Cookie's Case Page 5

  “Robert! Robert!” I call out, disturbing the guy across from me again. “Are you all right? Are you all right?” I’m definitely concerned on his behalf, and I don’t even know him.

  “Yes, mister. I just gots the pains.”

  “The pains?” I ask. “What are the pains?”

  “In my ankle. From that van. The one that runned me over. I’ll tell Mr. Wang what you said. I gots to go, mister. I needs to chop them out. Ooh-dat!” Click.

  Damn. I think I just missed a case. A very natural thought for a personal injury attorney.

  At least I admit it.

  From Grand Central, I take the 4 train down to the Brooklyn Bridge stop. The ads plastered all over the subway car feature one of my competitors. I like his approach. It’s original. In giant letters it wants to know: HAVE YOU BEEN INJURED IN AN ACCIDENT?

  Back on the street, I walk a few blocks and then pause, looking up at the massive Corinthian columns of the New York Supreme Court. Above them the words of George Washington are engraved: The true administration of justice is the firmest pillar of good government. The funny thing is, it’s been said that the word true was actually penned by Washington as due. Interesting. The building where lawyers gather to make oral arguments has a misquote inscribed on its facade. Who’d have thought? What’s more, the word they got wrong is true, as in truth. What I’ve learned over the years is that any single event is riddled with several versions of truth. It all depends on whom you ask.

  Just as I’m mounting the familiar steps, I feel my phone start vibrating in my inside lapel pocket. Crap. I’m certain it’s not Robert Killroy, whose call I’d take. The problem is, I really don’t like taking any calls at all before appearing in court. The wrong one can be too much of a distraction when it comes to the task at hand. I pull it out.

  The screen reads Home. This can’t be good.

  “Hi, honey.”

  “Don’t ‘hi honey’ me,” my wife says. “Why is Penelope insisting her name is Summer? What did you do?”

  “I didn’t do anything. I mean, we had a little philosophical talk this morning about being an independent person, but nothing about—”

  “You’re an idiot.” Click. At least she didn’t call me a stupid idiot.

  A few steps up, I sense the vibration again. Crap. I take it out. Home again. It’s unlikely to be Tyler since she already had the last word. I hit answer. Before I even get a chance to say anything, Penelope speaks.

  “Dad, it’s me, Summer. Will you tell Mom to stop calling me Penelope? That’s not my name anymore.”

  “Hold on there, Little Munch. What’re you talking about?”

  “Well, I love the name Summer, and after we had our father-daughter talk this morning, I decided to change my name. As a show of independence. You can do that, you know. Change your name, that is.”

  “That wasn’t the point of our conversation. Your name’s Penelope, and that’s final!”

  “It’s Summer!” Click.

  I keep my phone in my hand. This ain’t over. Five steps farther, and the phone does its thing again. It’s not going to be Summer—I mean, Penelope—for the same reason it wasn’t her mother. I pick up.

  “Dad, it’s me, Dirk.”

  “Dirk?” I question. “Connor, is that you?”

  “Dad, I used to be Connor. Now I’m Dirk. I like that name better. It’s tougher-sounding. What time are you coming home tonight? I want to pitch to you.”

  “Connor,” I say sternly, “forget about what time I’m coming home tonight and forget about changing your name to Dirk. Tell everybody to stop calling me. I have to make my argument in court this morning. Got it?”

  “Okay, Dad, but I’m still changing my name to Dirk. Summer told me I have to be independent. She said you lectured her on that this morning.”

  “That’s not what I meant, and you’re not changing your name!”

  “Am, too. Penelope changed hers, so I’m changing mine. Bye!” Click.

  Damn that last word. The phone remains in my hand. Two steps later, it vibrates. “Yeah,” I say. You could call my tone surly.

  “When you get home, you better fix this,” Tyler snaps.

  “Honey, I just—”

  “I just … I just,” she mocks, cutting me off. “Listen to me, you stupid idiot. You want to ‘just’ something, I’ll tell you what you can ‘just’ do. You can just fix this. And need I remind you that today is Tuesday?” Click.

  That went well. Now idiot had been ratcheted up to stupid idiot, and she’d dropped in the Tuesday reminder. Crap.

  “Hello!” My phone has rung again.

  “Hi, Dad. It’s me, Brooks. You sound mad.”

  “Hi, Brooks. I’m just irritated, not mad. What’s up? Let me guess: you changed your name.”

  “No, Dad, I like my name.”

  “Good. So, make it quick. I’m at the courthouse.”

  “Can you tell Dirk and Summer to stop hiding the television remote from each other. I can’t find it and—”

  “Brooks,” I cut in, “do me a favor. Call them by their right names so they don’t take this thing any further, okay?”

  “Okay, Dad.”

  “Now, what are you kids doing home from school today, anyway?”

  “There’re parent-teacher conferences. Hold on, Dad, Dirk wants to talk to you.”

  “Brooks, I said call them by their—”

  “Hi, Dad.”

  “Connor, tell everybody to stop calling me! Give Brooks the remote! Or, better yet, give it to Penelope. And nobody’s changing his or her name! Bye!” Click.

  That felt good. But I knew it was only a time-out.

  Chapter Four

  It’s a big day in court. There’s my lawyer. That’s right. I’m going to court this morning, not as the attorney but, instead, as the client.

  “Roscoe!” I call out. “Jenkins!” He turns around and smiles. Jauntily, with a pop in his step, he walks toward me.

  Roscoe Jenkins is a young, good-looking black man. He’s about ten years into his legal career, and attorneys in the city who find themselves with a Disciplinary Committee problem often consider retaining him. The Disciplinary Committee oversees attorney conduct and has the authority to suspend your license, permanently. Roscoe has a certain approach to things—looking out for your best interests, in his own special way. Some may suggest his way is unethical, but I never said that. He has a certain swagger and is very, very likeable. He’s wearing his trademark hand-knotted burgundy bow tie and three-piece hand-tailored suit. His glasses are wire-rimmed and round.

  “S’up, my man?”

  “S’up, Roscoe, is that I hate this crap.”

  “All part of the game, my man. All part of the game.”

  So here’s what he’s talking about. I’ve gotten my client a million-dollar offer of settlement as compensation for the amputation of three of her toes. The ones you hardly even use. This sum represents the entirety of the insurance coverage, with the defendant bankrupt. This makes it impossible ever to get a penny more. Nonetheless, my client, who was likely to lose those toes in the near future thanks to her uncontrolled diabetes, has gone and fired me. She did so because she wants 1.1 million, not the million on the table, despite my explaining to her in simple English that the coverage is one million, the company is defunct, and a penny over one mil will never, ever happen.

  I’m not done.

  Her first new “incoming attorney” visited my office, read her file, then looked up at me and said, “Great job. I’m not taking this case.” I mean, why would he? I got the insurance company to tender their entire policy, so there’s nothing this lawyer could do to get even one penny more. Smart guy.

  The next one came and did the same thing. “Excellent job,” he said, after two hours with his head in the file. “I want no part of it,” he told me an
d walked out of my office. But before he did, he retained me as trial counsel on a case he has coming up.

  Of course, both of these guys knew that I, as “outgoing counsel,” am entitled to a fee for my work. That fee, given that I’ve gotten the defense counsel to offer all the money that will ever result from this case, will amount to nearly all the attorney percentage of the recovery. No lawyer ever wants to substitute out another attorney and litigate a case with no upside. At least, no lawyer with half a brain.

  But there’s a reason I’m here in court today on this matter. It’s the third attorney she hired. He doesn’t have a brain. Not half, not a quarter—none!

  This guy—I think of him as Wilbur, in tribute to the rather dim owner of Mr. Ed, the talking horse—called me up and advised me he was Josefina’s new attorney. I said, “Great, want to come look at the file before you take it?” presuming that he, like his two predecessors, would likely turn it down once he got the facts.

  “Nope,” he replied.

  “Okay,” I said, curious as to why he wouldn’t want to review it. It’s standard operating procedure to look at a file before you snatch it from another lawyer, just to make sure it’s worth the steal. “I’ll need you to sign an acknowledgment of my attorney fee and lien on the file before I turn the case over to you,” I continued.

  “I’m not signing shit.”

  “Then you’re not getting the file.”

  “We’ll see.”

  “Yeah, we’ll see. If you think I’m going to roll over and play dead with the hefty fee I earned at risk, you’ve got another think coming.”

  “You’re the one who’s got something coming, amigo. You’re the one.” He hangs up on me.

  Well, he was right. I had something coming. Something I could never have seen even if it was a foot in front of my face.

  Wilbur claimed, in open court, in response to my motion to establish my fee prior to turning over my file, that I had suborned perjury at my client’s oral examination before trial, commonly referred to as an EBT. That I knowingly advised her to testify falsely and that she did so testify. If this allegation were believed, this conduct unbecoming a lawyer would extinguish my right to a fee, but that’s the least of it. I’d also face criminal prosecution and lose my license because, as everyone knows, suborning perjury is a serious crime.

  Just so we are clear here, alleging that a lawyer suborned perjury—meaning, told his client to lie under oath—is like calling a kindergarten teacher a pedophile.

  It’s that bad.

  And if I’m found guilty by the Honorable Brown, who sits on the bench as both judge and jury, she’s next required to notify the Disciplinary Committee and the District Attorney’s office. It’s all downhill from there. Therefore, the fact that today is Tuesday will be of no consequence when I go to bed tonight, for clearly, my mind will be elsewhere.

  “If some client of mine falsely accused me of that crime,” Roscoe says, “I’d get one of the boys to deal with it in the appropriate manner. But I never said that.” Ah. It’s this singular phrase that embodies his special way of giving legal advice.

  I look at him. He smiles.

  “Roscoe,” I say, “I know Josefina well. She doesn’t have the mental capacity to have come up with this plan. It’s her new lawyer who’s the architect of this scheme. She’s his puppet. Besides, you’re an ethics lawyer. Not only is it your specialty, but you teach ethics courses at two law schools. How could you say you’d go for the unwritten approach to justice?”

  “Didn’t I just tell you ‘I never said that’?”

  “Yes. You never said that, despite saying it—giving me advice on the sly—in my best interest. I get it. But only, you did say it.”

  “Look,” he begins, “they don’t teach shit like this in law school. This is street law. We’re dealing with a street guy who just happened to get himself a law degree. This thug sees a big, cool fee flashing before his eyes, one he could never achieve on his own. Well, he’s got no problem with ruining your reputation or putting you behind bars to get at it. It’s about cool, quick cash, bro, just that. So, yeah, if this shit happened to me, I’d have the Fidge bring down some curbside justice on this scoundrel. But I never said that.”

  The Fidge is a guy Roscoe and I know who takes care of things that need taking care of, and his reach is long. “You wouldn’t really get the Fidge involved in a civil matter like this, would you?”

  “I never said that, did I?” We look at each other.

  “Come on, we’ve got to go inside,” he reminds me. “I’m going to cross-examine the shit out of your former client for you.” He turns to go up the courthouse steps.

  “Yo, Roscoe, I got this one.”

  “What?” he yells, stopping abruptly.

  “I said, I got this one.”

  “I’m your lawyer, Tug. That’s what you hired me for.”

  “Yeah, I know, but my license is on the line here. It’s more than just money involved. I know you’d do a great job in there, but I’ve been handling her underlying case for three years. I know her better than anyone else. Not just stuff in the file you read, but stuff only in my head, and I know how she thinks, too. It’s only right that I do her cross.” It’s a winning argument. Roscoe sighs. He knows me, but still, he wasn’t expecting this.

  “Okay, you do it,” he says.

  We walk in together.

  LET THE GAMES BEGIN

  Yesterday was Josefina’s direct exam, when she testified against me with Wilbur feeding her the questions. He was practically moving her mouth with his hand up her ass. It sucked, hearing my client, whom I busted my butt for, claim I did something that I did not do.

  Now, in the courtroom, I look over at Josefina. Even from this distance, I can see her eyes are bloodshot. I’d like to think it was from sleeping badly, owing to a guilty conscience for what she’s attempting to do at the direction of her new lawyer. But I know it’s not. More likely she’s strung out on whatever painkiller cocktail or street drug she’s currently taking.

  As I’m walking toward the trial table, my phone vibrates in my pocket. Shit. I forgot to shut it off when I entered the building. I take it out. It’s a message from Tyler, my wife, who loves me in her special way. It reads: Connor and Penelope are telling all their friends about their new names. You better fix this when you get home. And by the way, you just might as well forget it’s Tuesday.

  Bye, bye, Tuesday Night Hand Job (TNHJ). But that’s the least of my worries at this moment.

  “Phone off and away, Mr. Wyler,” instructs Judge Brown, “or it will be confiscated by my court officer.”

  “Sorry, Your Honor. It was a message of support from my wife. She knows, understands, and appreciates how important this proceeding is.”

  “Take your seats, counsel,” Judge Brown says. “Take your seats,” she repeats. This is a nonjury matter, so our little group consists of Wilbur, the court staff, Roscoe, and me. Plus, of course, my former client Josefina Ruiz, who’s sitting in the chair up on the witness stand, minus three toes. It’s also a closed hearing. Meaning that no one else is allowed in, and no one will be able to view the trial transcript. Thank God for that, given the horrible allegation against me.

  In a hearing like this, where the claim is that you told your client to testify to something other than the truth under oath—which you are categorically denying—the credibility of both parties is directly at issue. It’s a “he said, she said,” situation. Literally. So my entire goal is to establish that Josefina is unworthy of belief.

  Once the preliminaries are out of the way, Judge Brown gets down to business.

  “Let the record reflect that the witness, Josefina Ruiz, is sitting in the witness chair.” Josefina looks up and smiles upon hearing her name. “She’s your witness, Mr. Jenkins, you may cross-examine her.”

  “Well, uh, you see …” I rise fr
om my seat. “Your Honor, I’ll be cross-examining the witness, not Mr. Jenkins.”

  “You?” she asks, surprised.

  “Yes, me.”

  “The party-litigant crossing their adverse party. I’ve never had this in my thirty years on the bench. It’s highly unusual.”

  “As is the bogus claim against me, Your Honor.”

  “Objection!” Wilbur barks.

  I turn to him. “Pipe down, Wilbur, there’s no jury here to grandstand for.”

  “You talking to me?”

  “You’re the only Wilbur in here.”

  He grits his teeth. “My name’s not Wilbur! And you damn well know that.”

  “Enough, gentlemen. Mr. Wyler, she’s your witness.”

  “Thank you, Your Honor. Mr. Jenkins will be making legal argument on my behalf, in response to Wilbur’s objections, should the need arise during my cross of this witness.”

  “Duly noted, Counselor. You may inquire.” I slowly walk over and place myself right in front of the witness box. Most times when I do this, it’s in a more threatening manner. But not now. In this instance, I’m placing myself here in such a way so as to make Josefina feel comfortable, which is why I walked over so deliberately and why I offered my former client a kindly smile when I stopped in front of her.

  There are two basic ways to take down a witness. You can go directly for their jugular, an aggressive, attacking, quick-kill approach that they can see coming. Which was the original plan. Or, you can make nice as you slowly drain blood from the witness’s smaller collateral vessels without them knowing it. By the time they become aware of what’s seeping away—their credibility—it’s too late. I’m now opting for the latter exsanguination. It’s taken only a glance at Josefina to realize I need to make a change on the fly. She looks pathetic. If I play the cut-throat lawyer taking advantage of her less-than-perfect intelligence, I become the bad guy. For real. Not going to happen. Let the games begin. My laptop is plugged into the court reporter’s steno machine, and this is how the testimony reads in real time:

  Q: Josefina, yesterday you testified that one year ago, in my office conference room, I told you to lie under oath during our predeposition prep session. Correct?