Tropic of Stupid Page 7

  The man started closing the door, but Serge blocked it with his foot.

  A sigh from inside. “What do you want from me?”

  “Why, to make you happy!” said Serge.

  “What?”

  “It’s a dual road trip. First, my roots. Second, I’ve been skimming the Bible and want to make as many cats as happy as possible. And you’re lucky number one!” Serge looked around the yard. “Your lawn’s gone to hell. I can plant some grass plugs, or maybe get my razor from the car and trim your ears. Your choice.”

  “What?”

  “Plus I’ve already turned over some icon leaves on another genealogical site that doesn’t require fluid, just data,” said Serge. “The crap I’m finding out is incredible! Did you know we share a great-grand-uncle who was pivotal in history? You and me, cuz! I’ll bet you’re just dying to hear the details!”

  Dixon tried closing the door again, but Serge was adamant.

  “Move your foot, asshole!”

  “Wait! Wait!” said Serge. “I know you’re overcome with astonishment and not thinking straight. You just have to hear about our uncle! The place? Miami! The year? 1933! It was a chilly night at Bayfront Park, near the current basketball arena. A huge crowd had assembled to hear a speech. You know who was giving it?”

  “Who cares?” said Dixon.

  “Franklin Delano Roosevelt! Only a few days into his first term! He was delivering the speech from the back of an open car, a tactic he used to conceal that he couldn’t walk from polio.”

  “Like I said—”

  “Shhhhh! There’s more! Our uncle came from a hitherto unknown Italian branch of the family. And this is the best part: He was an anarchist! Today that’s just soccer hooligans, but back then it was the real deal. Guido was always yelling ‘Anarchists unite,’ which would defeat the whole point, and he had trouble getting a room together. And on that night so long ago, he went down to the edge of the water with his pals to heckle, as they relentlessly did, which is why anarchists are a real test as dinner companions. And Guido suddenly sees another guy he knows . . .”

  Serge began slowly moving his arms, serpentine, in front of his chest and staring up at the sky.

  Dixon sipped the cheap beer in his hand. “What in the fuck are you doing?”

  “A fade-out,” said Serge. “It seems like it was only yesterday . . .”

  A small Italian man in suspenders and a derby arrived at the foot of Flagler Street near Biscayne Bay. Went by Guido Nomellini. Guido worked his way through the adoring mob, fidgeting to catch a glimpse of the new commander in chief.

  Closer to the front of the roadside crowd, hearty applause and shouts: “Hoover sucks!”

  The diminutive Guido spotted someone he knew. “Hey, Giuseppe, I called a meeting. Where were you?”

  “Shut up. I’m busy.”

  Then Guido noticed that Giuseppe was standing on a folding chair in the crowd, because he was also quite short, and this woman in front of him was wearing a ridiculously big hat that blocked his view.

  Guido couldn’t see, either. “Got another chair?”

  “Right over there,” said Giuseppe. “Now will you leave me alone?”

  “Why are you so cranky tonight?” Guido set up his own chair and stood a couple of people over from his political colleague. “I’m serious about these meetings,” Guido yelled over the din of the audience. “We can’t just whip together an overthrow . . . Are you listening?”

  Giuseppe wasn’t. His head moved left and right, trying to see around the woman’s hat for a view of the open-roofed car.

  “Gee, you really are in a cruddy mood tonight. Excuse me for caring about the movement.” Then he happened to look down by Giuseppe’s side. “Whoa, what are you doing with that gun?”

  “For the movement!”

  “Are you out of your mind?” said Guido. “Fuck the movement! I was just in it to get laid!”

  Giuseppe raised his arm.

  Guido lunged. “Somebody stop him!”

  The first shot rang out.

  The woman with the big hat heard the bang next to her head. She turned and seized his arm. Four more shots fired before Guido and other bystanders gang-tackled the gunman and disarmed him. Mayhem in the street. The president’s car sped off, and police dragged Giuseppe away.

  Guido reached down to help a woman up. “Thank God you have fast reflexes. I can’t believe how quickly you grabbed his arm.” He retrieved something from the ground and handed it to her. “Here’s your hat. What’s your name?”

  “Lillian. Lillian Cross.”

  “So Lillian,” said Guido. “You got any plans tonight after this? . . .”

  Serge dropped his arms and blinked a few times.

  “Wow, that was exciting,” said Coleman. “Was the president killed?”

  “No, you idiot. He was elected a total of four times,” said Serge. “But while FDR was unscathed, one of the errant bullets struck Chicago mayor Anton Cermak, who later died.”

  “What about the assassin?” asked Coleman.

  “Giuseppe Zangara got the death penalty and went to the electric chair at Raiford ten days later. They really kept the line moving back then, like they were selling lottery tickets.” Serge whistled. “The way history randomly pinballs around always amazes me. Can you imagine the hairpin turn in the fate of the entire world if it weren’t for a woman from Miami? That hat just might have stopped Hitler.”

  Dixon was trying to kick Serge’s foot clear so he could close the door.

  “Ouch,” said Serge. “What are you doing?”

  “I’d like you to leave now.”

  “But I haven’t made you happy yet.”

  “Leaving would make me very happy.”

  “It would?”

  “Most definitely.”

  “Gee, if that’s all it takes, then you must have life totally figured out.” He glanced at Coleman again and back at the resident. “Then leave we will!”

  The door slammed behind them as the pair headed back to their car.

  “Man, he sure was easy to please,” said Coleman.

  “I wonder if they’re all going to go this smoothly.”

  Chapter 9

  A Couple of Decades Ago

  Right out of school, Nathan Sparrow landed a job with one of Palm Beach County’s largest law firms.

  Nathan had told the partner who interviewed him that they wouldn’t be sorry if they hired him. But that turned out very much not to be the case.

  At first it was golden. Nathan was a fast study and soon bringing in more revenue than attorneys who had been there for years. His compensation rocketed at a record pace for the firm, and the partners counted their blessings that he had come to their door first.

  “This is for you,” one of the partners told him at a Christmas party.

  Nathan looked at the check in the envelope. “Is this number a mistake?”

  “No mistake,” said the partner. “Now put it away and don’t tell the others.”

  Nathan quickly gained case experience, surprising opposing attorneys by showing up with unexpected arsenals of evidence. Medical documents and actuarial projections sympathetic to his client. And damning details on their own clients that they never would have guessed, thanks to his firm’s private investigators.

  But Nathan Sparrow was learning more than just how to leverage juicy pre-trial settlements. He was learning the model of a successful personal injury firm. And he studied the other lawyers. Two young attorneys, in particular, caught his eye. They also had received Christmas party envelopes on the hush-hush. The lawyers began meeting privately after work in a series of dive bars where they wouldn’t be noticed.

  “I’m in,” said Reinhold.

  “Me too,” said Nash.

  “But we have to get all our ducks in a row first,” said Sparrow. “And we need to persuade some of the doctors to play ball. I know at least four whose referrals we can strip away from the firm to get us started.”

  “W
hat about the no-compete contracts they made us sign?”

  “Did some research,” said Sparrow. “A circuit decision last year put even the most ironclad contracts on shaky ground, and the crap they had us sign is a joke. If they try to pull anything, we’ll threaten to countersue. In fact, I hope they do try something, because we’ll win.”

  Reinhold whistled. “The shit’s going to hit the fan.”

  “Bring your umbrellas,” said Sparrow.

  The three young attorneys decided on the nuclear option. They went in after midnight to pack up all their belongings and copy hard drives, leaving only a few worthless items on the desks to create the appearance nothing was up. Then they came in the next day and called together all the firm’s partners for an announcement that everyone was expecting to be some kind of cause for celebration.

  Instead, the screaming could be heard through the walls. “After all we’ve done for you!” “You were like our sons!” “We’ll take you to court!” “Get the fuck out!”

  The trio was escorted from the building by security.

  “That went just about like I expected,” said Reinhold.

  “Screw ’em,” said Nash.

  “We have an office lease to sign,” said Sparrow.

  The lease was for space in a strip mall next to a Hungry Howie’s pizzeria, but everyone starts somewhere, and the new law firm of Reinhold, Nash & Sparrow was, as they say, off to the races. They were three young Turks who had stamina for insane hours. They distilled the business model of their previous employer, and recruited more doctors for referrals. Money poured in over the transom. They got out of their lease and the pizza smell in their clothes, and moved into a prestigious office tower address. Then Nathan Sparrow added a touch of genius.

  “We take every case to trial.”

  “You mean every case where the offer is too low.”

  “No, every case,” said Nathan. “Even when the offer’s fair. Every single case.”

  “But that makes no business sense,” said Nash. “We might earn more on a particular judgment, but it will eat up time to settle ten others out of court. It’ll kill our volume.”

  “Can you trust me on this?”

  What could the others say? Sparrow had started it all, and he did bring in a ton of clients with his social connections.

  “Sure.”

  “I’m with you.”

  It significantly choked their revenue stream in the short run, then crippled it.

  “How long are we going to do this?” asked Reinhold.

  “Just wait,” said Nathan. Then he took it to another level, stretching out trials with costly discovery depositions and motions and ancillary witnesses nobody had any reason to call.

  A judge banged a gavel, and a flock of defense attorneys stormed out of the courtroom with prickliness. Nathan was content.

  Reinhold latched his briefcase next to him. “I’m not doubting you, but this seems to be going nowhere. We’re making a fraction of what we did last year and yet you’re smiling?”

  “We’re in for the long game, like a new fast-food chain that sells hamburgers for ninety-nine cents.”

  “Hamburgers?”

  “Hamburgers, law—it’s the same meat grinder.”

  “If you say so.”

  The trials continued, and so did the extension tactics that featured giant poster photos on easels, videos of distant relatives, and accident-scene dioramas with tiny toy vehicles that Nathan had loved as a child.

  “Your Honor,” said a defense attorney. “Matchbox cars? Seriously?”

  “They have the right to put on their case,” said the judge, turning to Nathan. “Is that a Fleetwood? . . .”

  Outside the courthouse, Reinhold turned around on the steps: “This makes even less sense now. The other lawyers are looking at us like we’re loons.”

  “Perfect,” said Nathan. “That means the plan’s working.”

  “I don’t see any plan at all,” said Nash.

  “Give it another month.”

  That was more than enough time.

  “What’s wrong with you guys?” asked a defense lawyer. “We crunch the same numbers. You know this offer is more than adequate!”

  Nathan cracked his knuckles with a mischievous smirk. “I just like courtrooms.”

  The young lawyers were working their way up in the world, unmarried, no real obligations, able to take a fiduciary beating. The insurance companies, on the other hand, were stammering to explain the losses to their shareholders. Not only were they paying at least as much as if they had settled out of court, but it was costing them weeks of litigation fees in what had become no less than wars of economic attrition. What started with a table of two lowly paid defense attorneys became whole teams of six-hundred-dollar-an-hour suits just to finish it off.

  “You win,” said one of the top liability defense lawyers in the state. “What will it take to stop this?”

  “A jury verdict.”

  “You’re not acting logical!” said the other counsel. “No, you’re mad!”

  “Crazier than a shit-house rat.”

  The upstart firm began getting a reputation, and word quickly spread: Prepare your opening statements accordingly, because it ain’t going to be happening out in the hall.

  A month later, Nathan led his two partners outside a courtroom. The in-house legal team from another insurance giant was waiting.

  “You wanted to talk to us?” asked Sparrow.

  “I don’t know why I’m wasting my breath, but I have to report back to the company that I at least went through the motions.” The defense attorney handed Nathan a piece of paper with a dollar sign and a number. “That’s the highest we’d ever pay for a case like this. Our final offer to settle.”

  Nathan smiled and handed it back. “Sounds fair to me.”

  “Wait, what?”

  “Sure,” said Sparrow. “We’re reasonable. We’ll take it.”

  “But—”

  “Draw up the paperwork and send a courier to our office.” Sparrow and his partners walked away, leaving a team of slack-jawed lawyers wondering if the world had just tilted on its axis.

  Reinhold turned as they trotted down the front steps. “Why did you do that? I thought we were taking every case to trial.”

  “The strategy has accomplished its goal.”

  “Which was?”

  “To set our price point.”

  Word again swept the hallowed halls of justice, and everyone came ready to settle for top dollar. The firm’s income went through the proverbial roof. Case volume spiked because of the time savings from avoiding the lengthy trials.

  The founding partners began handing the cases over to their junior associates. Because of the firm’s rep, the out-of-court offers remained premium, big numbers for rookies who’d just passed the bar. All was good in the kingdom.

  A few weeks later, however, one particular set of lawyers got cocky because it’s in their DNA. They saw the fresh young faces and scoffed. They’d be damned if they were going to just roll over and give these kids the keys to the treasure chest. They lowballed them.

  “Excuse me,” said one of the younger lawyers, pulling out his cell phone. “I have to make a call . . .”

  In less than twenty minutes, the defense lawyers had their backs straight up against a marble wall, swallowing hard, facing Nathan and his partners.

  The lead attorney, by the name of Pickering, cleared his throat and handed over another sheet of paper. “Here’s our new offer.”

  Nathan showed his partners the number, and they nodded. “Seems fair to us.”

  “Great. And sorry about making you drive over here.” The attorney grabbed the handle of the briefcase standing on the ground next to his legs. “Can’t blame us for trying.”

  “No, we can’t,” said Nathan. “You were dealing with inexperienced attorneys and saw an opening. I would have done the same.”

  “Then we have a deal.”

  “Not even close.”
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br />   “What? But you said it was a fair offer.”

  “More than fair,” said Nathan. “If only you had given our associates that number to begin with.”

  “What do you want?”

  “To go to trial.”

  The opposing attorney clicked a pen open. “We’ll increase the offer. How much?”

  “They haven’t invented that number yet.”

  “Why are you doing this?”

  “Because you made us drive over here,” said Nathan. “We’re going to fuck you.”

  “You’re an asshole!”

  “Hold that impression till the verdict. You might want to amend it upward.”

  It was their lengthiest trial yet, with lots of photos and diagrams and charts, all blown up on the regular glossy poster boards and easels. A misty-eyed jury came back with a judgment $5 million higher than the best offer. The defense slammed their briefcases shut and stormed out. They knew they had just lost their biggest client, and probably a number of others still to come. The legal community is small and people talk.

  Reinhold closed his own briefcase and marveled at the verdict. “Now that was worth going to trial for.”

  “It was worth more than the money,” said Nathan. “It was worth the cautionary tale. Before those clowns know it, they’ll be back doing wills and bankruptcies.”

  He was right. And he wasn’t done. “Time to rub it in. Press conference!”

  The local stations assembled on the courthouse steps and set up their microphones. Three attorneys waited for the lights to come on. “Good evening. My name is Nathan Sparrow of Reinhold, Nash and Sparrow, and today I’m here to announce that our justice system works for all of us . . .”

  Nearby, in a swank martini lounge on Clematis Street, the news came on the TV over the bar, and the screen filled with three prevailing attorneys taking turns at the mikes. On one of the bar stools, a dashing man in a black suit and yellow tie hung his head in defeat. He pulled out his wallet, then folded a twenty in half lengthwise and held it suavely between two fingers toward the bartender. “Change the channel.”