Trilogy

Numbers 7, 8, & 9 In the

Peter Sharp Legal Mystery Series

By Gene Grossman

a-The Magician’s Legacy

b-The Reluctant Jurist

c-The Final Case

From Magic Lamp Press

Venice, California

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

and are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual

persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

TRILOGY

Peter Sharp Legal Adventures numbers 7, 8 & 9

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:

Gene Grossman c/o Magic Lamp Press, P.O. Box 9547, Marina del Rey, CA 90295.

The Magic Lamp Press website address for Peter Sharp’s

Legal Adventures is http://www.petersharpbooks.com

ISBN: 1-882629-15-9

The Complete

Peter Sharp Legal Mystery

Series

Single Jeopardy

…By Reason of Sanity

A Class Action

Conspiracy of Innocence

…Until Proven Innocent

The Common Law

The Reluctant Jurist

The Magician’s Legacy

The Final Case

Available at bookstores, or online

Also available as eBooks

http://www.petersharpbook.com

THE MAGICIAN’S LEGACY

a-1

everal years ago a network television

station aired some shows that featured a
masked magician who dared to reveal

secrets about how the most popular magic tricks
and illusions are performed. He wore the mask

as protection from alleged physical threats made
by angry magicians, who felt betrayed. I watched
part of the first show, but skipped the rest of it
and its several sequels because I just don’t want

to know how it’s done.

I love magic. Every time I watch a

magician perform, I turn into a little kid, with
my mouth and eyes wide open. I enjoy being
fooled, and the more I’m tricked, the more I like

it. Knowing how it’s done would spoil the fun for
me, and I don’t want that to happen.

It looks like not everyone is like me.

They’re nosy. They want to know how the

magicians do it. People like that suffer from a
personality disorder that prevents them from
believing someone is smarter than they are.
They refuse to accept the fact that they can be

fooled by another mere mortal… they selfishly
push to find out what the ‘trick’ that confused
them was, so they can then regain their fragile
confidence and once again believe that they are

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superior beings, only having been temporarily
fooled by some unfair gimmick that they now

know about.

And as for the people who do the tricks,

whenever I encounter some guy with the
adjective ‘great’ preceding his name, one that
invariably ends with an ‘i,’ I want to be

entertained. I want to be fooled. I want to see
that rabbit come out of a hat, the colored silks,
the self-repairing rope and the three rings that
come apart and go back together again. I love it.

And of course at my age, it’s even better if the
magician has some long-legged female assistant
in high heels that helps in the misdirection. It
certainly works every time with me, but I’m a

normal forty-three-year-old male lawyer. It
doesn’t work for Suzi, the little Chinese cupie
doll I live with.

She’s a computer genius and the brains

behind our law firm… the one that was started

by her stepfather and is now headed up by me,
due to a fatal airplane accident that not only left
me in charge of the law practice, but also as her
legal guardian. We both live aboard a 50-foot

Grand Banks trawler yacht here in Marina del
Rey California, along with Suzi’s huge Saint
Bernard that I call Bernie, because he’s got some
Chinese name that I can’t pronounce.

The kid doesn’t have many friends her

age, but she does see another little girl named
Lotus Chang, whose mother Michelle is a
customer at the Murray’s Chinese restaurant,

just around the corner on Washington
Boulevard, where Suzi’s mother Jasmine was
the manager. Jasmine was having trouble with

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her citizenship status, so a customer at the
restaurant, and old law school classmate of

mine named Melvin Braunstein, helped out by
marrying her. When Jasmine was killed in an
automobile accident about a year later, Melvin
did the legal work for his stepdaughter and
succeeded in settling it for quite a bit, and as a

result, Suzi is the richest little girl in the Marina.

When Melvin perished in that private

plane crash, his Will appointed me as Suzi’s
legal guardian. A year later, I succeeded in

getting a huge settlement for her from the
distributor of those counterfeit airplane parts,
that enriched the kid’s trust fund by another
couple of million dollars. As official

administrator of her bank accounts I get paid a
whopping CEO salary of one dollar per year, and
our little law practice seems to be thriving, so
we’re living on a beautiful yacht named the ‘Suzi
B’ that I don’t even know how to start the engine

of. The fees keep coming in, I have my big Yellow
Hummer to ride around in, and there’s an
alcoholic broad named Laverne living on a
houseboat near us who is an altogether different

kind of hummer that I ride occasionally. Life is
good.

Michelle Chang invited Suzi to Lotus’s

surprise 11

birthday party, so I’m all alone on

the boat tonight with a 200-pound Saint
Bernard asleep across my feet, while I try to get
some reading done. Unfortunately, I wasn’t

invited to the party, which is too bad, because I
understand that Mrs. Chang hired a professional
magician from the Magic Castle to come and

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entertain the kids. I tried to tell her that
whenever a magician is around, I’m a kid too,

but it didn’t work.

When the kid’s here, we often have some

gourmet Chinese dinners delivered from
Murray’s, by a group of four young fellows
nicknamed the ‘Asian Boys,’ who work at the

restaurant evenings and varnish boats during
the day. With no kid and no Asian Boys, my
dinner tonight will consist of the usual pot of
gruel that I’ve perfected over the years. The

recipe involves eight ounces of elbow macaroni
plus the addition of one or more of several
flavoring items that can vary between non-fat
cottage cheese, non-fat baked beans, non-fat

butter, green peas, low-fat cream of mushroom
soup, non-fat vegetarian chili, or whatever else I
happen to find within reaching distance.

Whatever the final mixture is, it all gets

topped off with a generous sprinkling of

imitation Parmesan cheese and some garlic salt,
and most of it never makes it to the table
because it gets eaten right near the stove. I’ve
been told that single men are the only variety of

humans that are known to eat standing up.

This time there’s enough ‘Pasta ala Peter’

prepared to be finished up sitting down in the
yacht’s main saloon. Like so many other

uninformed boaters, I used to call it the ‘salon,’
but some balding old jerk with a fifty-foot
sailboat on our dock bawled me out when he
heard me call it that, and demanded that I use

its correct designation. I try to show respect to
my know-it-all elder, so now it’s the main
‘saloon.’

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The dog is always alert whenever I’m

eating, because he’s on constant ‘crumb patrol,’

but I don’t mind him around on evenings like
this because he’s an excellent listener. Tonight’s
seminar is on the double job that’s usually
required whenever a lawyer takes on certain
types of cases, one of them being for legal

malpractice. The extra work is because not only
does the new lawyer have to prove that the
original lawyer was guilty of screwing up, but he
must also show that if the case was handled

properly, that the client would have actually
won. This means that not only do you have to
destroy the first lawyer, but you also have to go
ahead and almost completely re-create the first

trial, showing how it should have been won. And
that’s the reason I don’t take cases like that.

Both the dinner and the dissertation have

been completed and not one living thing in the
room disagrees with me about either… another

successful dinner lecture.

The birthday party must be over now

because Mrs. Chang just called to let me know

that she’ll be bringing Suzi back to the Marina. I
was supposed to pick her up, but I like to think
that this favor is motivated by a combination of
her wanting to give Lotus more time with Suzi -

and her desire to see me. Ego self-inflation has
always been one of my strong suits.

When they all arrive at the boat and dump

some party stuff on table I see that once again

my thoughts were wrong, because it’s Mrs.
Chang who’s the one spending more time with
Suzi. Michelle is in the IRS’s Intelligence and

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Enforce-ment Division, and is fascinated by all
the crime-fighting software that the kid has

amassed on her computer, as a result of being
so closely associated with my ex-wife (who is
now the elected District Attorney of Los Angeles
County) and all the cops who consider her a
mascot. This mascot status is because of the

kid’s daily noon appearances at the Murray’s
Chinese restaurant around the corner, where
her mother used to work. It’s also the place
where squad cars from all the local police

agencies converge for lunch, or as Suzi informs
me, a ‘Code 7,’ which in police-speak means ‘out
of service, to eat.’

One remarkable feature about this

Chinese restaurant is an official-looking sign
posted in the men’s room that reads ‘employees
must wash hands before returning to work.’
Good idea, but in a Chinese restaurant with
Chinese immigrant employees, you’d think they

might have the sign in some language other than
Spanish.

Word about Suzi’s computer skills and

searching abilities have gotten around and

enabled our firm to pick up quite a few clients,
and gather some future favors from local law
enforcement groups. Her popularity is also due
to some of the missing forms from our file

cabinet that were probably used to help many of
those cops defend the divorce actions that police
wives are wont to file.

Unlike Suzi, little Lotus Chang is quite

talkative around me, so while her mother is busy
with my boatmate in the foreward stateroom, I

The Magician’s Legacy

get a full narrative about how the birthday party
went. Listening to this little girl rattle on and on

makes me more appreciative of the fact that Suzi
rarely talks to me, opting instead to make most
communications by ‘dog-mail,’ which consists of
tucking a message into the Saint Bernard’s
collar and sending him to me.

Most of Lotus’ story is about the other

kids that attended the party. Not interested. She
goes on to provide me with a detailed list of every
present she received at the party, complete with

a full description of each and every gift-giver.
Still not interested. My eyelids are now getting
heavy.

Among the party debris still defacing our

beautiful expensive teak table are some Polaroid
photos taken at the party, and one of them I find
particularly interesting because it shows a
strikingly attractive woman standing next to an
older man. At first I thought that they must be

the mother and grandfather of one of the kids
attending the party, but as Lotus drones on, she
informs me that the photo in my hand is Mister
Robert Balscomb, previous owner of the Changs’

house.

Lotus says that Balscomb stopped by with

Marian, his maid. The reason for their invitation
to the party was that Marian is Michelle Chang’s

former porcelain-painting teacher, and the
person who originally told Mrs. Chang about
Balscomb’s house being for sale. Michelle
wanted to show off how her porcelain collection

is displayed, so Mister Balscomb came along to
do the driving and give Mrs. Chang some
pointers on features of the ‘safe room’ where she

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keeps her collection. When Balscomb owned the
house he paid big bucks to convert the den into

what security experts call a ‘panic room,’
complete with bulletproof walls and emergency
communication devices. He’s obviously either
paranoid, or has a very checkered past he’s
afraid might catch up with him.

Lotus notices that I can’t seem to stop

looking at the picture of Balscomb and his maid,
and surprises me.

“Gee, that’s funny… Marian kept looking

at your picture too.”

“What are you talking about Lotus?
“That picture of you and Suzi. You know,

the one you guys took at her birthday party last

year. She gave it to me for my ‘friends’ collection,
and when Marian, the lady in the picture with
Mister Balscomb, saw it, she kept looking at it
the same way you’re looking at that picture of
her.”

This is interesting. It’s almost like

computer dating, because we seem to have been
interested in each other’s pictures. Maybe I
should call her. This might present a slight

problem. Somewhere in the back of my mind I
get the feeling that Lotus’ mother Michelle might
be interested in me. That’s flattering, but I could
never get involved with anyone connected with

the IRS… but at the same time, I don’t want to
hurt her feelings. I’m going to see this Marian,
but it will have to be a covert operation at first.

Lotus says that Suzi didn’t think much of

Mister Robert Balscomb. If you’re not a
uniformed law enforcement officer it’s tough to
get her respect. She’s a cop groupie, so it’s not

The Magician’s Legacy

surprising to hear she didn’t warm up to
Balscomb. What does surprise me is hearing

that Balscomb was so impressed by the
magician entertaining the kids that he stayed for
the whole performance and seemed to enjoy it as
much as the kids did. He also made sure to get
one of the magician’s business cards before

leaving.

The Changs are leaving the boat now and

my phone is ringing. It’s my close friend Stuart,

who rarely calls just to say hello. He’s the most
entrepreneurial person I know, and now has at
least five successful businesses going that I’m
aware of. Whenever I see his familiar telephone

number on my caller I.D. display I assume it’s
either because he needs some emergency legal
advice, or wants to tell me all about some new
business he’s going to start up.

“Hello Stuart, what’s up?”

“Peter, I’m angry.”
“Okay Stu, why don’t you just calm down

and tell me about it.”

“You’re going to think it’s too trivial and

you’ll probably laugh at me.”

“Stuart, I promise I won’t laugh. I’ve been

practicing law and listening to clients for over
twenty years now, and my legal bedside manner

has developed to the point where I can control
any urge to laugh at what I’m being told, so go
ahead, let’s hear about it. Does it have anything
to do with money?”

“Yes Pete, it does.”
“All right, now we’re getting to the heart of

the matter. What’s the amount?”

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There’s silence on the line as Stuart

hesitates with his answer. This probably means

that the amount he got screwed out of is so large
that he’s embarrassed to tell me. “C’mon Stu.
You called me, so if you won’t tell me the
amount, then I’d like to get off the phone and go
back to some things I’m doing around the boat.”

“Seventy cents.”
Stuart never fails to surprise me. “Stuart, I

know in my heart that the amount can’t be
bothering you, because next to Suzi you’re one

of the richest people I know. There’s must be
something else that’s bothering you about that
trifling sum, so please, let me know what it is.”

“You’re right Pete. It’s not the amount, it’s

the principle of the thing. I picked up a chopped
salad to-go at a restaurant. It was eight dollars
and fifty cents.”

“So?”
“So, they charged me sales tax on it!”

“What’s the big deal? You pay sales tax on

everything else you buy that’s not for resale, so
why complain this time?”

“Peter, you went to law school. Didn’t they

teach you that there’s not supposed to be sales
tax charged on food to-go?”

“Sorry Stu, I must have been absent that

day. Are you sure about the law on that matter?”

“Not exactly, but I pick up a lot of carry-

out food, and to the best of my recollection, this
is the first time I’ve ever been charged sales tax
on it. I should think that while the exact

percentage amount might vary between
jurisdictions, the main policy decision of

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whether or not it’s due on food-to-go is a
statewide decision and should be consistent.”

“So what do you intend to do about it?

Turn them in to the State Board of Equalization,
or Franchise Tax Board, or whatever agency
handles that stuff? Or are you planning some
huge class action on behalf of all the taxpayers

in the State? Either way, I don’t think I’m with
you on this one. At least not with the facts the
way they are to this point.”

“Oh yeah? Well what would you do if you

were me?”

“First, I’d go back to that restaurant and

show them two receipts: one from another
nearby restaurant that didn’t charge the tax on

a similar item to-go, and also the receipt from
their own register on which the tax was added.
I’d also make sure that I talked to someone in
the restaurant who was in charge, because
there’s always the possibility that the sale was

rung up by a new employee or someone else
there who just made a common mistake and
pressed a wrong classification button on the
cash register.

“If you handle it like a gentleman, I’m sure

you’ll get a happy conclusion. If a mistake was
actually made, any competent manager should
probably apologize to you and might even offer

you a dinner on the house for pointing it out to
them. But first and most important, please go to
the State’s local tax office and find out what the
law really is. It’s obvious that one of those

restaurants made a mistake, and it’s either the
one that charged you, or the one that didn’t. I
think you owe it to them as a neighbor to point

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out the error to the wrongdoer, and not just
rush to turn them in or file a lawsuit.”

Stuart grudgingly agrees with me and says

he’ll check out the law. After hanging up I start
going through several party favors spread
around on the table, hoping there’s some leftover
birthday cake included, and happen upon a

business card that announces ‘The Great
Schwartzi.” This is obviously the party
magician’s card. The surprising part is what’s
written on the blank back side of the card. It’s a

local address, with a scribbled note that says
‘Suzi, I’ll expect you at my house tomorrow at
one P.M.’

a-2

’ve been thinking about it all night and this is

not something I tend to approve of. Who is
this Great Schwartzi, and why is Suzi going

to his house? Without knowing more about this
guy, I have no intention of letting the kid go over

there alone, and I’m not interested in being the
chaperone. This calls for an afternoon meeting,
so I prepare a note, go into the kitchen area of
the boat – the area that I’ve been instructed to

call ‘the galley’ by that old know-it-all down the
dock, and shake a box of dog biscuits.

The noise generated by his snack food

rattling in the box brings the dog out before the
third shake. Now that I have his attention, I slip

the message under his collar and a biscuit in his
mouth. Not having any more use for me, he
returns to the foreward stateroom - the little
princess’ private domain.

Uncharacteristically, the kid decides to

actually come out and address me in person.
The rare times this happens I’m usually in for a
lecture… and this time is no different.

“I appreciate your concern, but I do know

about this man. His real name is Sheldon
Schwartz and he mentioned that his birthday is
on October 9

. If you remember, Dr. Sheldon

Eidoch, one of the students you had in that Bar

review course you were teaching, mentioned to
me that the name ‘Sheldon’ was very popular
with Jewish families during the period between

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1935 and 1945, so I checked birth dates during
that decade and now know that the Great

Schwartzi aka Sheldon Schwartz was born in
1941 in Kansas City, and was fingerprinted in
California in 1971 when he applied for his
license as a real estate salesman. He has no
criminal record and donates a lot of his time

entertaining kids at the Los Angeles Children’s
Hospital.

“The reason I am going to his house is to

start my magic education and to talk about a

possible business arrangement with him.”

“You’re going to be a professional

magician? What happened to Harvard Law
School and hiring me and Myra as associates in

your law firm?”

This provokes her predictable eye-roll,

indicating that I just don’t get it.

“No, silly. You and Myra will still have jobs

waiting for you… I want to learn about magic

because it’s the art of mis-direction, and that’s
what happens when clues to solving a crime are
hard to find. You’re being mis-directed by red
herrings and lying suspects. I want to learn how

to cut through all of that.”

“Okay, so you won’t be a professional

magician. That’s the public’s loss. What’s the
deal with a business arrangement? Is this

something you’re doing on your own, or will you
be involving our law firm in it?”

“I’m not at liberty to discuss the details at

this time, but rest assured that the law firm will

not be involved or affected at all.”

That having been said, she does an about-

face and leads her beast back to the foreward

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stateroom. As she walks away, she tosses one of
her throwaway lines at me.

“And don’t prepare any of that pasta mess

tonight. We’ll be eating normal food at six P.M.”

That’s the best news I’ve heard all week.

The Asian Boys will probably be here by five
thirty to set the table and put the food in the

oven for re-heating. As for her business deal
with the Great Schwartzi, I’m the trustee of her
accounts, and the court requires that anything
she wants to spend a significant amount of

money on must be approved by me, so I guess
I’ll find out the details soon enough.

Once she and the dog have left the boat

for their first magic lesson, I call my ex-wife

Myra. It’s been a while since she downsized the
household by exiling me to an old cabin cruiser
in our back yard, but I don’t hold it against her.
As a result of that non-voluntary move, I
renewed my acquain-tance with Melvin

Braunstein and ultimately wound up living here
in the Marina.

I used some devious strategy to convince

her opponent to drop out of the race, so Myra

had no difficulty in getting elected to the office of
District Attorney, and we both now live in a state
of mutual co-existence, while Suzi continues her
perpetual transparent efforts to get Myra and I

back together again. The two of them talk on the
telephone at least once or twice a day, and I get
the feeling that like the dog, I’m just another
190-pound male animal that happens to be

around.

Suzi has Myra’s private office number, and

I’m using it.

The Magician’s Legacy

“Hello Peter.”
“How did you know it was me?”

“Because Suzi’s number appeared on my

caller ID display, and she never calls at this time
of day. What do you want, other than sex, which
is no longer an option for you?”

“Don’t flatter yourself. I never sleep with

prosecutors. I need you to check someone out.
His name is the Great Schwartzi.”

“All right, this conversation is now over.

I’ve had enough of your humor to last me a

lifetime Petey, and I have work to do.”

I really don’t like it when she calls me

that, but if that’s what I have to put up with to
talk to her, then it’s worth it. “Whoa kid, hold

on. The Great Schwartzi is the stage name used
by a guy named Sheldon Schwartz. He’s a
magician that the kid met at a birthday party
yesterday and she’s gone to his house this
afternoon.”

“You let her go there alone?”
“No. She took the dog with her. It’s only a

mile or so away so they drove over there in her
electric cart. She says she ran him through, but

I’d like you to have your office do a more
thorough background check on this guy.”

“What’s going on? Why is she going over to

this guy’s house? Is he a client or something?”

“Not exactly. She wants to learn about

magic.”

“Magic? Magic? What are you talking

about? I thought she was going to be a Harvard

lawyer and hire the both of us. I don’t know
about you, but I do not intend to wear a Playboy

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bunny costume with fish-net hose and high
heels, to be a magician’s assistant.”

“Not to worry, our futures as lawyers are

secure… but if you ever change your mind about
that outfit, please call me.”

There’s a brief silence while I listen to the

now familiar sound of her fuming. This means

that I may be talking to a dial tone soon. “She
thinks that knowledge of magic will help her
crime-solving skills so I’ll let her go through with
it until she starts wearing a cape.” Success.

She’s still on the line, so I give her whatever
details I have about the great Jewish magician.
Come to think of it, maybe he’s really in the
right profession. If memory serves me correctly

the greatest of them all was Harry Houdini, and
he was also Jewish, having been born in
Budapest Hungary as Ehrich Weiss. I’m pretty
sure he was Jewish because his father was a
rabbi there. Now that my apprehensions about

Sheldon Schwartz have been slightly relieved,
my curiosity returns to this Balscomb fellow,
why he took the magician’s card and why he
needs a safe room.

Hmmmn. Maybe this could be an oppor-

tunity to kill two birds with one stone. I could
get to know Balscomb’s housekeeper Marian,
and during a casual conversation, find out why

her boss is so security conscious. One thing I’ve
learned from trying cases in court is that you
never ask a question you don’t know the answer
to, so I’d better do some homework first and

learn something about those types of secure
rooms.

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Some time ago I made the acquaintance of

Victor Gutierrez, who has become both a friend

and a valuable associate. He operates a private
autopsy business in the San Gabriel Valley, and
the firm’s name is also his telephone number:
1800AUTOPSY.

I was taken aback at first by the thought

of a person who specializes in driving around
picking up bodies and doing post mortems in his
office. It reminds me of a doctor Frankenstein-
type of profession, but after talking to him I

learned that what he does provides a valuable
service requested by many families and
insurance companies. The County Coroner’s
office usually only performs autopsies when

there might be a crime involved. They’re not
interested in medical malpractice, disguised
suicides or other types of death that can lead to
serious civil actions. Victor and his staff are
experienced forensic scientists and our firm has

used their services once or twice in the past,
mostly as an independent CSI unit for criminal
defense matters.

I imagine that if anyone knows about

‘safe-rooms’ it’s Victor, because if a question
concerns security or forensic investigation, he’s
my go-to guy. I hope he doesn’t think me rude
for continuously refusing invitations to come

and see his facility. That’s why the standard
definition of a ‘lawyer’ is ‘someone who can’t
stand the sight of blood.’

After a lengthy telephone conversation

Victor succeeds in providing me with a college
education in ‘safe rooms’ and I now realize how
important they might be to heads of state or

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other tremendously important people, but still
don’t know why Robert Balscomb needs one.

It’s understandable if an A-list celebrity or

high-ranking politician prefers to have some
protection, or a multi-millionaire wants safety
from burglars, but Balscomb is neither of these.
All of my Internet searching has failed to turn up

anything about him. This is a job for Jack
Bibberman, a guy who saved my rear-end a
while back by testifying truthfully at a State Bar
hearing, and since then has been a trusted

friend and private investigator for our law firm.
It’s probably none of my business, but this safe-
room stuff has peaked my curiosity, so I might
as well spend a few bucks and further my

general education.

I call Jack, give him Balscomb’s present

and past addresses, and tell him to spend some
time finding out about the guy and what he
might be afraid of. And for purely personal

reasons, I also ask him to get me the Balscomb
residence’s unlisted telephone number.

That’s enough work for today. Now I’m

going to catch up on some reading and get in the
mood for a gourmet Chinese meal. The Marina
rents out some houseboats, and one them on
our dock is occupied by a woman named

Laverne, who I’ve become quite familiar with. It’s
hard to guess what her age is, because she’s
been self-embalming herself for the past decade
or so, and that has kept her quite well

preserved. Even though, I’d say that she’ll never
see thirty-five again, and may have even hit the
big four-o. Nevertheless, she’s very nice to me,

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and after dinner tonight I’ll be walking over to
the Marina del Rey Liquor Store to pick up a box

of Laverne’s favorite wine, and then enjoy the
evening on her houseboat. I justify this dalliance
because Myra won’t have anything to do with
me, I’m afraid of Michelle’s IRS, and Marian is
still waiting in the wings.

Another reason I enjoy Laverne’s

houseboat is because it’s like going to another
country… some exotic place like Morocco, or one
of those foreign places you only read about or

see in an old black-and-white noir movie. This is
due to Laverne’s unique ‘early gaudy’ style of
decorating. She had the uncanny ability to have
turned her saloon, and I use the word

figuratively, into an excact replica of an ancient
third-world whore-house, complete with fringed
tiffany lamps, red velvet flocked wallpaper,
beaded doorway cur-tains, burning incense, and
satin sheets. The only thing that brings you

back to good old U. S. of A. is her television set,
which is usually tuned in to one of her favorite
reality shows. There’s nothing like a crappy TV
reality show to remind you what country you’re

in, our land of the free and home of the knave.

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don’t know what Laverne does for a living,

but she must do something, because early
every morning she gets picked up before eight

by the same husky guy who also brings her back
to the Marina at dinnertime. I guess she lost her

driver’s license because of some drunk driving
convictions and convinced some person she
works with to give her a lift each day.

Somewhere in the back of my mind I seem

to remember having a nice evening, but it’s still
all a blur. As usual, Laverne left a few slices of
greasy French toast out on the table for me, and
I’m now trying to get one of them down. The
houseboat rocks slightly but I don’t see anyone

outside the window or hear anyone walking on
the boat.

As the door gets pushed open I look down

and see that a dog-mail is being delivered. Not

having received a telephone call from me asking
to get bailed out of jail, both the kid and her dog
know that if I’m not on board for the night, that
I’m ‘visiting’ Laverne. I remove the message from

the maildog’s collar and he immediately leaves
the boat. Ordinarily he would wait for a tip,
which usually takes the form of some morsel for
him to eat, but the last time he made a morning
delivery to me on Laverne’s boat I tossed him a

slice of her French toast, and he hasn’t waited
around here for a tip since then.

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I blot some grease off of my fingers and

open the folded paper. It’s a copy of Jack

Bibberman’s email that’s a preliminary report on
his findings about Robert Balscomb. From what
Jack has learned, Balscomb is unmarried and
lives with Michelle Chang’s friend Marian, who
has been his housekeeper for almost twenty

years now. The only other person living there is
Balscomb’s nephew Jessie, a twenty-something
year-old young man who occasionally attends
classes at Santa Monica Junior College. They all

occupy the large two-story home that Balscomb
had custom built in Marina del Rey’s exclusive
Peninsula area, just off the sand and overlooking
the Grand Canal and Pacific Ocean.

Jack also mentions that he’s now in the

process of getting plans of the house from the
Department of Building & Safety, so that we can
see what he built in the way of a safe room. He
says he’ll report to me again when the complete

background check he requested comes back.

At the bottom of the e-mail copy is a hand-

written note:

Peter:

If this has nothing to do with an open case,

then please have Jack bill you personally.

The office manager

As usual, nothing gets past that greedy

kid.

Myra finished her investigation of the

Great Schwartzi and it looks like he’s just a
harmless guy in his sixties who performs magic.

Gene Grossman

The report says that at one time he was quite
famous and made a bundle inventing illusions

that he would sell for big bucks to other famous
magicians. Many of the books he’s written over
the years on the art of magic are still being sold
on Amazon.com and Abebooks.com, so in
addition to party performances and giving

lessons, he’s also got some royalties coming in.

Suzi has been studying with him for two

months now, but the only magic performances

she gives are for her friend Lotus and the dog. I
haven’t received any requests from the bank for
a withdrawal from her accounts, so I guess that
if she’s investing any money with the magician,

it must be from some regular account where she
stashes her fees for investigation and all the
other stuff she does on the side for God only
knows who.

Jack Bibberman completed his

background check of Robert Balscomb and
impressed me with a thorough history of his
family that goes back almost a hundred years.

Balscomb’s father R. Balscomb Sr. was born in
1910, and in 1928 started working for the
Hathaway Manufacturing Company, a cotton
mill.

In the 1950’s, Balscomb Sr.’s boss decided

to merge his company with another cotton mill,
called Berkshire Fine Spinning associates.
Under the terms of the merger, investors

received 4 shares of stock in the new company
for each share of Hathaway stock they
exchanged.

The Magician’s Legacy

Because Balscomb Sr. had accumulated

300 shares during his twenty-plus years of

employment, he received 1200 shares of the new
company, which was growing in size and
business capacity on a regular basis.

About ten years later in 1962 a bright

young investor named Warren Buffet noticed

how well the cotton mill’s business was doing.
He thought it was undervalued at only $15 a
share, so he started buying into the company,
and in a short period of time the stock went up

from $15 to $18 a share.

A former executive of the company had a

slight problem with drinking and gambling and
asked Balscomb Sr. to lend him a thousand

dollars. As collateral for the loan, he offered to
let Balscomb hold his 700 shares of stock, then
worth over twelve thousand dollars. As expected
with a drunken gambler, the loan was never
repaid and after numerous extensions and

pleading, Balscomb Sr. had no other choice than
to consider the collateral forfeited and had the
shares transferred to his own name, bringing his
holdings up to a full one thousand shares.

Being an honorable man, Balscomb bor-

rowed money against the shares and sent a
check to the drunk’s family for ten thousand
dollars. The debtor took the money and promptly

deserted his family.

As they say, the rest is history. Anyone

familiar with the stock market knows that

Berkshire Hathaway is now the most expensive
stock in the world, sometimes trading for as
much as ninety thousand dollars a share. The

Gene Grossman

stock and dividends that Robert Balscomb
inherited from his father is now worth close to

one hundred million dollars, and sits in various
trust accounts and other investments that pay
Robert Balscomb a very comfortable income of
approximately one-half a million dollars each
month. Now it’s easy to see why money was no

object when he had his house built with that
safe-room installed. It must have cost him
almost two months’ allowance.

Jack dug further into the court’s records

and learned that on several occasions Balscomb
asked the court to grant him a restraining order
against some angry man who claimed that
Balscomb stole his family’s money. This was

probably a descendant of the drunken debtor,
who felt that he was entitled to the benefit of his
ancestor’s stock investment.

With Jack’s report now complete, it’s easy

to see why Robert Balscomb wanted to be safe in

his own home.

Balscomb must also really be interested in

magic because Jack says that on at least three
occasions he saw the Great Schwartzi arrive in a

cab and go into Balscomb’s house, and that he
would usually stay in there for at least two
hours. It looks like magic lessons seem to be the
latest fad. Jack used his 10 mega-pixel digital

camera to get Schwartzi’s picture, and he
emailed it to me. This magician is one strange
looking guy, with a big bushy head of hair, full
beard, and dressed in all black, complete with a

cape. Not a bad outfit for the stage, or in
Transylvania, but a little out of fashion for
walking around in Marina del Rey.

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Our personal line rings. It’s a number my

caller ID doesn’t recognize. Suzi must be busy
with the dog, so I answer it and get a pleasant
surprise.

“Hello Mister Sharp. We’ve never met, but

I’m Marian, a friend of Michelle Chang. I met

your Suzi at Lotus’ birthday party recently and
was calling to check with her to find out if she
minds making her appointment with the Great
Schwartzi tomorrow. He’ll also be giving lessons

to my employer, Mister Robert Balscomb.”

“Oh yeah, I saw a picture of the two of you

taken at the party. Lotus showed it to me. I
understand you’ve also seen a picture of me.

Say, I’ve got a crazy idea. Now that we both have
seen each other and know that we’re almost
neighbors, why don’t we get together for a cup of
coffee some afternoon?

“we’ve got something in common: we’re

both on the outside looking in on people who are
crazy about magic. Maybe we can compare
notes.”

It worked. We agree to meet at the

Cheesecake Factory next week while the
students are having a magic lesson. We also
decide to be very discreet about it. I’m looking
forward to this… being with an attractive woman

who can cook, sew and keep a house clean. If
she’s lucky, I may give her some of my special
pasta recipes.

On a recent visit to the boat by Michelle

Chang and her daughter Lotus, the young one
started bending my ear with some gossip. She

Gene Grossman

overheard Marian telling her mother about how
Schwartzi was fascinated by the security of

Balscomb’s safe room and how he thought he
could design a plan to get in and out of it. From
what Lotus says, the housekeeper told Michelle
that Balscomb had a good laugh when he heard
that plan and offered to make a side bet with

Schwartzi any time he might like to give his plan
a try.

As a devout fan of the locked-room

mystery genre, I understand Schwartzi’s

fascination with the concept of a safe-room.
Most locked-room mysteries involve just that – a
locked room. There’s no particular requirement
that it be a bulletproof, soundproof, steel-

doored, thief-proof place. Any plain old room
with a locked door and no apparent ability for
anyone to enter and commit the crime or exit
afterwards will usually suffice.

The only thing that comes close to what

Schwartzi probably has in mind is the famous
Jacques Futrelle short story The Problem of Cell
13, where Professor S.F.X. Van Dusen, the
‘thinking machine,’ promises to get himself out
of the infamous escape-proof Chisholm prison’s

death-cell. I guess that Schwartzi couldn’t find a
prison to cooperate with him, so he opted for the
secure room in Balscomb’s house. I’ll be very
interested to see what type of illusion he comes
up with if he ever pulls it off. This will be

another thing for me to discuss with Marian
when we have coffee.

The Cheesecake Factory is a very popular

chain of restaurants here in California, and

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whenever they open a new one it’s usually
packed from the first day and stays that way

forever. Fortunately, we have one across the
street from where our boat is tied up, so it’s a
short walk for me to go and meet with Marian.

We have a very enjoyable lunch and an

interesting conversation, but she seems

reluctant to talk about Balscomb. The only
details I can get out of her without using a
thumb-screw are that her mother started
working for the Balscomb family when she was a

small child, and after her mother died from some
illness, Marian stayed to carry on the tradition of
service to the Balscomb household.

Okay, I can live with the lack of

information from her. At least she agreed to
meet with me on her next night off. This will be
another interesting situation, because if our
relationship gets to the next level, we’ll have to
figure out some place to spend time together.

Good thing the Foghorn Motel is next door to the
Cheesecake Factory and Marina del Rey Liquor
Store.

When we’re through eating I order a few

pieces of cheesecake to go. I know that the kid
loves sweets, and I won’t mind having a nice
dessert for breakfast tomorrow morning. The
waitress brings me a bag with the sweets in it

and I tell her to add the extra amount to my
credit card. I also make a concerted effort to not
inspect the bill to see if she added sales tax to
the cheesecake to-go. The other part of my

dessert is a good-bye kiss from Marian as she
gets into her car.

Gene Grossman

I took some time out to surf the internet

and came up with some interesting info for my

friend Stuart. Searching through California’s
Revenue and Taxation Code, I learned that
section 6359 contains a list of all the foods that
are taxable, and the exemptions that apply.

If Stuart picked up only a chopped salad,

then he shouldn’t have had to pay sales tax on
his carry-out order unless the restaurant
provides parking spaces and outdoor tables for
people to eat their to-go orders.

I don’t know what restaurant he was

referring to, but as long as the carry-out item
isn’t what the Board of Equalization classifies as
a ‘hot prepared food product,’ meaning anything

that’s meant to be served at a temperature that
is higher than the room temperature of the room
where it is sold, then it should be a sales tax
exempt carry-out.

This particular code section is one of the

most complicated ones I’ve ever read because it
classifies foods of so many types and bases the
reasons for taxation on so many variables. I
think that as long as Stuart sticks to only a cold

salad and carries it out from a restaurant that
doesn’t provide places for people to eat their to-
go orders, he shouldn’t be required to pay sales
tax.

I’m sure that he’s also researching this

material, and will no doubt have some brilliant
idea about how to turn it into another
moneymaking proposition.

It’s now Wednesday afternoon again and

in a little while Suzi and the dog will be driving

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her e-cart over to Schwartzi’s house for another
session of magic, or whatever business they’re

planning. After an extended effort, I get her to
promise me she’ll drive that cart of hers on the
sidewalks as much as possible.

I see that the kid left a message for me.

Peter:

Next time you see Marian, please tell

her that we would appreciate her not interrupting
our Wednesday afternoon appointments with

Mister Schwartz, to serve us tea.

Damn! Her Asian Boy spy network must

have operatives in every restaurant in the

Marina. I should have known I couldn’t keep
anything from her. Now that we’ve been ‘outed,’
it may mean that we can use the boat instead of
the Foghorn Motel.

They just left a few minutes ago and I’m

watching the afternoon news. Half way through
the broadcast I see that my ex-wife is going to be
interviewed. The newscaster announces her.

“We’re here on the Peninsula in Marina del

Rey with District Attorney Myra Scot, who has
been called to the scene. Miss District Attorney,
can you tell us anything about this situation?”

Myra looks as beautiful as ever, even

though she’s darkened her flame-red hair and
now wears it in a bun, to go along with her
school-marm style of politically correct

wardrobe.

“Our office has been informed that the

owner of this residence, a Mister Robert

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Balscomb, may have been shot to death in his
den. We haven’t been able to gain access to the

murder scene yet because of security devices in
effect, but a local magician named the Great
Schwartzi is definitely what we consider to be a
‘person of interest’ we would like to interview. If
the magician is still locked in the room with the

victim, when we get in there, he will be
thoroughly questioned. We’ve gotten cooperation
from the company who built the secure room
and their ‘entry’ crew is now using blowtorches

to cut through the steel door so we can get
inside that room.”

That’s enough for me to hear. I know

exactly where the kid is going and I also know

that my Hummer can get there first. Myra said
that Schwartzi might still be in the safe-room
with Balscomb’s body, but I’m not taking any
chances. I’m going to beat Suzi to Schwartzi’s
place and make sure that if he’s there, she

doesn’t go anywhere near him.

What am I thinking? How can he be there?

He’s locked in the safe-room with Balscomb’s
body. I don’t care. I’m going over to his place

anyway. He said he was working on a plan to get
in and out of that room, and I’m a devout
believer in the magic of illusions.

I’m not worried about a speeding ticket

because if any local cop stops me, he’s probably
a Chinese restaurant customer and all I’ll have
to do is mention Suzi’s name and the fact that
she may be going into harm’s way and I’ll get a

siren escort all the way to wherever she is.

I see her e-cart riding towards Schwartzi’s

house. It’s about block away, but I’m going

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much faster than she is because I’m on the
street and she’s driving on the sidewalk. As I

approach Schwartzi’s place I see several squad
cars parked there with their light bars activated.
I guess Myra didn’t want to take any chances
either, even though she probably still believes
that the magician is locked in the safe-room with

the victim.

As I pull up to the house I see a yellow

blanket covering something up on the street.
Just then Suzi arrives and walks over to the cop

in charge, who she obviously knows. I can’t hear
what they’re talking about, but I see a tear
running down her cheek as she hugs the dog.
The cop recognizes me and realizes that I’m with

the kid, so he feels safe in talking to me.

“What’s the problem here officer?”
“Like I just told your little girl, there was a

traffic accident here. A hit-and-run driver killed
a pedestrian who lives in this house. The

neighbors say he’s some old magician.”

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his is a terrible situation. I feel sorry for
the kid, because it’s not the first time that
she’s lost someone close to her. It

happened with her mother, then her stepfather

and then again last year when a detective
sergeant dock neighbor we represented had a
terminal illness.

There’s nothing I can say. Myra came over

and spent almost an hour with her, but it’s just
going to take some time for her to get over it.

Before Myra left I was able to sit down

with her and get some of the remarkable details
of the Balscomb case. All the facts that the

authorities have come from statements made by
Balscomb’s housekeeper Marian and his nephew
Jessie, and are as follow:

After they all rode with the nephew to an

ophthalmologist appointment where his eyes
were examined for glasses and then dilated,
Balscomb, Jessie and Marian stopped for some
groceries and then returned to their residence.

When arriving home, Balscomb noticed that
Jessie was dozing in the back seat, so he
suggested that Marian let Jessie continue to
relax in the car while she brought the groceries
inside and put them away. Balscomb went

upstairs to his room and Marian went back
outside, woke up Jessie and led him inside. A
little while later Balscomb asked Jessie to call

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the Great Schwartzi to come over and visit for a
while. Jessie couldn’t see the numbers on the

phone because of his recent dilation, so Marian
called the magician and invited him over. Jessie
confirmed this because he heard Marian using
the hall telephone, just outside of his room.

While they were waiting for Schwartzi to

arrive, Balscomb asked Marian to give him a
back rub. Marian then told Jessie that if
Schwartzi comes while the back rub is still in
progress, that Jessie should go downstairs and

open the door for him. Jessie agreed, and then
went back to his room, which was next door to
his uncle’s room.

A few minutes later the phone in Jessie’s

room rang. It was Marian. She asked him to
please get his hourglass and leave it on the
hallway table outside his uncle’s room. Jessie
had an old one in his room and used it
occasionally to time his game playing on the

computer. He was told that Schwartzi requested
that it be available when he arrived there.

Jessie thought the hourglass was on a

table near his door, but even with his still blurry

vision he was able to discover that it had been
moved during house cleaning and was now on
top of his dresser, on the other side of the room.
Per Marian’s request, Jessie put the hourglass

out on the hall table.

About ten minutes later the doorbell rang

and Jessie didn’t see or hear Marian going to
answer it, so also as requested, he went

downstairs and opened the front door. Even with
his blurry vision he could tell it was Schwartzi

Gene Grossman

because there was no mistaking his bushy head
of hair and full beard.

Jessie told Schwartzi that he should go

upstairs to Balscomb’s room. Schwartzi grunted
an acknowledgement and followed Jessie up the
stairs. As Jessie entered his room he saw
Schwartzi pick up the hourglass off of the hall

table and walk over to Balscomb’s room, at
which time he knocked several times on the door
before opening it and walking in.

As Balscomb’s door was closing, Jessie

heard Marian greet Schwartzi and apologize for
not coming down to meet him as he came in.

About fifteen or twenty minutes later,

Marian left Balscomb and Schwartzi in the room

together and went downstairs to prepare some
sandwiches and refreshments for them. On the
way, she passed by Jessie’s room and asked him
if he wanted anything from the kitchen. He
declined her offer.

Shortly thereafter, Marian returned from

the kitchen carrying a tray with the requested
refreshments. After knocking on Balscomb’s
door, she discovered that the doorknob lock was

set and she could not enter the room. She
knocked again, but there was no response. She
told Jessie about this and they were both very
concerned, so they used an emergency master

key and opened the door. To their surprise, they
found that the steel security door had slid down
behind it and was locked in place. This meant
that one of the room’s ‘panic’ buttons was

activated, so the suite’s three doors
automatically slid down and the security service
was immediately notified.

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The steel door to Balscomb’s safe-suite

has an approximate six-inch diameter round

ship-style porthole in it. It can be completely
closed from the inside with a steel shutter, but it
wasn’t, and through the translucent cover plate
both Marian and Jesse were able to make out
some shadows in the room. What they saw

chilled their blood, because it was the shadow of
Schwartzi slightly moving and holding a gun in
his hand. Then the doorbell rang and Marian
went downstairs to let the two security guards

in.

Marian and the security guys went back

upstairs and they all looked through the
portlight and saw the same shadowy figure

waving the handgun. They also pounded on the
door and shouted at the people inside, but it was
useless because of the safe-room’s
soundproofing.

Less than a minute later everything in the

room went dark. The regular police were called
and quickly responded, but they also couldn’t
break through the security door.

It was over an hour before the company

that installed the safe-room arrived with their
entry crew. While they were working with their
blowtorches, Myra was outside making her
statement to the press.

“That’s interesting Myra, but why haven’t I

seen these details in the newspapers or on
television? This seems like a really juicy story,
and one that you could probably get a lot of

miles out of. I know that Schwartzi was found
dead outside of his house later that afternoon,

Gene Grossman

so why the hell did you cut him loose and let
him go home?”

She doesn’t answer me. Something’s

wrong here.

“C’mon, hon. Tell me why you released

him.”

After another minute of silence she looks

up at me like a confused kid.

“When we finally broke through the door,

he wasn’t in there.”

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enjoy an occasional surprise, but this one

takes the cake. “What do you mean he wasn’t
in there? Marian called to invite him over,

Jessie went downstairs and let him in, and he
followed Jessie upstairs and then went into the

room. When he went in the room, Marian said
hello to him. Jessie’s room is only a few feet
down the hallway from Balscomb’s, and heard it
all. Balscomb didn’t have any windows in his

room that the magician could’ve used to escape.

“No one passed by Jessie’s room after

Marian went down to the kitchen. By this time
Jessie’s eyes had almost cleared up and he
surely would have noticed if the magician had

walked past his room… and even if Schwartzi
did manage to sneak past Jessie’s room he
would probably have bumped into Marian as she
was returning from the kitchen. I can’t believe

he wasn’t there. Did you search the room
thoroughly?”

“Peter, I had the best CSI crew in town

with me. They went over that room and the

entire house with a fine-tooth comb. There was
no sign of Schwartzi. Only Balscomb, with one
bullet in his chest. The gun was still there and it
had Schwartzi’s fingerprints on it, but there was
no Schwartzi.”

“Wait a minute, Miss District Attorney. If

that room was all locked up, how did Marian get
out when she went to the kitchen?”

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“It wasn’t locked when she left the room.

Either Schwartzi or Balscomb must have hit one

of the panic buttons after she exited. There are
three buttons like that located in the suite, and
it’s impossible for someone to push the button
and then escape because each button is about
ten feet from the nearest door, and those steel

slide-downs drop in less than one second after a
button is pushed. And another thing that
definitely places him in the suite when the gun
went off was all the witnesses seeing him

standing there holding the gun.”

“The suite? What do you mean the suite? I

thought it was just a safe room.”

“Not quite. It’s more than that. Money was

obviously no object with Balscomb, so when he
had the house built he specified that his
bedroom, private bathroom and adjoining den all
be one large safe-suite. That way, in the event
that it was necessary for him to be locked in

there for a period of time, he would have access
to sleeping quarters and plumbing. A small
refrigerator in the den contained emergency food
supplies. He even succeeded in getting a

variance from the building department to avoid
their window requirements. Our office has a
complete inventory of the items we found, along
with mucho pictures taken. If you want, you can

pull a Sherlock Holmes routine and solve this
thing for us.”

“Isn’t there at least one person on your

investigation staff that has a theory as to what

really happened, or will it be left up to us to
solve this case?”

Gene Grossman

“No one in our office can explain it Pete, so

that’s why we put out an APB for the magician. I

figured that when we caught up with him he’d
want to alibi himself out that room before the
victim got shot, so he would be encouraged to fill
in some blanks for us… but he got run over
instead, and now we’ll never know what

happened.

“As far as our office is concerned, this is a

closed case. Schwartzi did it and then escaped,
only to get hit by a car later that same

afternoon.

“We’re not giving out any more details

other than the fact that we had a suspect and
several independent eye witnesses to the crime.

The press has theorized that we arrested
Schwartzi at the scene, but being a professional
magician, he managed to get out of his
handcuffs and escaped from our custody and
hurried home, where he was then hit by a

motorist and killed. All we’ve been giving them is
the standard ‘we can’t comment during an open
investigation.’ We haven’t made any attempts to
rebut their theories, so as far as the press is

concerned they’ve got it all figured out – and if
the press and the public are both happy with it,
then so are we. Case closed.”

She’s had enough conversation with me

for today, and I think it’s a little tough for her to
display any deficiency of her investigation to an
ex-husband she never really respected that
much. As she starts to leave the boat I notice

two pairs of eyes peering out from behind the
slightly open foreward stateroom door. The
human ones look concerned, so I do a little

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performance for them. Maybe it’ll get me a few
points with the kid.

“How nice for you. One guy gets shot to

death, another gets run down and killed, and
your office closes the case because you can’t
figure it out. You guys just don’t care because
there’s no one to prosecute. What is probably

the most intriguing double homicide of the
century goes down on your turf and you aren’t
even looking into it. You disappoint me.”

Nothing. She steps off the boat with a

goodbye wave and tells me to take care of the kid
and that she’ll be calling her later this evening.
She then turns around and gives me some
advice.

“And by the way Peter, if I were you I’d

stay away from that maid for while. We don’t
want you tampering with a prosecution witness.”

“Tampering?”
“Well, I’d prefer using that word instead of

another right now.”

That does it. I now realize it is absolutely

impossible for me to do anything in Los Angeles
County without Suzi and the District Attorney

knowing about it. I no longer have any privacy.
Between Suzi and Myra, my life is an open book.
And I definitely don’t consider what I’ve been
planning on doing to Marian as ‘tampering.’

The most interesting thing I heard Myra

say was that Marian was a possible witness. Not
a suspect, but a witness. I guess the District
Attorney’s office doesn’t know that Balscomb

was worth a tenth of a billion dollars, because
with that much money involved, both Marian

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and the nephew would be more than just
witnesses.

When I turn around there is a small

audience waiting for me in the main saloon.
She’s got that serious look on her face, but as
usual, doesn’t say anything. I look down at her.

“What is it now? You think I shouldn’t

have talked to her like that?”

“What are you going to do about this case

Peter?”

“Why should I do anything about it? He

was your magic teacher. I never even met the
guy. You heard your friend Myra. You know as
much about this case as I do. If you want it
solved, then go solve it yourself. You’re the

genius around here.” The dynamic duo exits
without further comment.

As much as I hate to admit it, Myra is

right. I’d like to believe it’s a little bit of jealousy
on her part, but that would only be wishful

thinking. I know the kid is no fan of Marian for
one main reason: any woman I find myself
attracted to presents a threat to Suzi’s master
plan of getting Myra and I back together.

Whatever their reasons may be, I know that I’ll
have to cool it with Marian, so I call her to
express my condolences for the loss of her
employer. She reluctantly agrees with me about

holding off on getting together until this whole
mess is over.

Now I know why women call all of us men

dogs. It’s because in the back of my mind, I can’t

keep thinking about taking advantage of the fact
that her boss has been whacked and that now
she may need a place to sleep.

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Stuart is calling. Probably to tell me that

he found out about the law regarding sales tax
on carryout food.

“Hi Stu. Did you do your homework?”
“You bet I did Pete. I went to the Valley’s

Board of Equalization’s office and got all the

information I needed.”

“Let’s see, as a wild guess I’d say that

section 6359 covers it. Am I close?”

“Ha. You’re a clever one. I see that you

checked things out too. That’s a pretty compli-
cated section, and some of it depends on
whether or not eighty percent of the seller’s
gross receipts are from the sale of food

products… information that no outsider has
access to.”

“Stuart I’m going to give you some very

valuable advice now. It may be worth a lot of
money to you in the near future.”

“Okay, I’m listening. What’s the advice

Pete?”

“Move on.”
That’s it? Move on?”

“You got it pal. Don’t waste your time

obsessing over the minutia of whether or not
some restaurant is making an extra few
percentage points by skimming sales tax. From

what you’ve told me, the receipt they gave you
indicated an amount of sales tax was collected.
In order for that designation to appear on a cash
register printed receipt, it means that the

amount of tax collected is being accounted for,
and that means they’re probably paying it to the
state.

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“In the time you’ll spend trying to stir up

trouble and avoiding paying a dollar here and

there, you can probably start up a new business
and make enough money to buy one of the
restaurants you’re complaining about.”

Stuart grudgingly agrees and promises to

take my advice, but the thought of money raises

another question, so I write a quick note, shake
the dog-biscuit box and send a dog-mail to the
foreward stateroom. If I remember correctly, the
kid mentioned that she was considering a

business deal with the Great Schwartzi. He’s
dead now, and I’m wondering if she’s involved in
anything that needs cleaning up. She’s pretty
tight with her money, so I doubt if she let that

old man get any of it. Just to play safe, I might
as well do my duty as her legal guardian and at
least inquire if she needs any legal help.

My note to her is a simple question that

asks:

Did you give any money to the magician?

And if so, how much?

It takes a while before my answer comes

back. About ten minutes have passed and I hear
the large paws approaching. I remove the
message from his collar and look at it in

disbelief. It contains only two words:

Fifty thousand.

a-6

ow the hell did she get her little hands on

fifty grand? I know she does some
outside consulting work, but that’s a

pretty nice piece of change to stash on the side. I
check our online account status at the bank to

see if there’s been any withdrawal of funds from
her trust account, and there it is. A fifty
thousand dollar withdrawal was made just one
or two days after she started taking her magic

lessons.

I’m the trustee on that account and I’m

supposed to have knowledge of and approve any
substantial withdrawals. How could this have
happened? There are several million of her

dollars in accounts at that bank, so we get some
respect when we call there, and that’s exactly
what I’m doing now.

After being passed around from one

executive to another I finally get connected with
the head of their trust department and am told
that when the accounts were originally set up,
the paperwork indicated that the law firm was

the official trustee and that I was a managing
partner of the law firm. This means that she is
the other managing partner and has the same
access to the money that I do. It also means that
I’m just a figurehead and the kid knew it all the

time because she prepared the paperwork when
the accounts were opened.

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I can’t believe it. She’s always two steps

ahead of me. If Schwartz had been killed and I

hadn’t checked with the bank, I would have
never found out these details about the
accounts.

After thinking it over for a while, I cool

down. After all, it’s her money and she should

have the right to do whatever she wants with it,
barring some stupid expenditure that would only
be a complete waste. At this time I have no idea
what the business she invested in was, and for

all I know it might have even wound up being a
huge moneymaker.

The only thing to do now is try to get some

information out of the kid to see what the whole

story is and what we can do to get that money
back for her. This will require some very delicate
questioning and must be done by a professional.
I press a button on my speed-dial.

“What is it now Sherlock? I’m on my way

back to the office. Have you solved the mystery
already?”

“Suzi gave fifty large to the magician.”
“What?”

“You heard me. The kid gave fifty

thousand dollars to the Great Schwartzi, just
two days after they met at her friend’s birthday
party.”

“Why?”
“I have no idea.”
“Did you ask her?”
“Myra, I’m sure you realize that my

rapport with her isn’t what I’d like it to be. I’ve
never been able to deal with kids. They
intimidate me, especially this one. You

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mentioned that you were going to speak to her
this evening, so I thought that maybe you could

get some information out of her. She looks up to
you.”

“I can’t believe it. You are stooping lower

than I thought was possible. You want me to
exploit my friendship with her strictly for

investigative purposes… to mislead her into
thinking that a friendly conversation isn’t a
cross-examination. You are low.”

“Why not tell her that we’ll all go to dinner

this evening at Pollo Meshuga? We can meet you
there - and I’m buying.”

“See you at seven.”

During our marriage there were very few

things we both enjoyed doing at the same time,
but eating a Pollo Meshuga was one of them. Not
only is the food pretty good, but they also make
a dynamite Margarita and usually have at least

four large screen television sets tuned in to a
Spanish-language soccer game somewhere in
the world.

Not being bi-lingual, I never understand

the play-by-play. The only thing I know for sure
is when someone scores, because the announcer
goes crazy with one of his trademark shouts of
“gooooooaaaaall!”

Another message is sent to the foreward

stateroom telling her that the three of us are
going out for dinner tonight because Myra wants
to ask her for some advice about the Balscomb

murder, and our departure time will be at 18:45
hours. She knows what that means, because it’s
‘cop talk.’ I don’t expect any argument this time,

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because she really likes Myra and secretly wants
to get us back together again, so that she can be

adopted. I’ve never discussed it with her, but
Myra and I both get the feeling that she has
some master plan toward that end result. I try
not to think about it too much because I’m
afraid that as far as Myra’s concerned, it’s a

dead issue. She’s had enough of me to last her a
lifetime. The kid doesn’t know any better yet.

At 6:45 the two of are them waiting for me

on the boarding steps. She’s already put the

dog’s Doggles on him, so he knows he’s going for
a ride. Doggles are special aviator-style goggles
designed specifically to protect a dog’s eyes from
damage while riding in a vehicle with his head

sticking out in the wind.

When we get into my yellow Hummer the

dog automatically rides shotgun and sits up in
the front passenger seat with his huge head
sticking up and out of the open sunroof. The kid

sits in the back seat, where she feels free to
constantly issue driving directions to me. As we
drive down the street toward the restaurant we
get the usual looks from pedestrians and other

motorists, because with the Doggles on and his
large ears flapping in the wind, Bernie looks like
some World War I air ace. We’ve even nicknamed
him the Brown Baron. Whoever has a camera

handy always tries to get a shot as we pass by.

It’s ten minutes later and we’re

approaching the restaurant. The car-parking
guys have spotted us and all three of them are in

position and waiting. When we pull up, one
opens my door, another places a milk carton on
the ground to help Suzi negotiate the large step

Gene Grossman

down out of vehicle, and the third one opens the
dog’s door, removes the Doggles and leads him

to the rear service entrance of the restaurant,
where he will wait for us while he plays with the
restaurant owner’s cat. They’ve become friends
over the past year or so.

I have a suspicion that the cat is really

being used as a form of vermin control, but
that’s okay with me. But if I ever find out that
the cat’s no longer around, I won’t be ordering
any of their chicken dishes for a while.

We walk in the front door and see that

Myra is already sitting at our favorite semi-
circular booth, working on her first Margarita.
Now that the county provides her with a car and

driver, she doesn’t hesitate to imbibe socially.
Suzi slides in right next to her so that she’ll be
seated between us.

I really have to hand it to my ex-wife.

She’s sharp as a tack. I neglected to tell her that

Suzi thinks she was invited to help out with the
Balscomb case, but during the first twenty
minutes of the kid’s questioning her, I see that
she’s playing along perfectly. The kid asks some

questions that never occurred to me.

We’re almost finished with the main

course and the fifty thousand dollar subject
hasn’t yet been raised. I’m starting to wonder

how Myra’s going to gently slide it into the
conversation.

I get my answer when the flan is brought

out.

“Oh, by the way Suzi, while our investi-

gators were going through the personal papers of
your magician friend, we found some notations

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he made about owing you some money. Is there
anything to that? I mean, was he going to refund

you some of the money you were paying for
lessons or something? Ordinarily I wouldn’t ask,
but as you know, it is part of a murder investi-
gation, and knowing how you dislike being
subpoenaed, I thought that maybe you could tell

me what that money memo was about.”

Suzi thinks for a second and realizes her

inescapable position of being completely sur-
rounded by two adults who want to get some

information out of her. There’s no doing an
about-face and marching away this time. She
looks up at Myra.

“I suppose he already told you about the

money.”

“He may have mentioned it, but I’d really

like to hear it from you. His credibility isn’t that
great with me.”

Smart… she’s playing ‘nice cop.’ That

doesn’t leave a very desirable roll for me to play,
so I think I’ll just keep my mouth shut and let
Myra do the heavy lifting here.

“I invested fifty thousand dollars with the

late Mister Schwartz. It was to help him design
some special illusions for a couple of big-name
celebrity magicians that appear on television
and in Las Vegas. He showed me the contracts

he had with them guaranteeing that he would
receive almost two hundred thousand dollars
when the tricks were delivered. He explained the
illusions to me and how they worked, and I

thought it was doable, so I lent him the money.”

Nothing gets past Myra.

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“Suzi honey, at first you said you ‘invested’

the money, but then you said you ‘lent it to him.’

Those two words mean quite different things…
so which one was it?”

“Well, it was like kind of both. It was part

investment because I was going to get a per-
centage of the profits over and above the invest-

ment. But is was also like a loan, because I was
given some collateral to hold.”

Her mention of collateral comes as a

complete surprise, but also strengthens my

opinion about the kid’s business acumen. Myra
keeps a cool demeanor and continues with her
conversational interrogation.

“Oh, that’s nice. I always thought you

were a good little businessperson, but this really
shows how good you are. What type of collateral
did he give you?”

“I’m really not supposed to say. It was

given to me in confidence.”

“Suzi, when you take your courses at

Harvard Law School I think you’ll learn that
there’s no magician-student privilege”

The kid doesn’t take that remark very

kindly and she lets Myra know about it.

“I’m quite aware of the various privileges

one can assert, and I know that an official one
didn’t exist between Mister Schwartz and me,

but I promised him that I wouldn’t say anything,
so it’s a matter of honor with me, not a legal
privilege to rely on.”

She’s got a good point there and Myra

knows it. This isn’t a courtroom, it’s a
restaurant, so Myra may have been a little out of
line with her sarcastic remark about privileges.

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It’s also obvious that neither one of us is going
to get any more information about that collateral

out of her, so Myra wisely gives up on trying and
tries to change the subject.

“Okay, I can respect your promise to him,

but keep in mind that he’s still a likely
murderer. Now, have you solved our locked-

room mystery yet?”

I think I detect some trace of a smile on

Suzi’s face as she answers.

“I haven’t got it figured out yet, but I do

have some ideas. Can you let me look at the
scene of the crime? Is it still secure? I mean, has
anything been moved or changed since you were
up there last?”

This is also a surprise to both of us. Can it

be that the kid really has a theory about the
Balscomb murder case? Myra keeps her cool.

“Sure. I can arrange for you to go over

there tomorrow afternoon. Should I have

someone pick you up?”

“No, that won’t be necessary. My assistant

will be coming with, so we’ll go in his van. And
he would also like to see Mister Schwartz’ body.”

Myra looks at me with a questioning

expression on her face, but by my blank look
she can tell that I don’t know what the kid
means either. She did mention that her

assistant will be driving a van and the only
person we know that has one who might also be
interested in seeing a dead body is Victor
Gutierrez, from the well-known firm,

1800AUTOPSY. Myra agrees to letting the
assistant see Schwartz’ body as long as Suzi
stays in the morgue’s visitor waiting room. She

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may be a good little detective, but she’s still just
a kid, and the County’s autopsy room isn’t the

place for her, no matter how smart she is.

On our way out of the restaurant Myra

calls me aside while Suzi is fetching her beast.

“Did you take my advice?”
“About what?”

“About diddling that maid. Remember? I

warned you about that.”

“Oh yeah. Well, it may please you to know

that I’m still celibate. We’ve decided to wait until

you’ve solved the case before we get back
together again, so I guess my sex life will be on
hiatus for some time.”

“Sure it will, big boy, if you stay off that

houseboat too.”

I might as well trade my Grand Banks in

for a fishbowl.

Last night’s dinner conversation hasn’t

cleared much up for me. I still don’t know how
Balscomb got killed, or who did it, or if Schwartz’
death is connected to it. If there’s one thing that
crime solvers would rather not see, it’s a

coincidence – and both Balscomb and Schwartz
becoming dead on the same afternoon is a real
humdinger of one. I’ll have to think about that.
At least I was correct in suspecting who Suzi’s

van-driving assistant is, because Victor just
stepped onto the boat. After we chat for a few
minutes the kid and dog both let him know that
they’re ready to visit the crime scene.

Shortly after they leave the boat I sit down

to watch the afternoon news and learn of a new
development. The Balscomb family, which

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consists of his nephew Jessie, has retained the
services of an attorney named Morris Arthur,

who is reportedly a former law professor. They
will be bringing a civil action against the estate
of the Great Schwartzi for damages due to the
intentional causing of Mister Balscomb’s death.

That lawyer’s name sounds vaguely

familiar to me, but I can’t remember why. The
bringing of this action is really nothing out of the
ordinary, because every crime is also an
actionable tort. Victims don’t usually waste their

time and money bringing civil actions against
criminals, because most of them are
incarcerated and judgment proof. There are
some exceptions, one well-known one being the

civil action for wrongful death brought against
O.J. Simpson by one of the murder victims’
family.

In that particular case the defendant

Simpson was acquitted by a criminal court but

that didn’t stop the family, because in civil cases
a unanimous jury verdict isn’t required. The
‘beyond a reasonable doubt’ standard of proof
only exits in criminal trials. I think that both the

criminal and the civil juries in the O.J. Simpson
affair basically thought the same thing: ‘he
probably did it.’ ‘Probably’ isn’t good enough in a
criminal case, but is sufficient in a civil case.
Simpson won the criminal case and lost the civil

one.

If the Balscomb murder was ever brought

to trial the prosecution might not have been able
to prove that Schwartz was guilty beyond a

reasonable doubt because they never found him
at the scene. But with the testimony of four

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people, plus the fingerprints on the gun, a civil
jury would probably be convinced that it’s very

likely Schwartz was involved in Balscomb’s
death, and that’s enough for a civil jury to bring
in a judgment for the plaintiff.

I hope the kid doesn’t get sucked into this

controversy, because she doesn’t do very well

under subpoena. She either wants to run the
show herself or not go to court at all.

Victor brings the kid and dog back to the

boat, but as usual, no report is made to me
about any findings. I notice that she’s carrying a
magnifying glass, but that must be a prop to put
her in the ‘detective’ mode. I’m surprised she

isn’t wearing one of those double-ended
deerstalker caps like Holmes used to wear.

The Asian Boys deliver our dinner, but

tonight it’s not from the Chinese restaurant.
Instead, it was picked up at a local Italian

restaurant and includes my favorites: eggplant
parmigiana and antipasto with anchovies. They
even brought some spumoni for dessert.

After dinner the kid requests a meeting, at

which time she informs me that we have a new
client.

“Peter, I want you to represent Mister

Schwartz’s interests.”

“Are you talking about the late Mister

Schwartz?”

She nods affirmatively. This gives me a

chance to use the only Chinese word I know in a

sentence. “That’s sonchingping!”

I get a startled look out of her. Even the

dog looks at me in amazement that I know the

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Chinese word for ‘crazy.’ “Suzi, it’s tough enough
handling live clients. I can’t represent Schwartz.

He’s dead.”

“He’s still going to be put on trial. The

Balscomb family is suing his estate for wrongful
death.”

“So? What’s the problem? We don’t have

anything to do with that. And besides, who has
standing to retain our firm to represent the late
Mister Schwartz? We can’t just jump into a
lawsuit because he was your teacher. We need

someone to request our services.”

“Okay. I’m making the request.”
“How can you do that? You aren’t a

member of his family.”

“I do have standing, because I’m a

creditor. His estate owes me fifty thousand
dollars plus interest. If the Balscomb suit is
successful it’ll wipe out whatever assets that
Schwartz had and my creditor’s claim will be

defeated.”

She’s got a good point there. I look down

at the dog, hoping he understood my recent
lecture about the double job required in certain

cases. This is one of them, because in order to
defeat the Balscomb family claim against the
Schwartz estate, I’ll have to also conduct a
criminal defense case on Schwartz’ behalf. That

defense will have to create reasonable doubt in
the minds of the jury about him murdering
Balscomb.

There’s only one problem with this double

job. I have no idea how Schwartz got out of that
room. And if he didn’t do it, I’d better offer the
jury another suspect… someone who actually

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could have gotten into that secure room, shot
Balscomb and then got out.

No problem. I tell the kid the terms of my

representation.

“First of all, this can’t be a law firm

matter, because you’re a part of the firm. You’ll
have to retain me privately to represent your

interest as a creditor of the estate, and you’ll
have to pay me a fee to represent you. Secondly,
I haven’t the slightest idea of how to defend
Schwartz or who to point the finger of guilt at if

he didn’t do it. I’ll tell you what: here’s my
proposal… you figure out the secret of this
locked-room mystery and I’ll do the courtroom
work.”

She looks up at me. No comment is

forthcoming. After her about-face maneuver and
march toward the foreward stateroom, she
tosses her closing remark at me: “Deal.”

Great. I’ve got a new client and it’s

probably the most difficult client any lawyer ever
had. I also have no affirmative defense, no
witnesses, no facts, no theory and no argument.

Aside from that, the case is pretty solid. I hope
she doesn’t expect me to handle this on a
contingency, because as far as I can see it’s on
an express route to the dumper… and with the

publicity that a case like this will probably
attract, it’ll no doubt take my illustrious career
along with it. Myra’s going to love watching me
go down in flames with this one.

The way it looks now, the only way to get

Schwartz off of the hook is to put someone else

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on it. Let’s see… the usual things you look for
are motive, means and opportunity. In this case

it looks like no one in particular had any special
motive to see Balscomb dead. As for means, it
could be anyone able to get in and out of a
completely sealed off safe-room. Same goes for
opportunity. Hmmmn… welcome back to square

one, Peter.

I’m bothered by something the kid told

me. Why on earth would Balscomb’s nephew go
through the time and aggravation of suing

Schwartz’ estate for wrongful death? Sure, they
might get an award of a couple of hundred
thousand dollars if they’re successful, but when
you’ve already got a tenth of a billion bucks, why

waste your time and energy for chickenfeed like
a wrongful death suit? There’s probably some
other agenda I don’t know about yet, but I’m
sure it’s only a matter of time before it becomes
apparent.

I’ve worked on this case long enough

today, so it’s time for my afternoon break and a
look at what passes for news, locally.

After the usual items about last night’s car

chases, car-jackings and other ‘if-it-bleeds-it-
leads’ items, the blow-dried anchor people let us
know that they have a late-breaking exclusive.
Their crime reporter appears on the screen,

standing in front of the Marina del Rey Sheriff’s
office.

“We just obtained a copy of the police

report filed on the murder of Robert Balscomb,

and the witness statements it contains create a
mystery the likes of which this reporter has
never seen before. It seems that Mister

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Balscomb was killed while locked inside the very
expensive, safe, panic-room that he had

installed when his house was custom built for
him. At least four eyewitnesses, including two
private security officers, have signed affidavits to
the fact that they were able to look through a
small translucent window opening and see what

they believed to be another person waving a gun
at the victim.

“When the safe-room manufacturer’s entry

crew finally got the door open, the police found

only the victim. The person who shot him was
not in the room. Witness statements report that
the other person who reportedly was in the room
with the victim was none other than the well-

known magician the Great Schwartzi, who was
admitted to the victim’s home earlier that day
and spent time with him in the safe-room.
Schwartzi was found later in front of his own
residence, the victim of a fatal hit-and-run

accident caused by a vehicle that has yet to be
found, and the police are requesting the public’s
assistance in this matter. At this point in time,
there is no explanation as to how the magician

managed to escape from the Balscomb safe-
room.

“One of our sources at the downtown

courthouse informs us that the Balscomb estate

has filed a multi-million dollar legal action
against the estate of the Great Schwartzi, and
we’ve also learned that the Schwartzi estate will
be defended by Marina del Rey attorney Peter

Sharp, who represents a creditor of that estate.”

The reporter then turns it back over to the

studio, and the anchor people continue by filling

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the public in on the details of both deceased
gentlemen, where they were born, and whatever

non-interesting details they could dig up.

It had to happen sooner, or later because

juicy stuff like this never remains quiet too long
before being discovered. It’s a good thing that
Myra’s office kept its mouth shut and didn’t

make any comments before now. They probably
realized it would hit the fan pretty soon and they
didn’t want to have to defend anything they
might have previously said on camera.

I’ve just changed the message on our

answering machine to say that our law firm has
no statement to make. That should take care of
all the phone calls we’ll no doubt be getting from

reporters all over the country. If anyone wants to
get in touch with us they can do it by email. The
only calls we’ll be wanting to accept are from
people who know our private cell phone
numbers. The only good thing about this mess is

now that I’m officially on the case, I can add
Jack Bibber-man’s prior Balscomb investigation
fees onto the bill and the kid will pay for it out of
her proceeds from the estate… if there are any.

A dog-mail comes in reminding me that I

promised to fill in as a substitute lecturer at
B.L.’s Bar Review Seminar this evening.

Bart Levin is a former law professor of

mine who now conducts a review class for
unaccredited law school students who must take
and pass the First Year Law Students’

Examination, which has been nicknamed the
‘Baby Bar.’ Once having passed this exam, those
students will then be permitted to continue on

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with their studies and after graduation, take the
regular Bar exam. This test was instituted many

years ago to weed out the people who would
never have a chance to pass the Bar exam, and
save a lot of people years of studying in vain.

In the past I’ve done some lecturing at

Bart’s seminars and promised him that I’d be

available to fill in if one of his regulars was
unavailable. This evening I’ll be taking over for
another lawyer who is busy preparing for a big
trial, and Bart has assured me that no lecture

preparation will be necessary because I’m simply
to go over some past criminal law Bar exam
questions with the class.

The classes are being held in the evening

school section of a local high school, and the
students look exactly like the ones who attended
my unaccredited night law school over twenty
years ago. Their ages range from the twenties
through the seventies, and include everyone

from housewives to surgeons.

This evening’s selection of criminal law

questions includes several that are designed to
determine whether or not a student taking the

test has the ability to find all the possible crimes
that can be charged in a given factual situation.
This is a lot like some cartoon-like drawings on
the back of frosted cereal boxes that challenge

children to try and find all the hidden numbers
in the picture.

Strangely enough, the students who do

the worst on these criminal law questions are

the police officers. It seems that they have a
great difficulty in transitioning from the mindset
used on the street to the one required in the

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classroom. As many people have learned, quite
often the police will be reluctant to get involved

in minor disputes between domestic partners,
neighbors or landlords and tenants, suggesting
that “this looks like a civil matter between you
people… consult with a lawyer.”

That might be okay out there in real life,

but a Bar exam is nothing like reality. The
person answering the question can’t refer people
to a civil lawyer. Every possible issue involving
the criminal law must be discussed, whether it

would be important enough to warrant an arrest
or not.

We finish up with the questions, and as

usual there are always a couple of hangers-on

who have some questions or comments for me. I
really enjoy this interaction with the students,
because in some ways it takes me back to those
enjoyable nights when I was in their position.

All the students have gone now with the

exception of one dapper gentleman who
surprises me.

“Mister Sharp, I know this hasn’t anything

to do with our class this evening, but I happen

to be a professional magician, and I couldn’t
help but be interested in the matters
surrounding the death of the Great Schwartzi. I
saw on the news that you’re involved in that

case, and I want you to know that if there’s
anything I can do to help you out that you
shouldn’t hesitate to call me.”

He hands me his business card and I see

that it has the usual magician’s logo of a rabbit
coming out of a hat. His professional name is
Michael Brody.

Gene Grossman

“Thank you Mister Brody, but shouldn’t

your name end in an ‘i,’ and have a ‘great’

preceding it?”

“Well, maybe that was the way to go

twenty or thirty years ago, but it’s looked at as
being a little corny nowadays, so I just go with
my regular name.”

“Honesty is always refreshing to discover.

Did you know the late Mister Schwartz?”

“Never had the pleasure, but I’ve read

some of his books. I understand that at one time

he was quite the man in the world of magic.”

“What happened? Did he forget how to do

the tricks?”

“No, but professional bookers are looking

for someone with flash. Someone who can excite
an audience and keep their attention. Someone
who the people might want to believe is having
an affair with his beautiful long-legged assistant.
After performing professionally for over forty

years, I guess that Mister Schwartz decided to
stop trying to be flashy and just wanted to create
illusions for other guys. In a way, he really
became a magicians’ magician. From what I’ve

heard, he was very highly regarded by the whole
profession.”

This is nice to hear, but it’s been a long

day for me, so I might as well draw this

conversation to a close by finding out if Mister
Brody has the right stuff or not.

“Mister Brody, you’re a professional

magician. You’ve probably followed all the details

of this case and know about Schwartz visiting
that secure room and supposedly getting out of
it after the steel door slammed shut, so tell me.

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What’s your take on this whole thing? How did
Schwartz get out of that room?”

His answer is an interesting one, and

leads me to believe that he’ll do just fine when
he takes his regular Bar exam a few years from
now.

“Mister Sharp, Schwartz didn’t get out of

that room. Magicians don’t do the impossible,
they’re human beings, just like the rest of us.
Everything that we do is really quite simple… we
just try to make it look like we did something

impossible.

“From what I understand, your little girl

had been taking some magic lessons with
Schwartz, and I’m sure he explained that to her

while showing her the basics of some of our
standard tricks.

“If you want to solve this case I’d suggest

that you look for as simple an answer as
possible and leave the complicated theories to

others.”

His answer doesn’t help me very much,

but I know that he’s right, and Suzi probably
knows it too. I think that the locked room aspect

of this case is just a red herring to misdirect us
from what really took place. I’ve explained this in
previous lectures to the students while showing
them some Bar questions that tried to cloud the

issues by trying to create some sympathy for
someone desperately in need. The standard rule
in answering Bar questions is to ‘watch out for
widows and orphans.’ You must analyze each

question on its own merits, no matter how much
you’d like to see a sympathetic person win.

Gene Grossman

I’m going to have to practice what I preach

now, because this problem should be solved the

old fashion way. Any time there’s a high-profile
murder case it’s always a good idea to look for a
trail left by either love or money. In this case I
don’t think that love played much of a part, so I
might as well follow the money… who has it,

how much, and where it will now go. I call Jack
Bibberman and have him continue with his
investigation by widening it to include financial
information and who is supposed to inherit from

both dead guys. I already know about
Balscomb’s huge fortune, which will probably go
to his nephew, but I don’t really think there’s
much to look for in Schwartz’ estate.

Suzi managed to get a copy of the report

prepared by the LAPD’s Traffic Accident
Division, so she can start to look for the hit-and-
run driver that ran down her magic teacher. I
took a quick look at it and noticed that she

highlighted the part where it said there were no
recent skid marks found at the scene. This could
mean that the driver didn’t see Schwartz and
just plowed right into him… or that it was an

intentional rundown. The problem with the
latter murder scenario is that I can’t think of a
motive. There might be some nut out there that
might claim Schwartz stole a magic trick or

illusion from him, but other than private parties
and the children’s hospital, Schwartz hasn’t
performed publicly in so many years that the
revenge motive is unlikely.

There’s no use my visiting the crime scene

because that would do me about as much good
as lifting the hood of my car if the engine ever to

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unexpectedly died on me. I’ll never know why
people do that. I did it only once and all I

discovered was that the engine was still there.
I’d probably learn even less from the crime
scene. To me, crime scenes are a lot like a
football game: you can see it a lot better on
television than you can by going there. Suzi will

no doubt talk Myra into letting her see the D.A.’s
file on this case, and it’ll contain all the pictures
I need to see of that scene.

I’ve already driven over to Schwartz’

house, but I guess that seeing Balscomb’s place
would be in order, even though it would be an
act of futility. The exclusive Peninsula area is
only a few blocks away from our boat and it’s a

beautiful day so I think I’ll walk over there.
They’ve done a nice job of building a small
neighborhood of multi-million dollar three-story
homes here, but they have no back yards and
are only about two feet apart from each other. I

guess that’s the only way to economically do it
on such valuable land near the ocean.

Balscomb’s house is the last one on the

block and looks like it’s probably worth more

than the others, especially with the Canal and
Ocean views. On the way back to our boat I stop
on the corner at a lemonade stand operated by
two kids about the same size as Suzi. One of

them looks up at me with an announcement.

“If you’re a cop, there’s no free lemonade.

Cops have to pay full price too.”

I assure the kids that I’m not a cop and

leave a full dollar on their table, deciding to
forego asking for change. The lemonade is
refreshing, but a little too sweet for my taste. As

Gene Grossman

I leave with my drink, the stand’s proprietors
make sure to let me know where the trashcans

are in the direction that I’m walking.

The only other people I’d really like to talk

to now are the ones that built and installed
Balscomb’s safe-rooms, because I have a couple

of questions for them. I try to get my questions
answered over the phone, but am informed that
they absolutely refuse to give telephone
interviews. If I want any information about their

products I’m going to have to personally visit
their office in Mount Vernon, New York. This is
another added expense on a losing case. I send a
dog-mail to the kid’s stateroom letting her know

that maybe we should try to cut our losses now
and avoid spending another couple of thousand
for my trip and more investigation.

To my surprise, she pays me a personal

visit and makes an announcement.

“I’ll be glad to cover your expenses for the

trip to that safe-room company.”

“Boy, that’s a surprise. What’s the big deal

here? You can write off the loss, and even if we
win, there’ll probably be no money for you
because Schwartz died before he finished those
illusions. His estate can’t collect on the contract.

There will be no two hundred thousand dollars
coming in, and his funeral expenses and other
debts will probably eat up whatever assets he
has.”

You still have to win this case”
“Why? Just because you want to try and

get some of your money back?”

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“No. The money has nothing to do with it.”
“Okay, I give up. If it’s not the money, then

why is winning this case so important to you?”

“Because of Jessie Balscomb’s attorney,

Morris Arthur.”

“You know this guy?”
“Not personally, but he’s the one who

represented the drunk driver who killed my
mother in her car accident. He had the audacity
to sue mother claiming that the accident was
her fault.”

“Suzi, I’m not familiar with that case…

your stepfather handled it. I appreciate the fact
that you want to believe that your mother wasn’t
at fault, but since neither one of us was there, I

don’t know how…”

She cuts me off mid-sentence with her

closing tirade.

“Okay, you and Morris Arthur are both

right. The accident was my mother’s fault. While

she was going through a major intersection on a
green light, she intentionally caused her car to
suddenly move sideways and force her driver’s
side door into the front end of Morris Arthur’s

drunk client’s car while the automatic camera
photographed him speeding through the red
light and into my mother’s car.

“It was supposed to have been a slam-

dunk case for Mister Arthur. He was
representing some corporate executive who had
the bad luck of being involved in an accident
with a female Asian driver… and we all know

that they can’t drive. Maybe that’s why the
drunk’s insurance company forked over that
couple of million to make the case go away. I

Gene Grossman

didn’t like Morris Arthur then, and I don’t like
him now. That’s why we have to win.”

That answers another question. In many

cases a client’s actions are driven by the
attorney. This becomes evident in domestic
relations cases, where mean-spirited attorneys
turn what could be an amicable divorce

settlement into a battle for every last penny,
often using a child’s custody as a the final
bargaining chip.

In this case, Morris Arthur is involved,

and from what Suzi and some other lawyers I
know have said, he follows his own agenda and
drags the client along with him. It looks like
attorneys like Arthur spend their time searching

for the clients that will allow them to achieve
their own devious goals, and this time Arthur
found Jessie Balscomb.

The car service will be picking me up in

about an hour and my first-class round trip
ticket has just been delivered to the boat by our
local travel agent. This is in line with the new
rule I just created that provides for first-class

accommodations on any business flight that
requires being in the air more than two hours.

I could probably have gotten one of the

kid’s cop friends to talk the safe-room people

into answering my questions on the phone, but
that wouldn’t have satisfied the kid, and I
haven’t been back east in several years, so this
will give me a chance to visit an old friend who

lives in Buck’s County, Pennsylvania.

I never enjoyed flying very much, but by

using the air miles I’ve accumulated from recent

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air trips to Thailand and Hawaii, I was able to
use them to join the Red Carpet Club, an

exclusive service that many large airlines provide
for their travelers. These clubs offer luxurious
lounges where members can relax while waiting
for their flights, and enjoy the perks that include
sleeping lounges, complimentary beverages,

email internet connection and all-around
comfort.

Combined with the extra attention of first-

class air travel and the early boarding privilege,

this is definitely the way to fly. The more than
six hour flight will also give me some time to
catch up on my reading, and for this trip I’m
going through a collection of short stories about

locked-room mysteries and other impossible
crimes.

There’s no reason I should have to depend

on a young kid to solve my cases: I’ve been
around thirty years more than she has, and

should be just as capable of solving this mystery
as she is.

Being a first-class traveler, I rent a luxury

car for my drive to the Secure-Co offices.
Walking into their building I get the feeling I’m
in a bank vault. The walls look like they’re
metal, complete with rivets every foot or so. The

company president is expecting me and we sit
down in his office for our meeting. There are no
brochures around anywhere. If you’re interested
in one of their products, a security consultant

meets with you and goes over the architectural
plans of your home.

Gene Grossman

The first thing they want to make sure of

is the structural integrity of your residence,

because if you want to have your safe-room
anywhere above the first floor, the house’s
construction must be strong enough to support
the extra weight.

They make secure rooms of several

different levels, but if you only want to protect
yourself for brief amounts of time less than six
hours, then you get the kind that Balscomb
ordered. It is good for attacks from anything less

than heavy artillery and is soundproofed to
avoid noise harassment. Any time one of the
conveniently located panic buttons is activated,
the secure steel doors immediately fall down into

place and can only be re-opened from the inside.
If electric power has been cut off, a back-up
chain-operated winch can be used.

Emergency notification of the authorities

is automatically done by a dedicated cell-phone

that is connected to the steel bars outside the
house’s windows, sort of an ‘On-Star’ set-up like
many luxury cars have, but for houses. The bars
act as an antenna. This provides communication

even if the attackers cut the phone lines too.

One interesting thing that the rooms are

equipped with is a secret surveillance camera
that watches outside the room, so one inside

might know when a threat has ended. There’s
also a ‘black box’ that records events like date
and exact time of panic button activation,
temperatures inside and outside the room,

presence of toxic substances, and stuff like that.

In Balscomb’s case, the one-inch thick

round bulletproof translucent portlight in the

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door was to let people inside see if there were
flames outside the door.

My other question is about ventilation and

protection against toxic fumes being pumped
into the room. The executive declines to answer
that question, claiming it is one of the
company’s most closely guarded secrets, but he

assures me that it is safe to use and also
attached to an emergency battery-operated life
support system that automatically kicks in when
necessary.

He listens to my entire explanation of all

the details of the Balscomb case and is confused
as the rest of us. He has absolutely no idea of
how anyone could have been seen inside that

room and then escaped prior to the entry crew’s
opening of the door.

The most interesting thing I learn from my

visit with him is the fact that there was a
surveillance camera watching the hallway

outside the Balscomb’s safe-room. It is activated
only when one of the panic buttons is pressed,
but it still should show if anyone used the
hallway to get away after the room was sealed

off.

Using the executive’s information as to

where Balscomb’s camera, videotape recorder
and black box are hidden, I call Jack Bibberman

and arrange for him to get Myra’s permission to
visit the scene and remove those items,
promising to turn any new evidence we discover
over to her, if and when she make a formal case

filing against anyone.

If for no other reason, the information

about the camera and black box was worth the

Gene Grossman

trip. The visit with my old friend in Pennsylvania
was very nice, except for the interesting event

that happened while we were eating in a small
restaurant in Frenchtown New Jersey. In
between the soup and the main course, I heard
a loud siren in the distance. A little while later
the proprietor let us know that if we wanted to

get the rest of our food we would have to come to
the kitchen and pick it up ourselves. Our waiter
was a volunteer fireman and the siren we heard
wasn’t a fire engine… it was the firehouse

sending out a signal that all volunteers should
report immediately. This is the only eating
establishment I’ve ever been in where the most
desirable table in the place is the one closest to

the kitchen.

While driving my rented Cadillac back to

the airport, a call comes in on my cell phone. It’s
Jack Bibberman letting me know that he
retrieved the surveillance videotape and the

‘black box’ from the Balscomb house, and that
the footage was very interesting… not for what
was on it, but for what wasn’t on it. Jack says
he watched the tape for the entire six hours of

its running time after it was automatically
activated by a panic button being pressed. All he
saw was the hallway, the witnesses, and the
police and entry crew breaking in. Schwartzi was

not seen leaving.

a-7

’m getting quite familiar with ‘square one’

because I go back there to visit it so often. I
keep thinking about that video all the way

back to California… the whole six and a half
hours. Jack says that the only sign of anyone

leaving that safe-room was right at the
beginning of the tape when for the first second
or two the tape showed Marian’s back as she
walked down the hallway, away from Balscomb’s
room and out of camera view. This means that

the panic button must have been pressed just
after she left, and closed the regular door behind
her. I tell Jack to give the new items to the kid.
Let her do some of the work.

A panic button couldn’t have been pressed

before Marian left the room because the
executive told me that the camera and doors are
both activated at the same time the panic button

is pressed. Because the buttons are all many
feet from one of the doors, it’s impossible for
someone to press the button and then still get
out and almost ten feet down the hallway before
the doors slam shut.

Shortly after getting off of my return flight

at LAX in California, I look around and

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appreciate being back in the land of make
believe. From the moment my plane took off

from here a few days ago, all during my visits to
Mount Vernon New York and Buck’s County
Pennsylvania, I didn’t see one attractive girl. Not
one California sun-tanned blonde. I miss that
type of scenery, and you never appreciate it

more than when it’s not available. Even Laverne
will look pretty good tonight.

I can’t eat this greasy French toast any

more. I don’t know how anyone can. From now
on I’m going back to oatmeal, before my arteries
get completely clogged up. The houseboat rocks
a little, but this time it’s not a dog-mail. It’s Jack

Bibberman.

“Hello Mister Sharp. Suzi said this is

where I’d find you. She would have sent you a
message, but for some reason the dog didn’t
want to deliver it here.”

“Yeah, it must have been something he

ate. What’s up Jack?”

“Suzi’s says that the attorney representing

Jessie Balscomb sent over some written

interrogatories that you guys are supposed to
answer.

I thank Jack for the message and head

back to the boat to do some legal research and

preparation. When I call Myra to let her know
that Morris Arthur’s the guy who made an
unsuccessful attempt to blame that fatal car
accident on Suzi’s mother and is now making a

claim to defeat Suzi’s creditor rights, she
promises that unofficially I’ll get the full
cooperation of her office with my case. There’s

Gene Grossman

no sense asking her to try and look for a motive
in the Schwartz hit-and-run matter, because

anything hinting that Schwartz’ death was not
an accident would complicate her whole theory
about Schwartz being Balscomb’s shooter. I call
Jack B. back and tell him to start looking into
Schwartz’ affairs. There might be something

there we can use.

During this past week there have been a

steady stream of visitors to our boat. I recognize

some of them, but the others are all strangers. I
guess the kid is trying to keep up her end of the
bargain. She agreed to solve this locked room
mystery to give me something to work with, and

it looks she’s really trying.

Even without knowing who her investi-

gators are, I can tell by the checks being written
from our account that they’re all expert
witnesses in the area of construction and

engineering. There’s also an ‘optics’ expert and
some video technicians, as well as another
round-trip first-class air ticket to Mount Vernon
New York. She hasn’t mentioned anything to me

about my going back there, so maybe I guess
she’s planning on flying someone from Secure-
Co out here.

Our attorney service messenger has been

here several times to pick up paperwork, so
maybe I’ll be going to court soon. I certainly
hope she plans on giving me a full report,
because after being dead, sick, or broke, making

a fool out of myself in court is my least favorite
thing.

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I can’t take the suspense any more. I’m

going over to the Santa Monica courthouse to

take a look at the civil case file on the Balscomb
matter to see what’s going on. What I see in the
file amazes me. The kid has bootstrapped her
position as a creditor of the Schwartz estate to
claim standing in an action of malicious

prosecution, contending that the Balscomb
estate has no case to begin with and that their
wrongful death action is being done maliciously
and only with intent to profit financially from the

Schwartz estate.

She also contends that attorney Morris

Arthur should be charged with knowledge of the
malicious intent of his client, and that he should

be joined as a party defendant in the her action.
Demand is also made for a transcript of the trial
to be paid for by the court and forwarded to the
State Bar’s Disciplinary Board for disbarment
proceedings to be instituted against attorney

Morris Arthur. I hope she never decides to sue
me.

Her final demand is for huge punitive

damages against the Balscomb plaintiffs and

their attorney. The most amazing thing of all is
that she’s requesting all these things without
asking for a trial. She expects it all to be
awarded to her at a pre-trial motion for

Summary Judgment, the type of motion that’s
rarely granted. Of course everything is filed with
my name as attorney of record. Nice. She’s fired
every piece of ammu-nition known to the legal

community, and now she’s hiding behind me in
case anyone fires back.

Gene Grossman

I’m now heading back to the boat to

research everything I can about Summary

Judgments in the State of California, because
knowledge about that subject may make the
difference between my continuing as an attorney
in this state or being laughed out of court and
sued into bankruptcy. There’s an old saying:

when you shoot at a king, you can’t afford to
miss. With the papers the kid has already filed
with my name prominently appearing as
attorney of record, she’s taking one big shot. Not

necessarily at a king, but at a fiendishly devious
attorney. I hope she doesn’t miss.

In California, our Rule of Court number

342 sets forth the requirements for bringing this
type of motion. It also sets forth the documents
that must be used to support all contentions
made.

In essence, what it says to the judge is:

“Your Honor, the Plaintiffs don’t know what
they’re talking about. They have no case, so we
want you to throw it out now and declare us the
winner without even giving them a chance to

waste the court’s time with a trial.”

When put in those words, it’s easy to see

why the courts are reluctant to grant motions of
this sort. They don’t like to see a person lose

without having been given the chance to put up
a fight, so if we bring this motion, the burden of
proof is upon us to show the judge that we’re
right on point with every contention we make.

Once we take our best shot, the other side

then gets a chance to show how wrong we are,
and in this case I think they actually do have

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enough facts and law on their side to justify the
judge in denying our motion and setting the

matter for trial.

The big chance you take when bringing a

motion like this is that you must disclose
everything you’ve got, if you expect to have any
kind of a chance to win. On the other hand,

when your opponents put on their opposition to
your motion, you get a chance to see everything
that they have.

A motion like this operates like a mini-trial

in reverse. In a regular trial, the plaintiff puts on
its case and then the defendant put its case. In a
motion like this, the defendant gets to take the
first shot. The court expects to all the same

things you’d bring into a trial, so in effect, you’re
putting all your eggs into the basket.

I can’t remember ever seeing one of these

motions granted, but I suppose in the stratified
world of corporate litigation, some of them

succeed. For the rest of us it’s usually the actual
trial where the battle takes place, and if the kid
expects us to win a summary judgment, I hope
she’s ready to prove up the whole case…

including a solution to our locked-room mystery.

From all that I’ve read, there seems to be a

pattern with locked-room mysteries, and I think

I have a possible theory about this one. I call
Myra’s office to let her in on my brainstorm.

“What is it Peter? Has Suzi solved the case

yet?”

“You know, she’s not the only person on

this boat with a brain.”

“Oh yeah, I forgot about the dog.”

Gene Grossman

Her sarcasm doesn’t’ even slow me down.

“Thanks, but I think I might have an answer.

Have you considered suicide? Let’s face it.
There’s no way anyone could have gotten in or
out of that room once the steel doors slid down,
so what if Balscomb did himself in? Have you
done a psychological profile on him yet?”

“Nice try Petey, but you’d better leave the

heavy brainwork for Suzi.”

“Why? Tell me how you can rule suicide

out.”

“Okay, you asked for it. First of all, he was

shot in the back of the head. Second of all, there
were no powder burns, so even if he were a
contortionist, he couldn’t have shot himself from

several feet away. Thirdly, the gun was found
about ten feet away from him, and from the
blood spatter pattern, out CSI unit estimates he
was shot from that distance. Other than that,
your theory is right on track. Any more

questions?”

That was a let-down. Okay, so it wasn’t

suicide. There are other possibilities. I remember
seeing an old movie where after the locked-room

door was opened, it was the first person into the
room that actually killed the drugged victim by
secretly injecting him with a poison, while
pretending to use CPR, in an effort to revive him.

I don’t want to bother Myra again today

with another theory, so I’ll wait a day or so to
work out the details before calling her.

In the past Suzi has managed to finagle

her way into the courtroom on several
occasions… once as my investigator, and once

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as one of Myra’s subpoenaed witnesses for the
prosecution. This time she’ll have an absolute

right to sit at the counsel table with me because
she is the creditor plaintiff in her action to
collect from Schwartz’ estate. I hope she behaves
herself while sitting there, because I know she
has this strong urge to be a trial lawyer.

I think I’ve got a brilliant idea. This is a

civil matter with no crimes involved, so Myra’s
being the District Attorney presents no conflict
of interest if she sits at the counsel table with

us. Maybe I can convince her to come in as my
assistant legal guardian, to help comfort the kid
and explain things about the case to her. If we
can get a judge to believe that crap about the kid

being a naïve innocent child, then we have
chance. I’ll have to talk that over with Myra.
Sitting at the table between Myra and I should
keep her in line during the hearing. Now all we
have to do is convince her not to try and sneak

the dog into court. She’s done that before too,
and the press loved it.

Ordinarily, Myra doesn’t want anything to

do with a case that I’m working on, but this one

is all about her cute little friend Suzi, and our
opponent is attorney Morris Arthur, who Myra
would love to prosecute for something…
anything.

According to the papers already filed with

the court, the process has been set in motion.
There are several rules about who should be
notified and some definite time limits are

required for the making of notice and filing of
responses. From what I see in the file, it’s going
ahead right according to schedule, which means

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that the kid started it some time ago. As usual,
she obviously knows some stuff about this case

that I don’t. She better clue me in pretty soon,
because according to what I’m already starting
to see on the news, this may turn into a media
circus. It’s got all the right elements: murder,
mystery, rich people, a well-known magician, a

locked room and a cute little girl. Who could ask
for anything more?

The Motion for Summary Judgment

hearing date is rapidly approaching. I’ve seen
the witness list Suzi prepared for us, and it’s got
a lot of names I don’t recognize. Unlike a
criminal case where all witnesses are excluded

until called to testify, this courtroom will be
packed, and the witnesses will all be watching
the whole show. Our list indicates that almost a
half-dozen kids are included, so that means
their parents will be there too. With a witness

list this big and the press so interested, I
wouldn’t be surprised if this hearing is set for
the largest courtroom… the one where Court
TV’s cameras are usually allowed.

I don’t know why there are so many

uniformed cops on our witness list, but who am
I to ask? I’m only the attorney who’s supposed to
be in charge.

I don’t know how I did it, but somehow I

convinced Myra to join us at the counsel table.
The judge made sure to let us know that

because she’s the District Attorney, she can’t be
present for any other purpose than to baby-sit
with the kid. No questioning of witnesses or

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addressing the court on behalf of our case. Myra
agreed with the judge’s restrictions, and of

course the kid is happy out of her mind that
she’ll be going to court with the closest thing she
has to parents sitting with her at the counsel
table.

The hearing date is rapidly approaching

and I still haven’t the slightest idea of what I’m
going to say there. If the kid doesn’t come
through with something, I’m just going to have

to look up at the judge and in front of the court,
the cameras, Morris Arthur, and the press,
stand up and say “never mind.” I can’t take an
embarrass-sment like that, so I write out a

simple message and wait for the mail-dog, who
is temporarily busy with other important
business.

This is the day of the month when Suzi

stands on a milk-carton and uses her Flowbee-

type of device to give the dog a haircut and hose-
down/bath outside on the dock. After she
finishes with the dog, several of our dock
neighbors line up for a trim. Once the dog and

our neighbors are replete in their sartorial
splendor, I shake the biscuit box and put the
message in his collar. It’s a simple one that says
“if you don’t have something for me to win this

motion with, I’m calling off the hearing and
going to Maui for a week… on your dime.”

Mentioning money always gets her

attention, so in just a few minutes the panting

messenger brings me her answer: “I’m working
on it and waiting for results to come in.”

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That’s not good enough for me. I have to

try another theory with Myra.

“What is it Peter… another theory?”
“Don’t be so closed-minded. I’ll make it

quick. Did your coroner fix the time of death?
Because what if he was killed before the room
was locked? I’m sure you guys have learned

about the great deal of money involved in
Balscomb’s estate, and that’s gotta give you
some motivation to look at who’s going to get it
all.

“I hate to involve Marian, because she’s a

good friend, but all the information you have
about what happened before the independent
witnesses came to the house is from their

statements. There’s no outside corroboration, so
why couldn’t the two of them have been in on it
together, to kill Balscomb, say that Schwartz
was there, figure out some way to activate the
steel doors and leave the dead body in there

alone?”

The mere fact that she takes an extra few

seconds to answer gives me the feeling that I
might be on the right track.

“You know Peter, the thing that bothers

me here is that you might be on to something,
but for the fact that four independent witnesses
gave statements to the fact that they saw the

shadow of someone holding a gun pointed at the
victim. If you have some explanation for that,
then we might have something to talk about.

“And as for time of death, the best we can

do is narrow it down to the nearest hour or so,
and because we were in that room within two

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hours, all we know for sure is that he was dead
before we broke through the steel doors.

“So I guess it is possible that he was killed

before the doors slammed shut, but unless you
can tell me how someone killed him, pressed the
panic button, got out before those steel doors
came down, and then hypnotized the witnesses

into believing they saw someone with a gun,
then we’re back at square one.”

“So that’s it? You’ve ruled them both out?

What about motive? Did you see the victim’s

Will? He must have made one. Check with his
lawyer.”

“We did Peter. That’s why we ruled out the

maid. His will provided her with a salary of three

thousand dollars a month plus room and board
in his house for the rest of her life. Because
that’s exactly what she was getting while he was
alive, the only possible motive she could have
had for killing him was to save her from doing

an extra load of laundry each week. That might
have given me some motive while you and I were
married, but cooler minds in our office decided it
wasn’t enough for Marian, so she’s off the

suspect list.”

“Okay, I can live with that… she’s a nice

lady. What about the nephew? His uncle kicking
off like that leaves him hundreds of millions. Did

he have any gambling debts or other bad
habits?”

“Yeah, we looked into that too. He doesn’t

drink, doesn’t smoke, doesn’t gamble, and

doesn’t have any unsavory friends. His uncle
gave him whatever he wanted, whenever he
asked for it. We even had our own doctor

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examine him at the scene and his pupils were
still dilated from that trip to the eye doctor. He

couldn’t have hit the broad side of a barn if he
tried. He wasn’t the shooter.”

“He could have hired someone to come in

and do it for him”

“Oh, by the way Pete, his esteemed

attorney Morris Arthur insisted that we give him
a lie detector test and he passed with flying
colors. You can draw a line through his name
too.”

“What about the maid? Did she take a

poly too?”

“Mister Arthur doesn’t represent her, so he

had no standing to suggest that she take one

too. And without any apparent motive, we didn’t
suggest that she go through it. Face it Pete,
you’re just not like one of your idols… and I
think that Sherlock Holmes and Nero Wolf would
have problems with this one too, so don’t feel

bad.

“Personally, I think that if anyone can do

it, it’s Suzi. She was right in the middle, being
friendly with the Changs, who bought

Balscomb’s old house, and also taking those
magic lessons from the other victim. We still
haven’t figured that homicide out yet.

“The only person connected to everyone

involved in the case is Suzi, so maybe we should
give her a chance to show us if her magic
lessons can help out in the solving of this case.
She’s the closest thing to Eddie Poe that I’ve met

in a long time, so maybe she can pull an ‘Edgar’
and drag your case up and out of the dumper.”

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There’s no reason to burden Myra with the

solution that my friend Stuart came up with,

because he’s a little far out when it comes to
theorizing about criminal cases. In one of my
weaker moments I allowed him to present his
version of what took place in Balscomb’s house,
and the way Stuart has it figured out, a

mysterious stranger disguised as Schwartz was
admitted into the house by Jessie. When Marian
left the safe room to fetch some refreshments,
the stranger stepped out into the hallway, fired

into the room killing Balscomb, and then tossed
the weapon back into the room before the
sound-activated doors slammed shut.

Being outside the room already, it was

easy for the stranger to sneak out of a hallway
window and escape.

As for the shadowy figure of a person

holding a gun on the victim, Stuart says it might
have been possible for a hologram to have been

projected onto that translucent window. I think
he’s been watching too many sci-fi on television.

I have to admit that he covered all the

bases with his theory. It might have been

possible for someone outside the room to have
done it, but how would that mysterious stranger
have known to use the Schwartzi disguise to
show up at the exact date and time that the

magician was expected there?

Too many unanswered questions about

this solution, but I’ll file some parts of it away in
the back of my mind. Maybe they’ll come in

handy to help me with the real solution.

I once read a book in which a famous

fictional detective gave a lecture about locked-

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room mysteries and they all have one thing in
common: once the solution is revealed, everyone

is amazed at how simple it really was. I have a
hunch we’re all trying too hard on this case.

a-8

uzi’s done some really nice work in the
past, and I’m the first to admit that her

computer skills have won some cases for

us, but this time it’s her own money and my
reputation on the line, and I’m afraid she’s up
against a mystery that’s a little beyond her

capabilities.

It might be possible to come up with some

decent arguments on our behalf, but without a
complete solution as to how Balscomb was killed

and knowing ‘whodunnit,’ we really don’t stand
a chance to win this Motion. And if we can’t win
the Motion, we might as well fold our tent,
because a lost Motion will just mean an
inevitable defeat at trial.

I try to use a back door approach to get

some idea about what she’s working on, but
calls to Victor and Jack B. don’t get me
anywhere. They explain that this isn’t a law firm

matter because they were hired directly by Suzi.
This means that the result of their work is
privileged. I have to agree with them and respect
their professionalism. Damn. I feel helpless.

The hearing on our Summary Adjudication

Motion is set for next week. Ordinarily I’d be
busy preparing my argument, reviewing my
research, interviewing my witnesses, and doing

all the other things that lawyers usually do
before going to battle. This time I’m not doing
anything. There’s nothing for me to do. We have

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no witnesses that can testify to anything that I
think could help us, we have no evidence, and I

have no legal points to rely on. Maybe the best
thing for me to do is some psychological
preparation for my inevitable complete public
disgrace. The phone is ringing. It’s Myra calling.

“Hey partner, what can I do for you

today?”

“Don’t you dare call me partner. I have

nothing to do with your legal case. I’m only going
to be sitting at that counsel table with you as an

assistant babysitter. And the way this case
looks, I’m even considering sending in a
replacement for that.”

“You mean your thinking of bailing on

me?”

“Peter, you know I care for Suzi and want

the best for her, but let’s face it. I’m an elected
official and you’re my ex-husband. If I’m sitting
at that table with you when it hits the fan,

there’s no way I can avoid getting hit with some
of it. I made a promise to both you and Suzi that
I would be there, but right now I’m considering
asking her to release me from the promise.”

It’s nice to know who your friends are

when things get tough. I hope the kid realizes
that she can count on me. I’m not going to let
her know that Myra had thoughts of backing

out.

I hear paws approaching. It’s both of

them. She’s actually coming out here to talk to
me, so I end my conversation with Myra. She

realizes the importance of a personal appearance
by the kid and appreciates my wanting to get off
the phone.

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“Peter, I want you to know that I

appreciate your willingness to handle this case

for me. I don’t know if I’ll be able to hold up my
end of the bargain. You said you’d do all the
heavy lifting if I’d solve the mystery. I may be
close, but time is running out for us. Maybe the
information I’m waiting for will come in by

tomorrow. If not, I apologize.”

This is the first time I’ve ever seen a crack

in her confidence. No matter how smart she
might be, she’s still a kid, and her enthusiasm

in this case probably exceeded the reality of
what she could actually accomplish. I’m pretty
sure every parent experiences situations like
this, so why should my raising her be any

different? She honestly thought she could solve
the case and I took a chance on her overly
ambitious desire to win. The worst thing that
can happen tomorrow is that we lose. Sure, I’ll
look bad as a professional, but that’s part of the

law business. Every time a case goes to court
there’s got to be a winner and a loser. I hope the
public appreciates the fact that I stuck my neck
out for a kid that I care for.

From news items that have been

appearing, the public is aware that Suzi is the
driving force behind our case, and that she’s

been doing most of the investigative work. I
think it’s time to call in some favors we may
have coming, so while the kid works at her
computer I’m going over to the Chinese

restaurant for lunch today, and I intend to call
in some markers.

The Magician’s Legacy

The press has been following this case

closely and they know the kid is trying to solve

the Balscomb mystery. With Myra’s help Suzi
has gained free access to the crime scene and
goes there every day to look at another part of
the room, trying to answer questions she
thought up the night before, and today is no

different - and because the hearing is set for
tomorrow, she’ll probably be spending several
hours there this afternoon. If she’s getting close
to a solution, whoever the guilty party is must

make their move today, or it will be too late.

My big yellow Hummer stands out like a

sore thumb, so I told Jack Bibberman to go over
on Pico Boulevard and get a car at ‘rent-a-

wreck.’ He picked up a ’99 Mazda, and we’re now
about a block behind Suzi’s e-cart as she rides
down the sidewalks toward the Peninsula.

When she gets to the corner of where

Balscomb’s house is, she makes her usual stop

at the lemonade stand. After picking up two
lemonades and giving one to the dog, one of the
stand’s operators hands her a note. Suzi reads
the note and then looks down the street toward

where a dark van is parked. She then hands a
five-dollar-bill to the lemonade kid and leaving
her e-cart and the dog behind, walks over to the
van.

Approaching the van on the driver’s side,

Suzi doesn’t see that on the passenger side, the
large sliding door has opened and three guys
with ski masks have jumped out. They run

around the van, grab Suzi and toss her into the
van. As they start to pull away, more squad cars
then I’ve ever seen come out of nowhere and

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surround them. They must have been using
binoculars for surveillance, because the only

way they could’ve gotten there so fast is if they
started to roll as soon as the masked guys
jumped out of the van.

Jack B. takes her and the dog over to

Myra’s house for temporary safe keeping and to

give me some time to cool off after seeing her
pull off that stupid stunt. I thought she was
smarter than that. How could she have allowed
herself to get into that situation?

100

THE HEARING

ur usual procedure on days like this is to
have Jack B. drive the Hummer, and

today is no exception. He picked up Myra

at her office and is now waiting for me near the
Marina entrance. As we drive down the street
several reporters are following us. When Jack

drops us off in front of the courthouse the press
is waiting and they all seem to be shouting out
only one question: “Where’s Suzi?”

Myra ignores them completely. I make

some feeble excuse like “she’s not available this
morning.” The reporters don’t know how to
handle this. They seem to be afraid to ask
anything about her health, so they just back off
and inquire as to whether or not she’ll be

showing up later, to which my answer is “I hope
so.”

Using Myra’s status as the District

Attorney we access the private judge’s entrance
and hallway. When we walk into the courtroom
through the judge’s door, we see that the
courtroom is packed.

Motions like this do not allow a jury, so

the jury box is filled with reporters. I see that
Court TV has some lights set up in the rear of
the room, no doubt to be turned on just before

the judge comes out.

The first row of seats is filled with the

witnesses that Suzi has had subpoenaed, and I
see that included on this list are Michelle Chang,
her daughter Lotus, several kids that attended

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101

Lotus’ 11

birthday party, the responding

security officers, lead man from the safe-room

company’s entry crew, kids from the lemonade
stand, and several others that I don’t recall ever
seeing before. The rear row near the door is filled
with uniformed peace officers, many of whom I
remember seeing at one time or another at the

Chinese restaurant.

We’ve been successful in keeping the

attempted kidnapping of Suzi quiet, but I’m sure
that word of yesterday’s arrest has spread

through the police grapevine. Looking over at
opposing counsel’s table I see that Morris Arthur
is sitting there talking to both Jessie and
Marian. When he finally looks up towards me I

see a smug smirk of confidence on this face.

I’m not a violent person, and other than

the two fights I was involved in while serving in
the U.S. Army at Camp McCoy in Wisconsin, I’ve
never attacked anyone… and those two battles

were sanctioned, because I stupidly forgot the
Army’s first rule: “never volunteer for anything.”
After discovering that the physical fitness
program was actually a front to attract sparring

partners for the Army’s boxing team, I learned
that it’s not a good thing to hear only one bell in
any boxing match you’re in.

Looking at Morris Arthur, with his neatly

trimmed salt-and-pepper goatee and blue dress
shirt with the white collar, I can’t help but
feeling like going over there and pounding his
pomade-filled hair down into the counsel table.

He even has the guts to walk over to our table.
Myra refuses to look up at him. He notices that

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102

the seat between us where Suzi was to sit is now
empty.

“Good afternoon Mister Sharp, Ms. Scot. I

hope you won’t mind too much losing today. I’d
like to say it’s nothing personal, but that
wouldn’t be true now, would it?”

I just sit there pretending to look through

some papers I have. He continues.

“I see that your client isn’t here today. I

hope that won’t affect your case in any way. Will
you be asking for a continuance? I would

strongly advise against it.”

As he walks away from our table, Myra

whispers in my ear. “I want him killed. Can you
recommend anyone?”

Morris Arthur and I both notify the court

clerk that we’re ready to proceed and she buzzes
the judge, who then puts on his robe and buzzes
back to the clerk’s desk, letting both her and the

main bailiff know that the show is about to
begin. The bailiff steps to the front of the room,
stands in front of the bench and makes his
announcement. “Remain seated and come to

order. The Superior Court of the State of
California is now in session, Honorable Ronald
B. Axelrod presiding.” As he says the word
‘presiding,’ the private entrance door behind the

bench opens and the judge majestically enters
and steps up, taking his seat on the raised
judicial throne. He then picks up the file that
has been placed in front of him and calls the

case.

“Estate of Balscomb versus Estate of

Schwartz. This Motion for Summary Judgment

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103

is being brought by a creditor of the Defendant
Estate. Are both counsel ready to proceed?”

That’s our cue. We’re the moving party

here, so I stand, state my name and who I
represent for the record, and announce “ready to
proceed, Your Honor.” This is followed by Morris
Arthur doing the same on behalf of his client.

Seeing that Court TV’s lights are on, the

judge obviously feels he should make some sort
of announcement concerning the nature of
today’s hearing.

“Counsel, Parties, interested observers,

today’s hearing for Summary Judgment, now
called Summary Adjudication, is allowed by our
Rules for the purpose of weeding out meritless

or questionable claims before they get to trial.
Sometimes they are used as a threat to
encourage settlement, and I certainly hope that
isn’t the case here.”

I notice that the judge is glaring down at

me while he says that. He goes on.

“California has a policy of favoring trials

on their merits, so I want the Parties here to
realize that I agree with the State’s policy and

intend to be very critical of the moving Party.”

He now looks directly at me while making

his next statement. He wants me and the rest of
the world watching that I’m going to have a

tough time today.

“If you can’t convince me that there’s a

very good reason why this case shouldn’t go to
trial, then you’re going to lose this motion.

Under-stand?”

I acknowledge my understanding. He has

one last remark to make.

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104

“The Court takes notice of the fact that

sitting at the Moving Party’s counsel table is Ms.

Myra Scot, this County’s elected District
Attorney. While we are always pleased to have
her present in our courtroom, for the record I
would like to state that it has been stipulated
that her appearance here today is in no way

meant to be the County’s endorsement of the
Moving Party’s motion. She is only here today to
assist in the care of the Moving Party, who is a
young child. By the way Mister Sharp, where is

your client?”

“She’s been unavoidably detained Your

Honor, but as her legal guardian I am
empowered to go ahead in her absence and offer

her voluntary waiver of appearance at this time.”

The judge looks down at me over his

glasses and mutters a “very well.” I have a
suspicion that he may have been unofficially
informed of the kidnapping attempt by someone

in authority. He looks down at me once again.

“Okay Mister Sharp, it’s your turn. Please

put on your case.”

This is the moment I’ve been dreading. I

have no case. This is a situation similar to the
college student who has no idea what the
answer to his essay question should be but still
must start to write a few paragraphs, so he

merely restates the question while trying to
think of something else to fill up his answer
booklet with. I stand up and start, hoping that
what I say makes the slightest amount of sense.

“Your Honor, the Plaintiff’s entire claim is

based upon the assumption that the Defendant
Schwartz was responsible for the death of Mister

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105

Balscomb. We have attached copies of the
autopsy and investigation file from the scene of

this alleged crime. There is not one piece of
evidence that Mister Schwartz caused Mister
Balscomb’s death. The only way that Plaintiffs
can succeed is if they present the trier of fact
with a plausible way that Schwartz could have

escaped from a locked sealed security room. A
room that is bulletproof and soundproof, a room
with no windows, and a room with steel sliding
security doors firmly down and locked in place.

“We ask the Court to take Judicial Notice

of the fact that it took an entry crew over an
hour to cut through the steel security door, at
which time numerous sworn peace officers

entered and searched the room, failing to find
Mister Schwartz.

“It is merely a matter of logic, Your Honor.

If Mister Schwartz was not in that room when
Mister Balscomb perished, then he was not

responsible for Balscomb’s death.”

I sit down and wait to see what happens

next. The judge looks over to the other counsel
table. “Mister Arthur, would you care to

respond?”

Morris Arthur stands, buttons his suit

coat and starts his soliloquy.

“Your Honor, Mister Sharp is obviously

confused as to how the proceeding here
functions. If he would have paid more attention
to your very wise admonishment and
explanation before starting, perhaps he would

realize that we don’t have to prove anything here
today. The investigation record speaks for itself.
Mister Schwartz was admitted to the Balscomb

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106

residence. He entered Mister Balscomb’s secure
area and Mister Balscomb was shot to death. It

is not our responsibility at this hearing to solve
the mystery of how he escaped… that is the job
of the authorities in prosecuting Schwartz
criminally. Due to the unfortunate fact that
Mister Schwartz is also now deceased, there will

be no criminal prosecution of him and we don’t
feel that the responsibility of establishing an
escape route should fall upon us. We are not
defending his actions here, we are merely

seeking redress for them.”

The judge thinks about this for a little

while. I hear a lot of scribbling going on in the
room. The reporters are keeping quite busy. The

judge looks down at me.

“Mister Sharp, I agree with everything you

said… but I also agree with what Mister Arthur
said. It’s true that if this were a criminal trial
you’d have a pretty good chance of getting Mister

Schwartz acquitted by causing some reasonable
doubt, but this isn’t a criminal trial, it’s a civil
motion hearing, and Mister Arthur has made an
excellent point.

“I’m afraid that so far you haven’t

convinced me enough to shift the burden of
proof and rebuttal over to the other side. At this
point, I’m not feeling too good about the chances

of your success with this Motion. Did you pay
attention to what I said at the beginning of this
hearing?

“The only way I can hold in your favor is if

no dispute exists as to either the material facts
or the inferences to be drawn from disputed
facts. In this case, there seems to be a great big

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107

disputed fact in your way, and that is the
connection of Mister Schwartz to the death of

Mister Balscomb. I’m afraid that unless you can
go ahead and convince me that the facts are not
disputed, then I’m going to have to deny your
Motion.

“I see by your witness list that you have

subpoenaed well over a dozen witnesses to
testify today, so I expect you to start calling
them to the stand. It’s bad enough for you to
have taken up the court’s time with your weak

argument so far… I’d hate to find out that you’ve
also wasted the time of all these innocent
witnesses. Please go ahead with your case.”

Myra has been concentrating on her

footwear for the past twenty minutes. She
doesn’t even acknowledge my presence at the
counsel table. A glance over to the other side
reveals a terribly discouraging scene of attorney
Morris Arthur smiling broadly, ignoring the

seriousness of today’s hearing and joking with
his clients. He looks over toward me with one of
those ‘I’ve got you, you stupid idiot’ looks. If I
had a good hit man’s name to refer to Myra, I

might be tempted give it to her now.

I am now sitting here going through some

papers in my briefcase, trying to make it look
like as soon as the proper paperwork is located,

I’ll be continuing with the case. At the same time
I’m looking down toward the floor, hoping to see
a rip in the carpet that’s big enough for me to
drop down and crawl under. It’s probably not

there, because Myra’s been looking for it since
the hearing started, and if it was there, she’d
already be in it.

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108

The judge is starting to look impatient.

Morris Arthur is beaming broadly, basking in his

success. It’s all over. This is the moment that
every attorney dreads… our worst nightmare…
being in court, losing terribly and having
nothing to say. Please shoot me now.

Suddenly there’s a commotion in the back

of the courtroom. The doors are being held open
by two uniformed cops and in struts none other
than Suzi!

The press goes crazy. Some of them are

running out into the hall, frantically dialing their
cell phones. As Suzi walks to the front of the
courtroom I see that Morris Arthur’s expression
is drastically changing, like he doesn’t know how

to react to this new development. His face goes
from the pasted-on smile to terror, and then to
confusion. He finally regains his composure.
Suzi walks over to the other side’s counsel table
and glares at him. No one in the courtroom

knows what she’s doing over there, and that
includes Myra and me. We’re both sitting at our
table in a state of shock. The courtroom is now
completely silent and even the judge has been

swept up by what’s going on.

Suzi doesn’t say a word, she just lifts up

her arm, stands on her tiptoes, and slams down
something onto Morris Arthur’s counsel table,

directly in front of Marian the housekeeper.
Along with almost everyone else in the room, I
stand up to get a better view of what it is she’s
brought with her and see that it’s an hourglass

with a post-it note attached to it.

With all the conversations going on in the

courtroom that is still officially in session, I

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would expect the judge to be banging his gavel,
but he’s not. He’s just sitting there like the rest

of us, trying to figure out what’s going on.

In a few minutes the commotion subsides,

Suzi comes over to our table and hops up onto
the empty seat reserved for her, complete with
telephone directory for raised seating. Myra and

I both look at her with questioning expressions.
Out of the side of my eyes I notice that as Morris
Arthur whispers something to his clients, he
motions to the judge that he’ll be back in just a

minute, and he has started walking toward the
rear exit of the courtroom. At that point, two
uniformed police officers stop him from leaving
the courtroom and instead direct him back to

his seat at the counsel table. He does not look
like a happy camper.

The judge looks down toward our counsel

table.

“Well Mister Sharp, I’m glad to see that

your client is here. Miss Braunstein, welcome to
our court today.”

She gives him one of those innocent little

smiles as she nods in response. I don’t know

how she does it, but I swear she blushed a little.
Myra also knows this is one of the kid’s finest
performances, so we exchange knowing glances
because we see what the kid’s doing. By playing

the poor cute little frightened girl card, she’s
wrapping the entire courtroom around her
finger. This is usually a sign that something bad
is going to happen to someone soon… and I hope

it’s to people sitting at the other counsel table.

I look down at Suzi and the three of us

have a little huddle.

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110

“Suzi, are we ready to proceed? Did you

solve it? Because if you would have seen what’s

been going on here for the past hour, you’d
know that if you haven’t got anything, we’re
dead in the water.”

She looks up at me.
“Don’t worry Peter. They’re going to cave

any minute now.”

I can’t believe this. Just because she

walked over and put an hourglass on their table
she thinks they’re going to completely cave? No

way. I’ll bet anything that her confidence is a
little out of whack here. My thoughts are
interrupted by Morris Arthur as he stands up to
speak.”

“Your Honor, at the sole request of my

clients, we have decided to no longer oppose
Miss Braunstein’s Motion for Summary
Judgment. Also against my advice, my clients
are dropping all claims they have against the

estate of Sheldon Schwartz. This has been a
tremendously strenuous experience for them
and they want to put it behind them as soon as
possible, so they can get on with their lives.”

She did it. I don’t know how she did it, but

she did it. The reporters have a feeling that
something happened, but they don’t realize what
the kid has accomplished. Whatever her placing

of that hourglass on the table meant to them is
still a mystery to me, but it must have told them
that she solved it. And if she did solve it, she
also knows who killed Balscomb. The bailiff

walks up to the bench and hands the judge a
note.

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111

I feel a tug at my arm. The kid is pulling

me down and telling me that she wants to

testify. The judge is looking down at me and
waiting for my response to Morris Arthur’s
abandoning his defense.

“Mister Sharp, I take it that you have no

objection to Mister Arthur’s removal of his

objection to your motion. Is there anything you’d
like to say?”

I look up at him with a pleading

expression.

“Your Honor, if it pleases the Court, I’d

like to have a moment to discuss this new turn
of events with my client, to explain to her what
happened.”

Suzi glares and whispers angrily at me. “I

know what happened. I made it happen.”

“Yeah you made it happen all right, but

Myra and I had to sit here twisting in the wind
until you made your grand entrance, and that

wasn’t exactly fun for us. I’ve got to know what
our plan is now, and if making you look like a
dumb little kid is what it takes, then so be it.
Now let’s have it. What’s our next move?”

“You have to put me on the stand to

testify.”

“How can I do that? The other side just

caved. There’s nothing to testify about.”

“Yes there is Peter. The judge has

discretion to award us legal fees, and that can
be the excuse we use to call me to the witness
stand.”

“What’s the big deal about attorney fees?

You don’t have a problem with that. Let’s just
get out of here while the getting’s good. We’ve

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112

won. You’ve got to learn how to accept yes for an
answer.”

Her next remark catches Myra’s ear.
“You really want to let two killers walk out

of this courtroom?”

Myra can’t control herself any longer.
“Suzi honey, what do you mean by that?

Are there killers in this courtroom?”

It was bound to happen. The kid is giving

Myra the eye-roll, indicating that the District
Attorney, the top elected prosecutor of Los

Angeles County doesn’t get it either.”

“Why do you think I subpoenaed all these

witnesses? One of them killed Mister Schwartz
and another helped in the conspiracy. Marian

shot Mister Balscomb and Morris Arthur paid to
have me kidnapped. Now please, tell the judge
you want to call me to the witness stand.”

“It’ll never work. The judge won’t go along

with it.”

“Yes he will… he’s been informed what I’m

going to do and he joined the program.”

I now realize that it’s happened again. I’ve

lost control of this case, Myra, the District

Attorney of this County has no control, the judge
probably doesn’t know exactly what’s going on,
and the kid has completely taken over the case
and the courtroom. I might as well play this

thing out.

“Your Honor, if the court pleases, we

would like to call our client Suzi Braunstein to
the witness stand.”

114

THE SOLUTION

y request causes Morris Arthur to pop

out of his chair so fast that he looks like
some pilot ‘punching out’ of a jet plane

that’s about to crash.

“Your Honor, we see absolutely no need to

have this witness take the stand. The only
purpose it could serve is to determine respon-
sibility for legal fees, and my client has
instructed me to waive any objections to your

awarding such costs and fees to them. Now that
the matter of fees has been stipulated to, there
is no need for the witness to testify.”

We’ve got him on the run now. For the

first time, I notice that there is some visible

pers-piration on his forehead, and his client
doesn’t look too great either. It’s definitely a
high-stress time for the people across the room
from us. No sense letting them get off too easy,

so I take another shot.

“Your Honor, in certain instances the

court has seen fit to impose punitive sanctions
upon a Party, and we feel that this witness’

testimony might shed some light upon whether
or not that type of discretion should be exercised
in this case.”

Morris Arthur once again starts to argue.

The judge cuts him short.

“Mister Arthur, I tend to agree with you,

but this minor child has missed most of the
hearing today and I think she deserves to feel
like she’s had her day in court. There’s probably

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115

nothing she can say to create punitive damages
where they don’t exist, so just for the sake of

making a child feel better, I’d like to give her a
few minutes of this court’s time.”

The judge doesn’t realize it, but he just

signed a few death warrants. I’ve seen this kid
perform in court before, and once she gets

started, she doesn’t stop until she draws blood.
Following the judge’s lead, I call her to the
witness stand.

There are the usual oohs and aahs from

the spectators as this adorable little girl walks
up to the witness stand and waits there for a few
seconds while the bailiff puts a telephone
directory on the witness seat and then helps her

up onto it.

I have no idea what she wants to say, so

after she gets sworn in and the judge does his
usual routine of asking a child witness whether
or not they know the difference between telling

the truth and telling lies, I try to structure the
most general type of question possible. I want to
give her an opportunity to say whatever she
wants to say.

“Suzi, would you please tell the court in

your own words, exactly what you feel the judge
should know about this case?”

That should do it. She now has an

opening wide enough to drive a Mack truck
through. I now sit down and relax because my
job is over. I notice that Myra is reading a note
that the kid slipped her. As she reads, she

glances up, nods at the kid, and motions for a
couple of uniforms to meet her in the hall. I have
an idea that not everyone in the courtroom today

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116

will be sleeping in their own bed tonight. The kid
starts out with her typical phony remark,

designed to melt the judge and entire courtroom.
She looks up at him with those googly eyes and
a slight appreciate smile on her face.

“Thank you, Mister Judge.”
That did it. She now owns him and every

person in the room, especially the parents
present with their kids. The judge has a cat-
that-swallowed-the-canary look on his face, like
he just did his good deed for the day. The kid

continues.

“First of all, I’d like to let everyone know

that Mister Schwartz did not kill anyone. In fact,
he was also murdered by the same people that

killed Mister Balscomb.”

Pandemonium in the courtroom. The

judge is banging his gavel down so hard I’m
afraid it’s going to shatter like one of Sammy
Sosa’s bats, and become cork-filled shrapnel.

The reporters are going nuts and at the same
time three pairs of uniformed police come
forward from the rear of the courtroom and
arrest Marian and two of our male witnesses

seated in the first row.

As the arrestees are dragged out, loudly

protesting their complete lack of involvement in
any crime, the judge looks down at Suzi.

“Young lady, you’ve caused quite a stir

here today. I wonder if you’d care to enlighten us
all as to what this is all about.”

She sheepishly looks up at him.

“You mean here in court, with all these

people?”

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117

My God, what a ham! Not only did she

take the whole place over, she’s maneuvered the

judge into giving her the opportunity she’s
always wanted… to be a television star on Court
TV. The judge nods, signaling her to continue.

“First of all, Mister Schwartz was never in

the Balscomb house on the day of the murders.

Everyone was supposed to think that Marian the
housekeeper called to invite him over, but she
didn’t. She made a phone call, but it wasn’t to
Mister Schwartz. The phone call was actually

made to one of her accomplices… the one who
was parked down the street from Mister
Schwartz’ house, ready to run him down later
that afternoon as he was leaving his house for

an appointment Marian had made for him
earlier that week.”

Morris Arthur butts in. There’s a witness

on the stand, so he feels he’s got a right to
interrupt her with questions. That’s probably

exactly what she wants.

“Wait a minute, miss. How do you know

about phone calls made? We have sworn witness
statements that she made that call. It was

overheard by my client Jessie Balscomb and
appears in his police statement.”

Suzi’s not going to give him an inch. She

immediately responds.

“He may have heard a call being made,

but he had no way of knowing what number was
dialed. The police ‘dumped’ the phone records of
the housekeeper and the residence phone and

see that at the time she allegedly made that call
to Mister Schwartz, she was really calling a cell
phone that belongs to one of the people that

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118

District Attorney Myra just had arrested. The car
he used to hit Mister Schwartz is parked outside

in the courthouse parking lot and the traffic
division investigators have just verified that it
was the car involved in the fatal accident.”

Morris Arthur has just discovered that it’s

not a good idea to question her. He sits down

and wipes some perspiration off of his forehead.
Suzi continues.

“One of the other people arrested here

today was another co-conspirator. He placed a

time delay device in the panic button of Mister
Balscomb’s safe-room during what was
supposed to have been a routine electrical
service call to increase the house’s wiring to

accommodate more internet devices. The
purpose of the delay device was to give someone
inside the safe-room an extra ten seconds before
the security doors slammed down and activated
the surveillance camera.”

Morris Arthur hasn’t learned his lesson

yet. Once again he stands up and makes a
‘relevancy’ objection.

I counter his objection on the ground that

we will make an offer of proof, meaning that if
her subsequent testimony doesn’t prove to be
relevant, it can be completely stricken from the
record. The judge overrules Arthur’s relevancy

objection and signals Suzi to continue.

“With the help of the electrical delay

device, the housekeeper was able to press the
panic button, exit the room and get out of range

of the automatic security cameras before the
steel doors slid down and locked in place. The
police never thought to inspect the panic

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119

buttons, so she had the next few days to have
her electrician remove the delay device.”

I can’t resist the temptation. If it wasn’t for

the fact that Myra promised the judge that she
wouldn’t do any talking, she would probably be
grilling Suzi now like a piece of toast. I have to
ask a couple of questions, if for no other reason

than my own curiosity. I also enjoy the positions
we now occupy. For once she has to answer me,
and can’t just do an about-face and head for the
foreward stateroom.

“Suzi, if Marian was able to leave the

room, how did Mister Schwartz get out later?”

“Oh, that’s easy. Mister Schwartz was

never in the room. That’s why the police didn’t

find him after they finally broke into the room.”

She may have answered one question, but

it only leads to more, in my mind.

“If Mister Schwartz was never in the room,

who killed Mister Balscomb? And who was it

that followed Jessie up the stairs to the safe-
room? And what happened to whoever it was
that went into the room?”

“Oh that’s easy. When they first got home

after Jessie’s eye doctor appointment, Jessie was
in the car napping for a few minutes while
Marian carried the groceries in. At that time, she
followed Mister Balscomb into his room and shot

him. She had to do it then, because with the
steel doors up, Jessie would have heard the shot
if he was in the house. She then closed the
normal wood door to Mister Balscomb’s room

and went downstairs to fetch Jessie. Her whole
plan was to have everything go down on the day
of Jessie’s annual eye doctor appointment.

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120

“A little while later she made it look like

Mister Balscomb wanted to call Mister Schwartz

to invite him over. Marian knew that Jessie’s
eyes were still dilated from his doctor’s
appointment, so she made the call to her co-
conspirator from the hall outside Jessie’s room,
letting him listen in and believe that Mister

Schwartz would be there in a little while.

“Then Marian went back into Mister

Balscomb’s room and put on her Great
Schwartzi disguise. She then called Jessie and

asked him to put his hourglass on the hall table.
Ordinarily the hourglass was on his dresser, but
Marian purposely moved it when cleaning that
morning, so that Jessie would have to go to the

other side of his room to get it.

“When Jessie was turned around getting

the hourglass, Marian slipped past his room,
went downstairs and stepped outside the front
door. She then rang the doorbell. Jessie had

been instructed to go downstairs and let Mister
Schwartz in, so still with dilated eyes, he opened
the front door and thought he was letting Mister
Schwartz in.

“The disguised Marian then followed

Jessie up the stairs. When Jessie went into his
room, Marian picked the hourglass up off the
hall table, went into Mister Balscomb’s room and

in her own voice pretended to be welcoming
Mister Schwartz. That’s what Jessie heard from
his room.

“Now that the scene was set, Marian got

out of her Great Schwartzi costume, pressed the
panic button and then exited the room, knowing
she would have an extra few seconds to get out

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121

of camera range. She even stopped by Jessie’s
room to ask if he wanted any refreshments.

“That’s how Mister Balscomb got killed

and how his alleged escape from the room was
pulled off.”

I hate to do this, but a question is in order

here, and if the kid doesn’t have the right

answer her whole solution is in the dumper.

“One question Miss Braunstein. We know

that the room was wired for sound, so that a
gunshot would have activated the panic

response. If the housekeeper shot Mister
Balscomb, why weren’t the doors closed at that
time?”

Suzi glares down at me with the closest

thing to a look of respect I’ve ever seen on her
face. I think she realizes that I’ve just hit a weak
spot in her theory. She takes a second before
starting her answer.

“That was a big problem, but I finally

figured it out. There had to be some tolerance
level to the sound detector, so I had my
investigators check the factory specifications
and learned that a gun fired through a large

pillow would be muffled enough to be beneath
the level required to activate the panic devices. I
knew that it would have to at least be a noise
louder than a door being slammed, so we made

some tests.

“Not being in a hurry because Jessie was

still outside sleeping in the car, she had plenty
of time to get rid of the punctured pillow.”

You could hear the proverbial pin drop in

the courtroom. Even Morris Arthur is spellbound
by her story. This time it’s the judge who can’t

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122

resist butting in with a question… and we now
see that she’s got him completely wrapped up

too, because he refers to her on a first name
basis.

“Suzi, I understand everything you said up

to this point, but I still don’t know how it was
possible for the witnesses to have seen the

shadow of who they thought was Mister
Schwartz holding that gun on Mister Balscomb.
Could you explain that for me please?”

Great question, and one that I was waiting

to hear. Myra was too, because that and the
other details the kid might now reveal will be the
basis for her criminal prosecutions. The kid
doesn’t disappoint us.

“Oh yes, the shadow. Before the panic

button was pressed, Marian stood up on a chair
and opened up the portlight on the steel security
door. This was done so that after the door slid
down, people outside the room would be able to

see the shadow inside the room.

“She then turned on Mister Balscomb’s

reading light and placed the hourglass in front of
it. With the sand up in the top half of the glass,

the reading light shone through the clear bottom
half of the hourglass and made it act like a lens,
throwing an image on the opposite wall. The
regular reading light bulb was replaced with a

special flickering bulb, so that the shadow would
appear to be less than stationary.

“The shadow effect was accomplished by

Marian painting a small outline onto the side of

the clear hourglass bottom-half. She was very
capable of this because she was an instructor in
porcelain painting, and she had plenty of time to

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123

experiment with the proper proportions
required.

“The witnesses were all able to see the

shadow only until the sand came down into the
bottom half of the hourglass, and then
everything went dark. She rigged a small
platform that the reading lamp was precariously

perched on by propping it up with a piece of ice,
knowing that after a certain period of time it
would melt and the reading lamp would fall to
the floor, breaking her special flicker bulb.

“No one noticed the tiny shadow figure

painted on the hourglass, because when
everyone went into the room, the painting was
on the part of the glass that filled with sand, and

the paint was the same color as the dark sand.
In case anyone noticed, she even added a few
other small painted figures, so that it would look
like a design. By the time that the police got into
the room, the melted ice’s water spot had

already dried.

“After the police were through with the

crime scene, Marian removed the hourglass and
no one noticed it was missing, but I didn’t see it

there when I visited the scene several days later
– and it did appear in the police crime-scene
photos, so I knew someone had taken it.”

Wow. I’ve read a lot of locked-room

mysteries, but this kid outdoes them all.

Before leaving the courtroom I address the

judge and request that he modify his ruling so
that all we are granted is Partial Summary

Adjudication, which rules on the main issue
point of dismissal, but leaves the issue of
monetary damages for a future hearing. This will

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124

give us an opportunity to gather up all of our
receipts and go for the maximum amount of

reimbursement, including a reasonable hourly
rate for the successful lawyer. The kid is
especially pleased to hear that, because it means
the other side will be stuck for my fee and all
costs of the investigation, and if I know the way

her brain works, we’ll soon be filing an action
against Morris Arthur and his client for the
intentional tort of filing an unjustified lawsuit
against our client.

Later that evening at dinner Myra has a

few additional questions about motive and other
loose ends she’s going to have to tie up in order

to get convictions. While sitting there in the
restaurant we see Suzi’s performance on Court
TV being re-run on the evening news. Tonight it
upstaged the Spanish TV soccer broadcast.

Many of the reporters follow us to the

restaurant after court. They just want to sit
around and listen to Suzi talk more about the
case. I make sure to let them know that our
dinner check is to be covered by their expense

accounts. There are no objections, so I order the
most expensive fish dinner on the menu.
Chicken is out, because I don’t see the owner’s
cat around anywhere.

I’m especially curious to know what Suzi

knew and when she knew it, because I want to
know whether or not to be mad at her for
keeping me in suspense. From what she tells us,

she knew that Schwartz never went to
Balscomb’s house because he didn’t have a car
and the lemonade stand boys on the corner near

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Balscomb’s house didn’t see any cab drive down
the street past them.

Michelle Chang was Suzi’s porcelain-

painting expert, and they succeeded in dupli-
cating the shadow effort using hourglasses
purchased locally that resembled the one in the
crime-scene photos. The real hourglass wasn’t

found until later, when the police executed a
search warrant for the rest of the house and
discovered it hidden in Marian’s room. It was
really stupid of her to keep it, but once she

painted that design on it, it became part of her
art collection. After the case is included it will be
a proud trophy in Michelle’s collection.

Having been released from their vows of

privilege, Victor and Jack chime in with what
they discovered. Victor saw Schwartz’ body when
he visited the morgue with Suzi, and made a
GSR test of Schwartz’ hands to see if there was
any gun shot residue. He got a negative result.

There wasn’t any. This meant that Schwartz did
not fire the murder weapon. His prints were on it
because as part of her plan, Marian made sure
that he held it during a prior visit to the house.

She made sure to use gloves when she fired it.

Jack had DNA tests performed and

discovered that Jessie was not Balscomb’s
orphaned nephew… he was his son. And the

mother was Marian, who Balscomb had an affair
with many years ago. This started to highlight
the motive portion of Myra’s case. Jack also
found out that Mister Balscomb had been so

interested in magic over the past few years that
he was considering changing his will and leaving
everything he had to the American Museum of

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126

Magic – probably a recent idea he got from
Schwartz, who mentioned that he intends to do

the same. Marian overheard this while
eavesdropping on Balscomb’s conversations. She
knew she had to do something to avoid this
change, so she made plans with one of her
porcelain-painting students who had confided in

her that he started with that hobby while serving
time in the penitentiary.

Through contacts with her ex-con student,

she was able to retain the services of the hit-

and-run driver that killed Schwartz, and the
burglar alarm crook to install the panic button’s
delay device.

There are still a few questions remaining

in my mind, but most of them can wait. “Suzi,
why did it take you so long to put it together?
From what you said, it looks like you had most
of it from the start.”

“I had to wait for the DNA results to come

back. Motive was a weak point of the case. It
also took a lot of time for Jack to track down
every incoming and outgoing call from the
Balscomb house and find out who the players

were.”

“Yes, but if you had the mystery solved,

why didn’t you let me know?”

“I had only part of it solved. Without the

DNA results, Marian wouldn’t have had a
motive, and without a motive there was no one
else to pin Balscomb’s murder on. We also had
to spend some time with the broken glass from

that flicker bulb, and through her credit card
receipts track down the hardware store where

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127

she bought it. If it didn’t all come together, then
we wouldn’t have had anything, so I had to wait”

Myra still hasn’t told me anything about

the prosecution of those guys who grabbed Suzi,
but I’m sure that’ll come out later. I have a
feeling that Morris Arthur was involved.

The dinner celebration is fun. We watch

Suzi on television and eat ourselves into a coma,
all paid for by the reporters. They’re a little
surprised when they find out that our dinner tab
is also for the food all of our guests had ordered,

including Michelle Chang, Lotus, the lemonade
stand kids and their parents, the entry crew,
about seven cops, Jack B. and Stuart, who met
us there and can eat like four people.

On the way back to our boat I can’t help

but let Suzi know how much of a risk we took by
trying to defend Schwartz.

“You know, in the future, we should have

more than just faith to go on before deciding to

take on a complicated case. You honestly
believed that your magic teacher didn’t kill
Balscomb, but as a result of just that hunch, we
risked a lot of time, a substantial amount of

money, and our reputations, all in the hope that
he really wasn’t involved in that murder.”

She sits silently for a minute. I glance

back at her in the rear view mirror and it looks

like she’s finally getting ready to let me in on
something.

“You’re right Peter, but I knew for a fact

that he didn’t do it.”

“And when, pray tell, did that divine

information come to you?”

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128

“I was talking to Mister Schwartz on the

telephone for almost an hour that day, at the

exact time the murder was supposed to have
taken place.”

This is a shocker. It means she knew right

from the beginning, but didn’t tell me.

“You mean you knew all the time? Why

didn’t you say something to me? Why did you let
me go on throughout the entire case not
knowing that? What were you thinking?”

“Oh Peter, relax. It wouldn’t have done any

good. The only thing you would have then would
be my word for it, and that wouldn’t have helped
any because I was not an independent witness.
If I was to testify under oath about the phone

call during the murder timeline, that might have
been good enough to create reasonable doubt in
the mind of at least one juror in a criminal trial,
but we were going into civil court, and I didn’t
think that being a party to the action I could

convince most of the jurors… I needed more.

“Stuart helped out a little too. He was on

some stupid quest to find out about what goods
and services he could get without paying sales

tax, so I suggested he check out taxicab fares
and directed him to whatever cab company
Balscomb used to bring Mister Schwartz back
and forth for the lessons. My lemonade friends

told me that it was a green cab used every time,
so we knew where to start.

“Stuart found the driver Balscomb always

insisted on, and he verified the fact that Mister

Schwartz didn’t visit Balscomb’s house that day
too. That’s why I had to wait until I had all my
evidence together and had the solution. It wasn’t

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129

just your reputation on the line you know, I have
to maintain my credibility as a solver of

complicated cases, especially when the press is
so interested.”

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130

EPILOGUE

t looks like that law student magician was

right after all. It was a simple solution and
the case is now over. We totaled up all of our

expenses, including my generous fee, and the
court awarded it all to Suzi. She also got her fifty

thousand dollars back from Schwartz’ estate, got
a little revenge by beating Morris Arthur, and
her precious reputation as a child genius and
courtroom Presario remains intact. She’s

pleased now.

But I’m not happy yet. I still have a couple

of questions that remain unanswered. One of
them is why a kid with her brains was stupid
enough to believe that note the lemonade stand

kid gave her, and walk over to that van. She
didn’t know I had the cops tailing her. That was
a dumb and dangerous mistake to make,
especially since she knew that Morris Arthur

was our opponent, and how devious he can be.

My answer to that question comes out of

nowhere when I hear a knock on our hull.
Looking outside I see that it’s Don Paige, our

Internet guru and dock neighbor.

“Hi Don, what can I do for you?”
“Hello Peter. I was wondering if it was

convenient for me to work on your Hummer for a

while this afternoon.”

“Sure Don. What would you like to do to

it?”

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131

He holds up a small device that’s about

the size of a deck of cards.

“I’d like to re-install your LoJack.”
My LoJack? What is he talking about? I

had that anti-theft device installed when I
bought the car. If the car is stolen, the police
computers send out a silent radio signal that

activates the device’s transmitter, which then
sends out a signal that the police can then track
to locate the car.

“Don, if it’s the LoJack from my car, how

come you happen to have it in your hand now?”

“Oh, I thought you knew about it. Suzi

had me remove it when you started with that
last case of yours… the one she solved. She

wanted to keep it with her whenever she left the
boat. If I didn’t get a cell phone call from her
every hour while she was gone, I was supposed
to call the police and have them activate the
unit. I guess she was worried that something

would happen to her. You know how silly kids
are some time.”

Well, that answers another big question.

The only remaining ones now are about the

prosecution of those goons who grabbed her on
the street and the collateral she was holding,
because to the best of my knowledge it hasn’t
been returned to the estate yet.

I think Myra’s in a better position to

answer the prosecution question, so I call her
office and get an answer that surprises me.
From what she says, her office had to release the

guys because Suzi refused to press charges.

“What? Refused to press charges? How

can that be? You don’t need her to press

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132

charges. Several teams of uniformed cops
witnessed the whole thing. You’ve got their

testimony… that should be good enough for
you.”

“You’re right, but Suzi told us that if we

try to bring them to court, she’ll testify that it
was all a game that she set up, and that there

was no kidnapping involved. We held them for a
couple of hours and released them to the INS.
They were illegals and ultimately wound up
getting sent back across the border to Mexico.”

“Why would she do a thing like that?”
“I didn’t know either, until she requested a

chance to be alone with them in our
interrogation room. I watched and listened from

behind the one-way mirror. I couldn’t make most
of it out because she was speaking Spanish to
them, but the gist of it was that she was only
interested in nailing the person who hired them.

“She described Morris Arthur to them,

trying to get them to incriminate him. Even I
believed it when they pleaded that they didn’t
know that sleazeball Arthur, and were only
doing it because some other Mexican fellow they

didn’t know paid them to grab her up to bring
her to her own surprise birthday party. She
must have believed them too, because they’re
now back in Mexico.

“I think she was going for a grand slam on

this case… not only did she want to win the
Motion, she wanted to solve the mystery and nail
Morris Arthur, all at the same time. It would

have really been spectacular if she succeeded,
but she didn’t.”

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133

Okay, I feel a little better now knowing

that she didn’t make a stupid mistake. No. On

second thought, it was a stupid mistake. A little
girl like her has no business pulling a stunt like
that… using herself as bait for a kidnapping. It’s
going to take me a while to calm down about
that, but I’m not going to forget about Morris

Arthur. The next time I come across him, I
intend to put him completely out of business.

One more question was answered when I

bumped into Judge Axelrod’s court bailiff a few
days later. He handed me a small post-it note
and said that he found it on the floor after we all
left the courtroom that day of our Motion.

Unfolding it, I see that it’s addressed to Morris
Arthur and I recognize the kid’s handwriting. It
says ‘Mister Arthur. We have your Mexican
friends. Please drop this case and we’ll forget
about your little plan.’

That little devil. She scared Arthur into

thinking she had the goods on him for the
kidnapping attempt and extorted a dismissal of
the civil suit from him. Come to think of it, she

probably only did it to put the fear of God into
him for a few minutes, because once she started
testifying he knew that the case was history.
Technically he could never have her charged

with extortion, because that would require him
to come out of the closet and admit his
participation in the attempted kidnapping. When
Marian saw that the note was stuck onto

Jessie’s hourglass, she also realized that it was
all over.

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134

My only unanswered question now is

about the collateral, so I use the maildog to

request a brief meeting in the main saloon. They
make their appearance and she is carrying a box
filled with things I’ve never seen before.

“You mentioned that you held some

collateral for that loan/investment you made to

Schwartz. Now that the case is over and he’s
gone, can you tell me what it was? I haven’t seen
you return anything to the court, and I think
you should take care of that before it comes

back to bite us.

She puts the box down on the table and

sets the sealing tape down next to it.

“Suzi, what is this box of stuff doing here

on the boat? It doesn’t look like ours.”

“It’s not ours. These are the personal

effects of Mister Schwartz, and per his desire,
they’re all going to be donated to the American
Museum of Magic, along with all the proceeds

from the sale of the illusions we both designed.
I’m packing them in this box and will tape it up
in the morning, before UPS gets here to to pick it
up.”

“The American Museum of Magic? I’ve

never heard of it. Is it in California? I’d like to
see that place”

“No, it’s not around here, it’s in Marshall,

Michigan.”

“Okay, then what about the collateral?”
She reaches into the box and removes a

bound leather diary.

“This is it. It’s a complete list of every trick

and illusion he’s ever done, and it reveals all the
secrets. It’s probably worth millions, or even

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135

priceless. With Balscomb’s millions they would
have been set for life, but she wanted something

for her useless son Jessie to do, and he liked
magic. That was her motivation for the lawsuit.”

That’s all the conversation I’m getting from

her tonight. I saw her eyelids droop a couple of
time already during this meeting, so I know that

she’s ready to hit the sack. She tosses the diary
down onto the table, does her usual about-face,
and leads the dog to the foreward stateroom,
leaving me alone with all of Schwartz’ personal

effects.

For a while I sit back and contemplate the

book of secrets, the magician’s legacy that’s
lying on the table in front of me, easily within

reach. At first there’s an internal battle going on
with my curiosity, because I’m a big magic fan.
Conscience wins.

I lean forward, pick up the book and toss

it into the museum’s box. Once it lands with a

thud inside the box I hear her foreward
stateroom door close.

137

THE RELUCTANT JURIST

b-1

hile watching an interesting television
news documentary about
manufacturing in China, I was

surprised to learn how many fine products they
make there. Unfortunately, they’re almost all
fake. They make copies of the best of everything,
including wristwatches, purses, golf clubs,

luggage, DVD’s, clothing, and just about any
other internationally known successful brand
name products. The ‘knock-offs’ they produce
sell for as little as one twentieth of what the

genuine thing would ordinarily cost here in the
U.S.

Once the counterfeit merchandise reaches

this country it gets bought up by people who

don’t really care that it’s phony, because it looks
real. No one cares that the wristwatch may stop
running next month, because during that month
it will have served the main purpose of image
boosting. Notwithstanding the fact the watch

company certainly is justified in protecting its
copyright, it should also realize that any person
who spends forty bucks for a phony Rolex would
never spend eight grand for a real one, so they

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138

shouldn’t whine about losing a customer they
never would have had to begin with.

The ‘knock-off’ mentality doesn’t stop with

the counterfeiting of merchandise. It extends to
many types of scams against governments and
organizations, like welfare fraud, exaggeration of
income tax deductions, staged auto accidents,

phony workmen’s compensation claims, inflation
of corporate income to bolster stock prices, and
many more types of scams, and the new class of
perpetrators are no longer just small time street

hustlers. Many of them now wear tailored Italian
suits and spend their time in boardrooms… but
whether next to a wall on the street - or on Wall
Street, they all share the common trait of a

complete disregard for business ethics… and I’m
sorry to say that the legal profession is not
without its bad apples.

As for my own situation, I live on a

genuine fifty-foot Chinese-built Grand Banks
Trawler Yacht here in Marina del Rey California,
along with little Suzi Braunstein, a genuine
Chinese-built pre-teen girl and ‘Bernie,’ her huge

Saint Bernard. Both the girl and dog are part of
a package deal foisted upon me when her late
stepfather’s Will requested that I be appointed as
her legal guardian. Suzi is a cupie doll with

genius computer skills that are often put to use
fulfilling requests from many of the local cops
who eat around the corner at Murray’s Chinese
restaurant, where her late mother was the

manager. Suzi still makes her daily lunchtime
appearances there and has become sort of a
‘mascot’ to all of the uniformed police regulars

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139

who eat there often and where they hold their
monthly inter-agency law enforcement

luncheons.

The one problem I’ll never have to worry

about with Suzi is her asking me for an
allowance – and that’s because she’s worth

several million dollars, as the result of civil
settlements from the death of her mother in an
auto accident and her stepfather in a plane
crash. But even without that money she would

still be okay, because with her incredible
computer skills she could easily earn six figures
a year. But that’ll never happen because she’s
already got a job. She runs our little law firm…

the one we operate off of this boat. She’s the
brains and has a couple of two hundred pound
animals to boss around. I’m the one that makes
the court appearances.

We’ve been doing pretty good as of late, so

I don’t have any financial problems either, which
can be boring. It was a lot different years ago
when my ex-wife and I were newlyweds. I was a
struggling lawyer and my wife Myra was a legal

secretary. When we got married, the common
bond that held us together was our mutual
efforts to pay the rent, drive dependable cars,
and have decent wardrobes. That was definitely

not a boring time, and stayed that way until my
practice started to pick up and she started law
school. The money problems were slowly coming
to an end, but the philosophical conflicts were

starting to replace them. Like most women, my
wife was born with a ‘prosecution’ chromosome
in her genome. Being a good-natured criminal

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140

defense attorney, my DNA doesn’t include one of
those… and that’s where the problems began.

What happened to our marriage is public

record. It includes my disciplinary problems with
the State Bar, her passing the Bar exam and
getting hired as a Deputy District Attorney, our
divorce, and then her inheriting a zillion dollars

from her grandfather.

I was finally able to prove that my being

disbarred was a frame-up, so my ticket to
practice law was returned, but I still regret

missing out on a chance to share in Myra’s
inheritance. I always seem to be surrounded by
millionaires who never want to share. Once my
wife decided to downsize the household, I

became history and was exiled to an old forty-
foot wooden cabin cruiser I had been restoring
in our back yard, which thanks to my dear old
classmate Melvin Braunstein, ultimately wound
up here in the Marina.

While actively practicing law again I

created a strategy that convinced Myra’s
opponent to withdraw from the election, so she
is now the elected District Attorney of this

county, and I’m a successful attorney, no thanks
to anything she’s ever done for me. If it wasn’t
for little Suzi’s constant conspiring to get Myra
and I back together again, we probably wouldn’t

even be speaking too much - but today is one of
the days we will be, because Suzi needs a ride
downtown to take another one of her periodic
home-schooling progress tests.

Her grades in the past were so high that

the Board of Education’s big shots now insist
she take he exams under their proctoring so

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141

they can make sure she’s not cheating. Those
bureaucrats just can’t seem to believe that this

kid is smarter than they are. Suzi doesn’t
complain about the in-person testing
requirement because it gives her a chance to see
Myra, who has become a role model for her. She
also doesn’t mind taking the tests in person,

because it eliminates the need for a home-school
teacher to certify the test results. I have a
sneaking suspicion that there is no home-school
teacher, because I’ve never seen one around. I

think the kid teaches herself by using a class
teaching schedule, a lesson plan, the internet,
and a local library.

Whatever she’s doing seems to be working,

because her test scores are usually almost
perfect, which doesn’t stop her from talking
Myra into joining us on these test days, under
the guise of needing some extra moral support.
We all know that’s not true, but it does bring us

l together for lunch.

Myra and Suzi sit holding hands in the

back seat of my big Yellow Hummer and Bernie
has a permanent claim on the front passenger

seat, so he can ride with his head poking up out
of the open sunroof. Suzi bought him a pair of
‘Doggles’ to wear. They’re aviation-style eye-
protection goggles designed for dogs to wear

while riding in cars with their heads sticking out
in the wind. With his Doggles on and those big
ears flapping in the wind, he looks like a World
War I air ace. We’ve dubbed him the Brown

Baron.

We’re quite an impressive sight driving

down the Los Angeles streets, with the Baron’s

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142

head sticking out of it’s cockpit and camera-
toting tourists photographing us. Without a

picture to prove it, they’d never be able to
convince their friends back home about the
unique sight they saw here of the big Swiss-
made Saint Bernard wearing his Doggles.

Not too long ago we heard that some

mainland Chinese menus include Saint Bernard
meat. Suzi’s response to that rumor was to
notify the Chinese government that the Swiss
have decided to add Panda meat to their

restaurant offerings unless a ‘non-eating’ truce
is entered into between the respective countries.
She’s still waiting for a response from Beijing.

This afternoon’s events are a given. Suzi

will ‘ace’ her tests and the three of us will stay in
downtown Los Angeles so we can eat at the
Pantry on Ninth and Figueroa, Suzi’s favorite
non-Chinese restaurant. Bernie will wait outside

for us with his friend the newsstand guy until
we return with a doggie-bag treat for him… he
loves the Pantry’s cole slaw.

Suzi usually wears one of her hats during

lunch there because if she didn’t, the many

customers who walk by and can’t seem to resist
patting her would wear off all the hair on top of
her head. We’ll have a pleasant lunch because I
make a concerted effort to avoid discussing

criminal defense cases with my fascist wife. That
way my legal conflicts with her prosecutorial
philosophy are kept to a minimum. Suzi usually
sits there quietly, relishing the time she can

spend with the closest thing she has to a family,
and absorbs every word we say. The kid has

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143

already expressed her intention to attend
Harvard Law School and in a rare expression of

generosity, informed Myra that she will always
be welcome as an associate in the Suzi B. Law
Firm. I like to think that she’ll keep me on too.

Back at the boat I see there’s a message

from the offices of my friend Stuart
Schwarzman, the most entrepreneurial person
I’ve ever met. The businesses he’s built into
successes during the past couple of years are

too numerous to list, but the one that stands
out most is probably his armored car.

He bought an old one from Brink’s

Armored Transport and had the words ‘He’s
taking it with him’ painted on the side.
Disgruntled heirs hire the truck for up to five

hundred bucks a day to have it driven behind
the hearse, from the funeral parlor to the
cemetery. Stuart’s employee Vinnie drives it
while wearing a phony uniform, complete with

unloaded weapon. The armored car business got
so successful that Stuart had to buy a second
one, which is now driven by Vinnie’s fiancée
Olive, who is the subject of the desperate

telephone message on my answering machine.

“Mister Sharp, this is Vinnie, and you’ve

got to see us as soon as possible… it’s about
some surgery for Olive.”

This lunatic couple have become like close

friends of mine over the past year or so, and the
mere mention of surgery sounds very serious, so
I immediately return Vinnie’s call to see what
strange problem they’re having this time. Vinnie

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144

answers on the first ring, recognizing my
number on his caller ID display.

“Oh Mister Sharp… thanks for calling

back. How’d Suzi do on her tests today?”

“She did fine, Vin. What’s this I hear about

Olive having some surgery? Is she okay? Was
there an accident of some sort?”

“No, no, Mister Sharp. It’s worse than

that…she wants to have some surgery done to
her face.”

Olive is definitely not a raving beauty, but

I never noticed anything radically wrong with
her face.

“Listen Mister Sharp, we’re coming to the

boat in a little while because Olive is taking Suzi

shopping at the pet store, so I thought if I was
there you might be able to spend a little time
helping me convince her not to have this surgery
done.”

“Sure Vinnie. You can tell me about it

while they’re out shopping, and when they
return maybe we can get to the bottom of this.”

Vinnie seems relieved, so having at least

offered my good deed for the day, I’m now going

to sit back and watch the BBC news that they
broadcast every weekday afternoon on PBS. I
like this international program much better than
the local news because they cover all the

violence that occurs outside of Southern
California. It’s really not that different than the
local violence, but the BBC has a nice female
anchorperson with one of those classy British

accents, and that turns me on.

It never ceases to amaze me how many

countries there are that I’ve never heard of

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145

before, whose main national nesworthiness are
civil wars and starving refugees. The most

common occupation in those third world
countries seems to be ‘rebel’ or ‘insurgent,’ and I
don’t understand what they’re always fighting
about, because if all the victors want is the
‘spoils,’ they don’t have to waste their time

fighting… there seem to be plenty of spoils
around in those underdeveloped civilizations. Is
having three mud huts that much better than
having just one?

Now that the opening ‘if it bleeds, it leads’

portion of the program is over, we can get to the
good stuff. Today’s health and fitness report has
two topics. First is a report on how much

hypochondria costs the world’s health systems
by those people who always imagine they’re sick
with something clogging up all the doctors’
offices and emergency rooms. If they’d only ask
me, I think I have a cure for hypochondria:

disease. Maybe they should inject some chronic
ailment germ into the arm of each whining
hypochondriac… then they’d have something
real to take care of, and stop bothering doctors

about non-existent ailments.

The second item is about a strain of flu

that’s spreading around in the United States.
This is news to me. The anchor turns to a

corres-pondent who tells us about the horrible
influenza pandemic that hit this country and the
rest of the world back in 1918. From what he
says, an estimated 675,000 Americans lost their

lives to the flu, which was only a small
percentage of the nearly twenty million killed by
the disease all over the world in just a few short

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146

years. I also learn that a ‘pandemic’ is defined as
an ‘epidemic’ that goes international.

Modern medicine has really improved,

because back then, millions of people died from
a sickness that what we now treat with over-the-
counter drugs, and also try to avoid by using
proper sterile practices in hospitals. Looking for

a little more info about this subject on the
internet, I learn that the government was
operating with the same efficiency then that it
does now, as evidenced by the fact that in

November of 1918, the San Francisco health
authorities used the air raid sirens to proclaim
the end of World War I and let San Franciscans
know the flu epidemic was over, and that it was

okay for them to celebrate. The citizenry believed
the officials, and 30,000 of then went out into
the streets for a big party. The very next month,
5,000 new cases of influenza were reported in
San Francisco. Nice work, health officials. I

guess their descendants were working for the VA
seventy-five years later, proclaiming that there is
no such thing as bad effects from Agent Orange,
and that there’s no such thing as Gulf War

Syndrome.

I also seem to remember Myra

complaining about her trial deputies being

required to put in longer days now because of
the number of other employees and judges out
with the flu. The court calendars are all backed
up and they’re trying to figure out some way to

ease the situation. Thank goodness I’m not
involved in that mess downtown. I hate driving
down there and back in rush-hour traffic, and

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147

the parking situation is especially horrendous
because of the big yellow Hummer I ride in. It’s

not a wussy H-2 or H-3, designed for soccer
moms to drive, it’s the original 8-foot wide model
that the military uses, and one of the first ones
released as a domestic model.

Fortunately I don’t usually go much

farther than the Santa Monica courthouse,
because the Uniman Insurance Company
assigns some of their smaller west-side auto
accident cases to us. After saving old man

Uniman from paying out some very large sums
on fraudulent insurance claims, he’s been
showing his appreciation by allowing me to
handle some of his less-important auto accident

defense cases. The usual procedure is for him to
have a case file messengered to the boat, along
with an initial retainer fee. My first job on each
one is to file an answer to the plaintiff lawyer’s
lawsuit and then start the civil discovery process

by sending out a set of written interrog-atories
for the plaintiff to answer under oath. If
anything appears interesting in the answer to
our ‘interrogs,’ then we arrange to take

depositions of the plaintiff and any others who
might be helpful to our defense.

The knocking on our hull must be Vinnie

and Olive, and the fact that the dog hasn’t even
opened one of his eyes indicates that the people
who are now stepping up our boarding ladder
are ‘friendlies,’ a category that includes all of our

acquaintances and every sworn peace officer
who serves west of Sepulveda Boulevard.

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148

Shortly after Vinnie and his fiancée come

aboard, Olive, Suzi and Bernie leave on their

shopping spree. Vinnie has a concerned look on
his face as he sits down with me on the boat’s
enclosed rear deck.

“Okay Vinnie, what’s this surgery stuff all

about?”

“Mister Sharp, I don’t know why, but Olive

wants to get a nose job.”

This is a surprise. Olive isn’t exactly a

cover model, but I never thought her nose was

too big. I guess that psychological illnesses like
anexoria take a lot of forms. With some people,
every time they look at their image in the mirror
they see someone who is too fat. Others see

someone who definitely needs some bulking up,
and others see deformities that need correcting.
Olive may be needlessly obsessed with her nose
and is seeing a problem that really doesn’t exist.

“So what, Vin? If she wants to get a nose

job, let her get one. It’ll keep her happy, and that
important, isn’t it?”

“Yeah, sure, but what if that’s just the

start? I’m afraid that once she gets her nose

done, maybe she’ll want something else done…
where does it end? I want my Olive just the way
she is. I’ve seen some of those complete
makeover shows on television and I don’t want

her turning into something completely different.
I like Olive this way. Why does she have to
change?”

“I don’t know Vin. Do you think there

could be some other reason involved? Is she
depressed, or going through any other type of
changes in her life?”

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149

“Well, you know we’re going to set another

wedding date soon, but that shouldn’t bother

her. She’s the one who’s in a rush for us to get
married.”

Our conversation gets interrupted a few

times by phone calls that come in for Suzi from
local police agencies inquiring about some of the

crime-fighting software she has installed on her
computers. After answering their questions and
talking a little more to Vinnie, almost an hour
has flown by and I hear paws coming up the

boarding ladder.

Suzi and the dog are in their foreward

stateroom returning calls to the police, so I take
this opportunity to speak to Olive alone while

Vinnie relaxes on the aft deck.

“What’s going on Olive? Vinnie told me

about you wanting to have your nose done. I
don’t see anything wrong with it. You’ve got a
very nice nose. Is there some medical problem I

don’t know about? Because lacking that, I don’t
know why you’d want to do a thing like that.”

Every excuse she comes up with seems

like it’s not the real reason. I guess that a nose

job might possibly improve her appearance a
little, and that Stuart’s insurance will cover all
the costs, but I still feel there’s something she’s
not telling me.

“Olive, I know you for a while now, so I’m

only going to ask you this question once, and I’d
like you to consider something. I’ve always tried
as much as I could to help you and Vinnie out,

and you know that I’ve never lied to you or held
anything back. Now I’d like you, as a friend, to
give me the same consideration and let me know

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150

the real reason why you want to have this
elective surgery on your nose.”

She thinks about what I’ve just told her

and then starts to slowly explain the real reason.

“Well Mister Sharp, you know we’re going

to be married soon, and after that we’ll probably
have kids…”

“Okay, a lot of people do that without

getting nose jobs.”

“I know, but I’d like to have the surgery

before we get married.”

“What’s the big rush, Olive? You can

always have that surgery done. Why do feel it’s
necessary before you get married?”

“So that my kids won’t be born with big

noses.”

So much for logic. No sense trying to burst

her balloon, so I just tell her to make sure she
lets the insurance company know her real
reason. I’m sure they’ll fill her in on the facts of

life. They’re experts when it comes to turning
down requests for medical procedures.

The phone is ringing and it looks very

close to Myra’s number, so it must be from some
other phone in the Criminal Courts Building
where her office is located. I answer it and learn
that it’s Sally Hearn, the presiding judge’s clerk.

“Mister Sharp, how are you feeling today?”
“I’m fine Sally, how about yourself?”
“Oh, I’m fine too Mister Sharp. But really,

how are you feeling?”

This is a little strange. The only time Sally

has ever called me before was to come in and get
a court appointment to represent some indigent

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criminal defendant, and now she’s calling to
inquire about my health.

“Sally, I assure you that I’m really okay. Is

there anything else I can do for you today other
than give you a progress report on my health?”

“I’m sorry Mister Sharp, but there’s been

so much flu going around here lately that we’re

really concerned about anyone who comes to the
courtrooms.”

“That’s nice Sally, but in case you haven’t

noticed, I haven’t been around there for a while.

I’m doing more civil work now, so the criminal
courts aren’t part of my rounds.”

“Yes I know, and that’s why Morgan

Russell, our new presiding judge, asked me to

request that you come down here for an appoint-
ment.”

“I don’t know Sally. I’m really trying to

concentrate more on civil matters now, and
another criminal case…”

She cuts me off mid-sentence.
“Oh, not to worry Mister Sharp, the judge

will see to it that you’re not on a criminal case.”

“I don’t understand what you mean by

that Sally. The court doesn’t appoint lawyers to
represent parties in civil disputes, so what can
Judge Russell possibly want me for?

“It’s not to represent a party Mister Sharp,

you’ve been selected to act as a temporary
judge.”

152

b-2

here are some attorneys who would give
anything for even a temporary appointment

to the Bench, but I’m not one of them. The

adversary nature of our judicial system means
that in every type of case other than an
uncontested adoption, there’s a winner and a

loser. For the past twenty years I’ve been on
both sides of that system, and it’s always tough
to lose, but I can’t imagine how hard it must be
for a judge to look down at the parties and tell

them which one you’ve decided is the winner.
And as tough as that job must be in civil cases,
it’s gotta be at least ten time harder in a criminal
case, when you’ve got to look down at a
defendant and tell him and his family that

they’re not going to have a father around for
several years. No thank you. Let someone else do
that job.

I’ll go downtown and talk to the presiding

judge, but he’s going to have to do a lot of
convincing to make me change my mind on this
subject. In the meantime, it looks like Uniman
Insurance Company’s messenger is here with

another auto accident file for us to handle. I
hope that some day he feels confident enough to
trust me with a nice big case instead of this
whiplash junk. This must be the tenth crummy
fender-bender he’s sent over, and they all look

the same. The only things that seem to change
from case to case are the date, location, and
number of people in the car that got rear-ended.

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153

Some attorneys operate what’s called a

‘P.I. mill,’ which means they handle a lot of
personal injury cases in an assembly-line
fashion. One way to build a practice like that is
with a connection to some labor union or other
large group of people who all get referred to your

practice whenever they’re involved in an
automobile accident.

The other way to build up that type of law

firm is very similar to an old practice in this

country that was called ‘slavery,’ in which you
‘buy’ your clients from someone who is in a
position to refer them to an attorney. The
referring people are called ‘cappers,’ and they

usually work as tow truck drivers, body shop
personnel, hospital orderlies, or other types of
ambulance chasers with police radio scanners in
their cars.

In some parts of this city, whenever there’s

an automobile accident that requires a police
response, tow truck or ambulance, the cappers
flock around like vultures over a rotting carcass.
They dart around passing out business cards

and making promises of loan cars, cash
advances, large lawsuit settlements, free legal
advice, or whatever it takes to gain the injured
person’s confidence.

The capper’s next job is to get their new

acquisition to a ‘participating’ lawyer’s office.
Once the retainer form is signed the capper can
get his ‘referral’ fee, which can range from a

basic minimum of about one hundred dollars
per person referred, up to several thousand
dollars, to be paid upon successful completion of

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154

any case in which the plaintiffs actually suffered
broken bones or other serious injuries.

After the personal injury clients are signed

up and the capper has been paid, the lawyer
arranges to have the medical meter start
running, because other than the issue of fault
for causing the accident, the dollar amount of

the medical treatment provided (‘specials’) is
extremely important in determining what
amount a fair out-of-court settlement of the case
might be. The unwritten rule of thumb is that a

non-serious or ‘soft-tissue’ injury accident case
is usually worth somewhere around three times
the specials, so it behooves the client to see the
recommended doctor for at least five or six

hundred dollars worth of treatment.

Most P.I. lawyers don’t usually file

lawsuits immediately, because reimbursement
for those expenses won’t come in until after the
case is settled. It’s always much better to try and

settle the case quickly without filing suit and
move on, because the longer that case stays in
your filing cabinet, the more it costs each month
in letters coming and going, paperwork, civil

discovery and other miscellaneous expenses.

Each type of personal injury case usually

has some sort ‘nuisance’ settlement amount that
can be counted on. Slip-and-fall cases in the

supermarket can bring in about six hundred
dollars each, and the average rear-end collision
with six hundred dollars of medical bills can be
expected to settle for between fifteen hundred

and two thousand.

With this knowledge in mind, the lawyer

on a one-third contingency agreement realizes

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155

that the if a case might earn him five hundred,
he manages time spent on the matter

accordingly… and here’s where the main
problem appears. After paying a hundred in
cash to the capper and then probably two to four
hundred in cash advances to the client, when
the settlement finally comes in there’s barely

enough to go around. If the settlement is split
three ways between the lawyer, client and
doctor, there’s only one way to make the effort
worth while… the lawyer must ‘walk the client’

to the bank, a procedure whereby instead of
depositing the settlement and having trust
account checks issued, they personally take the
insurance draft to the bank, cash it, and share

the proceeds in hundred dollar bills.

Clients never mind doing this because it

gives them instant money and eliminates a need
to cash the lawyer’s check at their local liquor
store. The lawyers like it because it provides

them with tax-free income and replenishes their
supply of cash available for future payments to
cappers. The doctors like it because it’s tax-free
and allows them to kick-backt their medical fee

up to one-third, giving the lawyer more money.
This is a win-win-win situation. Everybody
comes out ahead except the I.R.S. and the client.

The problem with the P.I. mill system is

that it requires a constant supply of new clients,
and when things get slow, some of them resort
to the same type of business that the Chinese
have found so profitable: manufacturing

counterfeits… staged accidents.

People complaining about non-existent

whiplash are one type of problem, but any

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156

lawyer who puts in a claim or files a lawsuit for
what he knows was a staged auto accident is

committing insurance fraud, and that’s a felony.
People who commit felonies in this county
provoke Myra. Having been married to her, I
would strongly advise people to avoid
committing felonies in this jurisdiction, because

provoking Myra is not a good idea. Trust me on
that.

My associates and I were lucky in the past

couple of years and have been successful in
uncovering various gangs that robbed banks,
made counterfeit DVD’s, and committed internet
fraud. Most recently we helped prevent a neo-

Nazi group from blowing up a building. I don’t
look at my job as one of crime-buster, but I try
to keep my eyes open, and that’s what I’ll be
doing with these crummy little personal injury
cases that Mister Uniman sends over here. If I

can’t get the big cases to handle, maybe I can
spot some pattern that turns the little cases into
a big one.

If I could talk the kid into authorizing the

expense, I’d put Stuart’s private investigation
firm to work finding some of those guys who
stage phony accidents and see if there’s some
organi-zation behind them. I’ll drop a note to

Mister Uniman. He’s a savvy businessman. If he
realizes that spending ten or twenty thousand
on an investigation might ultimately save him
ten times that much in payments for phony

claims, maybe he’ll go along with my idea.

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157

California courts are arranged in a

pecking order determined by the type of justice

they’re allowed to administer. At the bottom are
the local Small Claims Courts, where lawyers are
not allowed. They deal directly with complaining
and defending parties only, and can make
monetary awards up to a limit of several

thousand dollars.

Next up the scale are our County

Municipal Courts. They handle criminal
arraignments, misdemeanor criminal trials,

sentences of up to one year in the County Jail,
civil suits and other matters not big enough to
warrant attention from our next highest level,
the State Superior Courts. Once you get up

there, you see matters requiring the court to
order people to do or not to do things, like
Injunctions to stay away from someone else,
Mandates like cutting down that bothersome
tree, statuses of marriage and divorce, big civil

suits and serious criminal trials that can result
in long sentences to the State’s penitentiary
system. The Superior Courts are also where
juvenile matters are heard, and I certainly know

that because several years of my beginning legal
career were devoted to that particular field of
law.

After being escorted down the private rear

hallway separating judges’ chambers from their
courtrooms, the bailiff tells me to have a seat
and wait a few minutes until the judge invites

me in. The Superior Court uses a rotating
system that appoints a member to act as its
presiding judge, in charge of all judicial

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158

appointments and other important things. I’ve
never met Morgan Russell, the current PJ, but I

will in a few minutes.

Knowing how judges usually like to keep

people waiting, I try to get comfortable on this
dreadful wooden bench and mentally reminisce
about some of the strange things that lawyers

have done in the past.

The most colorful ones are usually the

operators of P.I. mills, and several years ago
quite a few of them were involved in Chicago

when one of the city’s famous elevated trains
was involved in a collision above the downtown
area. The two trains that had collided were
sitting up on the tracks waiting for rescue and

repair crews to reach them.

Any other accident involving this many

potential plaintiffs would have created a feeding
frenzy of tow trucks and cappers, but this one
was about thirty feet up in the air on the

elevated tracks and a little out of their reach.

It didn’t take very long for the desperate

lawyers below to notice that the open girders
supporting those tracks were designed in such a

way as to possibly allow one to physically climb
up to the track area. As soon as the first
ambitious ones started up, many nearby girders
started to resemble poles covered with honey

near an anthill.

Rock climbing, rope climbing and

mountain climbing may look simple to the
uninitiated, but accomplishing those feats

without injury require a tremendous amount of
training and physical conditioning. This elevated
train collision instantly created a new Olympic

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159

sport in which out-of-shape, overweight
attorneys accustomed to a sedentary lifestyle

could now complete: professional girder
climbing. From what the newspapers described,
the prospective clients up there on those trains
had the windows open and were shouting out
encouragement to the competing participants,

the only athletes ever known to have been
dressed in suits and ties during their event.

When it was all over the newspapers

published a list of the casualties that were a

result of the train collision, and the statistics
were quite interesting. Of nineteen injury reports
filed, six were among the two hundred train
passengers and the remaining thirteen were

falling lawyers, all taken away in ambulances.

There’s a clever old saying about dogs,

that questions their habit of chasing cars. The
question asked is ‘what would a dog ever do if he
actually caught one?’ I guess the same thing

could also be said about some of those
ambulance-chasing lawyers.

As it turned out, all of their climbing

efforts were in vain because several passengers

on those trains were lawyers, and by the time
rescue crews arrived, everyone was already
signed up. Many of the falling lawyers filed
actions against the train company for having

defective girders supporting their tracks.

I see that the judge’s chambers door has

been slightly ajar since I’ve been sitting here, but

I haven’t heard any conversation coming from
inside. I don’t know if this could be a sign to
peek or knock, so a closer look might be in

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160

order. As I approach the door I glance inside and
see a mirror on the far side of the room. In it is

the image of a really attractive, but completely
nude blonde female walking across the room.

I immediately step back and sit down on

the bench. Discovering that the presiding judge
is poking another member of our legal

community can be an embarrassing situation.
The last time I recall a similar situation getting
exposed, a special prosecutor named Kenneth
Starr made a big deal about it. I think the best

thing for me to do is just sit here and ignore
whoever walks out of that room, pretending to
read some old newspaper that’s been left here
next to me on the bench. After his girlfriend

leaves I’m sure the judge will summon me into
chambers, and when he sticks his head out the
door to invite me in, I’ll hold up the newspaper
and pretend like I couldn’t have seen anyone
leaving.

Several minutes have passed, but no one

has come out of the judge’s chambers. I sure
hope he hasn’t forgotten about me, but from the
brief look I got of that blonde, I wouldn’t blame

him if he did.

There’s a tapping on my shoulder. It’s the

bailiff.

“Mister Sharp, I think it’s okay for you to

go in there now.”

Is he kidding? This bailiff probably doesn’t

have any idea that the judge is getting it on in
there, and there’s no way I’m going to walk in

and interrupt him. I try to tell him that maybe
we should give the judge another minute or two,

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161

but the bailiff wants me to go in. He takes me by
the arm and starts to lead me over to the door.

“Mister Sharp, you really must go in there

now. The judge has a busy schedule, so the
sooner you go in, the sooner we can back to our
court calendar.”

Having said that, the bailiff reaches

forward and with one hand pushes the door
open and with the other hand pushes me inside.
I don’t see anyone inside here but the person
sitting in a high-backed office chair. His back is

to me while he sits there, looking out of his
thirteenth story window at the view of downtown
Los Angeles. I guess the blonde is hiding in the
judge’s private bathroom, so I’ll expect this

interview to be completed quickly. I’m greeted
with a higher voice than I expected.

“Mister Sharp, I’m glad you could come

downtown today.”

As the chair swings around I see that the

robed Presiding Judge is none other than the
Honorable Morgan Russell, the recently naked
blonde.

162

b-3

t takes a lot of effort, but I succeed in not
blurting out that I don’t recognize her with
clothes on. This incident has just answered

another question for me about what they wear

under those robes.

We have a nice conversation about non-

relevant things like lawyers we both know, and
then she tells me about my good reputation as a

trial lawyer and how it helped her to make the
decision to have me fill in as what they call a
‘judge pro tem.’

I explain my reluctance about sentencing

people to jail, and she puts my mind at ease by

letting me know that if I accept her appointment,
my duties will definitely not involve hearing any
adult criminal cases. What she has in mind for
me is the Juvenile Court, where I got quite a bit

of trial experience during my first few years
practicing law.

Most kids are brought into the juvenile

justice system because of alleged criminal

conduct, but they’re not charged with crimes.
Instead of a criminal charge being filed, it’s
called a Petition. Instead of their going through a
trial, it’s called an Adjudication. If it is
determined that they did in fact commit the acts
alleged in the petition, they’re not convicted, the

Petition is Sustained, and instead of a
sentencing, it’s called a Disposition. A lot of

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163

fancy words designed to avoid the kids having
the permanent stigma of being convicted

criminals attached to their records.

Quite often a juvenile judge must order

that a kid be removed from the family home and
either placed in a foster situation or sent to
juvenile detention hall, or the California Youth

Authority, which is a prison-style locked down
facility. These final dispositions are quite
different from criminal sentencing in adult
courts, because with the kids, you aren’t

sending bread-winning heads of household or
parents away. In these cases, children are sent
to a foster home or other facility for their own
good. The typical adversarial win-at-all-costs

attitude doesn’t apply in juvenile court because
everyone there is on the same page. They all
want to do what’s best for the juveniles.

Now that Judge Russell and I agree that

the juvenile court is the best place for me, I

agree to accept the appointment. She tells me
that it shouldn’t last much longer than a week
or two, because the judge I’m replacing calls in
every day and says that he’s on the mend.

Back at the boat I convince Suzi that

whatever I earn as a judge is not subject to
‘glommerization,’ which is the technical term I

apply to her usual practice of ‘glomming’ onto
whatever money I earn outside of the firm and
somehow converting it into being the firm’s
money instead of wholly mine.

Our mini argument is interrupted by a

telephone call from Stuart, who informs me that
his private investigation business is picking up

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164

because of some new assignments from Uniman
Insurance. He’s now on the trail of some people

suspected of being involved in a ‘staged accident’
gang. I’m really glad to hear this and offer him
my full cooperation, feeling good that Mister
Uniman agreed with my idea, enough to
underwrite the investigation.

I’ve got another day or two before

reporting to duty as a juvenile judge pro tem, so
I’m now looking through the Judges’ Reference

Guide that the honorable presiding nude
suggested I should familiarize myself with. I hate
to admit it, but this isn’t the only thing I’d like to
get more familiar with in her court.

In the past, every female I’ve ever been

involved with has gotten the ‘thumbs down’ from
Suzi. Knowing that someday she plans on
practicing law, I can’t imaging her complaining
about my bringing a judge to the boat. Maybe

after my tenure as a judge pro tem is over I can
take a shot at some relationship with her.
Maybe.

This is it. My first day as a judge. I’ve

made a deal with Suzi whereby she will allow the
dog to spend his day at Stuart’s large Van Nuys
warehouse and I will allow her to come to court

with me. Her main job will be to remain in
chambers at the computer. If I have any
questions, I can send her a quick email from my
own laptop up on the bench. This may also give

her a chance to meet the presiding judge on a
professional level. The kid can research whatever
points of law I ask about and send an answer

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165

back to me. Our computers have been
networked together, so it will be like a mini chat

room.

The first order of business this morning

before court officially opens is for me to make
arrangements with the bailiff and court clerk
about how we will start each session. The clerk

tells me about the buzzing system and the bailiff
explains how he will make his speech, and then
I’m supposed to make my dramatic entrance, at
which time, while everyone is still standing, the

Bailiff will lead everyone in the courtroom in a
Pledge of Allegiance to the Flag. After some other
announcements, they will allow me to start
doing some judge work. I find this interesting.

They’re telling me how they want me to run
things.

They even go so far as to suggest that we

do a couple of dry runs to get our timing
straight. They’re in for a big surprise. I’m tired of

all of this courtroom choreography. I’ve seen it
too many times to ever want to be part of it, so I
tell them how it’s going to be in this court. The
court clerks, probation person, court reporter,

police liaison and bailiffs are all now waiting
patiently for me to agree to their plans. They’re
in for a surprise.

“I’m sorry to disappoint you all, but none

of the suggestions you’ve made so far will be put
into effect. Here’s the way it’s going to be.
Participants are always notified that the court’s
first session starts at nine in the morning, so I

would suggest that you all keep your eye on that
clock up there on the wall, because at exactly

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166

nine AM, this private entrance door will open
and I will enter the courtroom.

“At that time I expect the bailiff to notice

my entrance and simply tell everyone to remain
seated and come to order. No further announce-
ment or other procedure is necessary.

“I will then sit down, open the first file on

my desk and call the case. If the D.A., minor and
defense counsel are all here, we’re in business
and the session will begin. If the D.A. isn’t here,
the Petition will be dismissed, and if the juvenile

is in custody, he or she will be released, if there
is a caregiver present to accept custody. This
may cause some problems with the District
Attorney’s office, but I’m quite used to problems

dealing with this particular District Attorney,
and I’m sure you all know what I mean by that.
If the minor or defense counsel isn’t here, then
bench warrants will be issued for their
appearances.

“It would be a good idea for all of you to

spread the word around about how things will
be working here because I don’t want anyone to
be surprised. We’ll keep it pretty loose today, but

starting tomorrow, that will be the program. Any
questions?”

Surprised glances are exchanged around

the room, but I have a feeling they all know that

this is the way things are really supposed to be
done. There are no questions or complaints.

Something else just clicked into place. It

took about two hours this morning before I

realized what has happened. By worming her
way into coming to court and working with me,
the kid has successfully managed to complete

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167

another act of glommerization. She did it to me
again.

The first case is a simple case of pot

possession and when I ask the minor if he
knows why he’s here today and if he has
anything to say about it, his answer is right from

a television script “One thousand percent not
guilty, Your Honor.” I set the case for trial and
tell this little O.J. that I’ll see him in another two
weeks. When I look down at my computer

monitor I see that Suzi has sent me a message
that Stuart called. He wants me to file a lawsuit
for him. This will have to wait until I get back to
the boat after work tonight.

The court also has some pending cases on

today’s calendar, and one of them is a
disposition hearing for a juvenile who did some
nasty things to other people. Juvenile court

judges rely quite heavily on probation reports.
When an adjudication ends with any other result
than a complete dismissal, the probation
department does a detailed workup and

prepares a lengthy report that includes the
juvenile’s background, present living conditions,
description of the caregivers, analysis of the
situation and most important, a

recommendation as to what might be the best
way to get the juvenile back onto the right track.

Their recommendations can range from

staying at home on probation, to placement in a

foster home, some time in juvenile detention,
community service, or in the worst cases, time

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168

served in a California Youth Authority facility,
which is like a penitentiary for kids.

A CYA commitment can be open-ended

with no specific amount of time to be served.
Release can be left up to the facility to determine
when the minor is ready to return to society.

From my own experience, I have seen a

tremendous reading deficiency in these kids.
Time and time again I offered them an
opportunity to read the probation report on their
own case, only to discover that they probably

couldn’t if they wanted to. Also not surprising
was the fact that the accompanying parents
often had the same difficulty.

Somewhere along the educational line we

lost some of these kids, and now I’m getting a
chance to try and correct that problem. This
case before the court is one in which everyone
including the parents agree that CYA
commitment would be best for this juvenile, so I

make the order. The minor’s attorney addresses
the court.

“Your Honor, the minor would appreciate

your telling him how much time he’s going to

have to serve before being released.”

I look down at the minor. According to the

probation report, he is now sixteen years old,
but has the size and demeanor of an adult, but I

noticed that he couldn’t read his own probation
report.

“Young man, there are several factors that

will come into play as to when you will be

released, but I’m going to make it a little easier
for you. Next year you’ll be seventeen, and if you
would had stayed in high school you would have

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169

been reading at a tenth grade level. I’m going to
include in my order that before you’re released,

you should be tested to make sure you can
actually read at that level. Hopefully, this will
give you an incentive to put some effort into
trying to improve your reading skills.

“I’m also going to ask that you be brought

back here for a progress report six months from
today, and will make a note in the file that if
your custodians have noticed any success in
your effort to raise your reading level, that

success will be taken into consideration towards
advancing your release date.”

I bang the gavel down and in true judicial

fashion, toss the file towards my clerk. These are

the two standard indications that I’m through
with this case and that neither of the attorneys
should try to present further argument. They
both know the drill, so I hear a ‘thank you Your
Honor’ from each one of them as they gather

their paperwork up and step back away from the
counsel tables, making room for the next set of
contestants. Myra’s deputy doesn’t have much
moving around to do because she’ll be handling

all the matters on today’s calendar. All she has
to do is put the next file on top, take a quick
look inside to familiarize herself with it, and get
ready to proceed.

Back at the boat I find another few

messages from Stuart, and each one sounds
more urgent than the other. Before I get a

chance to return his phone calls my phone rings
and the caller ID display lets me know that he’s
beat me to it.

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170

“Yes Stuart, I know it’s important. We just

got back to the boat and I was picking up the

phone to call you when it rang. Are you in jail
now?”

“No Pete, I’m not in jail. I need a lawsuit

filed tomorrow.”

“Why? Are we up against a statute?”

“No, there’s no statute involved, it’s just

that I have to file a lawsuit immediately, and I’d
like Suzi to prepare it tonight so that she can
drop it off at the filing room tomorrow morning

when you guys go back to work.”

“Stuart, there’s no way we can work that

fast. We haven’t even had dinner yet, and there
are some files that have to be read before

returning to court tomorrow. This matter of your
will either have to wait another couple of days,
or you’ll have to get another lawyer to do it. I’m
sorry pal, but our plate is really quite full this
week.”

“Peter, you know I’m not a poor man. I’m

willing to pay an extra big bonus to get this suit
filed tomorrow, and it can be a very simple one.
It’s a negligence case.”

I hear the pitter-patter of huge paws and

turn around to see that the dynamic duo has
emerged from their foreward stateroom. Suzi is
nodding her head up and down.

“Hold on a second Stu, something just

came up.” I look at her.

“What? Can’t you see I’m on the phone

with Stuart? He’s got some urgent problem.”

As she does her customary about-face to

return to the foreward stateroom, she tosses an
exit line at me.

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171

“Take his case.”
I’m sure she probably knows more about

this then she’s letting on, so I tell Stuart to come
to the boat. He’s so happy we’re taking his case
that he offers to stop by Jerry’s Deli on his way
to pick up dinner for us. This will please Bernie
because he loves their onion hash browns, and

the kid is crazy about some side order they offer
that I can’t pronounce, but I know it has bowtie
pasta and some barley-type of stuff in it.

When Stuart steps aboard, the table has

already been set, so the first order of business is
to sit down and have dinner. While we’re eating
Stuart explains what this urgent lawsuit is

about, but he’s a little sketchy on the details.

“Pete, this is going to be a simple case. It’ll

never see a courtroom, so you don’t have to
worry about a trial. All I need is your standard
negligence suit for one cause of action –

infliction of mental distress.

“Stuart, the way you’re eating, I’d say that

you don’t look too distressed to me.”

“Yeah, I’m okay now, but early this

morning it was a different story. I was walking
past this guy’s store and his dog jumped out at
me. It looked like a Pit Bull, and it scared the
hell out of me. I didn’t know that he was on a

leash and couldn’t get to me, so I thought that
dog was gonna kill me right there. That dog’s
owner should have either had him on a shorter
leash or kept him locked up in the back room.”

“Stuart, taking into account the extra

charges for a rush job like this, and the fact that
you have no injuries to speak of, do you really

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expect this case to be worth the time and money
involved?”

“Peter, the case has already been settled.

I’ve talked it over with the guy and he’s agreed to
pay me an amount that we’re almost through
agreeing about, but he requested that I file a
lawsuit against him so that he can justify the

fact that his business will be paying the
settlement amount.”

“Oh I see. It’s a tax thing you guys have

worked out. I don’t know if he can write off

payment to settle a tort action. Do you know the
rules about that?”

“I don’t care about the rules Pete. That’s

what he wants me to do before he pays any

money out, and I’m just doing what he asked.
He’s on his own with the tax people.”

I let Stuart know that if we file the suit it

will not be with our law firm’s name on it as
attorneys of record. We’ll prepare the suit, but it

will be with his name appearing as if he’s
representing himself. This way, it there’s a
problem with the settlement, I’m not stuck
representing him on this miserable case. I also

would rather not be filing cases in the same
courthouse where I’m sitting as a judge, because
it wouldn’t look kosher.

Stuart and Suzi agree on some exorbitant

fee for the rush job, and after dinner Stuart
writes out a check to the firm and leaves. After
he’s gone, Suzi opens up a package she received
from Amazon.com, removes a book, and sits

down to read.

“Don’t you have a lawsuit to prepare? And

what’s that book you’re reading?”

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173

She gives me one of those eye-rolls,

indicating that once again, I just don’t get it.

“Oh don’t be silly. I had that lawsuit

prepared before we left the court to come home
tonight. It’s in the car. I’ll file it tomorrow when
we go back to work. And this book is a historical
documentary about Chicago, the city where you

were born.”

The first couple of days in Juvenile Court

go pretty smoothly. I threatened to dismiss one

Petition, but Suzi let me know that Myra called,
telling her that the calendar deputy was in the
bathroom, so I held off for a few minutes and
advise her to let the clerk know whenever she

finds it necessary to be indisposed in the future.

Some minor disciplinary problems popped

up, but they were in the usual form of loudly
chewing gum, refusing to sit up straight,
expressions of contempt for my authority and

other basic manifestations of poor parenting. I
would make note of their attitudes and try to
design some special term of their probation,
meant to hopefully get them to realize the errors

of their ways. The graffiti artists were always
assigned to graffiti-removal community service,
gum chewers were put on trash-picking-up
details, and drunk joy-riders were sent to work

as assistant orderlies in an emergency room so
that they could see that the result of drunk
driving isn’t always fun.

It didn’t take too long for my creative

sentencing methods to attract attention because
a reporter who was in the building to cover some
celebrity’s divorce filing overheard one of the

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174

attorneys talking about it. From what my clerk
told me, the newshound interviewed several

public defenders and emailed her story in to the
television station.

It’s now a little after six PM and the

dynamic duo are busy polishing off the

remainders of my special pasta dish from our
dinner last night, while I try to get my bow tie on
straight. As a judge, it looks like I finally made it
onto the A-list, and was invited to a black tie

affair that’s being thrown to celebrate some older
judge’s retirement. I hear a human yelp coming
from the foreward stateroom and next thing I
know, the kid comes running out and turns on

our big plasma TV set proudly proclaiming
“we’re on the Court TV news!”

I don’t know how she got a ‘we’ out of it,

unless it’s because she gloms a part of my court
money just for being there. The local newscaster

is droning on.

“And now, here’s an interesting item. Los

Angeles Juvenile Court Judge Pro Tem Peter
Sharp has been turning heads downtown with

some of his creative sentencing requirements.”

The blow-dried newsreader goes on to

mention some of my added-on provisions and
the general consensus between the on-air

airheads is that this is a welcome breath of fresh
air being brought into a musty old juvenile court
system. I’m surprised that doing such basically
correct things garners so much attention, but

I’m still too busy with this damned bow tie to
bother with the news. I look down and notice
that the kid is standing next to me. It’s

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175

surrender time. I hoist her up so she can sit on
the kitchen counter and she straightens my tie.

Stuart will be here for another tutoring session
on his law studies, so he’ll watch the kid until I
get home. She was a little put out when Stuart
decided he just happened to need some tutoring
on the same evening that I was going to the

judges’ dinner, and I fail to convince her that it
wasn’t a conspiracy between Stuart and I to
arrange for baby-sitting services.

This evening’s affair is being held at a

defunct restaurant in Santa Monica that was
converted into a special-events banquet hall.
When the car parking guy sees me step out of

this huge Hummer in my tux, he accepts my car
keys and with a phone British accent, gives me
one of those “thank you, Mister Bawnd”
remarks. No one likes a smart ass, but I get a
kick out of his sarcastic comparison and sneak a

peek at my reflection in the car windows as he
drives away, just to see how justified he may
have been with that wisecrack comment. I may
not look like agent 007, but I sure feel like a spy

tonight.

Inside the main room it looks like a

Muppet convention, with a gaggle of cigar
smoking, overstuffed, loud-talking caricatures of

old judges wearing tuxedos, each with an overly
made up Miss Piggy on his arm. I see a woman
making her way toward me… it’s Presiding
Judge Morgan Russell, looking like the complete

opposite of every woman here. She’s trim,
sticking out of her strapless gown, and is now
grabbing my arm.

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176

“Oh Peter, loosen up. We’re the only two

single people here tonight, so you’re stuck with

me.”

She’s obviously feeling no pain, having

probably finished at least three drinks. I envy
her state of obliviousness, because I’m still sober
and now suffering through what I hope is the

last of too many testimonials for old judge
what’s-his-name.

The rubber chicken tasted as expected

and I’m now looking at my wristwatch about two

or three time each minute, trying to develop an
exit strategy so I can get back to the boat to see
if the dynamic duo left any macaroni for me. I
feel something on my shoulder. It’s Judge

Russell’s head. She’s out cold.

This is starting to look a little

embarrassing because all the other guests are
starting to leave and I’m stuck sitting here with
sleeping beauty. One of the security guys comes

over to us and I recognize him as a bailiff I’ve
seen occasionally in court.

“Your Honor, Presiding Judge Russell gave

her bailiff the rest of the evening off, so it looks

like it’s up to you to get her home. He left this
for you.”

He hands me a note with Judge Russell’s

name and home address written on it. Two of his

co-workers help strap my passenger into the
rear seat of my Hummer and I drive down Santa
Monica Boulevard, grateful for the fact that my
rear passenger windows are darkly tinted. Hah!

Court TV thinks they really know what goes on
behind the scenes of our judicial system.

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177

Looking in the rear view mirror I have to

admit that she looks pretty good. I force myself

to avoid sneaking peeks back there and noticing
how she seems to be sliding more and more out
of the top of that strapless gown.

It only took about twenty minutes for us to

arrive at her home. It’s a really nice two-story

design up on a hill overlooking the Santa Monica
Airport on one side, and Los Angeles Airport off
in the distance on the other side. Her garage
door is open, so I pull in next to her Corvette. My

next chore is to unstrap her seatbelt and try to
get her inside the house. She appears to be
prepared for evenings like this because I notice
that there’s a key attached to her bracelet, so I

remove it and try it in the side door that opens
into her kitchen… it works. As I sit down next to
her in the rear seat, she seems to have come
back to life a little and starts to let me know how
grateful she is for the ride home.

One thing leads to another and before I

know it we’re bidding each other adieu the way
people on first dates have been doing it since
time began… with a goodnight kiss that seems

to be lasting more than I ever expected it would.
I’m afraid this might go a little farther than what
is considered proper, but being the dog that I
am, I continue to allow the situation to

escalate… and it does.

Before long she’s riding me like I’m

Seabiscuit. The Hummer is a sturdy vehicle, but
her gyrations have caused a type of car motion

that has just set off the car’s burglar alarm, and
being inside a garage, the loud sound is
bouncing and echoing very loudly. If that isn’t

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178

enough to attract the neighbors’ attention, the
alarm also automatically activates the vehicle’s

emergency flashing lights, so unless both the
judge and the alarm are turned off quickly, I’m
afraid the local gendarmes will be here in no
time at all.

My main problem is that the car keys are

in my pants pocket, and I’ll have to retrieve them
in order to disable the alarm. This requires an
extraordinary amount of my squirming around
trying to reach the pocket and just as I succeed

with my back seat contortionist routine and
manage to shut off the alarm, I realize that she
must have appreciated the motion, because with
a series of brief squeals, she’s once again slipped

into unconsciousness. No one can deny she’s a
judicial activist.

After managing to extricate myself from

under the dead weight, I carry her inside and
deposit her on the living room couch. There’s no

way we’ll be able to get up those stairs to where
the bedroom probably is, so I cover her with a
small blanket and tiptoe back to the garage and
let my Hummer coast back down the driveway,

not starting the engine until it reaches the
street.

The last part of this evening may have

been enjoyable, but I’m afraid that I’ve probably

torpedoed my judicial career. The only thing
worse would be Myra finding out about it.

Back at the boat I see that it must have

been an exciting tutoring session because all

three of them are asleep on the couch. I cover
the kid up, turn off the television set and head
for my stateroom, wondering if my short stint on

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179

the bench will qualify me for unemployment
compensation. I’ll surely learn the answer to

that tomorrow morning after turning in the
resignation that I know will be requested. She’ll
probably just have her bailiff tell me that it’s
over, which is okay with me, because I’d also
like to avoid any awkward confrontation.

This is my last day as a judge, so I’ll cut

everyone some slack, making things a little
happier in this courtroom today. No one here

knows it, but I’m actually throwing myself a little
retirement party.

The party’s over. My computer screen has

a message that the kid sent from chambers.

‘THE PRESIDING JUDGE WANTS TO SEE
YOU… NOW!’ As I pass by my chambers I see
that the kid is giving me one of those ‘what have
you done now?’ looks. Okay, I can live with this.
I’ve been fired from jobs before. I’ve also been

thrown out of my own house… well, actually, it
was her house. I walk down the private hallway
realizing that this is probably the last time I’ll
have the privilege of using anything private like

this again. I knock on Judge Russell’s door and
she invites me in. I’ll just play dumb and let her
do all the work.

“Good morning, Your Honor, what can I do

for you today?” Oh, God, that was stupid. Did I
really say that?

“Good morning Mister Sharp. I want you

to know that I watched that Court TV newscast

last night, but it wasn’t news to me at all,
because I’ve been closely following your in-court

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180

recommen-dations, and I think you’re doing a
fine job.”

I can’t believe it. She skipped from the

evening Court TV newscast right to this
morning, without even mentioning last night’s
banquet. Was I that bad? If she doesn’t have
anything else to say, I think I’ll try to get out of

here while the getting’s good.

“Thank you Your Honor. Will that be all?”
She looks a little tired. I wonder why.
“Please excuse me Mister Sharp, I had a

late evening last night. One of the judges
retired.”

“Yes I know. I received an invitation too.”
She looks up at me and asks a question

that confirms my suspicions about her being
from another planet.

“Oh, Mister Sharp… were you there too?”

182

b-4

y feelings are now conflicted. On one

hand, I’ve been completely forgotten
about from last night, but on the other

hand, my judicial position may still be secure
today. There’s also a possibility that she’s

discreetly telling me ‘last night never happened,’
but I don’t think she’s clever enough for that
plan, so I’ll give her the benefit of my doubt and
credit her with just being a horny drunk with a

bad memory. My kind of girl.

Now that I realize last night never hap-

pened, there must be some other reason she
called me in here. She waves toward the chair
and I obediently sit down.

“Peter, I’m going to ask you to do me a

favor. Another one of our judges called in sick,
and he was scheduled to hear opening
statements on a trial in his courtroom in the

next few days. I’d appreciate it very much if you
would step in for him.”

“What about the juvenile court?”
“I can get any one of a number of other

lawyers to fill in for you there, but this one here
is before a jury and I need someone with your
trial experience to preside over it.”

“It isn’t a criminal case is it, Your Honor?”
“No, It’s a civil suit for legal malpractice

against an attorney who allegedly misapprop-
riated trust account funds. The client decided to

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183

file a suit for damages instead of complaining to
the State Bar.

“This will probably make it easier for the

State Bar, because if this plaintiff is successful
in her suit, the State Bar will order a copy of the
trial transcript and use it in their disciplinary
action to lift the lawyer’s license.

“I also am aware of your past problems

with the Bar, and that they’ve been resolved
quite satisfactorily, so I have confidence in your
ability to render an unbiased opinion and see to

it that the trial proceeds fairly.

“How about it? Will you come aboard for

this one?”

She tosses the file across her desk and I

take a look at it. The defendant attorney is none
other than former law professor Morris Arthur. I
knew it would just be a matter of time before our
paths crossed again. Judge Russell sees the look
on my face.

“What’s the matter Mister Sharp? Do you

see some conflict here that might prevent you
from acting impartially in this matter?”

I can’t say anything to her about

suspicions that he was involved in a kidnapping
plot against Suzi, but I’ve got to say something.
If I get assigned to preside over this case and my
feelings come out later, it will give that slime ball

Arthur the perfect ground for appeal, should he
lose in my court.

“I, uh, I opposed him in a civil case not too

long ago, and let’s just say there was some

animosity between us. I could probably find it in
my professional heart to do a fair job as judge on
his case, but there’s no way he’d ever allow me

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184

to preside. Once he found out I was assigned,
your office would receive a Motion to remove me

so fast, it would make your head spin.”

That’s it. I’m through here. Without going

into any detail, I managed to say the exactly
perfect things to her, and for once in my life I
don’t regret saying something. Now I can go back

to Juvenile Court and help some more brats.

“I appreciate your being honest with me

Mister Sharp, and we are all aware of your past
brief history with attorney Morris Arthur, so we

allowed the possibility of your being assigned to
leak out through unofficial channels, and I’m
pleased to inform you that neither Mister Arthur
nor his counsel expressed any hesitation. In

fact, they have informed this office in writing
that they would file an advance waiver against
any subsequent claims of your being prejudiced
against them, as a ground for appeal. Of course
they still have the their right to appeal for

judicial errors you might make during the trial,
but your impartiality would not be questioned.

“So, in view of your straightforwardness

and their expression of trust in your ability to

act fairly, I’m hereby appointing you to preside
over the Morris Arthur matter. The trial will go
on as scheduled. And to make things even easier
for you, the jury has already been selected. The

judge finished that job before he got sick. Due to
the fact that the trial will probably last at least a
week, they decided to hold off starting it until
some of the jurors had a chance to finish up

some pressing matters.”

Damn. I was so close to getting away this

time. Why on earth would he ever agree to let me

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185

be the judge on his case? This guy is diabolical.
The only upside here is that if he loses, I’ll have

a front row seat. I’m used to getting stuck on
crummy cases with clients that turn my
stomach, but the kid is a different story. I hope
she can handle herself accordingly, because
she’ll be my chambers backup person on this

trial too. I’m also sure that Morris Arthur knows
that. I’d better clear Suzi’s presence with the
judge, here and now. I’ll demand that Suzi is
part of my team. Maybe that can be a deal-

breaker and she’ll rethink her decision to
appoint me. Before I can get a chance to offer
her a way out, she cuts me off at the knees.

“Peter, I’m also aware of the fact that you

bring your pre-teen legal ward to court with you
each day. I understand that she’s home
schooled, so it’s okay with me if she wants to sit
in your chambers all day, but please make sure
she does some studying while she’s in there.”

Hmmmn. That was too easy. I hope neither the
kid nor Myra had anything to do with it.

I’ve always thought about being a judge

who presides over a high profile jury case, but

never imagined it would involve Morris Arthur.
Now I have another female to contend with, and
one who can’t be counted on to act as maturely
as Judge Russell. As I walk down the hallway to

my Juvenile Court chambers I try to think of
some way to let the kid know we’re ‘movin’ on
up.’ Being the little ham that she is, maybe she’ll
go along with the program, because we’ll be

using the main courtroom. No more lounge
shows for us… we’re now the headline act.

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186

Suzi takes the news quite well. I don’t

know what her real thoughts are, but I never do.

She still harbors a tremendous dislike for Morris
Arthur and I don’t blame her, but I think that
the opportunity to assist me in a big jury trial
takes precedence over any bad feelings she has
for the defendant. In some way, I think she feels

like part of the judging team, and this is the
closest she’s ever come to actually running a
trial.

The big day is here. Today we work the big

courtroom and preside over a jury trial. Suzi
must be in a good mood because she prepared
some breakfast for us. I notice that my bowl is

only half full, so I ask the dog a question. “Has
some worldwide oatmeal shortage occurred since
yesterday?” The dog refuses to dignify that
question with an answer, but in the event that
he does want to speak to me, the kid gives him a

suggestion.

“If there has been a shortage of anything,

it’s because everyone seems to be wanting to
‘supersize’ everything they eat, and it’s got to

stop somewhere. You can tell him that if you
want to.”

The dog wisely decides to stay out of the

argument. He knows that there’ll be no shortage

of anything after we drop him off at Stuart’s
warehouse for the day. Not only will he be well
fed there, but he can also play with his new
friend Clyde, a kitten that Stuart bought to

replace his former pet cat Priscilla, who always
liked to chase cars and finally caught one. Just
as we’re about to leave the warehouse, Stuart

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187

tells me he’s still working on that assignment
investigating staged accidents for Uniman

Insurance, and is now preparing a list of all the
doctors and lawyers involved, looking for a
pattern. I tell him to keep me informed.

I now have my own key to the private

elevator reserved for judges and other important
people, so we’re now riding upstairs in style in
the same Otis that Myra uses to get to her office
every day. I’m sure the kid will be planning for

us to meet one day as we ‘coincidentally’ all use
the elevator at the same time.

This judge’s chambers is much bigger and

more luxurious than the one in Juvenile Court

and Suzi is already busy setting phone books on
my desk chair, plugging in her laptop and
logging on. The bailiff tells me that Presiding
Judge Russell left something for me in the
closet. I see that it’s a brand new judge’s robe,

but when trying it on, it feels a little tight. The
kid points out that there was a note attached
reminding me that it’s not necessary to wear my
suit coat under the robe. I realize that the note

came from someone who is an expert in knowing
what not to wear under a robe.

I’ve already instructed this courtroom’s

staff about my routine for starting each session,

and everyone including the parties involved have
been informed of the possibility that next
Tuesday might be a day off. I’m now looking up
at the wall clock and preparing to leave for the

courtroom at exactly ten seconds to nine AM.

At five seconds to nine I open my private

courtroom door and the bailiff announces that

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188

everyone should remain seated and come to
order: court is now in session. I’ve been in court

too many times to count, but it’s a lot different
when you come in from this entrance and step
up onto the bench instead of watching from
down there at a counsel table.

The case file is on my desk, so I look down

at the parties and their lawyers, acknowledge
their presence with a nod, and call the case. As
expected, the lawyers each stand up and
announce their representation for the record.

The jury is seated, so all that now remains

is for the trial to take place. I motion to the
plaintiff’s lawyer that he should start his case.
He stands up and gives the usual greeting.

“Thank you Your Honor, ladies and

gentlemen of the jury, what we will be proving to
you today is how the Defendant willfully and
with the intent to…” He goes on for a while.

This is a good lawyer. He’s not dressed too

flashy, he’s obviously prepared his client to sit
there displaying absolutely no emotion, and his
opening statement seems to be laying out a
pretty decent case against the defendant,

attorney Morris Arthur. I hope that Arthur’s
lawyer is up to this task.

When the plaintiff’s lawyer finishes up his

thirty-minute opening, I think that if he actually

proves up with everything he just promised, you
might as well stick a fork in Morris Arthur,
because he’s done. I look over to the defendant’s
counsel table and nod at them. Morris Arthur’s

lawyer stands up and gives her greeting to me
and the jury. She then starts one of the meanest
spirited opening statements I’ve ever heard.

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189

For some reason I can’t seem to pay

attention to what she’s saying. All I seem to be

doing is concentrating on her mean expression
and hearing Rush Limbaugh’s voice as he
describes some females as ‘feminazis.’ Too bad
he’s not here today to watch this dame, because
she’s a real piece of work. I don’t think I’ll have

much to do in this trial because the jury
probably hates her already, and will find it very
hard to vote to give her client the defense verdict
he’s seeking.

You should do your job in a professional

way and force the plaintiff’s lawyer to prove up
every allegation of the lawsuit, but at the same
time you should try to not antagonize the jury so

that they desperately start to look for reasons to
vote against your client. If this is the way the
trial is going to keep going, this lawyer is
handing the case over to the plaintiffs on a silver
platter. I’ve heard the old saying about an

offense being the best defense, but this lawyer is
giving a new definition to the word ‘offensive.’
Another thing I don’t appreciate is the way that
defendant attorney Morris Arthur sits there and

glares at me. I don’t like this guy. He looks evil.

After the first day of trial I’ve come to the

conclusion that being a judge really isn’t all it’s

cracked up to be. It’s one thing to hear Juvenile
matters that only take an hour or so at a time,
but in an extended jury trial, all I do is sit here
and make an occasional ruling about some

objection one of the lawyers makes. The jury will
make the final decision as to who wins, so all I
am is a glorified lawyer-sitter whose only job is

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190

to keep the class in order. I’m not going to miss
this job at all when it ends.

The kid has done a cruel thing. In an

effort to make sure I pay attention to the trial,
she has sabotaged my laptop computer by
deleting the Solitaire program. I feel like I’ve lost
a close friend. I enjoy watching certain

competitions, like those long ski jumps and sky
diving, but a trial isn’t one of the events that
falls into that visually satisfying classification. I
can’t wait to get back into the arena as a litigant.

I guess you’re born to be either a player or a
watcher, and in the professional sport of Jury
trials, I’d rather be playing.

Each evening we pick up Bernie at

Stuart’s warehouse and then return to the boat,
where the Asian Boys have a nice dinner waiting
for us. Suzi is always happier when she’s with
the dog, and I’m always happier when I’m with
dinner. I spoke to Don Paige, our dock’s techie,

but he told me it’s no use trying to re-install
Solitaire on my computer. From what he
explains, using the court’s intercom system,
Suzi’s computer in chambers is networked to

mine on the bench, and that with the help of a
program called PC Anywhere, she can control
my laptop from hers. I knew she was handy, but
this feat sounds a little over the edge, even for
her.

“Don, she’s pretty good with computers,

but how did she ever learn about the court’s
wiring system and the networking stuff?”

“Oh, that was easy. She hired me to visit

the courtroom before your trial started, and I set
the whole thing up for her. It took me less than

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191

an hour, so taking the driving time and
materials into consideration, I only billed your

law firm for two hundred dollars.”

Wonderful. Losing my Solitaire program

wasn’t enough. She made me pay for it too. She
did it to me again.

The phone is ringing. It’s Myra.
“Good evening beautiful, what can I do for

you tonight, other than fix your speeding
ticket?”

“Very funny Peter…”
“Excuse me, but it’s Judge Peter, if you

don’t mind.”

“I do mind, you pinhead, and don’t get

smart with me because I’ve been working my ass
off trying to get the party arranged and I’m not
in the mood for any of your crap.”

“Okay, how about Judge Pinhead? That

would be a nice compromise.”

“Oh Peter, can’t you be serious for just one

minute? Suzi’s surprise thirteenth birthday
party is next Tuesday at the restaurant, and I
know you want it to be a nice one, so please cut

me some slack. I’ve also got Olive working on
some of the details because she’s got a little
more time to spare. All the invitations have been
sent out and it looks like we’re just right about

at the Fire Department’s allowable seating limit
of a hundred and twenty, including you, me, and
the dog. Have arrangements been made to hold
off on the trial for party day?”

“Not to worry. The way this broad is

conducting her defense, she’ll be lucky if the
jury doesn’t offer an early verdict before they’re

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192

even sent out to deliberate. And if for any reason
the trial is still in progress, I’ve made

arrangements to get off for the day.”

Other than Michele Chang and her

daughter Lotus, Suzi doesn’t have a lot of
friends, but she does have a lot of fans, all
involved in one way or the other with law

enforcement. On the day of her surprise party
there will be a lot of them at the Chinese
restaurant to wish her happy birthday. I have a
feeling that she’ll probably know about it by

then, but with that poker face of hers, it’s hard
to tell. Either way, I’m sure she’ll act surprised
enough to convince everyone at the party that
we pulled it off. The most surprising thing about

it all is that my stingy multi-millionaire ex-wife
has actually agreed to pitch in half of the party’s
cost. I’ve never seen her offer to spend money
before, which makes this party a truly
momentous event.

My main responsibility is to make sure

that Suzi appears at the restaurant around one
that afternoon.

Getting the day off wasn’t too hard. I met

with Judge Russell and when she heard that it
was for Suzi’s party, we made a deal. She would
call for a one-day break in the Morris Arthur
trial so that my courtroom could be used to

handle a backlog of criminal arraignments – and
she would be invited to the party. I agreed to the
bargain and then proceeded to show Judge
Russell’s picture to every employee at the

restaurant, warning them that the judge has a
severe allergy to alcohol and might drop dead on
the spot if any serving person there makes the

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193

mistake of giving her anything but water or non-
alcoholic beer.

The phony beer plan should work because

the restaurant knows that most of the people
there will be cops, so they gave their bartender
the afternoon off. No cop would knowingly drink
hard booze while on duty, especially with all the

brass present. Now all I have to do is some kid
wrangling, and I’ve got a plan for that too. She
usually gets to the restaurant every day around
noontime, but if I give her a load of computer

work that must be done that morning, and Myra
calls to invite her to lunch at one PM, then
things just might fall into place. I let Myra in on
that part of the plan and she agrees to make the

phone call.

With the party details now off of my mind,

I can concentrate on trying to keep awake
during Morris Arthur’s trial. My main incentive

to remain conscious is his constant glaring at
me. I know that if he spots me dozing off it will
give him grounds to appeal what most surely will
be his eventual defeat in this trial.

While looking at Morris Arthur I can’t help

but recall that no matter how smart the crooked
lawyers try to be, they always seem to make
some stupid mistake that ultimately does them

in. I remember some years back when there was
a hotshot lawyer who had more cappers on the
street than he could count. His files usually
contained hundreds of open personal injury

cases. On one particular case he made a
calendar error and failed to file a lawsuit within

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the one-year time limit. In legal parlance, he
‘blew the statute.’

Not wanting to be subjected to a huge

lawsuit for legal malpractice, he concocted a way
to beat the statute. His plan included the bribing
of a clerk in the court’s filing room to help,
which required the preparation and back-dating

of a lawsuit, complete with a pre-dated postmark
on the envelope that the lawsuit was supposed
to have been mailed to the court in.

The clerk’s part of the plan required him

to toss the envelope containing the lawsuit
under a desk somewhere in the filing room and
then discover it several months later. When it
was finally ‘found’ under the desk by some

janitor, the clerk’s office believed that the
lawsuit was really filed before the statute ran,
and because it was their error in temporarily
misplacing it, the suit was accepted for filing.

So far the plan was working perfectly,

except for one tiny little detail. Every once in
while the courts update their forms and replaces
an old one with a new version. The date of every
updated revision appears in tiny print down at

the bottom left of each form. Without realizing it,
the devious lawyer used one of the updated
forms in his lawsuit – a new version of the form
that only came into being after the one-year

statute had run.

Needless to say, the filing room clerk

retired early and the lawyer took an involuntary
five-year vacation from the practice of law. Some

times it just doesn’t pay to be on the cutting
edge.

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195

Back at the boat this evening I get a phone

call from Stuart, calling to give me an update on

his investigation. The insurance company has
their own people who look for fraudulent claims,
but all they do is point out the suspicious ones
that occur throughout the entire state. They
don’t have the resources to dig deep into every

one. On the other hand, Stuart and his team
have narrowed their search down to only those
questionable accidents that meet certain criteria.

First, they must take place within a

certain area of the San Fernando Valley. Taking
my suggestion, he agrees that with a small
group of doctors and lawyers involved, they
would want to concentrate on willing

participants who reside in their neighborhoods.
It would look too suspicious if people traveled all
the way across town to see their lawyers and
doctors. It’s more reasonable and attracts less
attention when someone avails themselves of

local help for legal and medical services.

Second, the automobile insurance policies

claimed against must be in effect no longer than
three months. This is because of the usual

pattern of purchasing the insurance for the sole
purpose of making a claim on a soon-to-happen
accident.

Third, there should be some commonality

of lawyers and doctors involved. This final
requirement will narrow the field of investigation
down and make it easier to zero in on a smaller
group of suspects.

After the circle of suspicion has been

reduced, the next step is to find out the banks
that each of the settlement drafts went through.

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Then, with the State Bar’s assistance, the
lawyers’ trust account activities can be looked at

to see if checks were issued against the
deposited draft, or if each draft was merely
cashed at the bank. If it appears that they were
negotiated at the tellers’ windows and not run
through the trust account, it might indicate that

the clients were ‘walked’ to the bank. Cash is the
favored exchange medium for cappers and
participating doctors, and if a lawyer doesn’t
also represent criminal clients, the walking of

personal injury clients to the bank is the only
way to get those green pieces of paper.

Once the lawyers who have cashed

settlement drafts have been identified, the

doctors who treated those clients can be
investigated to find out whether or not their
bank accounts show deposits for payments of
those patients’ medical bills. If not, then the
doctors are now on the hook for ‘skimming,’ and

Michelle Chang’s group of I.R.S. investigators
can be brought in.

Stuart’s investigation isn’t the only thing

that’s going ahead smoothly. Morris Arthur’s
jury trial is too. It only took a couple of days for
the plaintiff’s lawyer to put on his case, and it
looks quite typical. Each month the California

State Bar sends out a publication to every
member, and a popular feature in the back part
of each issue is the list of attorneys who have
been disciplined. The three most frequent

complaints that clients make against their
lawyers is failure to return phone calls, refusal
to release files to the newly retained attorney,

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197

and refusal to refund retainer money after
allegedly not performing the services they were

hired to do.

The more serious complaints involve mis-

handling of client funds, and that is what Morris
Arthur’s trial is about.

The proper procedure when settling a

personal injury case is for the attorney to have
the client endorse the settlement draft and then
deposit it an attorney client trust account. When
the settlement funds have cleared the bank, the

attorney is then supposed to issue checks from
the trust account to pay off any medical or other
liens occasioned by the injury, the legal fee,
reimbursement for costs advanced, and then the

remainder in a check that goes to the client.
That’s where many problems occur. The client is
rarely happy with the final check received.

No one likes surprises. Most of us get

them when we make a purchase, finding out

that extra charges are being added. A prime
example of this is a cell phone bill. The company
may offer a monthly plan for $29.95 per month
that actually winds up being a bill for over forty

dollars each month, with all those hidden
charges added on – charges never mentioned in
any of the phone company’s advertisements.

The same thing happens in reverse when a

personal injury case is settled. The client may
sign off on a three thousand dollar settlement
expecting to receive a final check for at least one
thousand dollars after the doctor and lawyer

have been paid. When a final check for only two
or three hundred dollars comes in, the client is
justifiably upset, and in most cases it’s because

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198

of the lawyer’s failure to properly explain all the
deductions that will be made.

In my own practice, I always made sure

that not only did the client agree to the
settlement amount, but they also signed off on
the complete disbursement list, showing exactly
how much was being spent, who it was going to,

and exactly how much they would be winding up
with.

In the case that Morris Arthur is involved

in here, he settled the plaintiff’s personal injury

case for nine thousand dollars. The client agreed
to the settlement amount, expecting to wind up
with somewhere around three thousand dollars.
Unfortunately, attorney Arthur never showed the

client a disbursement list that list included
Arthur’s forty percent fee of $3, 600, one
doctor’s lien of $3,200, a specialist’s
consultation fee of $500, a private investigator’s
fee of $800, court costs and filing fees of $385,

and miscellaneous charges of $280 for file
copying, research and civil discovery costs.
There also was a $200 chargeback for an
advance given to the client, early on in the case.

Therefore, it was quite understandable

that the client would be unhappy opening up the
mail one day to see that her final settlement
check had arrived. It was for thirty-five dollars.

Being an average hard-working citizen,

she had already made plans to spend over two
thousand dollars of the settlement, so one can
only imagine her disappointment in seeing that

thirty-five dollar check.

Upon further investigation, she discovered

that the treating doctor she was referred to is

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199

attorney Arthur’s cousin, and that he would not
disclose whether or not he allowed attorney

Arthur to negotiate a discount of his medical fee.
She was also refused similar information from
the other doctor and the private investigator.

This is not a criminal case, so the

defendant can’t rely on his Fifth Amendment

right for protection against being called to the
witness stand. He can still refuse to testify to
anything that might criminally incriminate him,
but he must take the witness stand when asked

to do so by the plaintiff.

Morris Arthur isn’t stupid. He knew he

would be called to the witness stand, so he
prepared his strategy well in advance of the trial.

When his bank records were subpoenaed, they
showed that every amount he claimed to have
been disbursed actually was paid out from his
trust account, so he was safe there. What the
plaintiff is having trouble establishing is whether

or not any discounts Arthur negotiated were
given to him in the form of cash kickbacks,
because if that is true, those discounts should
have been turned over the plaintiff. She also

contends that Arthur was remiss in not
presenting her in advance with a final
disbursement schedule.

As expected, both doctors and the

investigator are called to the witness stand and
they testify under oath that there were no
reductions negotiated and no kickbacks given.
When Arthur testifies, his story is the same. He

expresses some remorse that the client received
such a small sum, but blames that fact entirely
on the insurance company in not settling for a

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200

higher, fairer amount. His excuse for not
bringing her accident case to trial was that he

felt it had a maximum value of less than fifteen
thousand, and the additional time and costs
would have meant that the client would probably
wind up with the same amount as was offered in
the settlement. Smooth.

Some years back there was a crime boss

back east who the feds never could get a good
case against. This ‘don’ of a criminal family was
so successful in slipping out of every

prosecution that he got the nickname of the
‘Teflon don.’ I wouldn’t be surprised if the State
Bar has been calling Morris Arthur the Teflon
lawyer, because it looks like he’s pretty slippery

too.

It was inevitable. Things were going along

too well during this trial. While one of the
plaintiff’s witnesses is droning on I hear the

private entrance door behind me open and out of
the corner of my eye I see what I was hoping
wouldn’t happen: the kid has entered the
courtroom. Ordinarily this would not be

anything to worry about, because quite often one
of the court staff comes up to the bench to hand
a judge some paperwork or a note of some sort.
In this trial, there are two people in the

courtroom who are extremely concerned about
Suzi’s entrance: me and Morris Arthur.

Suzi steps up to the bench and hands me

a note. She and I both know that it would have

been just as easy for her to send me this
message by computer, but she wanted to step
up to the bench for the sole purpose of glaring

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201

down at Morris Arthur. And her glare does not
go unanswered, because he responds in kind.

The rest of the people in the room have no idea
what’s going on, but for the few seconds Suzi is
up here with me, daggers are being exchanged
between her and Arthur.

This is not a good situation, so I mutter to

her under my breath that she should ‘go back to
her room.’ She does leave, but probably because
she accomplished what she wanted, and not
because of anything I said to her. After she

leaves I look down at the note and see that it is
to inform me the plaintiffs would like to call a
new witness they just found out about, so the
name had not been added to their witness list

prior to the trial.

I ask both counsel to approach the bench,

at which time we discuss the propriety of
allowing the plaintiff to call the previously
undisclosed witness to the stand. Plaintiff’s

lawyer says this new witness can offer evidence
to support their contention that kickbacks were
given to attorney Arthur by one doctor and the
investigator, so the new witness’ testimony is

vital to their case. Arthur’s attorney vigorously
objects, but a deal is finally made to allow her to
have a crack at the new witness in advance of
his testimony, on the day that the court will be

taking a break from the trial.

That agreement having been made, both

counsel step back to their respective tables and I
make the announcement.

“Let the record indicate that both counsel

have stipulated to the appearance of a new
witness for the plaintiff. The court’s permission

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202

to let this previously not listed person testify is
conditioned upon the fact that the defendant’s

attorney will have an opportunity to depose him
prior to his taking the witness stand.

“As you have already been informed, we

will be taking a one-day break in this trial
tomorrow, so that this courtroom can be used to

help clear up numerous backlogged criminal
arraignments. When the trial continues the day
after tomorrow, I will expect the defendant to
have completed its discovery, and the witness

will take the stand.

“Now, because it’s already late in the

afternoon, I would suggest that we end today’s
session, and for the record, I’d like to have the

plaintiff state her new witness’ name and agree
that he will be here promptly on Wednesday,
without the need for a subpoena.”

There are some unhappy faces at the

defendant’s counsel table, but that’s the way the

cookie crumbles. The plaintiff’s lawyer follows
my suggestion, and makes her announcement.

“Your Honor, with the Court’s permission,

we are hereby putting the Defense on notice that

the first witness we will be calling to the stand
on Wednesday morning is a private investigator
that will support our contention about
kickbacks to the Defendant. The witness’ name

is Stuart Schwarzman.”

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b-5

did a pretty good job of hiding my shock
when hearing that Stuart is the plaintiff’s
new witness. When I told the kid about it, she

didn’t seem surprised, but that’s normal for her.

Our ride home today is interesting. Not because
of the lack of conversation, because the kid and
I aren’t exactly a chatty duo. This time it’s
because of the communicating we’re doing

without talking. We have exchanged looks that
say more than either one of us could express by
speaking.

My look tells her that I suspect she had

something to do with Stuart being called as a

witness for the plaintiff. I’m not sure exactly
what’s going on, but I’m sure that she’s been
keeping track of Stuart’s investigation and
probably had him doing some extra-curricular

snooping to try and get something on Arthur.

Her brief look at me tells me that if I know

what’s good for me, I’ll keep my nose out of this
because she’s going to nail Arthur, and I should

keep out of the way.

When we get to Stuart’s warehouse, Vinnie

brings Bernie out to the car. That’s good,
because if there’s anyone I don’t want to have
contact with between now and Wednesday

morning, it’s Stuart. The kid knows this too,
because I’m also sure that she arranged for
Stuart and I not to bump into each other this

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205

evening. I now have another chore. I’m now
going to have to call Myra this evening and have

her get in touch with Stuart, letting him know
that as much as it pains me, it would be better if
he doesn’t show up at Suzi’s party tomorrow. I
know that the defense lawyers will be grilling
him most of the day, so he probably wouldn’t be

able to make it anyway, but he still should have
been given the option to attend.

The evening new gives me some indication

of how vicious Arthur’s defense team can be. The
local newscaster turns the show over to a
reporter who is standing on the steps outside of
the courthouse, making a statement about some

allegedly newsworthy event.

“We have been informed by sources inside

one of the courtrooms in this building, that
Judge Pro Tem Peter Sharp may be in possible
violation of the State of California’s Labor Laws.”

Someone else on the boat is obviously

watching the same newscast, because I hear
giggling in the foreward stateroom.

“Judge Pro Tem Peter Sharp, presiding

over the jury trial of prominent attorney Morris
Arthur, has pressed his minor legal ward into
what is alleged to be involuntary servitude. She
is being forced to remain in his chambers all day

long, while he sits on the bench supervising
what Morris Arthur contends is a totally
meritless lawsuit against him. We are now
waiting for the District Attorney of our county to

come out of the building and explain whether or
not she will be looking into filing charges against
Judge Sharp, who also happens to be her ex-

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206

husband, and someone who she has not
hesitated to arrest on several past occasions.

Here she comes now. Ms. Scot, would you care
to comment about the actions of Judge Sharp in
forcing a minor to work for him?”

I’ve never known Myra to ever avoid

appearing on camera, so this time should be no

different. I’d like to see how she handles this,
because she’s in a tough spot. As much as she
usually savors any opportunity to take a potshot
at me, this time it would require her to put

Suzi’s legal status into question and also
possibly bolster the public image of Morris
Arthur, who she also despises. She steps up to
the microphone.

“Our office is quite aware of that child’s

presence in the court building. The presiding
judge of the Superior Court has sanctioned it
and there is no employment situation taking
place. The child is happily acting as a volunteer

intern and expanding her knowledge of law and
the courts, because she intends to pursue a
career in law.

“Mister Sharp is her legal guardian, and

because my office is just a few floors above, I
have personally stopped in to visit the child
several times each day to make sure that she is
comfortable, well taken care of, and doing her

assigned homework.”

“Miss Scot, don’t you think that having a

minor child sitting alone in a room with people
accused of felonies being escorted down the

hallway might possible create a dangerous
situation?”

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207

“Not at all. Every time I stop in to see her

there are usually at least two or three uniformed

police visiting with her while waiting to testify in
various courtrooms, so I would say that the
room she’s in may be the safest one in the entire
building.”

That’s the end of the interview and it’s

interesting to hear that Myra’s been stopping by.
At least she cares about one of us.

It’s Tuesday. The trial is off today and the

party is on. I’ve given Suzi some information to
enter into my laptop and Myra has called to let
her know that one PM would be a good time to
meet at the restaurant for lunch. So far, so good.

I’ve been making cell phone calls all morning to
Olive, Vinnie, the restaurant, Myra, and just
about everyone who is in on the surprise. That
is, everyone but Stuart. Vinnie tells me that
Stuart will be busy most of the day being

interviewed by Morris Arthur’s legal team, so
there’s no way he could make it to the party
even if he wanted to.

I’ve looked at my wristwatch so many

times in the past couple of hours that I may be
developing carpal tunnel syndrome, but at least
I know for a fact that it’s the correct time,
because the office invested fifty-nine dollars to

buy a radio-controlled digital clock for our boat’s
navigation station. It receives a special type of
signal from some atomic clock somewhere in
Colorado and is never supposed to be more than

a millionth of a second off. I set my phony quartz
Rolex to that clock every morning, so I’ve always

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208

got the right time, and have lost another
valuable excuse for being late to appointments.

The kid tells me that she’s meeting Myra

for lunch at one this afternoon, and that I’m
invited to join them if I want to. I tell her that I
might stop in if I finish up with another little
thing I have to do in Venice and promise to try

and get there before Myra leaves the restaurant.
I feel terrible lying to her like this, but it’s her
surprise birthday party, so I rationalize the
feeling away.

After admonishing her on the importance

of getting that computer stuff done for me before
she leaves for lunch, I make some lame excuse
and leave the boat before twelve noon. She

usually drives her electric cart down the alley
and uses the restaurant’s rear entrance, but just
to play safe, I park my yellow Hummer around
the corner of the restaurant and walk back. It’s
too big a target for her to miss, and I want to try

and keep her in the dark about the party as long
possible.

It’s now approaching one PM and everyone

is seated in their proper place here in the
restaurant. Over ninety percent of the seats are
taken by uniformed police officers from all the
local agencies, but that’s not uncommon for

today, because the monthly inter-agency law
enforcement luncheon that’s held here regularly
has just concluded. I’m also sure that against
my advice, the kid will be wearing her most

prized possession: a Los Angeles Police
Sergeant’s badge. A former client of ours had a
terminal illness and before sailing his boat away

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209

from our dock left two presents behind: his huge
Smith & Wesson .50 caliber revolver for me, and

his badge for Suzi. She proudly wears it around
her neck, and notwithstanding the fact that it’s
against the law to do so, there’s never been a
complaint from any of the restaurant customers
here, who all knew and respected the guy she

got it from.

According to our plan, the restaurant

manager waited until five minutes to one, and
has locked the front door and hung a sign out

there advising that the place has been closed for
the rest of the afternoon for a private party. Suzi
always uses the alley entrance because that’s
where she parks her electric cart, so she won’t

see the sign and ruin the surprise.

We all know that one of the kid’s habits is

punctuality, so her entrance at one PM should
be right on time. There’s now less than a minute
to go, and the kitchen crew has made sure that

the back door is ajar, because the dog usually
pushes it open and rushes in before Suzi does.

My extremely accurate watch now shows

about ten seconds to go, so I signal everyone to

quiet down. At exactly one PM we see a ray of
sunshine coming through the back door of the
restaurant and realize that this is it… the kid is
now in the building. At that same exact instant,

we also hear the screech of tires out in the alley
and the sound of a car speeding away.

To our surprise, Suzi’s Saint Bernard runs

out from the kitchen and races over to me,

whining, and running around in circles, like he
wants me to follow him. One of the cops notices
that the dog has Suzi’s badge in his mouth. I

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210

never saw anything like this before in my life. It’s
like every cop in the place is psychic and senses

something is wrong, because they all start
running out to the alley. In just a few seconds
the place empties out, with Myra and I following
the crowd.

When I finally get outside the rear exit, I’m

forced back inside. One of the cops tells me that
I can’t go near the empty electric cart because
they’re taping it off as a crime scene. Suzi is
gone.

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b-6

ne thing you’ll never hear me complain
about again is the fact that there’s never
a cop around when you need one. This

time, there are over a hundred of them, and

from the sound of the approaching sirens, more
are on the way.

Surprisingly, the emergency vehicle siren

we all heard was not the cavalry coming, it was a

paramedics’ ambulance, and it doesn’t come
near the restaurant. Instead, it stops at the end
of the alley where there has been a serious
automobile accident. It looks like there were
some injuries because some of the cops have

trotted over there, and we hear the siren of
another ambulance approaching.

At this point, the series of events taking

place are completely out of my control. FBI

Special Agent Robert Snell from the Bureau’s
West Los Angeles office is here as a party guest,
and I’m now at a rear table in the restaurant
being questioned by Snell and several detectives.

They want me to re-create the past half hour in
detail.

Several upper-level cops in attendance are

using their cell phones and squad car radios,
broadcasting Suzi’s description. In less than an

hour the California Highway Patrol has issued
an amber alert, the LAPD has filed an official
missing persons report, and Special Agent Snell

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213

has mobilized the FBI ransom and hostage
negotiating squads and arranged to set up a

command post connected to our boat.

Several police officers have just asked for

my assistance. The empty electric cart was
secured as a crime scene, but the dog jumped
up onto the front seat and they can’t get him off

the cart. I go out to the alley and see him sitting
there. He looks up at me and I can tell by the
expression on his face that he intends to sit
there and wait for Suzi to return, so I tell the

cops that it’s no use… if he wants to wait there
for her, they’d better leave him be.

Because of so many police broadcasts, the

press has also picked up the news and some
rewards are now being offered. Mister Uniman
has announced that his insurance company will
pay one hundred thousand dollars for infor-
mation leading to Suzi’s safe return, and as soon

as Stuart found out about it, he put up a ten
thousand dollar grant offer to any house of
religion or hospital that receives her safely and
notifies the authorities to come and pick her up.

I don’t know what idiots pulled this kidnapping
off, but they’d better hope that the authorities
get to them before I do.

Stuart was being interviewed all day by

Morris Arthur’s legal team and as soon as it was
over he came right to the boat. Snell’s guys have
the entire main saloon all wired with listening
and recording devices attached to the phones, so

we’re on the aft deck. Stuart can’t wait to tell me
about the afternoon, but I have to tell him that
he can’t. I’m the judge on Arthur’s case, and any

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214

information that Stuart has must reach me in
only one way… from the witness stand. And as

much as it hurts me to do it, I have to tell Stuart
to leave the boat, because it’s not proper for me
as the judge to be speaking to a witness without
legal counsel from both sides present. Stuart
has been studying law for the better part of a

year now, so he realizes how difficult it is for me
to tell him this, and also knows that I’m right in
doing so. As he leaves the boat he lets me know
that he’s dropping everything else he’s working

on and devoting full time to finding Suzi. I thank
him, but tell him that we’ve already got enough
people on it and that he should finish up his
assignment for Uniman Insurance.

The phone rings. It’s Judge Morgan

Russell. She heard about what happened and
wants to let me know that she’ll understand if I
ask to be relieved from this jury trial. She’s
prepared to call in both plaintiff and defense

legal teams and get their agreement to let
another judge come in to finish presiding over
the trial.

I’ve been thinking about that very same

thing for the past couple of hours and came to
the conclusion that I would go completely nuts
sitting here on the boat waiting for the phone to
ring. I need something to occupy my brain, and

while this trial doesn’t exactly do that, it’s the
only choice I have, so I tell Judge Russell that I’ll
be in court tomorrow on time, and that the trial
will go on as scheduled.

The dog has not returned to the boat. One

of the police officers drove Suzi’s electric cart
back to the Marina when the crime scene unit

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215

finished their job, and the dog is still on it. From
the way it looks from here, he’ll have no problem

getting food and water, because there’s a steady
stream of neighbors constantly around him.

It’s now nine AM Wednesday morning, and

I’m making my entrance into the courtroom. I

look down at Morris Arthur and an evil thought
enters my mind: if he had anything to do with
grabbing Suzi, I’m bringing that Smith &
Wesson to court with me and using its eight-

inch barrel to take his temperature. I know he
was with Stuart all afternoon, so he couldn’t
possibly have been personally involved, and
other than Myra and about a hundred cops, no

one else knew about the party.

Sad as it might seem, I have to believe

that Morris Arthur wasn’t involved. I also have to
stop thinking about him like this. I’m the judge
here, and I’m supposed to be impartial. This is

hard. I don’t like being a judge. The clerk brings
my thoughts back to the courtroom by informing
me that the plaintiff’s witness is waiting out in
the hall. That’s Stuart she’s talking about, and I

feel that an announcement is in order.

“Ladies and gentlemen, counsel, before

our previous session ended, the Plaintiff called a
witness who will be on the stand testifying

shortly. I would like to fully disclose that I am
familiar with this witness. He has been a friend,
client and business associate of mine for many
years now, but I want to assure this court that I

was caught completely by surprise the other day
when hearing that he would be a witness.

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216

“Furthermore, I have not discussed this

matter with him outside of the courtroom. If the

defense wishes to make a motion to have me
removed from this trial now, I will take the
motion under submission and consult with the
Judiciary Council as to a proper response. Any
comments?”

To my surprise, both parties inform me

that they were aware of my connection with
Stuart and have no objection to my staying on
the case. But Morris Arthur still spends too

much time glaring at me. The plaintiff’s lawyer
stands up and calls her witness.

“Your Honor, Plaintiff calls Mister Stuart

Schwarzman to the witness stand.”

The bailiff sticks his head out into the hall

and tells Stuart that he should come in. This
should be interesting. Stuart and I have talked
about legal cases for years and he’s a licensed
private investigator, but to the best of my

knowledge, this is his first time as a witness,
and I’m curious to see how he handles himself
under cross-examination.

When questioned about how he happened

to have been called as a witness, Stuart testifies
that it was because of information uncovered
while conducing an investigation for another
client. He goes on to tell about his examination

of security videos from several banks, and
noticing footage that showed attorney Morris
Arthur in at least two of the banks. After viewing
videotapes from other cameras in those banks,

he was able to learn that Morris Arthur entered
each bank with another person. They stopped at
a table in the center of the bank, where they

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217

both signed what appeared to be the back of a
yellow check. Morris Arthur and the other man

then would go to a teller’s window and cash the
check.

After getting the cash, the two men walked

away from the teller and outside to the bank’s
parking lot, where the other man would hand

some money to the Defendant. The men then
walked away in different directions, out of
camera view. There is no sound on these
videotapes, so he had no way of knowing what

the subjects were discussing.

Stuart is also asked if he can identify

anyone in court who was in the videos and he
points out Morris Arthur, his investigator, and

one of the doctors. Surprisingly, Morris Arthur’s
lawyer doesn’t have any piercing questions on
cross-examination, so Stuart is excused from
the witness stand.

This is all very interesting, and probably

supports the suspicions of everyone in the room
that Arthur got some kickbacks, but there’s one
huge question that’s bugging me, and one that I
may never get the answer to: how did the

plaintiff’s attorneys learn about Stuart? If there’s
one thing that really bothers cops and lawyers, it
the appearance of a strange or lucky
coincidence, because after thorough

investigation, things never wind up being like
they seem.

I’ve instructed one of the bailiffs to call the

boat every hour and check in with Snell’s man to
see if any call came in about Suzi. Myra is
constantly on the back of every police agency in

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218

her jurisdiction. Nothing. Plenty of tips have
been called in to the hotline that was set up, and

we now know the exact location of every young
Asian girl in Los Angeles, except for the one
we’re looking for. I plan to spend my entire
lunch hour alone in chambers contemplating
what to do next, and upon entering the room am

pleasantly surprised to see Myra sitting on the
couch. A plate of cold cuts is on the table, so we
silently share some food. I have to say something
that’s on my mind. “If anything serious happens

to that kid, I’m outa here.”

This cryptic statement surprises Myra.

“What do you mean by that?”

“Just what it sounds like. I’ve already lost

a wife, a law license, an employer, and now I’m
in danger of losing my partner. I’m tired of this
crappy routine. I’m tired of losing. I’m tired of
this judicial system, a system that’s been the
cause of every loss I’ve suffered in the past

couple of years.

“With the sale of my new boat, my

Hummer, and whatever assets our law firm still
has, I’ll have enough to spend the rest of my life

on a beach somewhere and never go near
another court again.”

I’m not looking at her, so I have no idea

what her reaction is to my statement. I hear her

get up to leave. Her voice is sounds as low as I
feel.

“Let me know what beach you’ll be on.”

I’m now back in the empty courtroom and

sitting, up on the bench. At first I don’t notice it,
but after a few minutes it catches my eye as

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219

something that looks out of place. It’s a small
business-card sized pink envelope. Opening it

up, I see that there’s a brief note inside. I go
back into chambers, call Myra’s office and tell
her assistant to find the boss because Judge
Sharp wants her in his chambers immediately.
In less than five minutes Myra comes walking in.

“What is it? Did you get a phone call? Is

there anything new?”

“Sit down and shut up, Myra. Are there

any pockets in that skirt of yours?”

“What are you talking about?”
“I asked you a question. Do you have any

pockets on your skirt or blouse?”

She feels around for a second.

“Yes, there’s a pocket here, on my blouse.”
I take a single dollar out of my pocket and

hand it to her. Without thinking, she takes the
dollar, and seeing me point at her blouse pocket,
she puts the dollar in there.

“What’s going on Peter?”
“Myra, you’ve just been retained. As of this

minute, you’re my lawyer, and anything I say to
you now is completely confidential. If you don’t

agree to that, then you can just give me the
dollar back and leave.”

I can sense the gears spinning around in

her head. She’d be totally justified in handing

me back the dollar and telling me that she’s a
public official and can’t accept private clients,
but if I’m right, curiosity will get the best of her
and she’ll go along with the program. I think I’m

right this time.

“Okay, whatever you tell me is completely

confidential. What’s happening?”

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220

Good, she went for it.
“I went out to the empty courtroom during

lunch time and sat at the bench for a couple of
minutes. While there, I noticed something that
looked out of place.”

I open my desk drawer and remove two

clear plastic evidence bags I borrowed from the

bailiff’s desk. One of them contains the envelope,
and the other has the note that was inside. I
hand them both to Myra. Her eyes almost pop
out of her head when she reads the note. It is

only one sentence:

Judge Sharp:

Your little girl will be returned to you

unharmed when this trial concludes with a
defense verdict, either by jury or N.O.V.

We both realize the same thing - that this

note was written by someone with a legal

education, because no one else would make a
reference to ‘N.O.V.’ It is an abbreviation for the
Latin term that when translated means ‘a
judgment notwithstanding the jury verdict.’ This

is a ransom demand that attempts to force a
final judgment in favor or attorney Morris
Arthur, and if the jury decides against him, then
as judge, I’m supposed to use my judicial power

to set aside the jury’s verdict and rule in his
favor.

“Peter, I’m taking this evidence right to our

lab.”

“No you’re not.”
“Are you crazy? We’ve got to tell Agent

Snell about this immediately. You’ve got his

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221

team on your boat, the entire FBI resources are
at your disposal, every cop in town is waiting for

some direction on this case, and the county’s top
prosecutor is ready to move. How can you not
want me to take these evidence baggies and get
to work on the case?”

“Myra, I appreciate your feelings, and you

know that I want her back safely too, but I
showed you this stuff in confidence… you agreed
to that, and I think the worse thing we can do
right now is tip our hand. Whether you agree

with me or not, our friend Victor’s private lab
can do just as good a job as Snell’s can, and I
don’t want to turn this into a circus.

“This tells me that Morris Arthur has

something to do with the note, because he’s the
only one standing to benefit from a defense
verdict. Now we have to ask ourselves: was he
involved in the kidnapping, or is he just trying to
capitalize on it?

“Either way, I think that the attention this

matter received has hopefully given the bad guys
a message that they better not harm that kid
they’ve got, so I want to play the rest of this

game out in our ballpark instead of Snell’s. We
have nothing to gain by getting her back other
than knowing that she’s safe. We aren’t looking
for headlines or a reason to have our budgets

increased.

“I’m not trying to second-guess Snell’s

motives, but the best meaning people can be
subconsciously led in the wrong direction

sometimes, and the only people I trust on this
case now are you, me, Victor, and Stuart.

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222

Anyone else, no matter how well-meaning they
may mean, will just get in our way.”

She doesn’t say anything. I understand

her conflict. She has a loyalty to her position as
district attorney, and also is crazy about Suzi.
She finally looks up at me.

“You win. What do you want me to do?”

“Nothing right now. I’ve already called

Victor’s place and he should be here any time
now to pick up this stuff and take it back to his
lab. I told him I want a complete work-up,

including DNA examination of the envelope’s
glue.

“I learned a long time ago that when you

give someone the silent treatment, they go into

their ‘I’m not okay mode,’ and that’s exactly
what I’m going to do with Morris Arthur and
anyone else who may have been involved in
getting that note up to my bench. I’m going to go
on with this afternoon’s session like nothing

happened. Whoever’s responsible for delivering
that note will have to start asking themselves
whether or not I actually saw it, and maybe that
will cause some conflict between them that

might result in their making a mistake.

“Let them start questioning the person

who was supposed to deliver it. Let them think
that if for some reason I never saw it, that they

now have to change their plan and try some
other way to contact me. I want to put the ball
back into their court, because the clock is now
ticking. They don’t want Suzi… they want a

defense verdict, and if they don’t communicate
that demand to me again soon, they’ll lose this
case, Morris Arthur will be bankrupted and

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223

disbarred. If he’s involved, he’s got a lot to lose.
He’ll have to make another move.”

As much as I know it pains her to do it,

Myra agrees with me. Our friend Victor runs a
private autopsy service named 1800AUTOPSY,
which is also his telephone number. He also has
an experienced CSI staff, so Myra knows that

Victor can do a good job with the evidence and
also realizes that there are so many people
involved with this case that by dropping a piece
of food into the mix, it would cause a feeding

frenzy. She promises to keep quiet about the
evidence if I allow her to secretly work with me.
It’s a done deal.

I’m worried sick about the kid. It’s now

almost one in the afternoon and she’s been gone
for twenty-four hours. I have to take the bench
and do an Academy Award performance of
looking like I haven’t seen any note yet and that
there is no note up there waiting for me. The

courtroom was locked shut when I found the
note, so no one but Myra knows that I was out
there to find it. As far as the rest of the world is
concerned, my taking the bench for this

afternoon’s session is the first time I’m up here
since before we broke for lunch at eleven thirty.

Entering the courtroom for the afternoon

session, I see that there’s a gaggle of reporters
present. They all know that Suzi’s legal guardian
is acting as a judge and that the kid was
occupying my chambers during the trial. They’ve

also seen the media exposure her disappearance
has caused, so they are here en masse. I notice
that there is a representative from Court TV

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224

talking to both legal teams, obviously trying to
get their approval for the lights and camera to be

turned on.

The bailiff silences the courtroom and as

soon as I sit down and call the case, both
counsel ask to approach the bench. I think I
know what they want, and my hunch is

confirmed when they both tell me that if I’ll allow
the remainder of the trial to be covered by Court
TV, that neither side will object.

I think about this for a few seconds and

then realize it would be a good idea, because if
I’m going to perform my ‘silent’ routine for
whoever put that note on my bench desk, I
might as well have enough coverage to ensure

that the guilty party sees the act, so I give them
my permission, conditioned on their not showing
the jury on camera. A few seconds later the
camera lights go on. Not only is this my first
appearance as a judge presiding over a jury trial,

but it’s also being televised. Trying to look as
normal as possible, I explain to the jury that
we’re now being televised, but their faces will not
be shown. This pleases some of them and

disappoints others.

Plaintiff’s lawyer stands up and

announces that he rests his case. I now see why
people think lawyers are incompetent. If that

was me down there, I’d have a crew of
investigators now reviewing all the footage those
bank security cameras shot during the past six
months, to see how many times Arthur showed

up with people and received money out in the
parking lot. The best thing they could have done
was establish his pattern of doing business, and

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225

then turning the screws on every person he was
seen with, threatening legal action and trying to

get someone to turn on Arthur.

But they didn’t do that, and now it’s time

for Arthur’s lawyer to put on a case for the
defense, and I can feel in my bones that they’re
going to try and make that exchange of money

look as innocent as possible.

Morris Arthur’s obnoxious lawyer stands

up and calls one of the money exchangers to the
stand. It’s the doctor. I knew it was coming. The

way he explains it, he owed Arthur some money
from their restaurant dinner the night before,
and was just repaying his debt.

In a similar fashion, the investigator sticks

to the party line and says that he was paying
back a cash advance that Arthur had given him
a week earlier. Neither one of these fairy tales
impresses me, but it just might work with the
jurors. That’s why I would have liked to see the

plaintiff’s lawyer try to establish a pattern of
behavior. Maybe you can get away with
explaining what Stuart testified to as possibly
being repayment of a dinner check or previous

cash advance once, but if shown that Morris
Arthur received cash from everyone he went to
the bank with over a period of time, the weak
excuses would have faded away.

The defense feels that they’ve done as good

a job as possible, so they rest their case. It’s now
late in the afternoon, so I tell both sides that
they should be ready to start their closing

arguments tomorrow morning. Just as I leave
the bench the bailiff tells me that a call came in

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226

for Suzi from some pet store, leaving a message
that they’ve found her dog.

Found her dog? We didn’t lose a dog. The

only dog I have any connection with is Suzi’s
huge beast, and I don’t think I could lose him if I
tried. Just the same, I call the boat. The
answering machine answers. I want a live

person.

“Hello, this is Peter Sharp. C’mon, I know

you’re there… and if you’re not, I’m calling
Snell’s office and telling him you’re asleep on the

job, so please pick up the phone.”

It works, and one of the agents answers. I

ask him if he can see the electric cart from
where he is standing. He tells me that yes, he

can see the cart and that there are three kids
standing there petting the dog. I thank him and
hang up. My next phone call is to Don Paige, the
techie who lives on our dock. Not too long ago he
removed the Lo-Jack anti theft device from my

car so that Suzi could borrow it for an
experiment she was conducting. I’m hoping that
maybe she did it again. Don tells me that she
hasn’t’ made that request again. Another dead

end.

Back at the boat, I decide that it won’t do

me any good to sit around on the boat, so I see if

the dog feels like leaving his guard post and
taking me for a walk. I can’t seem to find his
leash anywhere on the boat, so I pick up a piece
of nautical rope and plan on tying it to his collar.

When I get to the electric cart, I see that

I’m wasting my time because he’s obviously in

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227

no mood to go walking with me. I also notice
that he’s not wearing his collar.

I go back to the boat and make another

round of phone calls. Victor didn’t find anything
we could use on the note or envelope. Myra
hasn’t heard anything from the cops. Both sides
have rested their cases and Stuart won’t be

testifying any more, so I don’t think I’m violating
any rules by calling him. He’s glad to hear from
me.

“Stuart, I’m sorry I wouldn’t talk to you

the other day, but you know what position I was
in.”

“Not to worry, Pete. I understand. Can we

talk now?”

“Yeah, the cases in chief are over, and

both sides have rested. Listen, I have a question
I’d like to ask you. It’s been bothering me for
while.”

“Sure Pete, what’s on your mind?”

“How the hell did you get called as a

witness in that case?”

There’s silence on his end of the line.

When Stuart is at a loss for words I know there

must be some reason. He finally comes up with
an answer.

“I’ve been sworn to secrecy.”
“Listen to me Stuart. If Suzi had anything

to do with your being dragged into this case,
forget about promises and being sworn to
anything, because it we don’t find her by the end
of this trial, we may lose her forever, so open

your mouth right now and give me an answer.”

He can tell by the tone of my voice that I

mean business.

Gene Grossman

228

“Okay, but I promised her I wouldn’t tell.

You’re right, it was Suzi. She’s got a thing about

this guy Morris Arthur, and she knew I was
investigating some lawyers who walked their
clients to the bank, so she retained me on the
side. I was provided with pictures of Morris
Arthur, his doctors and his investigator that she

got off of the DMV driver’s license database.

“I brought her the bank security tapes

that showed anyone who resembled those guys,
and she used her computer’s facial recognition

software to positively identify who they were. I
think she must have sent an anonymous tip to
the plaintiff’s lawyers, because they called my
office and retained me to conduct the exact same

investigation… the one I just did. That way, I
became their investigator and they called me to
the witness stand.

“I think she was trying to keep you out of

the loop completely, so I never said anything to

you about it. Did I do the wrong thing?”

I assure Stuart that he didn’t do anything

wrong and thank him for being honest with me.
Now I’ll call Myra again and fill her in on what I

just learned. I don’t think it’ll help any, but I
promised her timely updates.

Before I can call Myra the phone rings.

The caller ID display shows a number I’m not

familiar with. I look over to the FBI guys, and
they turn a few knobs and then give me the
signal that I should sit down and let them
handle it. The female agent answers the phone,

trying to sound like she’s my secretary.

“Hello, this is Peter Sharp’s office. How

may I direct your call?”

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229

The loudspeaker on their electronic

equipment is on while they record the call, so I

can hear both sides of the conversation.

“Is miss Braunstein there please?”
“Oh sure, she just stepped out of the office

for a second. Wait a minute, hold on, I’ll run out
and call her back in, so she can take your call.”

Smart move. She’s trying to keep him on

the phone as long as possible. Another agent
signals her with a thumbs-up sign, letting her
know that the trace is complete.

“I’m sorry, I missed her. She’s already

gone. Can I take a message for her?”

“Yeah, this is Von, over at the pet store.

Would you please tell her that she still owes us

twenty-five dollars on her last purchase?”

The agent promises to pass the message

on. They obviously did a quick trace on the call
while the conversation was still going on, and
once discovering that the call did in fact come

from a pet store, they realized the call wasn’t
important and let it go. I still can’t figure out
why they’d be calling her. Suzi always pays her
bills. And what did the guy mean when he called

earlier to let us know that he found the dog? I
don’t have the mental energy to worry about that
now.

I didn’t get a chance to call Myra before

the pet store guy called, so now I’ll have more
meaningless information to update her with. It
probably won’t help much, but I’m going to try
and relax for a while. Maybe a Sherlock Holmes

short story will help to calm me down. Boy,
could we use him now.

Gene Grossman

230

I must have dozed off, because it’s now

around eight PM and the phone is ringing again.

This time it’s my cell phone and the caller ID
shows Myra’s home phone number, but the FBI
still wants to follow the protocol. I follow their
instructions and answer the phone on their
signal.

“Hi, what’s up?”
“Peter, did you do like I asked? You

promised you’d go to the Marina del Rey Liquor
store, and call me if they’ve got a new load of my

favorite cheese.”

This must be some code she’s using. I

think she wants to talk to me without the FBI
listening in.

“Oh gee Myra, I forgot all about it. Can’t it

wait until tomorrow?

“No, it can’t wait. This is just like you. You

never remember to do anything I ask of you.
This is why we’re not married anymore.”

That seems to have done the trick. The

agents are convinced this is just a spat between
ex spouses. They give me sympathetic looks as I
put on my shoes and leave the saloon, heading

in the direction of the engine rooms, where I pick
up the Smith & Wesson. I don’t know what’s
going on, but I want to be prepared for anything.
I leave the boat but don’t get very far, because

once out of sight of the FBI, I use a payphone to
call Myra back.

“Peter, get your ass over to my house right

now. And I mean right now.”

I don’t ask any questions. I race toward

my parking space and just as I’m about to jump
into the Hummer, I’m pushed aside by another

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231

force. The dog saw me running to the car and
doesn’t intend to let me get away without taking

him along too. I fasten his Doggles, open the
sunroof for his head to stick out, and rush down
the freeway to Myra’s house.

When we get there she’s already outside

waiting for us. She jumps into the rear seat and

shouts out some directions.

“Take the 405 south to the 10 and then

head east. We’ve got about thirty miles to go,
and don’t worry about a speeding ticket, I’ve got

my badge with me.” Little does Myra know that
I’ve got Suzi’s badge with me, and it would
surely carry much more weight with any cop
than hers would.

I follow orders and in less than two

minutes we’re on the freeway, doing about
seventy-five.

“Okay, kid. I can only do this Kato routine

so long. Start talking. Where are we going?”

“If I’m right, we’re going to pick up Suzi.”
“You heard from her?”
“Not exactly, but I think I know where she

is.”

“What’s going on? How did you do it?”
“Simple. It cost me twenty-five bucks. I

put it on my credit card.”

She can tell that I have no idea what she’s

talking about, so she goes on. This always
happens to me, but this time instead of the kid,
it’s Myra letting me know that I’m totally
clueless.

“After you called me, I started to think

about why the pet store called Suzi twice today,
and why they wanted twenty-five dollars from

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232

her, so I used my crime-busting software and
checked out her credit card purchases. The only

thing that stood out was a three hundred dollar
charge made at the same pet store that called
you twice. It was for a dog collar.”

“Gee Myra, that’s a lot to spend for a dog

collar. I’ve bought suits for less than that.”

“Please Peter, don’t remind me.”
“Wait a minute. I checked the dog earlier

tonight, and look at him now… he’s not wearing
any collar.”

“Wow, nothing gets past you, does it? Of

course he’s not wearing his collar dummy, Suzi’s
wearing it. I remember you telling me that Olive
took her shopping at the pet store, so I called

over there. That clerk Von was still on duty and
he explained why the collar cost so much. It’s
got a locating device in it, in case you lose your
dog. Along with the purchase of the device, they
offer two trial tests, the first one is free and the

second one costs twenty-five dollars.

“They did the first free test a day or two

after she bought the collar, and the pet store
called to tell her the location… it was the boat.

On the day of her party, she wanted the dog to
look real nice, so she was carrying the collar
with her when she drove to the restaurant. She
uses two hands when she drives that cart, so the

dog collar was around her neck. When she
stopped in the alley to put it on the dog, she had
to remove her police badge necklace to get the
collar over her head.

“Before she had a chance to put the collar

on the dog, she got grabbed up. They sped away

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233

with her in their car, and the dog picked up her
badge and ran into the restaurant to get you.

“The pet store did the twenty-five dollar

test on the morning that they called Suzi at the
courthouse and left the message that they found
her dog. That wasn’t the dog they found, it was
Suzi!

“They wouldn’t give me the location of the

test result until they were paid, so I gave them
my credit card number, paid the bill, and they
gave me a location. It’s not exactly a street

address, but it should be close enough. I’m glad
you brought the dog along, because he can help
tell us exactly where she is.

“And by the way, she knew about the

party way before it went on.”

“I knew it. She’s too sharp to let us pull

anything over on her. How’d she find out?”

“I don’t know how she found out, but

before calling the pet store I called Olive to see if

there was any other information that would help
us. Olive asked her why she spent so much for
the collar and Suzi told her that it was
something special that she wanted the dog to

wear to a party.”

“Okay Miss District Attorney. Now that we

have an idea where she is, what do we do next?
Shouldn’t we call for some backup? We’re not

exactly trained in hostage rescuing techniques.
We should have the Delta Force or someone like
the FBI with us, shouldn’t we?”

“You’re right Pete, so I’ve got the people at

the pet store standing by and two of my
investigators are there with them right now.
When we get to the location they gave us, I’ll call

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234

my guys and they’ll have the pet store run
another test to see if the location is still a valid

one. At that point we’ll call for backup. No sense
in wasting everyone’s time if we’re on a wild
goose chase and the search leads us to the
middle of a Wal-Mart store.”

As usual, she’s right again. I’ve followed

her directions and we’re now passing West
Covina. Her map says we should turn off in
another exit or two, so I’m looking for it now.

Once off the freeway, we drive through a

neighborhood with small houses on large lots.
There are a couple of vehicles up on jacks in
each driveway. When we get to the location that

the pet store gave us, we see three small houses
on one large lot. Myra calls the pet store and her
investigators confirm that the signal is still
coming from the same place. We’re here now,
and I haven’t the slightest idea what to do. I

decide to drive around the block a couple of
times to check and see if there is any back way
onto that lot, like an alley or side road. I pull the
Hummer off the road to turn around and

immediately get surrounded by armed men
shining flashlights in my face.

236

b-7

few seconds after they take the light away
from my face my eyes once again get
accustomed to the darkness and I see that

this is an FBI swat team. The guy walking

toward the car is also suited up, but he looks
familiar. It’s Special Agent Snell.

“What did you guys do, follow us here?”
“Not really Sharp. We’ve been here for over

an hour.”

Myra and I are led down the road towards

a large van. Stepping inside, we see that it’s a
complete mobile command center. Snell points
to some displays on the computer screens.

“We’ve been using FLIR. That’s an

acronym for Forward Looking Infra Red, a device
your local police helicopters have been using for
some time. We’ve detected some life form

signatures and one of them might be a small
human.”

At this point I’m starting to suspect Myra

of spilling the beans to Snell, but she soon

clears that up for me.

“If you guys didn’t have my phone tapped

and you didn’t follow us here, what brought you
to this place?”

“Sharp, you should have trusted us. We

figured that someone would try to contact you
sooner or later, so we contacted Court TV and
had them turn their camera on. We saw you

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237

sitting there by yourself on that lunch break
when you found the note. We didn’t think much

of it until we saw you borrow those evidence
bags. We already had a tap on the phone in your
chambers, so we knew that your grave-digging
friend Victor was coming to pick up the note. We
obtained a warrant and searched his lab that

evening to find any results he may have turned
up.

“But the thing that really got us here was

the Court TV camera’s videotape. Once you

found the note, we figured it was just a matter of
rewinding it to see how it got there… and we did.
All of the clerks on that floor have access to the
courtrooms, and sure enough, we spotted one of

them sneaking in there after everyone left for
lunch, just before you went in and found it
there. His name is Michael. He works down the
hall in the filing room.

“We grabbed him up at the end of the day

and he caved right it. He claimed that he was
given five hundred dollars to deliver a personal
note to your bench, and that he was instructed
to come to a certain address this evening to pick

up the balance of his bonus. He was scared out
of his mind and didn’t know where the money
came from or who paid it, but he desperately
needed it for some gambling debts, so he figured

it was something his bookie set up to help him
out and he went along with it.

“We’ve still got him in custody, and we’re

watching the place he was supposed to go to.

They’re still expecting him, and we’re waiting for
one of our undercover guys to get here, so we
can send him in there.”

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238

I don’t care what Snell’s plan is, but I

don’t intend to wait all night for some other guy

to get here. They’ve done a good job of putting
this all together, but I don’t trust them to finish
the job. I’ve seen the FBI screw up too many
times on television. I excuse myself and tell them
I want to stretch my legs. Myra can tell

something’s up, but she just looks at me with
one of those ‘don’t do anything stupid’
expressions as I exit the trailer.

The .50 caliber Smith & Wesson is hidden

in the car, so I remove if from under the seat
and stick it in my pocket. It doesn’t fit. The
damn thing is fifteen inches long. I shove it into
my belt in the small of my back and start to

walk toward the three houses on that large lot. I
now realize that the dog wasn’t in the car just
now, but soon discover that he’s way ahead of
me, because in the darkness I can see his body
silhouetted by lights in the middle house… the

one that he’s now facing, like a Setter. For quite
some time he’s seen me taking instructions from
his master, so he must think I’ve been trained
enough to follow his orders too.

I really don’t know what I’m going to do

now, but feel certain that something will come to
me… it usually does. I casually walk up to the
front door of the house and knock a few times. A

voice from inside asks who it is.

“It’s Michael. I was told to come here to

pick up some money that’s owed to me.”

The voice from inside tells me to come

around to the back of the house. When I get
around to the back yard, I see that the back

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239

door is ajar. Walking up to it, I knock and then
address whoever might be inside.

“Hey, it’s Michael. I’m at the back door

now. Has anyone got something for me?”

The door slowly opens and I’m face-to-face

with a large muscular man whose entire top half
is covered with tattoos. He hands me an

envelope. I open it up and see that there are five
C-notes inside. He looks down at me.

“Anything else you want, Michael?”
When reaching around to put the money

envelope in my back pocket, I grab the huge
revolver, swing it around, and stick it in his face.

“You’ve got five seconds to get that girl out

here. Five, four, three,…”

The sight of this huge revolver makes his

eyes bulge out and I here him shout something
out in a language I don’t understand. I hear
someone else in the house moving around, a
squeaky door gets opened and the next thing I

know, Suzi is running towards me with tears in
her eyes shouting “what took you so long? I
haven’t slept in two days!”

The big tattooed guy sees an opportunity

to get away, so as I scoop up Suzi, he runs away
towards the front door. I pick her up and carry
her around to the front of the house. At this
point I couldn’t care less about any of the

escaping kidnappers… I’ve got what I came here
for.

When we get around to the front of the

house I see a remarkable sight. The large man

and his two associates are standing outside the
front door, hands raised up over their heads. I
don’t see any FBI guys around, so I wonder who

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240

they’re surrendering to. My question is answered
as I look around in front of them and see that

the Saint Bernard is viciously growling at them.
They know they can’t go forward to get past him,
and they also realize that a guy with a big
revolver is behind them, so they just raise their
hands and are standing there, waiting for me to

take them in.

Suddenly we’re being flooded with light.

The FBI has finally decided it was safe enough
for them to participate, so they turned some

floodlights on. Orders are being shouted out to
the three banditos and I slowly follow them, with
a sleeping girl in my arms. The dog has decided
to let the FBI complete the arrest, and he is now

walking so close to me that my leg is rubbing up
against him.

I’m partially blinded by the spotlights, but

it looks like the cops have the bad guys in
handcuffs and someone is running towards me.

It’s Myra She grabs Suzi out of my arms and
heads for the car.

As I follow her to the Hummer, Snell stops

me. He notices the large revolver sticking out of

my belt, now in front. I quickly jammed it in
there before picking up Suzi.

“That was a crazy thing you just did. You

got a license to carry that thing?”

I don’t have time for this.
“Listen here Special Agent Man, I’m a

Superior Court Judge working on a special
assignment with the county’s district attorney,

so just get out of my way. I have to give a little
girl a ride home.”

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241

There is no conversation on the way home.

The dog is not riding in the front seat, he’s in the

back seat with Myra and the sleeping Suzi.
When we get back to the boat Myra makes sure
that Suzi is put to bed. She also calls the district
attorney’s after-hours telephone and requests
that a driver be sent to pick her up at the

Marina.

She saw me put the gun back under the

seat when we got back into the Hummer, and
has some idea of what happened earlier this

evening.

“Are you out of your mind? What if they

were armed? Were you prepared to shoot your
way out of there?”

At this point I realize she’s right, because I

didn’t even think about that.

“I don’t know Myra. All I do know is that if

we would’ve waited for the FBI to get their act
together, it might’ve turned into a Waco or Ruby

Ridge type of situation, with the bad guys inside
using the kid as a bargaining tool. I don’t think
I’d have hesitated one second to blow out the
brains of anyone who was holding her captive. I

guess the main thing holding me back from
doing that was my not bringing any bullets
along. They cost over three dollars each, and I
never got around to buying some.

“I’m glad you found her and came along

tonight. I think your driver is here now.”

No more words are exchanged, but for the

first time since about two years before our

divorce, she kisses me on the cheek as she
leaves.

Gene Grossman

242

244

b-8

t’s about twenty seconds to nine Thursday

morning and I’m ready to make another
grand courtroom entrance. Suzi and I have

worked out a plan, so she’ll be hiding in
chambers for the next hour or so. We snuck in

early this morning, so no one knows she’s here
today. There were no local police involved in the
rescue last night, so the press didn’t get wind of
it. The three prisoners are going through a long

booking process, so they haven’t yet been given
an opportunity to make any phone calls.

We were successful in talking Snell into

temporarily releasing Michael the filing room
clerk. He now has two undercover FBI agents

working with him in the filing room. We did this
to alleviate any suspicion. If Arthur is involved,
not being able to contact his friends in the
middle house, he might have someone check on

Michael to see if he picked up his money last
night and if everything looked okay out there.

The way we’ve kept a lid on this, other

than the FBI and Myra, no one knows that Suzi

is back. I know that Myra won’t tell anyone, and
the FBI never tells anyone anything, so we’ll see
how our little plan plays out.

Our spy network reported that as soon as

the courthouse opened this morning, Morris

Arthur was in the filing room submitting some
documents on other civil cases his office is
handling. He saw Michael there but didn’t make

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245

any contact at all. Michael saw Arthur but
looked like he’d never seen him before. That’s

probably true.

It’s coincidental that after having not

personally come to that room in the courthouse
to file papers during the past few years, Morris
Arthur decided to bring some paperwork in on

the morning that final arguments are being
made in his own trial. Sometimes I really like a
good coincidence.

I call the case and inform both sides that

I’d like to hear their closing arguments this
morning so we can turn this case over to the
jury after lunch. Morris Arthur looks smugly
confident. He must believe that I’ve seen that

note and that he’s on his way to victory.

The plaintiff’s lawyer goes first and gives a

wonderful summation, painting a really terrible
picture of Arthur. It looks like Arthur is taking it
quite calmly. Just before his lawyer starts her

closing argument, the private entrance behind
me opens up, Suzi steps up, hands me a file,
and without so much as a glance down towards
Morris Arthur, she disappears back into

chambers.

Due to the fact that she was the victim of

a highly publicized kidnapping, every reporter in
the room now jumps up and runs out of the

room, frantically doing some cell phone dialing. I
act as if nothing has happened, other than my
intern handing me a file. I do manage to sneak a
glance toward Morris Arthur, and the blood

seems to have been drained out of his face… like
he’s seen a ghost. I look down at his lawyer.

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246

“We’re waiting for the Defendant’s closing

argument counselor, is there some problem?”

She looks up at me with an expression of

exasperation on her face. “Er, uh, Your Honor, if
we could just have another minute.” I think that
it would a nice thing to do, so I grant her
request.

“Very well, but let’s not keep the jury

waiting too long.” She’s now conferring with
Arthur, her investigator, and her second-chair
person. Looking not quite as confident as she

did at the beginning of this trial, she now starts
her summation, sounding a little on the shaky
side.

Notwithstanding a weak start, she finally

finds her voice and during the next hour delivers
one of the best closing arguments I’ve ever
heard. Piece by piece, she tears apart every item
of evidence that the plaintiff’s lawyer introduced.
Her explanations and excuses for Arthur’s

actions are beautifly creative. If the plaintiff
would have done enough homework to establish
a pattern of conduct this whole summation
would have been an exercise in futility, but he

didn’t, so there’s a possibility that Arthur
actually has a chance here today.

We’ve already had a sidebar conference

and both parties have agreed to the jury

instructions. The arguments are now done and
I’m instructing the jury.

That’s it for now. The jury is in their

private room deliberating the fate of attorney

Morris Arthur. I’ve been keep track during the
trial and closing arguments, and my scorecard
shows thirteen points for the plaintiff and eleven

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247

for the defendant. If I were a betting man, I’d
have to go with the plaintiff on this one.

There are too many reporters hanging

around, so Myra brings some lunch downstairs
and we all eat together in chambers. I flip on the
little TV set and we see that the local news has
plenty of stories about the recovery of that little

girl. Each of the stations has some inside source
somewhere, but every theory they come up with
is so far from the truth that it’s almost comical.
As far as I’m concerned, I hope the real facts

never come out, because I don’t want to be
branded as the gun-slinging judge.

Snell and two of his agents spent some

time in my chambers with Suzi this morning,
taking her statement. They now know what I
learned this morning on our drive downtown.
She was driving down the alley a few minutes
before one PM on the afternoon of her party.

Just as she was about to park and come into the
restaurant, she heard two cars crash together
less than a hundred feet away near the corner.
When she looked over there, she saw four people

hop into the front vehicle after the crash. They
ran over to what was a staged accident from the
car they arrived in that was parked in the alley,
in back of the restaurant.

The accident stage manager and his

partner came back to their car and realized that
Suzi must have seen the intended plaintiffs get
into that car after the accident, so they

panicked, grabbed her into their car and sped
away.

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248

Early this morning Myra’s office put out a

notice to all the insurance companies. They’ll be

searching their files to see who put in a claim for
the staged accident and if they’re stupid enough
to not realize that the jig is up, the plaintiffs’
attorney will be watched very closely, to see
where the accident victims receive their medical

treatment.

My court clerk buzzes me with news that

the jury has returned with a verdict. That was
quick. Myra and Suzi join me as we go back into

the courtroom. The jury foreman hands a slip of
paper to the bailiff. He hands it to me, I read it
and hand it back to him.

“Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, have

you reached a verdict?”

Just like on television, the jury foreman

tells me that they have, and that their verdict is
for the defendant. Morris Arthur is happy. He
hugs his lawyer, who looks like she could have

done without the hug. The plaintiff’s lawyer
requests permission to poll the jury, and we
learn that the decision was eight to four for the
defendant. I thank and excuse the jury, slam

down the gavel and then quickly follow Myra and
Suzi back to the protection of chambers and
away from the press.

While Morris Arthur and his legal team are

standing around thanking the jury and congrat-
ulating each other, a hush falls over the court-
room. I turn around and see that Suzi has come
back in and has walked over to Morris Arthur’s

counsel table. He looks down at her with a smirk
on his face.

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249

“Well, hello Miss Braunstein, it’s nice to

see you again. Is there something I can do for

you?”

You can hear a pin drop. Everyone in the

room is familiar with this kid’s courtroom
performances in the past, and they want to see
what she’s cooked up this time. She looks up at

Morris Arthur.

“Mister Arthur, I want you to know how

much I’ve appreciated this opportunity you’ve
given me to be a part of this case you’ve been

involved in. It’s been a pleasure working with
you and I wanted to say goodbye.”

“Oh my, I don’t think that a goodbye is

necessary Miss Braunstein, I’m sure we’ll meet

again in the near future.”

Now the smirk is on Suzi’s face.
“I don’t think so Mister Arthur.”
They exchange glares for another few

seconds, until Arthur decides their conversation

is over. He completely ignores her, turns away,
and suggests to his legal team that it’s time to
leave the courtroom and go outside to meet the
press and make their victory statements.

Unfortunately, he’s in for a surprise.

Before Arthur can get to the exit doors, Michelle
Chang comes walking into the courtroom,
followed by two husky gentlemen wearing blue

windbreakers with big yellow letters that spell “I
R S” on the back. Michelle waves a document
into the air as she addresses Arthur.

“Morris Arthur, my name is Micelle Chang,

of the Internal Revenue Service Enforcement
Division. This is a federal warrant for your arrest

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250

on charges of willful and fraudulent evasion of
taxes and failure to report income.”

Looking around the courtroom, I see that

everyone including me is stunned except one
person, and I know in my heart why. She looks
up at Arthur as Michelle’s men are putting the
handcuffs on him. No words are required. He is

now glaring down at her while being dragged
backward towards the exit doors. Suzi expresses
a slight grin and lifts her hand, waving goodbye
to Morris Arthur.

252

EPILOGUE

n the night of Suzi’s rescue, after I got
her out of that house, Agent Snell’s men
went through it quite thoroughly, and the

stuff that they found proved my original

thoughts wrong.

I was under the impression that all of the

street cappers and accident stagers worked for
lawyers, who would then send their clients out

to various doctors. Papers found in the
kidnappers’ house showed that it was the other
way around. It was a few doctors who controlled
all the business. They were the ones who saw
the patients first, then referring them out to the

lawyers.

The ones that Bernie the dog captured

that night were leaders of the accident staging
unit, and it wasn’t too hard for Myra’s fraud

squad to backtrack and find out who all the
phony patients being treated by the
chiropractors were, as a result of phony
accidents.

Myra’s cases got a little harder to put

together when they reached the lawyer level,
because all that the personal injury lawyers had
to do was claim ignorance about the phony

accidents. They tried to portray themselves as
mere ‘paper pushers,’ helping people pursue
their claims against the insurance companies.

Sure, attorney Morris Arthur’s name

popped up here and there as one of the lawyers

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253

that received cases from the doctors, but Myra
couldn’t tie him into anything worth

prosecuting, so the Teflon lawyer dodged
another bullet. No big loss there. He’ll be serving
time at Club Fed for quite a while anyway.

Stuart continued digging deeper into those

‘walk-to-the-bank’ trips and retained Suzi to
digitize all the banks’ security camera footage.
She then used her face recognition software to
locate a whole bunch of lawyers and doctors who

were skimming cash out of the settlements and
turned her results over to Michelle Chang so
that the I.R.S. could go after them.

No matter how hard everyone tried, there

was no way we could tie Morris Arthur into the
kidnapping, but it is strongly suspected that he
became involved after the fact. From some
statements received and overheard on wiretaps,
it looks like the kidnappers didn’t know what to

do after they grabbed Suzi, so they called people
higher up in their crooked food chain, until one
of the doctors got the brilliant idea of how to use
the unfortunate incident to his benefit. He was

aware of Arthur’s fraud trial and felt that if
Arthur lost, he might try to sell some
information to the insurance companies to help
pay off his money judgments. That could

certainly have impacted negatively on the
doctors’ schemes, so they got Arthur’s
assistance in having that filing clerk deliver that
note.

The plan was to have Arthur win his trial

and leave all accident shenanigan schemes in
place. It was a win-win situation. Unfortunately,

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254

Arthur’s trial was in front of an honest judge, a
stupid jury, and against an incompetent

plaintiff’s attorney who failed to do his
homework.

The important thing is that we got Suzi

back safely. We’ll get Morris Arthur one of these
days. What goes around comes around.

I’ve finished up my stint as judge pro tem,

and am now back here on the boat waiting for
the next client to call. I also found out that Suzi
sent Myra a check for fifty dollars. The pet store

charged her credit card for the second location
check that night too.

Our boat neighbor and my occasional

companion Laverne is on vacation somewhere

this week, so I intend to relax and watch some
television. There are a couple of new shows I
want to watch. They’re spin-offs of successful
series, but that’s okay with me, because there
are some really creative people behind them.

Starting at nine PM is Law and Order -
Pedestrian Crossing Guard, followed at ten by
CSI Peoria. I also hear that they may be bringing
Chuck Norris back in his Walker, Texas Ranger
role. The new series may be called either
Touched by a Ranger, or Ranger with a Walker.

While reading through the legal

newspapers I came upon a list of homes that
have been recently sold, along with their selling
prices. One caught my attention and I realized
that it was Stuart’s address. This is strange,

because he just bought that home a little while
ago and hasn’t lived in it for the requisite two
years that would allow him to claim a quarter

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255

million dollar exemption in capital gains tax on
the increased selling price.

It suddenly dawns on me. That’s what the

urgent lawsuit was about. Stuart had sold the
house and wanted to avoid paying the capital
gains tax, so he cooked up a deal with the
purchaser. Stuart sued him. From what I’ve

heard, moneys received in settlement for
personal injury tort actions are not subject to
income tax. I would imaging that the case Stuart
filed against the buyer of his home was settled

for an amount equal to the amount of profit
Stuart would have realized from the sale. He
probably collected on the lawsuit and then sold
the house for exactly what he paid for it.

This is nothing new to Stuart, who pulled

off a phony marriage deduction scam on the sale
of his previous resident, and it’s interesting to
see how little attention is paid to these schemes.
It looks like the public seems to see income tax

cheating as a victimless crime.

On Stuart’s present sale, the buyer didn’t

care, because it cost him the same amount to
buy it anyway, but having a purchase price

recorded of several hundred thousand dollars
less will save him thousands of dollars a year in
property taxes, so once again Stuart engineered
a win-win situation for everyone but the I.R.S.,

and the American taxpayers who pick up the
slack that these schemes cause.

I notice that Suzi’s book is on the table.

Being a former Chicagoan, I can’t resist picking
it up and thumbing through the pages to see if
there are any pictures there I might recognize of

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256

landmarks. No history of Chicago is complete
without a photo of the Water Tower, a brick

landmark that was one of the only structures
left standing after Mrs. O’Leary’s cow kicked over
a lantern and caused the great Chicago Fire.

There were no pictures that I recognized,

because even though this book concerned events

that took place in Chicago, it concentrated more
on the criminal actions of one particular person,
the notorious Al ‘Scarface’ Capone, subject of
several motion pictures and the television series

The Untouchables.

The part of the book that Suzi seemed to

be most interested in had a paper clip attached
to the pages, so I took the liberty of reading it
and learned some things about Mister Capone.

An Amendment to our Constitution

created an era known as ‘Prohibition,’ during
which time it was against the law to
manufacture or distribute liquor in this Country.

Unlike most present laws we have prohibiting
smoking, people can still buy tobacco products
and use them in the privacy of their own homes,
or in areas where smoking is allowed. With the
liquor prohibition, the addicted people had

nowhere to turn but the gangsters who were
smuggling the booze in. They were called
‘bootleggers,’ and they created an entire
industry.

The most famous bootlegger of all was Al

Capone, and during the height of the ‘Roaring
Twenties’ he is alleged to have controlled 161
illegal taverns, called ‘speakeasies.’ By 1929 the

government calculated that Capone’s annual
income amounted to sixty million dollars from

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257

bootlegging liquor, twenty-five million more from
gambling, and another twenty million bucks

from prostitution and other side businesses.

During that period of time Al Capone was

even more entrepreneurial than my friend
Stuart, but his more than one hundred million
dollars a year income wasn’t all pure profit,

because he employed over six hundred
‘associates’ to protect his business from rival
wannabees who might want to take over his
territory.

Capone was a notorious gangster and

killed many people without being prosecuted,
because he paid off so many police and
politicians. The thing that probably got the

authorities’ dander up more than anything else
was a statement that Al Capone made when
asked about whether or not he paid his taxes.
He is quoted as having said: “The income tax law
is a lot of bunk. The government can’t collect

legal taxes from illegal money.”

Capone was becoming increasingly more

‘public, visible, and notorious,’ and this bothered
his criminal associates, who would rather he

kept a lower profile. One associate in particular
was named Meyer Lansky, who authorized his
brother Jake to provide certain information to
the I.R.S. The other gangsters obviously thought

that having Capone jailed would be a much
tidier solution than having him killed.

In May of 1932, Judge Wilkerson

sentenced Al Capone to serve eleven years in

federal prison for income tax evasion, and it’s
interesting to see how much little Suzi similarly
decided on a tidy solution.

Gene Grossman

258

260

THE FINAL CASE

c-1

f you don’t feel like reading the books, you
should at least read the reviews, and that’s
what I’m doing now. In Los Angeles, if you’re

not a compulsive shopper, there are very few

reasons to buy the Sunday Times: One of them
is the Book Review Section. Others may include
the TV Guide and Sports Section. Some
eggheads like the Opinion Section too, but for

me it’s the Book Reviews and Crossword Puzzle.

It seems that women are writing more

books then in the past. I don’t usually take the
time to read any books written by women

because the way they write, it looks like they
care more about what their characters are
wearing than what they’re doing. Their readers
must be those people who watch the Oscars and

other award shows just to see what celebrities
on the red carpet have on. Who cares which gay
dress designer lent a starlet one of his dresses?
Don’t these women know that they’re wearing
clothes designed by guys who don’t love women?

Include me out.

I’ve been called a lot of things during the

past few decades, but ‘clothes horse’ was never
one of them. Being a professional person, I own

six suits. Four of them are right off the rack,

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261

from Sears. They are designated specifically for
jury trials, along with the heavy wing-tipped

laced shoes, button-down shirts and cheap
neckties. I never want to look too slick to a jury.

My other two suits are a different story:

they were custom made for me by a Hong Kong
tailor who took all my measurements and credit

card number over the Internet and made the
suits using my request from the sample
swatches of material that he sent me. They fit
fine, but because my arms are different lengths,

this forced me to also order some custom made
shirts, so that the requisite ½” of shirtsleeve
extends past the end of each coat sleeve.

The shirts are all part of my standard

uniform since high school: powder blue button-
down. Juries seem to like the button-down look.
My custom shirts have white collars with
contrasting dark bodies and cost over one
hundred bucks each, but what the hell… I’m

worth it.

The reason I’m now fixating on my

wardrobe is because the Asian Boys are here
sorting the laundry today, and I happen to

notice that they are now folding the ironed
items, which include two of my expensive
custom shirts. This wouldn’t be remarkable
except for the fact that I haven’t worn either of

them for the past month or so.

My past life has just flashed before my

eyes and I now see my ex-wife Myra working
around our house in Brentwood Glen. She’s on

the floor painting the baseboard trim in the hall,
and she’s immaculately attired in one of my
most expensive dress shirts, my favorite Cubs

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262

baseball cap, a pair of my new navy-blue Jockey
shorts, and a pair of my fourteen-dollar rag

socks. A quick calculation makes her painting
uniform come to around a hundred and seventy
dollars. What ever happened to those baggy
white coveralls that painters used to wear? They
probably cost about five dollars each. Not

enough for a princess to paint in.

From what I’ve been told, this type of

occurrence is quite common in most
households. Women like to lounge around in

their husbands’ clothes. Kids like to wear their
dads’ clothes. I wonder how a woman would feel
if she came home one evening and found her
husband wearing her clothes.

It looks like Suzi is no different than Myra.

It must be somewhere in the female genome.
They seem to think they’ve got some God given
right to wear our good clothes whenever they
want to, like we’re sharing a room in some

college dorm.

What’s the difference? There’s nothing I

could have done to stop it when I was married,
and there’s no sense even thinking about it now.

Things just happen, and this is just one of them.

Another thing that looks like it’s inevitable

on this boat is that whenever I want to relax and
do some reading, Suzi’s huge Saint Bernard has

already beat me to it and is in my favorite spot
on the couch. There’s nothing I can do about
this either, because no matter what I say or do,
he’s not moving. I’ve even tried subterfuge: I

went over to the cabinets and shook his box of
dog biscuits. Nothing. He knows that Suzi isn’t
on the boat now, so there’s no reason for me to

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263

want him to deliver a dog-mail to her. All that
the shaking biscuits evoke is his raising of one

eyelid in acknowledgment of my futile attempt.

A few minutes later, the only thing that

seems to work getting him off the couch takes
place. He hears Suzi returning, humming her
favorite Chinese melody as she comes up the

boarding steps and onto the boat. Bernie jumps
off the couch and runs over to the door to greet
her. The couch is now mine.

Being the brilliant lawyer that I am, a new

plan has just come to me. I leave the boat and
walk down the dock to Don Paige’s boat. He’s
our resident technical wizard and we all turn to

him for answers to questions about anything
involving electricity or computers. My plan is
quite simple: Using a DAT recording device,
which means Digital Audio Tape to the
uninitiated, like I was a before Don explained it

to me, we figure out the best way to attach it
under the railing of my boat so that its voice-
activated controls will turn on automatically and
capture any sound made on our boarding steps

that’s louder than the ambient surroundings.

Hopefully, next time Suzi leaves the boat

without the dog, when she returns and hums
that tune, the recorder will pick it up and I’ll

have something to use as a dog-removal device.

It took several days, but things finally

lined up properly. Bernie was on the couch and

Suzi was down the dock dumping a bag of
garbage. When she returned, she hummed, the
dog ran to the door to meet her, and I got her on

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digital audiotape, which is supposed to be
almost CD sound quality and as close to the real

thing as you can get.

Don fixed the recorder up with a remote

control that I can operate inside the boat to turn
on the device and play back Suzi humming. It
will also reproduce the sound of her footsteps,

and the sound level will duplicate the way it is
as she comes up the boarding steps. This should
fool anyone inside.

Here we go again. Suzi is visiting someone

on another boat and Bernie is on the couch. I
walk casually over to the window and point my
remote control at the recording device. It starts,

and we hear Suzi humming her Chinese lullaby.
Bernie opens one eyelid in acknowledgement
and then closes it again, remaining on the
couch. Another good plan goes down the toilet. I
guess his hearing isn’t as good as I thought it

was.

Suzi is home-schooled. At least that’s

what she’s got the Board of Education believing,

but I’ve never seen a teacher come to the boat.
Whatever she’s doing seems to be working,
because the test scores she submitted were so
high that the Board now requires her to come

downtown to their offices each quarter to take
the tests in a monitored setting, so they can be
sure that there’s no hanky panky. She complies,
and her grades are still off the charts. The only

problem with this is that I have to drive her
there, because she’s not allowed to drive her

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little e-cart farther than the Chinese restaurant
around the corner on Washington Boulevard.

To make the test trips downtown easier to

take, Suzi talks Myra into joining us. After the
tests we all go to the Pantry, a restaurant on
Ninth and Figueroa, from which Bernie can be
brought a side order of their cole slaw to go. On

this particular trip, after we drop Myra off at her
downtown office, Suzi asks me to stop by the
Barnes and Noble bookstore in the marina so
she can pick up a book she ordered on

fingerprint analysis. Whatever.

The marina Barnes and Noble is just like

all other Barnes and Noble bookstores: Big and
without soul. It’s a typical franchise operation

where there is no owner present. I remember one
time about ten years ago when Myra and I were
still married, we went on a vacation up to
northern California. I’m not sure, but I think it
was in Sausalito, across from the harbor, where

we discovered a delightful, old, three-story
bookstore that not only had every book you
would ever want to read, but a small sandwich
and juice bar on the second floor and plenty of

comfortable couches on all three levels.

We wound up spending most of the

afternoon there. It was a totally enjoyable
experience and we left the store with a shopping

bag full of over a hundred and twenty dollars of
books. Give me a privately owned independent
bookstore any day of the week. The couches
there are more comfortable.

While I’m upstairs in the mystery section

of this sterile book establishment I notice a com-
motion outside in the parking lot. People are

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266

lining up down there for some reason. I ask an
employee what’s going on and am told that the

famous author Avery Lawson will be downstairs
autographing books. How nice for him to do
that. Once again I’m wrong. The clerk informs
me that Avery Lawson is a woman. Well, seeing
how I feel about female authors, I guess there’s

no need to go downstairs and have a book
autographed, because I have no intention of
reading anything that she’s written.

Suzi is sitting on a couch reading some

book, Bernie is in the car sleeping, and I’ve
already picked out the three or four books I want
to buy. An hour or two has passed by and the
book signing is over, so I might as well go

downstairs and pay for our books. I notice a
slender blond female with her back to me. She’s
packing up some boxes of sales brochures.
When she turns around, I’m stunned. This is
one of the most beautiful women I’ve ever seen. I

notice that on the table in front of her are some
books with their back covers facing up. The
photographs on the dust jackets are of her. This
must be Avery Lawson. I’m in love. Without even

thinking about, I find myself automatically
walking over to her.

She looks at me with those big blue eyes

and my knees weaken.

“Oh, did you want a book signed?”
No one has ever said that to me before.

She’s got a beautiful British accent. I clumsily
hand her one of the mystery books I’ve just

brought down from upstairs.

“I’m sorry, but I’m only signing books that

I’ve written. Did you buy one?”

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267

She holds up one of her books and I see

by the cover that it’s one of those dreadful

romance novels that women read. The cover
features a scantily clad nymphet hanging onto
the arm of a muscular guy with long hair whose
shirt has been partially ripped off of him. The
wind is blowing their hair and his hair looks

better than hers. I realize what a fool I’ve just
made of myself and try to recover. I sheepishly
grin and try an apology.

“I’m sorry. I’ve never been to a book

signing before. Of course you’re only signing
your own books. I should have known that. But
you should appreciate the fact that being as
attractive as you are, someone might want to get

your autograph on something other than one of
your books.”

Boy, that was lame. I think I’d better just

turn around and run out of the store before I dig
this hole I’m in any deeper. She’s now just

looking at me and not saying anything,
obviously stunned speechless by my stupidity.

“Wait a minute… I’ve seen you somewhere

before… on television on the news. You’re an

attorney aren’t you? Aren’t you Peter Sharp?”

Saved. She recognizes me. I’m no longer

some schmuck in the bookstore with no identity.
I’m now a schmuck with a name.

“Yes, I’m Peter Sharp. I hold a press

conference every once in a while, whenever I win
a big case.”

That’s it, the ice is now broken. I may

never get another chance, so it’s now or never. I
see that she’s not wearing a wedding ring, so I
make my move.

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268

“Listen, I’m sorry about my mistake

before. Can I make it up to you with a cup of

coffee?”

She doesn’t say anything, but seems to be

looking past me and down towards the floor. I
turn around and see that Suzi has been taking
in this entire feeble attempt of mine. Avery looks

back at me, and motioning down towards Suzi,
asks the sixty-four dollar question.

“A friend of yours?”
“That’s debatable. I’m her legal guardian

and she’s my boss. It’s a long story.”

“Okay Mister Sharp, you’ve got my

attention. I’ll be through here in a little while.
Why don’t we meet at the Cheesecake Factory in

an hour and you can tell me your story. That is,
if it’s okay with your boss.”

On the way back to the boat there is the

usual absence of conversation. When I’m ready

to leave the boat and walk over to the
Cheesecake Factory, Suzi tosses me one of those
going-away lines that she’s so well known for.
The ones that say more than you want them to

and leave you no chance to respond.

“She’s a phony.”

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c-2

ur coffee turns into a late lunch,
complete with a couple of the bartender’s
exotic drinks. I tell her my story, from

getting thrown out of our house by the newly

elected district attorney, to how I came to be
living on the boat with Suzi. Now it’s her turn,
and her story is much more interesting than
mine.

I was wrong about her accent. She came

to this country from Australia as a nanny and
several years later started to pursue her hobby
of writing on a full time basis. One of the rich
parents she worked for read some of her stuff

and she is now a rich, famous romance novelist
and married to another author. The last part of
her story is really a letdown. She realizes that I
don’t look too happy to hear that she’s married,

but the way she explains it, their ten-year
marriage is about to end, and that the only
romance she’s involved in is the one on the
screen of her computer, and that for the last few

years she and her husband have been living
separate lives. He has a mistress somewhere and
the whole literary world knows they only stay
together for conven-ience.

I’m pleased to hear that she’s not in love

with anyone else, but sorry to hear that she’s in
an unhappy relationship. There’s no sense in
keeping my hopes up with her, because I don’t

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intend to get involved with any married woman.
After I pay the check and we walk to the parking

lot I hand her my card, offering to assist her in
any way I can with her domestic situation and
its legal ramifications. As hard as it is, I tell her
that maybe it’s best that we don’t see each other
again socially until her domestic situation

stabilizes and she’s completely on her own.

After she drives away I walk back to the

boat thinking that’s the last I’ll ever see of her.
She was nice enough to present me with an

autographed copy of her latest book, so now I’ve
at least got her picture to look at. It’ll have to do.

The phone on the boat is ringing and my

called ID display indicates that my friend Stuart
is calling.

“Peter, one of my spies tells me that you

were having lunch with that lady romance
author. Are you going to start writing books

too?”

“No Stuart, in order to be an author you

need two things: you must be completely full of
bullshit, and you should know how to type really

fast. I’ve only got part of the qualifications.
Listen Stu, I don’t want to sound rude, but I’ve
had a couple of drinks too many and I’d like to
lie down and take a little nap. Anything else

pressing I can do for you today?”

“Well now that you mention it, yes. If

you’re going to see her again, I’d like you to give
her something to read. It’s a story I wrote, and if

she likes it, maybe she can show it to her agent
and get me a publishing deal.”

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272

I explain to Stuart that I’ll probably never

see her again and that he should start sending

his manuscript around to literary agents on his
own. He then tells me that I really should learn
how to type.

After we hang up I turn on my computer

to check for mail and some conversation comes

out of my monitor’s speaker. Suzi had our dock
techie Don Paige connect all the computers on
the boat into a local network and he must have
crossed a wire somewhere, because the voices I

hear now belong to Suzi and Myra. The kid
bought some new software program that allows
her to use the Internet to call anywhere in the
world for free, and she must be trying it out now

by calling Myra for their usual evening chitchat.
There’s nothing they can say that interests me,
because I’m not interested in fashion or food
recipes, so I just ignore the conversation and
browse through the evening newspaper. Sooner

or later their dialogue will probably be about
how they’ll divvy up my dress shirts if anything
terrible ever happens to me.

Ignore them as I try, one of them says the

magic word. Avery. This gets my attention. Suzi
is on some perpetual quest to get Myra and I
back together again, and we’re both aware of her
attempts. Part of the strategy is to report to
Myra whatever female is now endangering her

master plan. This usually means that the both of
them will tear apart anyone I might possibly
express interest in, and this conversation is no
different.

Myra is familiar with the books that Avery

has written, but denies ever having read one.

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273

Suzi is convinced that Avery is a phony, and
Myra usually agrees with everything Suzi says.

It’s much easier that way. I can’t take it
anymore, so I reach over to turn off the speaker.
Just as I reach for the knob, Myra is telling Suzi
that along with a group of the county’s finest,
she’s been invited to a cocktail party at Avery

Lawson’s Pacific Palisades mansion this
weekend.

What a coincidence. Suzi tells her that

we’ve been invited too. An email invitation came

in earlier this evening and when Suzi confirmed
it, she also got permission to bring Bernie along
to play with Avery’s dog.

That’s it. The sound is now off. That

sneaky little kid really did it this time. Not only
is she coming with and bringing the dog to the
party, she’s made arrangements for us to pick
up Myra on the way. I know exactly what she’s
trying to do. She wants Avery to see Myra

coming with me to the party, to give her the
impression that we’re getting back together
again. Myra probably knows this too, and she’s
happily going along with the façade. Damn!

They’re each bad enough on their own, but when
they double-team me, I don’t stand a chance.

We make an impression wherever we

drive. The three of us are in my huge yellow
Hummer. Bernie is wearing his eye-protection,
the custom Doggles that Suzi had made for him
to wear while he rides with his head sticking up

out of the sunroof. With his Doggles on and ears
flopping in the wind, people liken him to a World

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274

War I air ace, and we’ve nicknamed him Baron
Bernie.

Suzi and Myra are sitting hand-in-hand in

the back seat, talking a mile a minute about the
most boring things you can imagine: wardrobe,
recipes, obscure legal doctrines, yada, yada,
yada. Their conversation also informs me that

every local politician knows the Lawsons
because they’re huge contributors. Today’s
guests will include our mayor, the police chief
and several others who all feed from the same

political money trough.

After exiting the 405 Freeway westbound

at Sunset Boulevard, it’s a beautiful scenic drive
past a lot of large homes that I’ll never be able to

afford. More than halfway west to the Pacific
Ocean, we reach the exclusive Riviera Country
Club area of Pacific Palisades and locate
Richbrook Falls Drive, where the really wealthy
people live in large gated estates.

We stop at the guard shack and after

showing our invitations are allowed to drive up
the winding brick road to where the mansion is
located. I’ve never seen anything like this before,

outside of the movies or pictures of Hugh
Hefner’s house. This one is a huge Tudor affair
with a large paved parking area for the limos.

When we get out of the Hummer I remove

my suit jacket from the rear seat’s clothes hook
and put it on. Myra comments that it looks like
I’ve finally gotten a jacket the correct length.
While we walk what seems like a block or so to

the mansion’s front door, Suzi goes into a boring
lecture about what the proper length of a man’s
suit jacket should be. She says that the formal

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275

tailoring schools teach two methods: One is to
divide in half the up-an-down measurement

from where the collar is attached to the jacket
and the floor. Another is to use the spot where
the man’s thumb knuckle hangs while his hands
are down at his sides. Suzi says she prefers an
average of the two measurements, and that’s

what she specified when I had the suit made. I
never even knew that she saw my order before it
was submitted to the tailors, but then again, I’ve
learned not to be surprised by anything that

goes on around the boat whenever she’s around.

Fortunately, we approach the mansion’s

front door as Suzi continues to lecture about
how the government forced all of the men’s

clothing manufacturers to stop making pleated
trousers during the Second World War, as a
material-saving measure. We reach the front
door and Avery is there to greet us personally,
interrupting Suzi’s explanation of the proper

height of cuffs on men’s trousers. I’m amazed at
the amount non-important information she can
store in that little head of hers. I must admit
though, that I never knew that men over five-ten

should have trouser cuffs one and five-eighths of
an inch high.

Avery looks beautiful and graciously greets

Suzi and I, and then introduces herself to Myra,

the county’s elected district attorney. She leads
us inside and I see what must be the largest
living room in California. Our entire 50-foot boat
would fit in here. Hmmmn, not a bad idea. I’ll

have to daydream about that some time.

The entire local A-list is here this

afternoon, including our corrupt mayor, the

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276

inept police chief, and their hangers-on. Myra
fits in perfectly and immediately starts to work

the room, mingling and exchanging compliments
and other meaningless small talk. Suzi and I
exchange knowing glances about this place
being ‘phony central.’ One thing that
immediately catches our attention is the

presence of one person we never expected to run
into here, or anywhere else for that matter. He is
a former law professor whose path Suzi and I
have crossed in the past, attorney Morris Arthur.

As he walks over, Avery introduces us.

“Peter, this is my attorney, Mister Morris

Arthur. I don’t know if you’ve had an
opportunity to meet him during your legal

career.”

The thought of actually touching his had

in a courtesy shake makes the hairs on the back
of my neck stand up. Morris Arthur has a smirk
on his face and is wearing the suit and shirt that

I didn’t think I could afford when I saw it offered
in the catalogs for over three thousand dollars.

“Oh yes, I’ve had the pleasure of encount-

ering Mister Sharp and his young ward in the

past. We’ve been involved in a few matters
together, one being a terrible miscarriage of
justice not too long ago that has since been
taken care of.”

No wonder he’s not in jail now. The last

time we saw him he was being arrested for
income tax fraud. He must have bought off or
threatened the witnesses against him and paid a

hefty fine to the I.R.S., and now he’s back in
circulation again. If Suzi had any doubts about
Avery in the past, I’m sure that seeing her

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277

associated with Morris Arthur has now
completely confirmed them.

Like any polite guest should do, I mumble

something like “nice to see you again,” and then
get away from him as soon as possible. Avery
must have noticed that there was no exchange of
handshakes between us. I’ll leave it to attorney

Arthur to give her his explanation for that.

The crowd gravitates toward Suzi. Most of

them are familiar with her exploits and have
seen those impromptu press conferences she

managed to engineer in the past, but this is the
first time they’re having a chance to meet her in
person. She does her innocent little girl routine
and as usual, before long she ‘owns’ the room.

I’ve seen this before when she made some court
appearances. But this group is very egocentric,
so after fawning over Suzi for a little while, their
attention returns to where it usually is… on
themselves.

The dog has met his new friend and

they’re both relaxing under one of the buffet
tables, on ‘crumb patrol.’ The people here are
pretty neat eaters, so it looks like Bernie will be

taking a well-deserved nap. I guess he wore
himself out in the car, posing for every camera-
wearing tourist we passed by. Suzi has decided
that she’d rather not be too close to the phony

conversation going on and is tired of being
patted on the head by everyone, so she has
joined Bernie and his new friend on the floor. If I
wasn’t six-three, I’d probably be down there with

them

There are three main attractions for me in

this room. I always keep my eye on Suzi, but

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278

today there are two other sights to concentrate
on: Myra and Avery. No matter how hard Suzi

tries, I’m afraid that there’ll never be a future
with Myra, but Avery is a definite maybe. They’re
both flitting around the room chatting with as
many people as they can, but the noticeable
absence here is Avery’s husband, Donald

Lawson.

We’ve been told that he is in his study

finishing up some internet research on a new
book he’s working on, but the only indication of

his presence in the mansion is the familiar
sound of a solo piano playing Beethoven’s
Moonlight Sonata coming from his study, which
is about twenty feet down a long carpeted hall.

The study door must be open, so we can easily
hear his musical selections and the sound of his
typing on an old manual typewriter. After
Beethoven is Chopin. I don’t know how anyone
can do any serious brainwork with interesting

music playing, and why use an old manual
typewriter when you can use a word processing
program? If he’s doing some internet research,
he’s obviously got a computer handy. I ask Avery

about it and she says it’s the only way he feels
comfortable writing. Using that old typewriter
forces him to organize more. I guess it takes all
kinds.

The type of music then changes, as does

the volume. He’s now playing a large sixteen-
piece swing band, that’s probably either Count
Basie or Frank Kapp’s Juggernaut. They’re doing

a classic arrangement of Shiny Stockings. This is
a great old tune that really swings, and Mister

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279

Lawson must like it a lot too, because it’s being
played louder than the other songs were.

I’m not the only one who notices, because

many people in the room are also looking
towards the hall. Several have politely asked
Avery if her husband really must play his music
so loudly. Avery has an idea.

“Ladies and gentlemen, I apologize for my

husband’s lack of manners. There’s no sense in
shouting down the hallway, because he wouldn’t
hear me, and I don’t intend to make trip down

there, so I have a better idea.”

She opens a wall cabinet that conceals a

computer terminal, keyboard and monitor. The
house has obviously been wired as a large

network with all the computers connected
together in some way, much like on our boat.
Avery brings up the email program, and in very
large letters types in “PLEASE TURN DOWN THE
MUSIC. YOU’RE ANNOYING OUR GUESTS.”

This gets a polite round of applause from us all,
and in just a few seconds we hear that her idea
has worked. Donald Lawson got the message,
because his typing stops for a few seconds and

the music is now being turned down to an
acceptable level. Another polite round of
applause is given to our hostess, who curtseys
in appreciation. The typing then commences

again.

Avery lets us know that we will be graced

with his presence in just a few minutes, because

he only switches from classical to loud swing
music when he’s completing his daily writing.
She obviously is correct in her statement

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280

because when Shiny Stockings and April in Paris
have been completely played, there is a lull in
the music and the typewriter is silent.

Conversation in the room has slowed

down, apparently because all the phonies
present have used up their quotas of small talk
and mutual flattery on each other. They are all
waiting for their host to appear, so that another

round of completely useless conversation can
begin, with him as the new center of attraction.

Suddenly we hear a tremendously loud

noise. It sounds like it came from Lawson’s

study and was the closest thing I’ve ever heard
to a cannon firing. Avery turns white and looks
at the police chief, who beckons his assistant
and they both rush down the hallway to the

study. I look down under the table at Suzi, who
is now hanging onto Bernie so tightly, he can
hardly breathe.

With the police leading the way, the rest of

us follow, and when looking in through the open
study doorway are greeted with a chilling sight.
Donald Lawson is seated with his head face
down on the desk in a pool of blood. There is a
pistol in his hand.

282

c-3

uzi and I have been involved in several
murder cases, but this is the first time
we’ve been so close to an actual death. I

return to the living room to check on Suzi. I ask

her to come out from under the table and she’s
holding my hand quite tightly, with the other
hand grasping Bernie. Myra comes over
immediately and takes her to another room, to

make sure that she hasn’t been traumatized.

Avery Lawson looks like she’s in shock,

and is being comforted by the several of the
guests’ wives. The police chief asks that we all go
back to the living room and assume the same

positions we were in when the gunshot was
heard. Like zombies, we all comply. Myra brings
Suzi back into the room and we all try to
remember exactly where we were standing. It

was easy for the politicians to remember exactly
where they were, because being accustomed to
feeding at one trough or another, they were all at
either the buffet table or the bar.

In a minute or two, the scene has been re-

created, complete with Suzi under the table. I
hear sirens approaching, which means the chief
must have called for the troops. I’m standing
near the buffet table fixated on the Beluga

Caviar, Avery is still near the computer wall
cabinet, and to the best my recollection, it looks
like everyone else is back where they originally

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were when we heard the gunshot. Morris Arthur
is also in the room. Too bad. I was kind of

hoping that he would have been out of the room
at the time of the gunshot and could be a
possible suspect for something.

Numerous uniformed people are now in

the house, and a CSI unit has finished taking

photographs and measuring the scene. The
medical examiner’s people brought in a gurney,
so it looks like our late host will now be leaving
the building, on his way to the county’s fridge. I

feel sure that the autopsy will confirm what we
all saw and heard. This is a clear case of suicide.

The police chief addresses us all.
“Ladies and gentleman, can I have your

attention please? This is a dreadful but rather
unique situation. A death has occurred that
appears to be a suicide, but we haven’t
determined that conclusively yet. Ordinarily you
would all be asked to stay so that formal

statements can be taken, but because I know
most of you personally and you were all in the
same room with me when this event took place,
there will be no need for any of you to be incon-

venienced.

“My men will be taking down your names

and telephone numbers as you leave, so I’m
afraid that as of this minute, the party is over.

I’m sure that the deceased’s wife would like
some time alone, so it’s probably a good time for
you all to depart. Thank you for your
cooperation. We’ve taken the liberty of making a

photographic record of where you were all
standing when the gun was fired, so there will
be no need for any extensive questioning.”

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284

Morris Arthur is comforting Avery. As we

all leave, they are walking toward another room.

Several servants have also come to her aid,
bringing a tray with some glasses on it that look
like either medicine or booze.

Something is missing. It’s Suzi. I notice

the dog looking down the hallway, so that must

be where she is. She must have wanted to get
another look at the scene of the death because I
see her standing down there in front of the door
to Lawson’s study. The body has already been

removed and there is some yellow police tape on
the door, so she’s just standing there observing
the empty room.

The usual silence pervades our Hummer

as we drive back to the marina. Myra decided to
stay in the house to discuss the death with
police officials. I’m sure she’ll get a ride home.
Baron Bernie is once again in the air and Suzi is

sitting next to him, sharing the front passenger
seat.

I know she really detests Morris Arthur for

several legal maneuvers he’s tried in the past,

especially when he mother was killed in an auto
accident. I certainly hope she doesn’t try to cook
up some scheme to get us involved in Lawson’s
death, because whatever theory she might come

up with will certainly look tainted by her bias
against him.

Back at the boat we each prepare for

dinner. My friend Stuart heard about the death

on news radio, so he’s talking to Suzi about it
now, and succeeded in getting invited to join us
for dinner. I take off my suit jacket and Suzi

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calls the Chinese restaurant to have the Asian
Boys deliver a gourmet feast for the three of us.

I turn on what passes for local news and

the afternoon’s event is first in order. This
follows the ‘if it bleeds it leads’ doctrine, and
there certainly was enough blood to make this
story qualify. As usual, Myra noticed that a

camera crew was there, so she is now on screen.
The reporter announces her and asks if any foul
play is suspected. Myra looks as beautiful as
ever. I’ll bet she leaves the house each day

prepared to be seen by some television camera.

“I was present in the house this afternoon

as a guest for the Lawsons’ cocktail party, as
was the mayor, police chief and several other

local dignitaries. We were all in the same large
room when we heard the gunshot from down the
hall in Mister Lawson’s study, so at this point in
time we are tentatively treating his death as a
suicide.”

Well, I guess that’s another case closed. I

look over toward our dining table and notice that
as Suzi is putting out the silverware she is
listening to Myra’s statement and nodding

negatively, from side to side. I can’t let this pass.

“You heard her, kiddo. It was suicide. No

murder, no complicated plot, no way to nail
Morris Arthur, nothing for us to do but just

watch it on television. Sorry, but that’s the way
it is.”

Not another word is spoken. After we

finish eating and the Asian Boys have cleaned

up, Suzi and Bernie retreat to their foreward
stateroom suite. As she enters, Suzi turns
toward me and says “it wasn’t suicide.”

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Stuart and I are surprised. Suzi doesn’t

make definitive statements like that very often,

but when she does, she’s usually correct. We’re
both aware of her feelings toward Morris Arthur,
but after I explain to Stuart that both he and
Avery were in the same room with us when the
gun was fired, he too agrees with Myra’s

statement.

“Peter, word has it that you were attracted

to the widow. Do you have any plans to see her
now? I mean, well, she’s sure available isn’t

she?”

“Jesus W. Christ Stuart! Her husband’s

body isn’t even cold yet. How can you even ask
that question?”

“Hey pal, he was a lot warmer when you

were with her at the Cheesecake Factory last
week, so I don’t think his body temperature is
an issue here.”

Boy, he sure nailed me with that one. I

better calm down.

“You’re right Stu. I’m sorry I snapped at

you. It’s been a tough afternoon. Right now I’m
still concerned about Suzi and her suspicions.

She usually doesn’t say things like that unless
she’s got something to back it up.”

“That’s easy. Why not just ask her?”
Stuart doesn’t understand. You don’t ‘just

ask’ Suzi a question like that. She’s like a
human computer. Once the program is started,
she doesn’t finish until the entire solution
appears, and in the meantime, there are no

explanations offered.

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After Stuart leaves I call Myra, under the

guise of making sure she got home without any

difficulty.

“Hello Peter. I was wondering when you

would call.”

“You looked good on TV. I watched the

news. Is that right? Do you think the case is

closed and that’s it’s an open-and-shut suicide?”

“Why do you ask?”
“Because Suzi says it wasn’t suicide.”
“Yeah I know. She called earlier and told

me.”

“What about the servants? Any possibility

that the butler did it?”

“Not likely. The front door to the house

was open for the entire afternoon of the party, so
the Lawsons hired some off-duty cops to work
security. Anyone could have walked in the front
door, but before they entered the living room
they would have had to present their invitation.

“The guard outside the living room

entrance was standing there from a half-hour
before everyone arrived to until the gunshot
went off, and he says that no one walked down

the hall toward the study and no one came out
of the study while he was stationed there.”

“Any other way to get to the study?”
“Peter, forget about it. Suzi is wrong. I

know she thinks the widow is a phony, but this
time she’s formed a conclusion without any
evidence, and I’m afraid she’s just desperately
trying to find some way to justify it. There was

no way to get into that study other that through
its door, which was open all the time. The room’s
window has a large wrought iron security gate

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288

on it and the only access to the room was from
the hallway and past where the guard was

stationed.”

“Okay. Your people checked everything

out. Did Suzi give you any hint of why she
suspects murder?”

“You know her Peter. She’ll tell us when

she’s good and ready.”

“I guess you’re right. She really surprised

me today with her lecture on men’s clothing.
Maybe she’s decided to become a tailor instead

of lawyer. How the hell did she become an expert
on wardrobe? I’ve never seen her express any
interest in my clothes, other than to do what you
used to do… wear my dress shirts during the

day.”

“Those weren’t your shirts Peter, they were

our shirts. You bought them with our
community property income and I had just as
much of a right to wear them as you did.”

Why do I even try? There’s no way a guy

can ever win an argument with any woman.

“But you’ve still got to admit she knows a

lot about clothing.”

“Oh Peter, you big dummy. She’s no

expert in men’s clothing in general… she’s an
expert in Peter Sharp’s clothing. Can’t you see?
You’re her idol, the only family she’s got in the
whole world. She’s obsessed with you and wants

you to be as perfect as possible.”

“You think?”
“Duh. Oh, I gotta go, there’s another call

coming in on my other line. There was no crime

there today Peter. Tell Suzi I said hello.”

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It’s quite early this morning, but I hear

that a visitor is boarding the boat. The dog isn’t

barking, so it must be a ‘friendly,’ which
includes all of our friends and any sworn peace
officer. It’s Jack Bibberman. He works for
Stuart’s private investigation firm, and today
he’s got a meeting with Suzi. When their session

ends I ask him what’s going on, and am told that
he isn’t at liberty to discuss it because of the
investigator-client privilege.

The kid is up to something and now she’s

spending her own money to pursue it. I have a
feeling that if past experience has taught me
anything, one way or another she’ll drag me into
this mess so that the investigation becomes a

matter involving our law office and her
investigation costs can be reimbursed by the
firm.

Just after Jack leaves the boat, my private

line rings. The caller ID display shows a number

I’m not familiar with. I answer, mostly out of
curiosity.

“Hello Mister Sharp? This is Avery

Lawson. I want to apologize for ruining your

afternoon at the party. Can we get together? I’d
like to get your advice about something.”

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omething doesn’t compute here. I’m pretty
sure there was a little chemistry between
us the couple of times we saw each other,

but it’s been less then a week since her old man
blew his brains out, and I know she’s got a
lawyer – that slime ball Morris Arthur, which
means I can’t discuss anything with her that

might pertain to any of her legal matters.

When I answered the phone she identified

herself using both first and last names. That
was kind of formal. If it were strictly a social call,
I would have thought she’d have used just her

first name. Maybe it’s just my imagination, or
maybe being a famous author she’s used to
announcing herself like that.

What’s the difference? She called me, and

that’s all that counts, so we’re meeting for a late
breakfast at the Jamaica Bay Inn Coffee Shop,
around the corner from where my boat is
docked.

I see that Avery is sitting outside at one of

the poolside tables waiting for me. She couldn’t
have gotten here before me unless she called
from the car when she was already close by.

That shows confidence on her part, making the
trip over here knowing that I’d agree to meet
with her. I want to make sure there’s no

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291

confusion with respect to legal advice, so right
off the bat I explain to her that because she

already has an attorney, I can’t discuss anything
with her that might pertain to any legal matter
concerning her affairs.

To my surprise, she tells me that Morris

Arthur was introduced to me at the party as her

attorney only because he handled some matters
for her late husband, and that she has no legal
relationship with him at all. She says that he
even went so far as to advise her to seek outside

counsel, because her husband’s Will appointed
Arthur as the estate’s executor, and he felt that
representing her might present a conflict of
interest if she decides to contest any portion of

that Will.

Okay, that works for me. The coast is clear

and I’ve still got a chance with her, both legally
and personally. The rest of our conversation is
strictly personal and while discussing life

around boats and the marina I learn that she’s
never been to Catalina Island. I don’t know why,
but without even thinking about it I make a
suggestion.

“Hey how about this? There’s a high-speed

service right here from the Marina that goes to
Avalon, over on Catalina. If we leave now, we can
spend the afternoon on the island and get back

in time for dinner.”

As I hear the words come out of my mouth

I can’t help but think what a jerk I am. Here I
am sitting here with a widow who just lost her

husband last week and I’m trying to whisk her
away for a romantic afternoon on an island. Gee
am I stupid.

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292

“Oh Peter, that sounds like a wonderful

idea. That’s just what I need… to get away from

this town for a little while. Am I dressed okay?”

What a question. Of course she’s dressed

okay. She could be wearing a clown suit with big
floppy feet and I’d think she’s dressed okay.
Fortunately, she doesn’t look like a circus

escapee today, so I tell her that the nautical
slack outfit and tennis shoes she’s wearing will
be perfect for the island, and before we know it
we’re in her car on the way across the Marina to

Fisherman’s Village, where the big ferry boat
docks. She sug-gests that to ensure a peaceful
afternoon we both turn our cell phones off.

It’s a very nice ride over to Catalina from

the mainland. The large ferry goes about thirty
miles an hour and carries more than a hundred
passengers. Because this is the middle of the
week, the boat is mostly empty, so we have no

trouble getting served a morning cocktail while
we relax in the airline-type seats and enjoy the
ninety-minute trip.

The ferry reaches Avalon and we

disembark at the island’s famous green pier and
then slowly walk the quarter mile to shore. The
quaint beauty of Avalon impresses her. Neither
one of us had anything to eat at the coffee shop

earlier this morning, so we decide to stop at one
of the waterfront eateries for lunch.

The rest of the afternoon is taken up by

our touring the island, visiting the Botanical

Garden and Wrigley Shrine, and without
realizing it we’re holding hands while casually
walking past all the tourist shops.

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Our last stop before the 5:15 return trip is

up a hill to The Landing, a restaurant that

serves the best seared ahi appetizer and my
favorite drink: buffalo milk. There are quite a few
buffalo on the island. Many years ago a film
company brought them over here for a cowboy
movie they were shooting, and the herd has

gotten quite large in the past few decades. The
buffalo milk drink isn’t really from one of the
animals, it’s just named after them, and
contains a delicious mixture of crème de cocoa,

Kailua, milk, banana and ice, all blended
together and served in a large glass. Avery
enjoyed the drink so much that she bribed the
waitress to get the recipe for her from the

bartender.

We’re now almost all the way back to the

mainland and most of the way, Avery has been
relaxing with her head on my shoulder. This has
definitely been one of the best dates I’ve been on.

When Avery drops me off near our dock I

receive a wet, warm goodbye kiss and a promise
that we’ll get together again soon. I’m almost
walking on air as I return to the boat.

Suzi is at the table eating with Jack

Bibberman and Stuart. The Asian Boys have
delivered a large platter of cold cuts and cheeses
from Jerry’s Deli. It’s almost seven in the

evening and Stuart surprises me.

“Hi Pete. How was the island today?”
I now know how fish feel in those bowls

they occupy. There’s probably nothing in this

world that I can do without everyone knowing
about it. But, like most magic tricks, the
explanations are usually quite simple. Suzi was

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294

on the internet checking out our monthly credit
card statement and noticed this morning’s

added charge of two round trip tickets on the
Catalina Ferry.

There was no need to explain why I went

there or with whom, because everyone there
probably knew.

As Suzi and the dog retreat to the

foreward stateroom, she nods from side to side
and wiggles her finger at me with one of those
“okay, but remember I warned you” looks on her

face.

Ordinarily I would write off her attitude as

the usual displeasure of my getting involved with
any woman other than Myra, but the fact that

Jack Bibberman is on the boat makes me think
differently.

Stuart is an old friend and quite often

stops by to chat and join us for dinner, but Jack
B. is not that sociable. He only comes by for

business when he’s got something to report
about on an investigation. I know that Suzi’s got
him running around, but as usual, I have no
idea what’s going on.

After everyone leaves, the phone rings. It’s

Myra.

“Hello beautiful. Jealousy is a terrible

thing, isn’t it?

“Don’t flatter yourself Peter. I couldn’t care

less about your island hopping with that phony
broad. I just called to let you know that we’re

not doing an autopsy on Donald Lawson.”

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“First of all, she’s not a phony. And second

of all, why have you decided not to do the post

mortem?”

“First of all, she is a phony, and second of

all, because the body was released to your good
buddy Morris Arthur, who has already had it
sent over for cremation… and that whole affair

this afternoon was probably a diversion to keep
you from stopping the cremation and sneaking
the body over to Victor’s place for dismantling.

“And, according to her plan, you played

right into her hands by making sure that you
weren’t even on the mainland to know about
what’s going on.”

“What’s the difference Myra? If you guys

wanted to do an autopsy, it would have been
done, whether I was here or not. There’s no way
that sleazeball Arthur could have deterred you.
My only question now is why did you release the
body?”

“Simple. It’s a matter of money. If there’s

no obvious crime involved and no question
about cause of death and no insurance dispute,
there’s no need to do an autopsy. That’s the way

we’re treating these things now. It’s a money-
saving policy put into effect last year because of
the county’s budget shortfalls.

“The only thing that could have stopped

the release would have been some claim or
question of foul play, and the insurer didn’t
make one.”

“Just out of curiosity, please tell me who

the insurance company on his life policy.”

“Peter, there’s only one insurance

company you do work for, and that’s why she

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296

wanted you out of touch for the day. Your friend
Mister Uniman’s Insurance company might have

called and asked you to intervene.”

“Does this mean that you’re coming

around to Suzi’s point of view? That there might
be more to this than just a plain suicide?”

“Hunches are one thing Peter, but I’m

afraid that we’ll have to wait until Jimmy Hoffa
is found before we ever get any answers to this
one. The body is gone and that’s it.”

I hate to admit it, but Myra is right. I’m

also starting to thing that maybe Suzi is right
too, but there’s no way to ever prove it. I hope
she doesn’t waste too much of her money on

investigation, because this is may wind up being
a dead-end matter.

The thing that bothers me most is Myra’s

accusation about Avery wanting me to be out of
the way on the same day that Morris Arthur was

having the deceased’s body released from the
coroner’s office for cremation. Just to make sure
I’m not missing out on anything, I call Uniman
Insurance and finally get put through to him.

“Uniman here, hello Peter, what can I do

for you today?”

“Hello Mister Uniman. I was out of town

this afternoon and was wondering if I missed

your trying to get in touch with me”

“No, not at all. I was in touch with you.”
“Mister Uniman, I was in Avalon all day

and my cell phone was turned off.”

“Yes, I know that Peter. I spoke to Suzi

and she advised me not to waste time or money

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trying to get Donald Lawson’s body examined, so
I took her advice and let it go for cremation.”

This is interesting. The kid must have

changed her mind about things, so she didn’t
push for an autopsy.

“What about the life insurance policy.

Does suicide affect it at all?”

“Ordinarily it would, but in this case the

policy was in effect for the minimum of five years
before the suicide, so the benefits were vested.
Quite often it’s only a two-year waiting period,

but on policies this big it’s five years. After that
time passes, we have to pay even if it’s suicide.”

“If you don’t mind my asking, how big was

the policy?”

“Adding up the mortgage and life policies,

it comes to over five million. I’ll probably be
going over to her house in a week or so to deliver
the check personally. It’s a big hit for our
company, so we might as well get some publicity

out of it.

“I hear that you’re pretty friendly with the

widow, so why don’t you join us there. She’ll
probably make a little cocktail party out of it. I’ll

have my office call yours with details, if you’d
like to stop by that afternoon.”

Our alleged dock neighbor George Clooney

doesn’t count, because we haven’t actually met,
so that now makes Avery Lawson the richest
person I know. She owns that huge mansion free
and clear, has publishing royalties coming in

from both her and Donald’s books, and will have
a bank account that’s probably bigger than
Suzi’s and Stuart’s put together.

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298

I don’t care what Myra and Suzi think. I

don’t believe Avery wanted me out of town when

her husband’s body was released. Uniman
talked to Suzi and he didn’t sound disappointed
that I was out of town. I still think Avery had
nothing to do with her husband’s death, and
intend to do everything in my power to take our

relationship to the next level. It’s about time I
proved both of the present females in my life
wrong. If Avery were to call right now and
suggest that we run away to Las Vegas to get

married, I don’t think I’d hesitate to accept – and
if Suzi wants to stay on the boat, Avery and I will
be glad to have it put in our living room.

I think my dreams may be coming true.

The phone is ringing and I recognize Avery’s
number on my caller ID display.

“Hello famous author, what can I do for

you today?”

“Hi Peter. I just want you to know that I

talked to the insurance company who carries the
policies on Donald’s life, our mortgage, and
some other matters, and they will be delivering a

check to me later this month. The owner of that
company asked my permission to have the press
here too. I guess he wants to get some free
publicity, to make it look like they enjoy paying

claims.

“Anyway, I gave my permission and also

accepted his suggestion to throw a little cocktail
party at the same time. The last one I invited

you to was ruined, and I think it’s time for you
to cash in the rain check and come to a more
joyous one.”

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It doesn’t take long for me to accept her

invitation. We’ll wait for her emailed invitation
once she finds out for sure when Mister Uniman
will show up with the check.

Suzi isn’t on the boat, so I have some time

to tell Bernie how nice it will be when he lives in
that big house with us. It looked like he got
along quite well with Avery’s dog, and it’s about
time he had a nice big yard to run around.

He doesn’t look too excited about our

potential move, but he’s been around his
Chinese master for so long, I think he’s adopted
some of her inscrutable behavior. No matter

what I tell him he doesn’t show any emotion.

The office line is ringing. I guess I’m in

charge here this afternoon, so I answer it in my
best professional voice.

“Hello, law offices.”
“Is Mizz Braunstein there please?”
“I’m sorry, she’s in a meeting. I’m her

assistant. Can I help you?”

“Yes. Please tell her that the ten thousand

dollar cashier’s check she ordered is ready for
her to pick up. Per her instructions it has been
made payable to a Morris Arthur, Attorney at

Law.

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don’t think I’ll ever answer the office line
again. She’s got a lot of explaining to do this
time. I know that she’s not big on revealing

stuff to me, but this time she’s not getting away

without talking. I’m the adult around here. I’m
the one that the court says is in charge. She’s
just a kid, and she’s going to answer to me for
this expenditure.

The dog is excited. He knows she’s

coming. She enters the boat with a small
shopping bag from The Good Guys under her
arm. She’s been spending a lot of time over there

during the past few days, and it looks like she
finally bought some music CD’s.

“Suzi, a call came in on our office line

while you were out.”

No response. I’ll try again.
“I answered it.”
Still nothing. She’s unwrapping her CD’s.

Last try.

“It was the bank calling. They have your

cashier’s check ready to be picked up. Is there
anything you’d like to tell me about it?”

She finally puts down her CD’s and gives

me one of those looks like I’ve interrupted her

from doing something really important. With the
beast following, she heads for the foreward

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stateroom. As usual, just before going through
the door she speaks.

“If what I have planned doesn’t work out,

don’t worry… that amount will come out of my
end. But, if you want to share in the expense,
you’ll share in the profits too.”

What the hell does that mean? What can

she possibly be planning that could produce any
profits? It must be something to destroy Morris
Arthur and prove that Avery is a phony. Let’s
see. I’m the conservator of her estate, so I know

that she’s got millions of dollars in the bank as
the result of settlements from lawsuits after her
mother was killed in a car accident and her
stepfather died in a plane crash. I also know

that she’s tighter with a buck than Jack Benny
was portrayed as being.

Putting this all together, I would venture

to say that she’s not the gambling type. She’s
more inclined to only go for ‘sure things.’ I don’t

go to Las Vegas and if I did, I wouldn’t know how
to play any of the games there. I don’t bet on
sporting events either, and have absolutely no
gambling sense whatsoever. If I’m ever going to

get some of what they call ‘action,’ it’s going to
have to be with Suzi’s plan.

I shake the dog biscuit box. Less than ten

seconds later the dog appears and I put a note

in his collar that contains very few words:
“Okay, count me in.”

What did I just do? Now that I’m sitting

here and thinking about it, I realize I just
gambled five thousand dollars, and I don’t even
know what I’ll get if we win. Come to think about

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it, I can’t lose. If Suzi is right and we win, it’ll
probably mean that Morris Arthur gets nailed

and we get some money.

On the other hand, if Suzi loses, it means

it cost me five thousand dollars and neither
Morris Arthur nor Avery had anything to do with
the suicide, and I’ve got a clear shot at a rich,

beautiful, smart, talented female who likes me. I
like these odds. Let the games begin.

It took only a few days for things to come

together. Mister Uniman sent word that he’ll be
bringing the check over to Avery’s house next
Thursday. Avery also sent a message letting us
know that she’s throwing that cocktail party she

promised, and will let me know the exact time it
will be, and it’s okay to bring Suzi, and okay for
Suzi to bring Bernie and Myra.

I like this. She’s got a lot of confidence in

herself and doesn’t feel threatened by Myra’s

always tagging along with me. Being as smart as
she is, she probably realizes that it’s Suzi who’s
responsible for Myra’s being around so much.

It’s Saturday afternoon and Myra is

probably doing laundry, so I’m calling her at
home.

“Hello Peter, I’m just in between cycles.

What do you want?”

“You know, with all the money you’ve got,

you can easily afford to drop your laundry off
and have it done. If you really want, I’ll hire the
Asian Boys to come over there and do your

laundry. It would be my pleasure.”

“Nice try Petey. You probably want to send

your spies over here just to see if I’ve kept any of

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your dress shirts. What’s your plan, you want
some grounds to modify our property settlement

agreement to take a couple of those shirts into
consideration?”

“Forget the shirts. They look much better

on you than they ever did on me. I’m calling to
ask you to join us next Thursday.”

“Yeah, I know… another one of Avery

Lawson’s cocktail parties. I wonder who’s going
to commit suicide at this one.”

After a brief, strained conversation, I get a

grumbling acceptance from Myra and promise to
call her office during the week to let her know
what time we’ll be picking her up. I have a
feeling the only reason she’s coming along with

us is because Suzi told her that the press would
be there. Myra never met a camera she didn’t
like.

I purposely don’t mention anything to her

about that cashier’s check made payable to

Morris Arthur. If Suzi’s plans fail, I’d rather not
have it known that I participated in putting ten
grand in his pocket. It’ll be bad enough losing
the money; I don’t need the humiliation too.

It’s now Wednesday, just one more day

before Avery’s cocktail party. For some strange
reason our dock techie Don Paige is in the

foreward stateroom making some repairs to the
speakers on Suzi’s sound system.

As he leaves the boat I ask him what the

problem is, but he mumbles something about

being late for an appointment and hastily leaves.
He’s usually a pretty talkative guy, so I’m sure
that Suzi has succeeded in convincing him to

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304

keep his mouth shut, should I ask any
questions.

Actually, I don’t really mind being kept in

the dark. Stuart won’t talk to me about what’s
going on and neither will Jack Bibberman, who I
think has been kept quite busy for the past week
or so, judging by the amount of times he’s

stopped by the boat to make reports to the little
princess.

The insurance mogul is calling.

“Hello Mister Uniman. What can I do for

you today?”

“I’ll be bringing a check with me tomorrow.

Will you be there at the Lawson home? I intent

to be there at two in the afternoon.”

“Sure Mister Uniman, I’ll look forward to

seeing you then. It’s been a while.”

It looks like everything is coming together,

whatever that means. On this matter I’m just a

spectator. The downside to being in this position
is that I don’t get any glory if the plan succeeds.
Of course the upside is that when this plan goes
into the toilet, all I have to do is say: “Well, what

did you expect? After all, you know she’s only a
kid.”

That wouldn’t be such a bad thing, seeing

her taken down a notch or too. I think she’s

gotten too used to being right all the time. She
needs a little reality check, and I don’t mind
spending the five large, just to see her get some
comeuppance.

Our computer guru taught me how to

clean out some useless stuff that takes up hard

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305

drive space, so I’m now using my new knowledge
and deleting a bunch of stuff, including

hundreds of ‘cookies’ planted by websites that I
visited.

I don’t know how it happened, but I’ve also

come across all the discarded Microsoft Word
documents that were sent to the trash bin. Most

of them are letters that Suzi sent out for our
firm, but one catches my eye because it is
addressed to Morris Arthur. It purports to be
from a Jack Bibberman, President of Bibberman

Productions, and is remarkable.
Mister Arthur:

Thank you for your time on the telephone. I

appreciate your setting aside time in your office

for me to come by. I will be there at two in the
afternoon on Thursday of this week, and per our
agreement, will be bringing a ten thousand dollar
cashier’s check with me for an initial retainer.

Sincerely, Jack Bibberman

What is going on? Why is Jack retaining

Arthur? And why is he doing it at the exact same
time of Avery’s cocktail party? Whatever it is,

one good thing about being just a spectator on
this trip is that it certainly is an entertaining
ride. I hope that someday I’m told what I bought
for my five grand, other than just a good show.

306

THURSDAY

t’s now a little after twelve noon and I’m
getting ready to leave for the party in the next
half hour. I hear some ‘sensible’ heels

walking down the dock and see that it’s Myra
approaching the boat.

“Hi Miss Prosecutor. I thought we were

going to pick you up on the way.”

“There’s been a slight change of plans.

You’ll be going to the party with a different date:
the dog. Suzi will be riding with me. We’ve got
some things to discuss before going into the
Lawson home.”

A few minutes later Suzi appears, dressed

in a party dress, kisses Myra hello, and as they
leave the boat, Suzi hands me the pair of
Doggles I’m supposed to put onto Bernie. I

watch them walk to the parking lot and notice
that Myra’s car is being accompanied by another
unmarked official car in which four plain-clothes
police types are riding. This is getting more

interesting by the minute.

Baron Bernie is enjoying the ride. We don’t

converse because we’re both deep in thought

about what’s going to happen at the cocktail
party. The main difference between us is that
Bernie knows exactly what will be going on. He’ll
be under the table with his new friend, catching

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307

every piece of food that drops. After the buffet
he’ll be running around in the yard.

I on the other hand have absolutely no

idea what will be going on, but I hope that at the
end of the day my relationship with Avery will be
intact and no one will have committed suicide.

The place is really spectacular. Once you

turn off of Richbrook Falls Drive and turn onto
her estate, you pass by the guard shack and
drive up a beautiful tree-lined stone paved

driveway, up to the parking area. I can’t help but
fantasizing that some day I might be living here.

I’m a few minutes early. I see the car that

Myra and Suzi came in, but don’t see their back-
up team’s car parked up here. I wonder where
they might be? The front door to the house is
wide open. I guess that when you have a guard
shack and full-time security personnel you don’t

have to worry about someone taking your
television set.

Avery is now standing at the front door

and the closer I get, the better she looks. She

also looks happy to see me, and proves it with a
rather warm greeting. We walk into the house
together hand-in-and, not caring what anyone
there thinks about our closeness.

Just like last time I was here, inside the

living room there was a large, sumptuous spread
containing every kind of food you could ever ask
for, complete with chef-looking types behind the

tables standing ready to fill you plate.

There aren’t as many guests as during the

first party. The police chief and mayor aren’t

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308

here, but Mister Uniman is. We exchange some
small talk and I’m surprised to see that he isn’t

as upset as I thought he might be, knowing that
his insurance company is going to be minus
about five million dollars later today.

After being here about a half hour, the

wall cabinet makes a jingle-like type of sound.

Avery recognizes this as a signal that she has
just received an email, so she politely excuses
herself and goes to another room, obviously for
some privacy and to read her incoming message.

While she’s out of the room two of Myra’s

men enter the house. They are obviously some
investigators from her office. When Avery comes
back into the room, her face is no longer bubbly.

She is no longer a happy hostess, but instead is
white as a ghost and about two shades whiter
than when she left the room.

Myra and her two cops meet Avery at the

entrance and ask her to please accompany them

to another room in the mansion. Suzi is on the
floor playing with both of the dogs, but I know
that out of the corner of her eye she has been
watching everything that’s going on.

In another few minutes the other two D.A.

investigators come in and stand around
watching the front door. I have no idea what
they’re waiting for, but when Morris Arthur

parks his car and walks in, my question is
answered, because the two cops escort him to
another room in the house.

I still don’t know what’s going on, but this

gives me a chance to try and chat Mister
Uniman up about getting some insurance

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309

defense assignments from his company. For
some reason he seems to be in a good mood.

This also completely confuses me. I still don’t
see the press, so I guess that the presentation of
the check will not be for a while.

The next thing that happens is a first. Suzi

approaches me and with no obvious provocation,

speaks to me.

“Peter, I would appreciate it very much if

you would join Bernie and I over there on that
very nice leather couch.”

Having said this, she takes my hand and

leads me over to the couch. It must be at least
ten feet long. Bernie is sitting on my left side,
Suzi is sitting on my right side and Mister

Uniman is sitting on Suzi’s right side. It wouldn’t
surprise me if a large screen was lowered from
the ceiling and we all sat there and watched a
movie.

As strange as that thought might sound,

what really starts to happen is just as bizarre
and unexpected. I hear the sound of a solo piano
coming from down the hall. It sounds like
Chopin’s Prelude in E Minor that Donald Lawson

was listening to in his study that fateful
afternoon not too long ago. Now I hear what
sounds like typing. This is too coincidental to be
true and therefore must be something that has

been pre-arranged, with me having been left
completely out of the loop. I know that Myra has
Avery and Morris Arthur separated in two
different rooms of the mansion, and in another

few minutes the volume goes up and Count
Basie’s band is doing Shiny Stockings. The piece

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310

goes on loudly for about five minutes and is
followed by April In Paris, just like last time.

Part way through the selection, the typing

stops and the volume becomes lower, just like it
did that day when Avery sent an email to her
husband, asking him to please turn down the
noise. About a minute after the music stops the
typewriter goes silent and we hear that horrible

noise again. A tremendously loud gunshot.

In a normal world this wouldn’t be

happening. It’s like Groundhog Day. We’re
reliving the first party. My first urge is to jump
up and seek out the cops somewhere in the

house. I feel Suzi holding on to my hand. She
looks up at me.

“Relax Peter. Everything’s under control.”
I now realize that she is responsible for

this entire scenario, and it bothers me. Not only
might we possibly lose that ten thousand
dollars, but by engineering this stunt with Avery,
Myra, Morris Arthur, cops, and a suicide re-

creation, she could have placed us in position to
be sued for a bunch of things, including
intentional infliction of mental distress and
other torts. This is starting to look more serious

than a mere money gamble. It can have some big
time repercussions.

The music has ended. The gunshot went

off. There’s no one in the room with us – only a

couch full of confused people. Well, maybe at
least one confused person.

After another minute of silence I hear

footsteps in the hall. I can’t take it any longer, so

I get up and walk to the doorway. Myra is

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311

leading the procession and behind her I see that
the two pairs of cops are walking Avery and

Morris Arthur out. Their hands are behind them.
They are in handcuffs.

As they slowly pass by me, Avery looks in

my directions. She has tears in her eyes as she
is being led out to the police car. I’d like to think

that those tears are for the lost opportunity of us
every being together again.

With Morris Arthur, it’s another type of

facial expression. He obviously believes that I

was behind this whole plot to trap him. I’m glad
he’s in handcuffs, because if looks could kill,
Suzi would be minus one employee now. I stand
there, still in wonder at what happened in the

past ten minutes, as both of the arrestees are
driven away.

Another official looking car pulls up to the

house. It’s the Police Chief’s Lincoln Town Car.
This must mean that the press will be here soon.

I should have realized that earlier when I saw
how much makeup Myra was wearing.

I go back into the living room and see an

amazing sight on the couch. Suzi is shaking

hands with Mister Uniman, and as he departs,
he hands her an envelope.

Suzi and Bernie are now also ready to

leave. I can tell, because she is kissing Myra

goodbye and walking out towards our Hummer.
As they pass me by, Suzi speaks to me once
again.

“Thank you for believing in me Peter.”

She pats her small purse and continues.

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312

“We won. You made a smart investment,

and we finally got rid of Morris Arthur... and

that phony lady.”

313

THE SOLUTION

haven’t gotten a full explanation yet, but I’m
sure learning a lot about what happened by
watching what passes for local news.

Myra has been on all the local channels

taking credit for everything that happened. Both
Avery and Morris Arthur have been indicted for
conspiracy to commit murder, for the intentional

killing of Donald Lawson, whose cause of death
has now officially been designated as a
homicide.

Jack Bibberman, Stuart, and Myra will all

be here at the boat for dinner this evening and

rumor has it that Suzi will answer any questions
that we ask her. This will be a first, and I’ve got
a whole list of them to go through.

The Asian Boys have just arrived with our

dinner, Suzi has already set the table, and we’re
all sitting at our usual places, having a little
wine to loosen up. Suzi is drinking iced tea.

After a delicious gourmet Chinese dinner

we’re all sitting around the table ready to start
the question and answer portion of the evening.

Jack Bibberman starts out by letting us know
what he was up to for the past week.

“My first assignment was to stake out the

Avery mansion to wait for a specific vehicle. I
was watching for a commercial visit from any

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314

electrical or stereo establishment. After a day or
two, a small white van came from an audio-video

place in Santa Monica. When it came out of the
driveway about fifteen minutes, later I followed
it.

“I went inside the store it came from and

led them to believe that I was interesting in

purchasing the best stereo speakers that money
could buy. When the van driver brought the
Lawson speakers in, I pointed at them and
started a conversation about that particular

style, telling them that it looks what I’d like to
have in my place.

“After a while of chatting, I learned that

both of the Lawson speakers were there for

repair because they had been ‘blown-out.’ This
confirmed a suspicion that Suzi had, so I
reported back with my information.”

“I called the store the next day pretending

to be a servant at the Lawson residence and

learned that the speakers had been repaired and
were scheduled to be returned to the home on
Wednesday, the day before the second cocktail
party.”

It’s starting to make some sense. Uniman

must have been in on it too, because he
obviously waited until the speakers were back in
place before letting Avery know that the check

was ready to be delivered. I now can see how the
timing was arranged, but still don’t know how
they played Morris Arthur so perfectly. Jack
continues.

“Once we had the timing right, our next

job was to arrange for the cocktail party and
make sure that Morris Arthur got there at least a

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315

half-hour after everyone else arrived. This was to
keep him away from Avery Lawson, so that they

couldn’t get their stories straight.

“Before Mister Uniman informed Mrs.

Lawson that the check would be ready at two in
the afternoon on that Thursday, I called Morris
Arthur’s office and told him that one of the

major studios was offering me the assignment of
writing a screenplay treatment for an A-list move
star to appear in, and that I desperately needed
to have an attorney in place to go over the

contract they would be sending me any time in
the next day or so.

“He was reluctant to waste time with

someone who ‘might’ be getting hired to write a

screenplay, but when I told him that I already
received a big advance payment and would be
willing to pay him ten thousand dollars just to
be on call when the contract came, it was an
offer he couldn’t refuse.

“My only condition was that he had to see

me at his office at exactly two in the afternoon
that Thursday, because I had other
appointments to keep that day. This was done to

make sure he’d get to the Lawson home after
Myra and her guys had Avery tucked away in a
separate room that they were using for
interrogation.”

“That sounds good Jack, but without an

autopsy, how did you guys ever expect to get
evidence for an indictment?”

Myra took over.

“We had to make them think that we

already had the evidence. That way, maybe they

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316

would each try to turn on the other in a
desperate attempt to make a deal.”

“We knew that Arthur wouldn’t be there

until at least two-thirty that afternoon, so we
made sure to isolate Avery Lawson by two-
fifteen, to get her out of the room before Arthur
arrived.”

“That was clever Myra, but what made you

think they would believe you?”

Stuart chimes in.
“Using the computer in my office, we sent

out two email messages a few minutes after two
that Thursday afternoon. They both said exactly
the same thing. One was sent to Avery Lawson
and the other to Morris Arthur. The timing was

arranged so that they wouldn’t be able to
communicate with each other after the messages
were received. You were probably all in the room
when Avery got hers. I’ll be she didn’t look like a
happy camper when she saw it.”

Jack comments about his visit to Arthur’s

office.

“Yeah, I saw the look on Mister Arthur’s

face when his secretary interrupted our meeting

to hand him a copy of his message. He was
upset when he couldn’t reach Mrs. Lawson on
the phone, so he cut our meeting short and after
taking my check, he excused himself and said

that some emergency has come up.”

“Okay, Stuart. Out with it. What did the

messages say?”

“Simple, Peter. Suzi composed the

wording. Each one of them told the other:

I’m considering spilling the beans: my

conscience is bothering me. It’s just too stressful

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317

thinking about what we did. Thanks for your
help. I’m sorry.

“We made each one of them think that the

other was ready to cave in and confess. By
timing the messages the way we did, it was
impossible for either one of them to reach the

other by telephone after receiving and reading it.

“I wasn’t at the party, but from what Myra

tells me, two of her guys were waiting for Arthur
when he arrived, and as soon as he got there he

was taken to another room they were using for
interrogation. Myra had Avery in another room,
so there was no way for them to get together and
find out they’d received duplicate messages.”

I am truly impressed. Not only by the

plan, as much as I now know about it, but
because Suzi successfully managed to avoid
answering any questions so far. I still have some
problems with what happened.

“Okay, I see how the timing and appear-

ances were choreographed, but what’s the deal
with the speakers?”

Myra volunteers this part of the expla-

nation.

“According to our theory, Donald Lawson

was dead before the guests arrived at the party.
The music playing, volume being lowered, and

the gunshot were all being played on the same
custom-made CD.

“Avery knew the exact timing of the music

and exactly where the sound was supposed to

get quieter. By rehearsing a few times, she knew
when to use that computer in everyone’s
presence to ask her supposedly alive husband to

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318

lower the volume. Magically, the sound went
down after her message went through. It was all

like a one big magic trick… an illusion.

“The gunshot was also on the CD, but it

was recorded to play so loud, that it blew out the
speakers.”

“That’s good Myra, but how did he get

dead in the first place?”

“Well, without an autopsy, all we could do

is theorize what happened, but after getting their
confessions we learned that we were almost right

on the button with our scenario. Avery slipped
something in her husband’s coffee - probably
some sort of knockout drug. Once he was out,
she put on some gloves, put his revolver in his

hand and helped him squeeze the trigger.

“Once he was dead, she started the CD

playing, knowing that it would reach the
volume-lowering point about a half hour after
she and all the guests were in the living room

partying.”

I now know most of the details, but the

main question is: how was it determined that
the original gunshot wasn’t real? That is was

coming from some recorded source? Suzi’s the
only one who hasn’t spoken yet this evening, so I
look directly at her for an answer.

“Bernie told me.”

“Come on Suzi. You can do better than

that. You expect us to believe that our dog
Bernie solved this case?”

“That’s right Peter, but he couldn’t have

done it without your help.”

Being the consummate professional

performer, she knows exactly how long to pause

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319

before continuing… just long enough for our
looks of amazement to completely form. She goes

on.

“Remember when you recorded my voice

in that futile attempt to have something to play
so that Bernie would be encouraged to get off the
couch? Well, you now know that it didn’t work. I

can’t tell you exactly why it didn’t work, but that
question bothered me too, so I spent some time
using that digital voice recorder to make some
experiments, and discovered that the dog’s sense

of hearing is like his sense of smell. It’s much
more sophisticated than ours, and he can easily
distinguish between recorded sounds and live
sounds.

“When we were at the first cocktail party, I

was under the table playing with the dogs when
we all heard the gunshot. Bernie was about to
take his afternoon nap and when the gun went
off, he barely opened one eye to acknowledge

that a loud sound had been made. He knew
immediately it wasn’t real, so I assumed that it
must have been recorded, and working with that
assumption I went back to the study and peeked

in to see what type of speakers could be seen.
Sure enough, there were a couple of big
expensive ones, so I knew that sooner or later
your girlfriend would want to have them fixed.

That’s why I gave Uncle Jack the assignment of
watching for a van from some electrical repair
place. It worked, and he got the information.”

Myra can’t stay out of the spotlight too

long, so she jumps in with more information.
“Once you and Bernie gave us the basic infor-
mation we needed, and Jack confirmed the fact

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320

that it was probably all done with smoke and
speakers, all we had to do was figure out a way

to get them to turn on each other.

“It was Suzi’s idea to re-create the

recording, so we spent a lot of time listening to
selections at the music store until we found the
two pieces that preceded the gunshot. It’s a good

thing that the mayor is an old big band fan,
because he saved us a lot of time by pointing us
in the direction of Count Basie.

“Then, it was just a matter of engineering

a duplicate of the CD they used. After the music
track was laid down we had a sound engineer
mix in some typing, using an old Underwood
typewriter we rented from a motion picture prop

house.

With both of them isolated in different

interrogation rooms and believing that the other
was about to spill the beans, all we had to do
was let them hear the new CD that we made.

Assuming that it was probably being held by one
of them, it would make the other think that the
co-conspirator had already turned it in to us and
that the jig was up.

“During the first minute or so it was ‘iffy,’

but as soon as they heard the sound of typing
that we had put in there, they knew it was all
over for them. From what our guys in the other

room told us, they both acted as if a race was on
to play ‘let’s make a deal,’ and there was barely
enough time to give them their rights
admonition before they were each spilling their

guts about how the whole thing was the other’s
idea.”

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321

That answers most of my questions. As for

motive, I guess that five million is enough for

most people who are pre-disposed to commit
crimes. I’m sorry to see that my chances with
Avery are forever gone, but then again, living
with her might be a little more dangerous than I
bargained for, considering the way she treated a

husband that she wanted to separate from.

“Suzi, what about that ten-thousand

dollar cashier’s check? Arthur might have
deposited it.”

She has an answer that I’m glad to hear.
“Not to worry partner. Less than two

minutes after Arthur left his office, two uniforms
were there to take it back from his secretary. If

he took it with him, Myra’s men would have
gotten it back for us.

Okay, I understand the whole operation. I

only have one last question for the little genius:
“What was it that Mister Uniman handed you?”

“An envelope containing our usual ten-

percent fee for saving his insurance company
from paying out that five million dollars on the
Lawson’s policies. So, now that you’ve done

absolutely nothing on this case other than
almost fall in love with another murderer, and
made several hundred thousand dollars off of
child labor, what are your plans?”

“I’m going to Maui… anyone want to join

me?” I look around the room hoping that Myra
likes the idea, but instead am told that she and
Suzi have already made plans to visit some other

country. Knowing how much I dislike traveling
out in the ocean, they didn’t think to include me
in their cruise plans.

Gene Grossman

322

Stuart raises his hand. I tell him to

reserve a room for himself and buy a plane

ticket: I’ll meet him in Lahaina, at the Yacht
Club’s bar.

The Peter Sharp Legal Mystery Series

#1: Single Jeopardy

Attorney Peter Sharp has been wrongfully

suspended from the practice of law and thrown out of the
house by his soon-to-be ex-wife, a newly appointed deputy
district attorney. As a result of the eviction, he’s forced to
live in their back yard on an old, poorly wired, 40-foot
Chris Craft cabin cruiser he’s restoring, that is in danger of
burning up at any time.

To make matters worse, as the result of trying to

help someone fill out some claim forms, he gets arrested
for conspiracy to defraud an insurance company. His
alleged co-conspirator, a man charged with murdering his
own wife to be with a beautiful flight attendant, is about to
discover that Peter is also sleeping with her while the man
is out of town.

As Peter fights to get his law license reinstated, he

discovers the secrets behind two murders, a fatal plane
crash, and who framed him with the State Bar - all with the
help of his legal ward Suzi, an adorable, quiet (at least to
Peter) ten-year-old Chinese girl and her huge Saint
Bernard.

Peter also gets involved in matters concerning

sexual harassment, vexatious litigation, double jeopardy,
and a groundbreaking case of Negligent Nymphomania.

#2: …By Reason of Sanity

In his second Adventure, Attorney Peter Sharp gets

retained to defend a man accused of capital murder. The
only things making this case a little harder to defend than
most others are that the client’s acts were captured on
videotape, he confessed to the police, and he wants to plead
guilty. To make matters worse, the District Attorney’s
office has brought in a special prosecutor for the trial:
Peter’s ex-wife Myra.

While he’s preparing for trial on the murder case,

Peter is also hired to represent an insurance company, to
defend it against a man who slipped and fell while inside a
bank that was coincidentally robbed later that same day.
Peter thinks the case would have died when the claimant
was murdered, but at usual, he’s wrong.

In this adventure, while Peter is involved

representing Vinnie, the prolific, peeing pornographer, he
also helps solve several bank robberies by catching the
entire gang, and makes the acquaintance of a new friend
who runs an autopsy store - all with the help of his legal
ward, the adorable ten-year-old Suzi and her huge Saint
Bernard.

#3: A Class Action

In his third Adventure, Attorney Peter Sharp is

retained to represent a man accused of murder, by the
planting of bombs in vehicles. The client is also suspected
of being part of a conspiracy to assassinate the President of
the United States in an upcoming Fourth of July parade.

With the assistance of his legal ward, Suzi, Peter

cracks the case, identifies the real murderer, and at the
same time solves the mystery of a dead body found in his
friend Stuart's automobile trunk... all while falling for a
lesbian lawyer, winning a Will contest, breaking up a stolen
car ring 4,000 miles away, and battling with his ex-wife,
who has been elected to the office of District Attorney.

In the adventure’s finale, Suzi miraculously

manages to get ‘Bernie,’ her huge Saint Bernard into a
courtroom, where she makes her first official court
appearance, holds her first press conference, and becomes a
local television hero.

#4: Conspiracy of Innocence

Suzi once again saves Peter’s case by finding the

connection between two crimes that allegedly took place in
different parts of the State, one of which Peter was arrested
for. And once again, Peter falls for a woman who he thinks
could really ‘be the one’ this time.

Peter’s ex-wife Myra must make the decision as to

whether or not she should resign from prosecution of a case
in which she may have a conflict of interest – Peter’s
murder charge.

Everyone including Peter is sitting on the edge of

their chairs as this double murder mystery comes to a
shocking conclusion that involves a mafia hit man,
revengeful drug dealers, a local police chief, and the ever-
popular FBI.

#5: …Until Proven Innocent

Tony Edwards, A dock neighbor of Peter’s, is

charged with murder. Unfortunately, he is a suspended
police officer with a known dislike for people who are the
color of his alleged victim. He’s also the subject of many
citizen complaints for using excessive force in the minority
community.

At Suzi’s request, Tony has taught her how to help

him re-load his target practice ammunition, also giving the
little girl a basic course in ballistics.

When a local black movie producer who Tony was

working for gets killed, Suzi and talks Peter into handling
Tony’s defense… which doesn’t look too good because he
was arrested at the scene of the murder with his gun still
smoking.

Along the way, Peter once again gets involved with

who he thinks might be ‘Miss Right,’ represents a 500-
pound woman who is being discriminated against, uncovers
a white supremist militant organization, and also stumbles
onto a group of people who are pirating DVD copies of
recently released major motion pictures.

Peter’s ex-wife, District Attorney Myra Scot, makes

a mistake when she subpoenas little Suzi to come and
testify as a prosecution witness against the defendant,
Suzi’s friend Tony.

After what Suzi does to solve the mystery and

destroy Myra’s case in court, everyone knows that the
District Attorney’s office will never subpoena Suzi again.

#6: The Common Law

Peter Sharp encounters a client with amnesia, who

not only can’t tell Peter what his own name is, but who also
has absolutely no recollection of the crime he is charged
with committing. In lieu of his memory, Peter’s obtains
video surveillance footage that establishes his client’s guilt
beyond a reasonable doubt.

The usual crew also gets involved, including Peter’s

close friend Stuart, Jack Bibberman the investigator,
Laverne the ‘amorous houseboat lady’, and Stuart’s
employees Vinnie and Olive – who are having some
disagreement as to whether or not they’re legally married;
and last but not least, little Suzi B. and her big Saint
Bernard.

The law firm is still operating from their 50-foot

Grand Banks trawler yacht in Marina del Rey, California…
the vessel that Peter still doesn’t know how to drive. As in
past adventures, all involved continue to visit the local
haunts.

One way or another each of Peter’s cases winds up

being a conflict with his ex-wife Myra, who is the county’s
chief prosecutor. He also may be more closely involved
with FBI Special Agent in Charge Bob Snell than before, as
they share a dangerous high-speed situation on a winding
road. Suzi’s new friend Lotus and her mother also play an
interesting part in this adventure as Peter finds that he is
fighting a ring of credit-card fraud experts.

Part One of the three-part Morris Arthur Trilogy

#7: The Magician’s Legacy

Little Suzi has decided that she wants to study

magic in this eighth legal adventure she participates in.
Unfortunately, her teacher is the main suspect in what
appears to be an ‘impossible’ crime… the shooting of a
man in his completely locked ‘safe room.’

In order for Suzi to clear her magic teacher of

liability for this crime, she must convince Peter to handle
the case, which he does under one condition: Suzi must
help him by solving the mystery of this locked-room
murder.

Her task is made difficult because all events took

place in a secure ‘panic room,’ with steel doors in place,
and no windows. Somehow, the alleged murderer is
believed to have committed the crime and successfully
escaped from a room that could only later be opened by a
crew using blowtorches.

Suzi is especially motivated to solve this enigma

when she learns that an attorney who she dislikes may be
involved.

Part Two of the three-part Morris Arthur Trilogy

#8: The Reluctant Jurist

There’s a mini flu epidemic going around in Los

Angeles and it has especially taken its toll among Superior
Court Judges in Santa Monica, who all seem to have been
infected at the same conference they attended.

Peter has been ‘drafted’ to fill in as a temporary

judge for some civil matters, but winds up getting stuck
hearing a big criminal trial involving a devious attorney as
the defendant… the same attorney who Peter crossed
swords with in a previous situation.

Suspense enters the picture when Peter’s legal ward

Suzi fails to appear as guest of honor at her own birthday
party, and every local state and Federal peace officer in
California wants to locate her.

This is the second adventure that Peter and Suzi B.

have been involved where Suzi’s Saint Bernard may be
partly responsible for a successful conclusion.

Part Three of the three-part Morris Arthur Trilogy

#9: The Final Case

Suzi dislikes a certain devious attorney who Peter

keeps coming up against. She feels that he has no business
being licensed to practice law in the State of California.

When Peter’s new romantic interest invites him to a

cocktail party, Suzi and the other guests are shocked by a
loud noise down the hall, coming from their host’s study.

Other guests at the party include the chief of police,

mayor, and district attorney, who unanimously conclude
that the dead body they discover is the result of a suicide.

Even Suzi is inclined to go along with their

conclusion… until she learns that the devious attorney she
dislikes may be involved in handling some legal matters for
the deceased.

Suzi won’t let go of this one. Against everyone’s

advice, she keeps working to prove her suspicions about
that devious attorney and his connections to what Suzi
believes must have been murder.

The conclusion to this mystery is a complete

surprise to everyone.

All of the Peter Sharp Legal Mysteries are available

at bookstores that can easily order them from Ingram Book
Group, the world’s leading book distributor. They are also
available at most online booksellers, like Amazon.com.

When ordering a book at your local bookseller or

online, simply provide the title’s ISBN (International
Standard Book Number), or insert it into the online seller’s
search block.

Single Jeopardy

ISBN 1-882629-19-1

…By Reason of Sanity

ISBN 1-882629-13-2

A Class Action

ISBN 1-882629-66-3

Conspiracy of Innocence

ISBN 1-882629-09-4

…Until Proven Innocent

ISBN 1-882629-51-5

The Common Law

ISBN 1-882629-39-6

Trilogy:

The Reluctant Jurist

The Magician’s Legacy

The Final Case

ISBN 1-882629-15-9

About the Author

Gene Grossman worked through high school,

college, and law school as a shoe salesman,

welder, process server, bail bondsman, tire
changer, saloon piano player and ‘extra,’
appearing in seven motion pictures. He then
spent 20 years as a trial lawyer, during which

time he served as Dean of a small local law
school, where he also taught several classes.

His film & video company produced over fifty
special interest DVD titles on everything from
boating, to bankruptcy. Now retired from the
practice of law, Gene writes aboard his yacht in
Marina del Rey, California.

You can see pictures of Peter Sharp’s boats,
yellow Hummer, Suzi’s e-cart, and Laverne’s
houseboat at

www.petersharpbooks.com

Document Outline

TRILOGY
THURSDAY
THE SOLUTION

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Document Outline