by Reason of Sanity Read online

  Gene Grossman

  Peter Sharp Legal Mystery Number 2

  #2 in the Peter Sharp Legal Mystery Series

  …By Reason of Sanity

  By Gene Grossman

  From Magic Lamp Press

  Venice, California

  Magic Lamp

  Press ™

  If you purchased this book without a cover, you should be aware that this book is stolen property. It was reported ‘unsold and destroyed’ to the publisher and neither the author nor the publisher has received any payment for this “stripped book.”

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously or with permission. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or any events is entirely coincidental.

  …By Reason of Sanity

  Peter Sharp Legal Mystery #2

  All rights reserved © MMVIII Magic Lamp Press This book, or parts thereof, may not be reproduced in any form, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means, electronic, mechanical,

  photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without written permission from the

  author. For written permission, contact: Magic Lamp Press, P.O. Box 9547, Marina del Rey, CA 90295.

  Peter Sharp Legal Mystery Series http://www.PeterSharpBooks.com

  ISBN: 1-882629-13-2

  Peter Sharp Legal Mysteries: the Complete Series www.LegalMystery.com Single Jeopardy …by Reason of Sanity A Class Action Conspiracy of Innocence …Until Proven Innocent The Common Law The Magician’s Legacy The Reluctant Jurist The Final Case An Element of Peril A Good Alibi

  Legally Dead

  How to Rob a Bank

  1

  T

  here’s nothing worse than a reformed smoker. I know, because I’m one. I can smell something being smoked from a car pulling up next to me in

  traffic with its windows open. I can smell it from

  someone walking upwind of me a half block away.

  I’m insulted by the fact that some schmuck is

  polluting my air.

  So here I am at thirty thousand feet above the

  Pacific Ocean, flying back from Maui, and the fat

  guy sitting next to me must have smoked two packs

  before boarding time. It’s a good thing there’s no

  smoke detector above us because his entire huge

  body and clothing reek of smoke. Every time he

  coughs, some smoke comes out of his liver-lipped

  mouth. He’s been sleeping for the past two hours…

  probably tired from all that suction.

  Sitting next to this guy reminds me of a long

  time ago, when I was going to Chicago’s Roosevelt

  University days, and working nights playing piano

  downtown on Rush Street. After working from nine

  in the evening to three in the morning in a smokefilled saloon, I would return to my parents’ second

  floor north Kedzie Ave. apartment, where by my

  mother’s orders, I’d get undressed in the hallway and

  leave my smoke-drenched suit hanging on the

  banister.

  But other than the odors getting to me on this flight back, this vacation was a success.

  With all of the book-time spent under Lahaina’s Banyan tree, in my hotel room at the Pioneer Inn and on the flights both ways, I’ve been able to catch up on my reading with one by Robert K. Tannenbaum, one by John Lescroart, two by William Bernhardt and then John Grisham’s The Summons, which I think he probably phoned in. Reading books by these burnt out lawyers gives me an idea: if reformed hackers can get hired by the government as computer specialists and reformed burglars can get jobs as security experts, why can’t a reformed personal injury lawyer become a defense attorney? I’ve certainly got the credentials. In the past year alone I settled a huge asbestosis case with nothing more than a faith healer’s report… and there was the two million life insurance settlement I got for that doctor who was accused of murdering his wife. I also successfully defended my friend Stuart when a lady using his weight-loss formula sued him claiming it turned her into a nymphomaniac.

  Following up on that possibility, our office sent out some inquiry letters to a couple of insurance companies I bagged last year to see if there’re any hard feelings. Knowing those corporate types, they don’t have feelings. To them, all that counts is the bottom line. If Hitler came back as a winning defense lawyer, he’d be on their payroll.

  When checking in from Maui, I was told that one of the insurance company’s defense firms might have an assignment for me.

  As promised, Stuart picks me up at the flight arrival area and I get in his car, only to be bawled out during the entire ride to the Marina. He doesn’t let up, obviously having heard I was thinking of changing sides. “How can you do this? You’re not one of those insurance defense guys who wanna cheat injured people out of a fair settlement. Those guys ruin the lives of people who’re really hurt.” “You mean like you were with that faith healer’s diagnosis of fatal mesothelioma? And if I remember correctly, you didn’t complain when I acted as defense attorney for you with that crazy broad who sued you for negligent nymphomania, as a result of taking that weight-loss snake oil you sell. That saved your ass and made you even richer so what’s the beef?” I had him there.

  “Listen Stu, I know how you feel, but if you stop to think about it, a fair defense lawyer can do more good than a plaintiff’s lawyer.”

  “Yeah, sure. You gonna just give away your client’s money?”

  “No, I wouldn’t do that, but if a person really is entitled to a fair settlement I can advise my client to pay it, instead of helping them interpret their policy provisions into some perverted reason not to pay.”

  The discussion comes to a temporary conclusion as we pull up to the C-4200 dock, where the forty-two foot Californian motor yacht I live on is docked. This isn’t exactly my dreamboat, but it’ll have to do until the fifty-foot Grand Banks I covet becomes affordable. We’re on the same dock as George Clooney’s mega yacht and I still have some hope of bumping into him and starting a friendship. Nothing’s changed while I was gone. Being close to dusk, the electric cart driven by Suzi, an adorable little Chinese girl that I inherited, is parked in its spot near the boats. That means that she and her huge Saint Bernard are on the boat waiting for me, hopefully with a gourmet meal – and some word about new clients.

  Suzi runs my life as well as the practice, but she hardly ever talks to me. I still haven’t figured out why, but in the last year, about the only time she addressed me was to bawl me out for getting arrested. I didn’t mind that conversation because it was just after she bailed me out. Fortunately, my doctor client and I beat that bad rap, ergo the boat we’re now living on… it used to be his.

  Suzi’s a star at the Chinese restaurant around the corner where her late mother used to work, and where the food comes from many evenings. It gets delivered by the ‘Asian boys,’ a polite group of four young men who do everything from bus the restaurant tables at night, to cleaning and varnishing the boats on our dock during the day.

  I still can’t believe how smooth it’s been going for the past few months. The kid’s really been through a lot. Her mother died in a car crash when she was only three, leaving her to live with her stepfather, my old law school chum Melvin Braunstein. When she finally got used to that situation, Melvin perished in a plane crash while vacationing in Thailand - and now she’s stuck on a boat in the Marina living with me, her legal guardian. Living on a boat some day used to be my dream when I was a kid, so maybe she’ll learn to appreciate the lifestyle too. I certainly hope so, because until she’s eighteen or go
es away to school, this is it.

  In addition to her office routine, she also volunteers at the local hospital. They have a children’s ward there, so Suzi brings her Saint Bernard in once a week to visit the children.

  Her computer skills are top-notch, she runs our law practice, and has two one hundred eighty pound animals to boss around… the Saint Bernard and me.

  2

  B

  ig-time insurance defense attorney Charles Indovine calls the staff meeting together in his law firm’s luxurious Century City conference room. “Gentlemen, we have a little competition now.” He holds up a document. “It seems that our old friend Peter Sharp, the faith-healer case lawyer, wants to do some defense work. He’s sent out some inquiry letters, and this one was received by one of our largest clients, Uniman Insurance.” The junior partners see a smile on Indovine’s face and sense that this amuses him, so they react in kind, with sarcastic smirks.

  “So what, they’ll never hire h im. I hear he’s a small-time jerk who practices off of a boat in the Marina,” comments an associate.

  Indovine disagrees. “I don’t know. He beat us on that bullshit asbestosis case, and the Insurance Industry’s computer database shows that he’s done a good job on some other matters of dubious merit. Perhaps there’s an outside chance our client might take a flyer on him, just to keep us on our toes.”

  Another associate comes up with an idea. “Then let’s beat everyone to it. We can farm out some stuff to him… like the losers.”

  Indovine takes the ball and runs with it. “Good idea. We can give him the crap to defend. That’ll keep our batting average up and give him a bad track record from the get-go.”

  The associate responds. “I’ve got just the case: That slip and fall in the bank. The claimant landed on his side and broke two ribs. Plenty of witnesses to the spilled coke on the floor because it was there for almost twenty minutes before the claimant came in.”

  Indovine lays out the strategy. “OK, I’ll advise the client that we have a chance to win this one because the claimant should have seen the dark colored spill on the floor. Then, we’ll tell them that we’re assigning it to attorney Sharp and let him take the blame for blowing it.”

  Nods of assent are given all around the table. All their heads are attached to the same string. The Saint Bernard has just entered my stateroom with a message in his mouth. Around here we refer to this as ‘dog-mail.’ I remove the moist envelope, blot it dry and open it up to find a letter that came in while I was on vacation. It’s from Indovine’s defense firm:

  Dear Mister Sharp:

  It has come to our attention that you are desirous of doing some defense work, and we would like to welcome you to the true side of justice by offering to assign some cases to you.

  If you would like to associate with us, our client has authorized us to send you the file on a claim that we feel can be handled successfully.

  Please contact our office if you’d like to give it a try. Our current schedule allows for a rate of one hundred dollars per hour of pre-trial work, with a minimum advance of fifteen hundred dollars per file, once civil discovery commences.

  Sincerely , Charles Indovine This is encouraging. If I get some work of my own outside of Melvin’s firm, I can keep the whole fee and only pay the office for secretarial services. My deal with Melvin was that as long as I get the firm’s work done, my time is my own to try and build up an independent private practice. I send a message to Indovine’s office that I’ll give the first case a try and that he should send the file over.

  To my surprise, a messenger shows up later that afternoon with a package containing a fifteen hundred dollar advance check and the case file.

  I’ll never understand why defense firms operate like this. The file indicates that a man named Mike Drago slipped and fell in the bank. Plenty of witnesses, wet floor, real damages, and now they want to spend more money screwing around fighting it than it would cost them to settle it outright. I guess it’s to show people that they’re not pushovers and if you want to make a claim, you’ve got to be prepared for a fight.

  Along with the file is a list of approved and authorized resources I’m allowed to use for private investigation, background checks, process serving, surveillance, and a lot of other services I’ll probably never use. It looks like they want to use a one-ton fly swatter on this gnat of a case – but who am I to argue? It’s their money and they obviously want to spend it.

  The file indicates that the claimant already has an attorney named Richard Handelmann, with an office on Ventura Boulevard in Encino. I’ve never heard of him but with almost two hundred thousand lawyers in California, it’s hard to keep track.

  I get a notice o f representation off to Handelmann’s office, letting him know that I’m on the case and decide to see what the scene of the fall looks like. Taking Suzi’s advice, I note my mileage before leaving and then head down Washington Boulevard to Culver City.

  After introducing myself to the bank manager, I spend a little time with their seventy-five year old security guard, but he doesn’t remember much about the incident. That’s understandable. He doesn’t remember much about anything.

  Next, I check with the bank’s security manager, to see if they caught the fall on one or more of their video cameras. I’m informed that yes, the fall is on tape, and the bank keeps copies of the videos for at least six months.

  Wonderful. Not only do I have a losing case, it’s even recorded on the bank’s security cameras. Why the hell didn’t this thing settle already? The claimant’s medical bills are over four thousand, he doesn’t claim any loss of earnings, and the file doesn’t even contain one note about authorizing a settlement.

  If I were handling this ca se on the other side, I’d make a demand of fifteen grand and wait for the defense to come back with a counter-offer. In this file, there isn’t even a demand from the guy’s lawyer. Something doesn’t compute.

  All this defense work has tired me out. Time to go back to the boat for a nap. After only about an hour of dozing, the phone rings. The caller ID on my phone shows that it’s my ex-wife Myra, the former deputy district attorney who had me indicted and arrested last year. Fortunately, I beat those charges. “Hello sweetheart, to what do I owe the pleasure of this call?”

  “Don’t sweetheart me, you idiot. My sources at the district attorney’s office tell me that your picture turned up on some security tapes today.”

  “That’s not surprising. Cameras are everywhere. I stopped for gas. They have cameras at that station. I stopped for a six-pack. They have cameras at the liquor store. Which one did you like best – maybe I can get you an enlargement for your bed stand… or perhaps some wallet-sized?”

  “You ’re still the schmuck, aren’t you? The cameras I’m talking about are the ones at the bank in Culver City.”

  “OK, honey, you caught me. I stopped off at the bank today. Is that against the law?” “You were there at about two-fifteen this afternoon?”

  “Yeah, some time around there. Why?”

  “Because the bank was robbed minutes after you left.”

  3

  Now that Myra’s convinced I’m involved with some bank robbers, it’s almost a relief to get a phone call from Stuart. I explain the day’s events to him and let him know that it’s just a coincidence, but he’s a firm believer in the whacko world of hocuspocus, so in his mind it’s a big conspiracy that I’m now involved in. I tell him to go back to his faith healer for some therapy.

  While he’s got me on the phone, he tells me about his buddy Vinnie Norman, who was injured last week when a tree fell on him. Being a friend of Stuart’s, he’s looking for someone to sue. Why am I not surprised?

  “Stuart, just because someone’s injured doesn’t mean that someone’s at fault. There are accidents, acts of God, all sorts of reasons why someone can be hurt without having someone to sue.”

  “Yeah Pete, I know, but Vinnie was hurt because of a drunk driver.”

  “Stu,
I thought you said that a tree fell on him.”

  “I did, but the tree fell because it was hit by a drunk driver.”

  “Well that’s a different story. Do you know if the driver has any insurance?”

  “Not likely. He was driving a Lexus that he had just stolen from a restaurant parking lot. He’s in jail.”

  “What about Vinnie? Does he have any insurance, like uninsured motorist?”

  “Naw, he’s a poor guy. Doesn’t even have a car. He works for me in my Van Nuys warehouse. Do you have any advice for him?”

  “Yeah, tell him to take two aspirins and not call me in the morning.”

  “Come on Pete, there’s gotta be some-thing you can do.”

  I tell Stuart that I’ll look into the matter and that he should stop by the boat tomorrow with the police report of the accident. I really don’t know where to start with this one, but I figure that the internet would be as good a place as any, so I do what any other normal professional person would do - I give the assignment to the little princess in the forward stateroom. She’s the computer whiz. Besides, this’ll be a case that the office will share in, so the office might as well do some work on it.

  People who go to law school usually find out pretty early on how they’ll wind up as professionals. There’s an unwritten law that governs the careers of law students, and over the years it’s been found to be quite accurate. Simply stated, the ‘A’ students become judges, the ‘B’ students become teachers, and the ‘C’ students make a really good living, working for the wealthy ‘D’ students.

  I was a C-minus student, always hoping that someday my future might be as bright as that of a D student. It never hurts to aim low.

  The reason the D students do so well is because instead of developing their knowledge of the law, they spend most of their time developing their knowledge of schmoozing. Law doesn’t bring in clients. Schmoozing does.