A Class Action Read online

  What a devil she is. The windows were tinted so that the dock masters wouldn’t see her behind the wheel of the lower steering station. She’s got me acting as a shill for her. Now I know how a ventriloquist’s dummy feels.

  It’s too late to do anything about it now, so after she starts the engines I climb up the ladder to the flybridge and unsnap the control covers.

  From what I’ve been told by some dock neighbors, at the slow speed you’re moving while near the dock, the steering wheel doesn’t do much. There’s just not enough water passing by the rudders at the speed required to make a difference. The only things that count at that snail’s pace are the gears. With a twin-engine boat, by properly shifting between forward and reverse, you should be able to make the boat completely rotate in its own length. They also tell me that the main difference between an experienced boat handler and a novice is that the old pro bumps into as many things as the amateur, but has more eloquent excuses. The beginner will simply say ‘oops,’ or ‘sorry,’ while the experienced boater will be clever enough to blame it on a slipping transmission or some other mechanical problem. He won’t ever take the blame – it’s the boat’s fault.

  I’ll just have to believe what they say, because I don’t think there’s any way I could ever drive this thing. I feel lucky every time I succeed in getting my Hummer into its parking space.

  Up on the flybridge, I place my hands on the clutch controls and notice that the dockmasters are signaling me to start. The clutch controls move into reverse, taking my hands with them, and the boat slowly starts to back out of the slip. It’s a good thing nobody’s up here to see the perspiration dripping from my forehead. My palms aren’t too dry either. After about thirty seconds of backing out, we’re clear of the slip. One of the gears stays in reverse and the other shifts into forward. The boat starts to swing around, pointing toward the channel. When it’s facing the channel, the clutch in reverse shifts into forward and we start to move ahead.

  We take a short trip down the channel and then stop, turn around, and head back for the slip. I look down at the slip and see that while we were out, it shrunk. It actually got smaller. There’s no way this big fat boat can fit back into it.

  Obviously the kid doesn’t see things the way I do, which is no surprise to me. The boat gets aimed at the slip, and after some precision control moves slowly goes forward until we gracefully pull right back in to where we started. It’s a perfect job of parking – no bumping into anything - nothing but slip. The dockmasters come back down from their viewing perch, pick up our dock lines and hold them for up me. I scurry down the ladder and onto the foredeck, take the dock lines they hand me and fasten them to the cleats on our boat.

  The kid comes out onto the deck and asks the dock masters. “Is it over yet?”

  They think this is so cute. She was so afraid that she hid below and now wants to know if it’s over or not. What a little fraud she is. She plays the dockmasters like they’re a slot machine… and it pays off.

  “Oh, Suzi, you had nothing to be afraid of. Mister Sharp did a wonderful job of handling the boat. You should be very proud of him.” As a reward for passing the Marina’s boat-handling test, they hand me a gift plaque with the words ‘An experienced sailor knows that the sea isn’t his enemy… it’s the hard stuff around the edges.’ Naturally, I thank them from the bottom of my heart. As the kid walks past me, I hear her mutter something. I don’t think I want to know what it was.

  It’s Wednesday afternoon and as promised, my date is waiting for me outside the restaurant where her legal lunch club is meeting. When we go inside to the main banquet hall they reserved for the occasion I notice that most of the people there are female and maybe ten percent have male companions. I’m told that there are quite a few court clerks and legal secretaries in the club too. This is good. I like to know as many people in the legal community as possible, because networking is very important to professionals.

  Up on the speaker’s platform is a lectern with their club’s seal hanging on the front - the three large letters ‘L.L.B.’ That’s a clever monogram, because it also stands for the degree that most graduating attorneys receive… a bachelor’s degree in law.

  The usual rubber chicken lunch is served and plenty of gossiping goes on. One of Myra’s office staff is seated at our table. She recognizes me and says hello. Maybe Patty will bring me again some time. This is nice. I get to look at a lot of females and get friendly with another prosecutor or two.

  After we all finish our main course Judge Parker goes to the lectern. No introduction is necessary – everyone in the room knows who he is. He thanks the group for inviting him and does a short, half-hour speech about new case law pertaining to the use of informants. After his little talk, he tells everyone that it’s time for us all to go back to work. This afternoon has been a pleasant surprise.

  When we get outside and the valet brings Patty’s car around to the front, I walk her to the driver’s side door. As she gets in, she takes my hand. “Peter, I really enjoyed having you here with me today. Would you consider coming with me again?”

  I tell her that it would be a pleasure. My big yellow Hummer is brought out just behind hers, and I see all the women standing there buzzing to each other about the new piece of meat that was brought to their luncheon today… or they were talking about the car. That’s okay. It doesn’t make any difference… I love being a celebrity – it’s great for the ego.

  Driving back to the Marina, I bask in my new celebrity status. I wish Myra had been there to see all those women ogling me.

  This evening I see an old acquaintance on television. It’s Special Agent Bob Snell of the FBI, holding a press conference. On the lectern in front of where he’s standing, there are a group of microphones with network logos on them. Flashbulbs are brightening his face on a steady basis as he starts to make his announcement. “I’m happy to announce that we’ve made a major terrorist arrest late this afternoon. As the result of thorough investigation, we’ve uncovered what we believe is a plot to assassinate the President of the United States, when he makes his visit here to Southern California this coming July the Fourth.”

  The reporters all start to shout questions at him. He doesn’t take any one of them and instead continues his prepared statement. “At this time, all I’m at liberty to say is that the person is now in custody and will be arraigned in Federal Court next week on conspiracy charges.”

  The phone rings. It’s Myra. “Hi hon, what’s up?”

  “You caught a break Petey, we’re not going ahead with our case against Joe Morgan.”

  I wish she wouldn’t call me that. “That’s great. Is there anything I can do to help you save face on this one?”

  “No, that won’t be necessary. Did you watch the news tonight? Our old friend Special Agent Snell called a press conference.”

  “Yeah, I saw him… and I’m glad he took my advice. He looks really nice with his hair touched up like that. What color was that suit he was wearing, Bar Mitzvah blue? By the way, how come you decided to drop the Joe Morgan case… discover that you just didn’t have enough to go on?”

  “Peter, didn’t you hear what Snell said, or is it just me that you never listen to?”

  “Yeah, I heard what he said, but I’d like to know your reasoning about the Morgan case.”

  “Snell’s prisoner… the one who supposedly is a conspirator in a plot to kill the President…”

  “Yeah, what about him?”

  “Peter, that’s your client Joe Morgan he’s got in custody. They came and took him away from us this afternoon.”

  She can’t be serious. Joe Morgan? Involved in a conspiracy to kill the President of the United States? Impossible.

  “Myra, what are you talking about?”

  “Peter, I’m only going to ask you this question once, and I’d really appreciate it if you would give me a truthful answer. Were you aware of the fact that several years ago he converted to Muslim and is now known as Yousef Mohammed?�
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  Oh boy. It finally hit the fan. I knew something like this would happen sooner or later. Now I can appreciate how Jack Bibberman felt when he found it out and told it to me.

  I was truthful about it and told Myra that Jack had followed him to a mosque, but I didn’t think that his religion had anything to do with the case. She tended to agree with me as far as her case was concerned, but in the federal case, that fact obviously plays a different part.

  At the end of our conversation, she tosses another question at me. “Pete, I understand you went to a luncheon today with my old boss’ niece. How come you did that?

  “Simple, my dear. Unlike my spurned romantic efforts towards the District Attorney’s office, the City Attorney’s office finds me quite irresistible. And if you must know, I think she likes me. She invited me to join her at next month’s meeting too. I think there’s a chance for a relationship there.”

  “I think not.”

  “Ah, jealousy rears its ugly head. And why, pray tell would you not consider that she might find me attractive?”

  “Peter, do you know the name of her organization?”

  “Yeah, they had a big sign hanging on the front of the lectern… L.L.B.”

  “Do you know what it stands for?”

  “Of course I do. It’s the bachelor of law degree that we all got when we graduated law school.”

  “Guess again, dummy. On their sign it stands for Lesbians’ Legal Branch.”

  *****

  Chapter 7

  Nothing ever seems to work out for me. I only had two things going for me and they both went into the dumper. Joe’s case would have been a winner at trial in the State court and now it’s a federal case. I haven’t the slightest idea what prompted Snell to make the bust, but I’ve got an appointment to see him tomorrow, so I’ll probably find out, unless he clams up and hides behind some ‘national security’ blanket.

  As for my relationship with Patty Seymour, I find it hard to believe she’s a lesbian. I have nothing personal against them, but it’s seems like such a waste to see what could be my lust interest lost to another female. Come to think of it, there must be some special gene in that family, because when her uncle was the District Attorney, he got caught in a compromising position with a young male law clerk. It’s a good thing that I’m the one that caught him, or it might have leaked out. Next time I speak to Patty, I’m going to have to ask her if she’s really a lesbian or if I’ve got a chance with her - as soon as I figure out how to ask a question like that.

  Stuart calls to let me know that Olive graduated driving school and passed her driving test. When she gets her license, I’ll take it back to the West Los Angeles courthouse to start her expungement process and it’ll give me a chance to see Patty Seymour again. I don’t know what to say, but I’m sure something will come out of my mouth… it usually does.

  He also tells me that the car shipments are still coming in regularly and everything’s going along just fine… he hasn’t found one body in a trunk. After Myra’s office retrieved that corpse from Victor’s place, their CSI lab did its examination and his car’s been released to him. The bodywork has already begun on its front end.

  I’ve been going through all those reports that Jack B. brought back from New Jersey, and they still look too good to be true. I instruct Jack to start making some phone calls back east to see what the insurance companies can tell him about that I.R.S. company - like who’s involved in it, how the insurance company found them, how much they get for each car sold, and anything else he can think of that might help us.

  The phone rings. It’s Indovine’s office calling. He lets me know that I’m still on retainer to defend Joe Morgan through the federal criminal case. I guess that the dealership feels having had a terrorist on their payroll makes for bad publicity, so they’re pitching in on the defense fund. Now all I’ve got to do is find out why he was grabbed by Snell. I can’t believe that desperation for news coverage has anything to do with his busting Joe the Muslim.

  Snell welcomes me into his office, but we both know it’s not a social call. He thinks he’s got a real serious terrorist in custody. There is no small talk between us. He starts right in.

  “Sharp, I think we can put your guy away for a while on this one. First of all, we found out that he’s a Muslim named Yousef Mohammed. We don’t know if he was trained by Al Queda in Afghanistan or not, but if he was, we’ll find out about it soon enough.

  “Second, those big Suburbans he’s been specializing on at that dealership for the past several years are the exact same models used by the Treasury Department in the Presidential motor caravan. They usually carry a Secret Service detail and the group of reporters who fly with the President on Air Force One. Sometimes the President actually rides in one of the Suburbans, while a decoy rides in the Presidential limo, but that information is never released, so I’d appreciate your discretion.

  “Thirdly, his experience as a Navy Seal means he can rig explosives, and the past month demonstrates that he knows his stuff.

  “He probably didn’t intend to kill those two women, but explosives are funny things some-times, and now that they’re dead, he’s stuck with that too. Our experts tell us that those explosions were just practice. He was rehearsing for the real thing.”

  With an imagination like that, he should be working at the studios writing screenplays. I’ve heard of a ‘stretch’ before, but this one is gigantic.

  “That’s a nice theory, Snell, but you and I both know that vehicles in the Presidential motorcade are all flown in by military transport planes in advance of Air Force One. They’re maintained by the Secret Service and never get near the dealership where my client works. How do you think he was going to pull this assassination off?”

  “You’re right. They are flown in, but we can’t ignore the coincidence that he makes three vehicles identical to the Secret Service cars explode. Some way, some how, we believe he and whatever group he’s working with planned to either get a Trojan horse into the motorcade or sabotage one of the existing motorcade vehicles. And by the way, the dealership he works at actually is on the list of approved dealerships, should one of the Secret Service Suburbans need emergency repairs. It all ties in too close together. We can’t ignore this one – there’s too much involved here to be a series of coincidences – the odds are too great against it.”

  “I hear you Snell, but if my memory serves me correctly, during the last century, a couple pulled off a robbery. They were described as being a black male and a blond white female, and they were seen driving off in a pink Cadillac convertible.

  “Later that day, a black male and a blond white female were stopped. They were driving a pink Cadillac convertible. The police searched the trunk of their car and found the stolen goods. They wound up getting convicted.”

  “That’s a nice story Sharp, but what could it possibly have to do with this case?”

  “They appealed their conviction on the grounds that there was no probable cause to arrest them. The police testified that they searched the vehicle because the odds against a couple matching that specific description and driving a pink Cadillac convertible were too great to ignore, so they stopped the vehicle and searched it. And you know what? The Appellate Court agreed with the defendants. They held that the conviction should be reversed, because the police shouldn’t be working on a system of odds. They’re not in the gambling business, they’re supposed to enforce the law. So forget about the odds against coincidence…you’ve got to have some definite proof.”

  Our discussion ends like so many do. There was no right or wrong, because things in the law are not that black and white. He still believes he saved the President’s life, and I still believe he’s making a big mistake. There’s no way we can settle the difference between us. That’s what courts and juries are for.

  Joe will be arraigned in the Federal Court and it looks like we’ll have to take this one all the way to trial.

  Jack couldn’t find anything
out about any company named I.R.S. in New Jersey. I call Stuart to ask how he pays for the cars, figuring that the best thing to do is follow the money. Stuart tells me that he’s instructed to have cashier’s checks made out directly to the insurance company, giving us another dead end. Could this mean that I.R.S. is a division of the insurance company? I don’t think so. That would be a big conflict of interest, and the New Jersey Insurance Commission wouldn’t let them get away with it.

  A few more phone calls to the insurance company only gives us the name of their I.R.S. contact, who is the same guy named Billy who Jack met with when he was in New Jersey pretending to be a prospective customer.

  Here in California there’s a Department of Motor Vehicle regulation requiring people who sell more than a specific number of vehicles in any twelve-month period to have a dealer’s license. That way their actions can be monitored and the public protected. But there are a lot of people here who get around that rule by doing what we call ‘passing the pink.’ The free and clear title to automobiles in California at one time was printed on pink paper, so even though the colors have changed over the years, the nickname of ‘pink slip’ still is used.

  The way that hustlers maneuver around being required to get a license is by never registering the vehicles in their own name. They buy a car from someone, have that seller sign off on the pink slip, but leave the date blank. They then keep the signed pink slip in a safe place until they find a customer for the car. The new customer takes the pink slip to get it registered, and because the original owner signed off on it, the DMV treats it as a direct sale from the original owner to the new buyer. The middleman’s name never appears anywhere – all he does is pass the pink from his seller to his buyer.