But a firm hand was laid on his shoulder from behind. It was the hand of authority. It felt like the police. But it wasn't the L.A. Sheriff, Saunders. It was a plainclothes detective from the Santa Monica Police Department, shoving credentials into the Judge’s face. Too close to read.
The Judge was firmly guided to the farthest corner of the waiting room. The Judge was hoping vainly for some privacy but it didn’t exist in this overcrowded facility. He could feel every ear in the room turning. Craning to hear what felony he’d committed.
The cop was much younger than the patrol officer, perhaps early thirties, stocky, with a round face and a pink complexion out of which deep blue eyes studied the Judge suspiciously. His hair was cropped short, orange more than red, matching blotches here and there of sunburn on what was otherwise very fair skin. There was the patina of a college man, only partially hidden by the grey suit with the bulge under one arm and the heavily polished shoes. Black.
He leaned in and introduced himself as Lieutenant Kaminsky, sniffing at the Judge's breath.
Then he asked the same questions the officer had asked. At least the Judge was spared the "Uh huhs.” Instead, the Judge's responses were met with a poker face punctuated by narrowed blue eyes. Kaminsky’s hand scribbled in a little flip book he carried.
"What were you doing on the beach in the first place, Judge? Late for the beach."
"It wasn't late at all," bristled the Judge. "It was sunset for Christ sakes. What's a beach for? I'm a lawyer. I'd been cooped up in an arbitration all day. I was stretching my legs before a slog back to Palos Verdes on the 405."
"Who were you a lawyer for in the arbitration?” Kaminsky was looking for people who could vouch for the Judge and confirm his story.
"I wasn't lawyering for anybody," snapped the Judge. "I was the arbitrator."
"Okay, okay, so who were the parties, and who was present today?"
"Carl Greene is the defendant. His lawyer, Bruce Williams, was with me all day. And Randel Hicks and his company, 1st Enterprises, are the plaintiffs. Dick was there briefly this morning. And his lawyer, Dick Harper, was with me all day. And my law clerk, Frank Wolin."
"When did your meeting break up?"
"About seven p.m."
Lieutenant Kaminsky's cell phone squawked, then a disembodied voice spouted out a string of number codes from his coat pocket.
"Just a minute, Judge. I've got to take this call. But we're not finished."
He crossed the waiting room and stepped outside, leaving the Judge unattended.
The Judge slumped against the back of the chair in his blanket, exhausted, his mind rolling back through the day.
Arbitration differed greatly from sitting on the bench with the attorneys and parties scraping and carping below you. More informal. This was his first gig as an arbitrator, and he was just getting the hang of it. Strange too that the parties picked him for a patent dispute. He wasn’t a retired Federal Judge, or even a patent lawyer. But they’d wanted him, the money was good, and it was binding arbitration. He was the fact finder and decision maker.
He'd hired a law clerk to help him. A nice enough young man, newly minted as a lawyer after passing the bar in the Fall. Frank Wolin was green in assembling the facts and the law for a judge, but then weren't we all… once. Frankie worked hard and was enthusiastic, if perhaps a little misdirected in his scrambling efforts to keep up. The case wasn't all that complicated in the end. But interesting still.
The issue was whether an existing patent was infringed upon by similar technology. Technology that converted natural gas at the well-head into crude. Lots of gas was flared off around the country at oil wells for lack of a gas gathering system. This was lost revenue for the well owner and contributed to the carbons emitted into the atmosphere. There was a need for the technology.
Carl Greene, the inventor of the original technology, was a clever engineer. He’d spent thirty years off and on designing electrical devices for the navy. He knew his stuff. His testimony in the arbitration had been clear and credible. It cinched the case in the Judge's mind.
Randall Hicks, the plaintiff in the case seeking the judicial determination, had out-and-out ripped off of Greene's technology. Hicks may have changed the design of the piping and tanks a little, added a few gauges for window dressing, messed with the ingredients in the catalyst a bit, labeled everything with a different and fancier name, set the protocol for pressures and temperatures to somewhat different scales and parameters, but in the Judge’s opinion he’d basically appropriated Carl Greene’s patented technology for his own.
But Frankie, the Judge's law clerk, didn't see it that way. Frankie argued passionately for Hicks' position when he and the Judge worked privately together on the case. Frankie believed Hicks had invented something entirely new.
The Judge walked Frankie through his analysis several times, going step by step. Through the testimony. Through evidence produced. Frankie refused to admit any logic to the Judge's position.
His law clerk was cocky. But the Judge let him run, listening patiently while Frankie explained why the Judge was wrong. It was a tradition in the law you listened to and respected opinions from younger lawyers on a case. New eyes often had new ideas and perspectives not considered by old lawyers toiling in the same field for many years.
The fact gathering
was now all but complete. Hicks’ lawyer had made a demand for production of one more document under the terms for discovery. A confidential report prepared by Carl Greene and handed to the Judge that afternoon. It contained specifications on new technology Greene had created. Not yet patented. Hicks claimed a right to include Greene’s new technology within the scope of the dispute. Hicks wanted to review Greene’s technology, interrogate Greene, and sought a finding that Hicks’ technology did not overlap with the unpatented Greene technology.
The Judge hadn’t read the report yet. He was to review it “in chambers”, by himself. Determine if this new technology was discoverable in the arbitration. If he concluded it was, the report would be turned over to Hicks and his counsel for review. The Judge’s homework for the weekend was to read the report and decide if it was discoverable.
The waiting room doors opened again and Lieutenant Kaminsky darted in. He looked grim. Perhaps that was his nature. But his face was almost florid now. As though having difficulty controlling himself.
He marched up to the Judge with large strides. Towering over the Judge in a way that made the Judge instinctively stand up to face him.
"So the plaintiff in your arbitration was who again?" Kaminsky asked in a tight voice.
"Carl Greene," croaked the Judge, the pit of his stomach starting to turn for reasons he couldn't identify.
"Your Carl Greene was just found in an alley near here," Kaminsky said. Anger flaring across his face now. “Dead. A knife wound in his throat.”
CHAPTER 4
10:30 PM Thursday
As the Judge stood there, trying to assimilate what Kaminsky had said, the front door of the ER flew open and Katy came steaming through in a rush, an overnight bag clutched in one hand. Her eyes swept the waiting room and pinned the Judge in the back corner, relief spreading across her face.
Katy was 5’8”, slender, all arms and legs. She had long brown hair, twisted together in a pony tail that bobbed when she walked. She had extraordinary eyes, vivid blue like the Caribbean, large and intelligent, with long lashes. Her small features were etched here and there with smile lines. Her nose was a bit long and narrow, but in that it matched her head, also more oblong than round. All very delicate. Her cheeks, rosy already with a newly budding pregnancy that didn't show yet, were even more flushed tonight, making her blue eyes blaze. She was a magnificent creature, thought the Judge, particularly when stirred up. As now.
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