by Reason of Sanity Read online

  If you go to a big accredited law school with ivy growing up the walls, you learn how to play golf. If you go to an un-accredited night law school with mold growing up the walls, you learn how to schmooze. I went to the latter, which was nicknamed the Betty Crocker College of Law, so I never learned how to ruin a perfectly good walk by stopping to try and hit a little ball with a club. All I ever learned how to do was get clients. You never have to worry about having too many clients, because former C-student lawyers looking for work are much easier to find than clients.

  The next afternoon, Stuart shows up at the boat. He’s looking as round as ever - obviously, he’s not using the weight-reduction juice he sells all over the country. His buddy Vinnie is with him and I’m told that he’s a former XXX film director, who used to turn out a new porno flick every week, until the vice squad put him out of business. Vinnie is a tall, gray man who looks more like a doctor than a pornographer. He looks surprisingly classy, but that image is destroyed as soon as he opens his mouth and I hear his ‘New Joisy’ dialect. Compared to him all the Sopranos sound like English professors. As we’re talking, I can’t help but notice the odor of grass coming from Vinnie’s sweater… the smoking kind.

  During the interview I hear his story. He was walking down the street late at night and stepped into the park for a moment to relieve himself, stopping behind the first tree he saw. While standing there watering the roots, the defendant came speeding down the street, lost control of the vehicle he was driving, and slammed into the tree. It splintered and fell on Vinnie. I can’t recall ever seeing a Perry Mason television episode entitled “The case of the prolific, pot-smoking, peeing pornographer,” but I’ll bet that if it ever appeared in the TV guide, the ratings would have gone through the roof. This may not be a profitable one, but should definitely make it into some legal ‘believe-it-or-not’ book.

  I tell them both that I’ll look into the matter and suggest another meeting after I’ve read the police report. As much as I try to hint that the meeting is now over and they should get the hell off of my boat, Stuart can’t resist the opportunity to tell me about the new business he’s starting, with Vinnie’s help.

  “Pete, this one’s a winner. You know the old saying ‘you can’t take it with you?’ Well now, you can. I’m buying a used armored truck that Brink’s wants to get rid of, and we’re changing the name on the side of the truck from ‘Brink’s’ to ‘He’s taking it with him.’ Vinnie will be the uniformed driver and we’ll rent it out for funeral processions. I figure that every disgruntled relative who gets shortchanged in somebody’s will should be interested in paying threefifty to have my truck in the parade to the cemetery. I told a whole bunch of funeral directors that I’d pay a hundred off the top for each job we get from them. Vinnie here’ll get a hundred for the driving and I figure we can do two funerals a day. Whattaya think?”

  There are very few times in my life can I remember being at a loss for words, and each time was the result of some outrageous business plan told to me by Stuart. I smile, nod in understanding, and wish him the best of luck in his new enterprise. I remind him to be sure to let me know when he gets his first job - and what the route will be, because it will be a genuine Kodak moment.

  The local newscast doesn’t mention Vinnie getting hurt while peeing, but there’s plenty of coverage on the bank robbery story. As the razor-cut, blow-dried, empty-headed newsreader drones on, this is just another in a series of well-planned jobs that the authorities believe are being done by an organized gang.

  After most bank heists, some frightened teller gets interviewed on camera, then the reporter asks the security guard about the incident, but he doesn’t seem to remember too much about it. They usually attribute his memory loss to shock, but it’s probably senility.

  I start to go over the police report of the slipand-fall case. I can’t think of a defense for this case, so I might as well do the next best thing - build up my billable hours. Indovine’s defense firm is probably billing the insurance company over two hundred an hour for the time that they’re paying me one hundred for, so they’ll no doubt be pleased by my wasted efforts.

  I make a note to give Jack Bibberman an assignment on this case. He saved my rear end last year during my State Bar hearing, when he nailed the guy who framed me on an ‘aiding the un-authorized practice of law’ charge, by identifying another attorney as the one who was behind the whole plot. Since then I’ve learned that he’s a real stand-up guy, so I try to toss whatever business I can his way for investigation, process serving and whatever else comes up. I know I’m supposed to use one of Indovine’s private eyes, but I convinced them to let me use Jack and Suzi… for the same billing rates.

  Jack’s assignment is to get copies of all the bank’s security videos over the past couple of months, so I can watch them, look for patterns of customer behavior, see if anyone else slipped, see if the security guard remembered to close his fly, and build up my billable hours.

  4

  Suzi came up with some interesting stuff on the drunk driver case. She helps the local police agencies out with some of their computer work, and since she’s like a goddess at the local Chinese restaurant where all the local cops feed at the trough, she usually can get information that normal earthlings aren’t privy to.

  The police report lists the vehicle that the drunk stole as an elephant-gray Lexus sport utility vehicle that was in the parking lot of a Mexican restaurant on Washington Boulevard. The keys were left in the ignition because the driver ran in for a minute to pick up a to-go order of vegetarian burritos. The drunken defendant was staggering out of the restaurant just as the Lexus pulled up. The rest is history.

  Th e phone rings. It’s my ex-wife Myra. “Hello my dear, what is it this time? Am I going to be arrested again?”

  “No, I just got another phone call from an old friend at the district attorney’s office.”

  “Myra, I think you should go back to work there. That’s where all your friends are and with your old boss gone, there’s a tremendous vacuum that needs filling… and you’re just the person to take over as acting chief of the office.”

  “They’ve already got that position filled with another jerk, just like my last boss… but you’re right about one thing and if you say anything to anyone about this, I’ll have you killed.”

  “Don’t tell me, let me guess. You’re running for District Attorney in the next election?”

  “You suck. How did you know that?”

  “It figures. Listen, I hate to sound rude, but there’s a gourmet dinner being delivered for me shortly, so let’s cut to the commercial. I know you didn’t call because you want to get laid, so what’s up?”

  “As a matter of fact, I do want to get laid, but not by you. The reason I called is to let you know that by some stroke of luck, you’ve won another case. You were working on the defense of that slip and fall matter at the bank, right?”

  “Yeah. What about it?”

  “The claimant just died in the hospital.”

  “Died? Did I hear you right? Did you say he’s dead? How the hell could that happen, all he had were two broken ribs and a bruised kneecap. I don’t believe that the fall could have caused his death. Damn! This went from a slam-dunk case to a quagmire. How did he die? Are there any details available?”

  “Yeah, someone smothered him with a pillow.”

  Hoping this isn’t the end of my career as an insurance defense attorney, I dash off a quick e-mail to the claimant’s attorney, Richard Handelmann.

  Mister Handelmann:

  Please relay the condolences of this office to Mister Mike Drago’s loved ones. Now that he has passed on, we will be closing our file.

  I send an invoice for my hours to Indovine’s office and decide to spend the rest of the afternoon reading Center Street, a new novel by Leonard Wise.

  It never fails. Every time I get com-fortable to read a book, something hits the fan. I hear the pitter patter of huge paws and see that I’m being br
ought some dog mail. This time it’s a message from Richard Handelmann’s office – a copy of his e-mail:

  Dear Mister Sharp:

  This office is not closing its file on the Drago incident. It is our contention that the homicide was a foreseeable act and that liability for his death in the hospital should also be your client’s responsibility.

  As for the pain and suffering experienced by Mister Drago prior to his death, although precluded by California law, we will be filing our actions in the Federal Courts of Illinois, the state in which the federally licensed defendant bank was chartered.

  Wow! This guy’s got stones of steel. He actually wants to hold the bank’s insurance company liable for his client’s murder in the hospital - and wants to make a federal case out of it. This is not a good development, mainly because I know absolutely nothing about federal law… not even enough to advise Indovine about the client’s possible losses in the federal court system.

  I think it best to simply let Indovine know everything that’s going on and let him communicate with the insurance company. For once, it’s good to just be a hired hand. All you have to do is your specific job, w h no responsibility for decisions.

  I instruct the office to forward copies of our correspondence to Indovine’s office and make copies of the police report. Then I call Jack Bibberman. Some investigation is in order because I want to know all there is to know about the late Mike Drago. I’m sure that Indovine will appreciate my help on this case, and I might even be assigned to second-chair at the federal trial. Jack tells me that when he went to the hospital to get a statement on the day that Drago was admitted, he noticed that there were security cameras all around the place. That’s good to know because maybe the police can get some leads on his killer by watching them.

  With the pressing matters taken care of, I can now devote some time to putting up my Lahaina Yacht Club burgee on the small decorative mast of our motor yacht. I remembered to pick up a replacement during my recent trip to the island because my other burgee went with the old boat when it was towed away by my ex-wife. There’s a certain amount of pride in showing your yacht club’s colors. If I didn’t know better, I might even think I was rich. Yacht clubs here in the Marina charge entrance fees that can be quite costly. In one of them, you’ve got to come up with ten grand to get in.

  Fortunately, the Lahaina Yacht Club isn’t like that. It’s for the cruising sailor and is quite reasonable. And because it requires you to personally post your picture on their bulletin board during your probationary period, anyone who’s a member is recognized as actually having been in the Maui location. I try to get back there at least once or twice a year. It’s about the only time I can get some serious reading done without interruption. And speaking of interruption, it must be mail time because the dog has just brought me another juicy item to read. Now that the red burgee is flying, I open the envelope and see that it’s a copy of the police report on Vinnie’s drunk driver case.

  There isn’t much in the report to hang my hat on. All it covers is the accident itself, with nothing mentioned about the vehicle theft. I guess that’s in another report, which I also expect to be coming soon. The only item interesting in the report is the driver’s blood alcohol level percentage, which was 0.19.

  For many years the legal blood-alcohol percentage limit for driving was 0.10, but organizations like MADD (Mothers Against Drunk Driving) finally got it lowered to 0.08. Because of my experience with drunk driving defense cases, I know that depending on body mass and tolerance, the average person reacts differently to various alcohol blood levels. At the legal limit of 0.08, your reflexes are at least slightly impaired. This I know for a fact because not too long ago, after just two beers at the Chinese restaurant, I almost caused an accident while pulling out of the parking lot. That taught me a valuable lesson, so I don’t drink anymore if I intend to drive within two hours.

  In California, if you’re brought to the police station as a drunk driving suspect, you’re given three types of test to choose from to determine the percentage of alcohol in your system: blood, breath or urine. Bartenders usually advise their customers to opt for the urine test, because that requires an extra hour for the police to take you to a local hospital for the test. They’re wrong… the extra hour doesn’t help that much, because if you’re drunk enough to be stopped and brought to the station for testing, an extra hour isn’t nearly enough time to allow your percentage level to go down enough towards the legal limit.

  At the old legal limit of 0.10, a guy who’s not too bulky might be a little wobbly on his feet and probably fail the FST: that’s the touch-your-nose, stand balanced one leg, and walk-a-straight-line Field Sobriety Test that cops make you take when you get stopped for being a suspected drunk driver.

  Levels between 0.15 and 0.20 will usually make one’s speech slur and the driver will obviously appear under the influence, even to an inexperienced observer.

  Once you hit 0.20, the official designation is “shit-faced’ and with that much booze in your system, an average person will most probably have slurred speech and difficulty pronouncing any word with more than two syllables.

  Anything over 0.25 will usually result in wet pants and a terrible body odor. Readings over 0.30 can cause special conditions like unconsciousness or death.

  In Vinnie’s case, the guy ‘blew’ a 0.19 at th e station. This may have been as much as an hour after the accident, so he probably was at the 0.20 level or higher at the time he interrupted Vinnie’s pit stop, and that is definitely drunk, no matter how much body mass or alcohol tolerance you’ve got.

  I call county jail to see if there’s any chance of getting to interview him, but they tell me he never got there because Fradkin Bail Bonds took him out of the West Los Angeles Division jail and his sponsor picked him up. I call the bail bond place but they won’t reveal the name of the sponsor, the person putting up the bail.

  The County of Los Angeles owns all of the waterfront property in Marina del Rey and they lease out large parcels for people to build apartment buildings and boat slips. This evening there’s a fireworks celebration in the Marina, being put on by the new buyer of a large leased anchorage and apartment parcel. He obviously can afford it because his family makes about a million every day, selling oil to the U.S.

  At about nine PM, some surprising events take place. First, the fireworks start. They’re on the other side of the Marina, so I can’t see them from our boat, but the sounds are quite loud. Suddenly I’m being pinned to the couch by a heavy weight against my chest. At first I think I might be suffering a heart attack, but when I look down I see that the fireworks have obviously frightened the Saint Bernard, so he decided to jump up into the safety of my lap, where he promptly buries his head under my arm and whines for the next ten minutes until the noises stop.

  After it’s ov er, he looks up at me with a sorrowful face. I return his look with one that says “I’ve got your number now, pal. You’re a big baby.”

  Embarrassed, he retreats to the little princess’ forward stateroom, where he could have never gotten away with that stunt because he’s not allowed up on the bunk. It’s a good thing he tried it with me, because if he jumped up on Suzi like that we’d probably need a spatula to scrape her off of the bed.

  I turn on the evening news and am surprised to hear that they made an arrest in the Mike Drago case. Evidently, the security cameras paid off, because Drago had been moved into a special intensive care unit where everything in the room is videotaped. To make matters even more interesting, the newsreader goes on:

  “We have learned that the district attorney has decided to bring in a special prosecutor on this case… Ms. Myra Scot, a former employee of the district attorney’s office.”

  The phone rings. Caller ID is a great invention because it gives me a few seconds to compose myself whenever Myra calls me. “Hello my dear, I see you made the evening news again. Good luck with this one. With the whole act on tape, you should have no problems getting a pl
ea.”

  “Peter, I want you to watch me destroy the defense attorney on this one.”

  “No thanks sweetheart, I’m not that interested in watching a massacre.”

  “That’s not fair. Up until now all you’ve seen me do is annihilate the former district attorney, who was incompetent. This is a capital case, so it’ll probably be a really good lawyer on the other side who will be getting destroyed by my magnificent prosecution.”

  “So, what’s that got to do with me?”

  “You’ll find out, Petey.” I wish she wouldn’t call me that.

  As soon as I hang up with Myra, it rings again. I don’t recognize the number on caller I.D., but pick up the phone anyway. It’s a woman’s voice. “Hello, Mister Sharp?”

  “Speaking.”

  “This is Mary, Judge Axelrod’s clerk. We just want you to know that on the recommendation of Myra Scot, the special prosecutor, you’ve been appointed as defense counsel on a capital murder case. We’ll have the file delivered to your office. The arraignment has been scheduled for next Tuesday.”

  5

  L

  osing is not fun, and I ought to know, because I’ve got plenty of experience in that area. When you practice criminal law, about ninety-nine percent of the people you represent actually did what they were charged with doing. The only reason I had a one percent acquittal rate had nothing to do with the defendants’ innocence. It was only because of missing witnesses, evidence that confused the jury,

  technicalities like the Constitution’s Bill of Rights, or some other reasons that drive prosecutors mad. This case will not be going into the one percent success group because like all the others, it’s a loser. I’ll have to do my best, but this time there’ll be no walking into court waving a document that clears the client and humiliates the prosecution. I’m afraid those days are over for everyone but Ben Matlock and Perry Mason.