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…By Reason of Sanity
Peter Sharp Legal Mystery #2
By Gene Grossman
From Magic Lamp Press
Venice, California
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously with permission. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or any events is coincidental.
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All rights reserved
©MMXI Gene Grossman
Smashwords Edition 2.0 March, 2011
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Peter Sharp Legal Mysteries: the Complete Series
More details and ordering information at: www.LegalMystery.com
Single Jeopardy
Peter Sharp Legal Mystery #1
…by Reason of Sanity
Peter Sharp Legal Mystery #2
A Class Action
Peter Sharp Legal Mystery #3
Conspiracy of Innocence
Peter Sharp Legal Mystery #4
…Until Proven Innocent....
Peter Sharp Legal Mystery #5
The Common Law
Peter Sharp Legal Mystery #6
The Magician’s Legacy
Peter Sharp Legal Mystery #7
The Reluctant Jurist
Peter Sharp Legal Mystery #8
The Final Case
Peter Sharp Legal Mystery #9
An Element of Peril
Peter Sharp Legal Mystery #10
A Good Alibi
Peter Sharp Legal Mystery #11
Legally Dead
Peter Sharp Legal Mystery #12
How to Rob a Bank
Peter Sharp Legal Mystery #13
Murder Under Way
Peter Sharp Legal Mystery #14
The Sherlock Holmes Caper
Peter Sharp Legal Mystery #15
+
How to Write a Mystery Novel
Behind the Scenes: Creation of a Crime Series
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Editor’s Note: DISCOUNT COUPON OFFER
To show our appreciation for your having ordered one of our Magic Lamp Press eBooks, we would like to offer you a 50% discount on 25 other titles we publish - from authors Gene Grossman, Nick Shoveen Edwin H. Sinclair, Jr., and Barry Neal.
Visit our website at www.LegalMystery.com and make note of the Discount Coupon Code given after (to the right of) each of the Audiobook links. The book’s Smashwords Discount Coupon Code is two letters, two numbers, and ends with a letter, and looks like this: AB22C
The Coupon Code will look like a link, but it’s not: it’s the discount code for you to use when ordering another book, by clicking on the Non-Kindle (Smashwords) link [that one’s real, so it works].
Order from Smashwords (even if you’ve got a Kindle): they’re the only ones honoring our Discount Coupon Codes … and if you’re a Kindle user, don’t worry: Smashwords has a version that is compatible with your device.
If you’ve found a typo in any of our books, or can’t locate a Discount Coupon Code, please contact us through Editor@MagicLampPress.com
* * * * * *
Chapter 1
There’s nothing worse than a reformed smoker. I know, because I’m one. I can smell something being smoked from a car pulling up next to me in traffic with its windows open. I can smell it from someone walking upwind of me a half block away. I’m insulted by the fact that some schmuck is polluting my air.
So here I am at thirty thousand feet above the Pacific Ocean, flying back from Maui, and the fat guy sitting next to me must have smoked two packs before boarding time. It’s a good thing there’s no smoke detector above us because his entire huge body and clothing reek of smoke. Every time he coughs, some smoke comes out of his liver-lipped mouth. He’s been sleeping for the past two hours… probably tired from all that suction.
Sitting next to this guy reminds me of a long time ago, when I was going to Chicago’s Roosevelt University during the days, and working nights playing piano downtown on Rush Street. After working from nine in the evening to three in the morning in a smoke-filled saloon, I would return to my parents’ second floor north Kedzie Ave. apartment, where following my mother’s orders, I’d get undressed in the hallway and leave my smoke-drenched suit hanging on the stairway banister railing, to air out overnight.
But other than the odors getting to me on this flight back, this vacation was a success.
With all of the book-time spent under Lahaina’s Banyan tree, in my hotel room at the Pioneer Inn and on the flights both ways, I’ve been able to catch up on my reading with one by Robert K. Tannenbaum, one by John Lescroart, two by William Bernhardt and then John Grisham’s The Summons, which I think he probably phoned in. Reading books by these burnt out lawyers gives me an idea: if reformed hackers can get hired by the government as computer specialists and reformed burglars can get jobs as security experts, why can’t a reformed personal injury lawyer become a defense attorney? I’ve certainly got the credentials. In the past year alone I settled a huge asbestosis case with nothing more than a faith healer’s report… and there was the two million life insurance settlement I got for that doctor who was accused of murdering his wife. I also successfully defended my friend Stuart when a lady using his weight-loss formula sued him claiming it turned her into a nymphomaniac.
Following up on that possibility, our office sent out some inquiry letters to a couple of insurance companies I bagged last year to see if there’re any hard feelings. Knowing those corporate types, they don’t have feelings. To them, all that counts is the bottom line. If Hitler came back as a winning defense lawyer, he’d be on their payroll.
When checking in from Maui, I was told that one of the insurance company’s defense firms might have an assignment for me.
As promised, Stuart picks me up at the flight arrival area and I get in his car, only to be bawled out during the entire ride to the Marina. He doesn’t let up, obviously having heard I was thinking of changing sides. “How can you do this? You’re not one of those insurance defense guys who wanna cheat injured people out of a fair settlement. Those guys ruin the lives of people who’re really hurt.”
“You mean like you were with that faith healer’s diagnosis of fatal mesothelioma? And if I remember correctly, you didn’t complain when I acted as defense attorney for you with that crazy broad who sued you for negligent nymphomania, as a result of taking that weight-loss snake oil you sell. That saved your ass and made you even richer so what’s the beef?” I had him there.
“Listen Stu, I know how you feel, but if you stop to think about it, a fair defense lawyer can do more good than a plaintiff’s lawyer.”
“Yeah, sure. You gonna just give away your client’s money?”
“No, I wouldn’t do that, but if a person really is entitled to a fair settlement I can advise my client to pay it, instead of helping them interpret their policy provisions into some perverted reason not to pay.”
The discussion comes to a temporary conclusion as we pull up to the C-4200 dock, where the forty-two foot Californian motor yacht I live on is docked. This isn’t exactly my dreamboat, but it’ll have to do until the fifty-foot Grand Banks I covet becomes affordable. We’re on the same dock as George Clooney’s mega yacht and I still have some hope of bumping into him and starting a friendship.
Nothing’s changed while I was gone. Being close to dusk, the electric cart driven by Suzi, an adorable little Chinese girl that I inherited, is parked in its spot near the boats. That means that she and her huge Saint Bernard are on the boat waiting for me, hopefully with a gourmet meal – and some word about new clients.
Suzi runs my life as well as the practice, but she hardly ever talks to me. I still haven’t figured out why, but in the last year, about the only time she addressed me was to bawl me out for getting arrested. I didn’t mind that conversation because it was just after she bailed me out. Fortunately, my doctor client and I beat that bad rap, ergo the boat we’re now living on… it used to be his.
Suzi’s a star at the Chinese restaurant around the corner where her late mother used to work, and where the food comes from many evenings. It gets delivered by the ‘Asian boys,’ a polite group of four young men who do everything from bus the restaurant tables at night, to cleaning and varnishing the boats on our dock during the day.
I still can’t believe how smooth it’s been going for the past few months. The kid’s really been through a lot. Her mother died in a car crash when she was only three, leaving her to live with her stepfather, my old law school chum Melvin Braunstein. When she finally got used to that situation, Melvin perished in a plane crash while vacationing in Thailand - and now she’s stuck on a boat in the Marina living with me, her legal guardian. Living on a boat some day used to be my dream when I was a kid, so maybe she’ll learn to appreciate the lifestyle too. I certainly hope so, because until she’s eighteen or goes away to school, this is it.
In addition to her office routine, she also volunteers at the local hospital. They have a children’s ward there, so Suzi brings her Saint Bernard in once a week to visit the children.
Her computer skills are top-notch, she runs our law practice, and has two one hundred eighty pound animals to boss around… the Saint Bernard and me.
*****
Chapter 2
Big-time insurance defense attorney Charles Indovine calls the staff meeting together in his law firm’s luxurious Century City conference room. “Gentlemen, we have a little competition now.” He holds up a document. “It seems that our old friend Peter Sharp, the faith-healer case lawyer, wants to do some defense work. He’s sent out some inquiry letters, and this one was received by one of our largest clients, Uniman Insurance.” The junior partners see a smile on Indovine’s face and sense that this amuses him, so they react in kind, with sarcastic smirks.
“So what, they’ll never hire him. I hear he’s a small-time jerk who practices off of a boat in the Marina,” comments an associate.
Indovine disagrees. “I don’t know. He beat us on that bullshit asbestosis case, and the Insurance Industry’s computer database shows that he’s done a good job on some other matters of dubious merit. Perhaps there’s an outside chance our client might take a flyer on him, just to keep us on our toes.”
Another associate comes up with an idea. “Then let’s beat everyone to it. We can farm out some stuff to him… like the losers.”
Indovine takes the ball and runs with it. “Good idea. We can give him the crap to defend. That’ll keep our batting average up and give him a bad track record from the get-go.”
The associate responds. “I’ve got just the case: That slip and fall in the bank. The claimant landed on his side and broke two ribs. There were plenty of witnesses to the spilled coke on the floor because it was there for almost twenty minutes before the claimant came in.”
Indovine lays out the strategy. “OK, I’ll advise the client that we have a chance to win this one because the claimant should have seen the dark colored spill on the floor. Then, we’ll tell them that we’re assigning it to attorney Sharp and let him take the blame for blowing it.”
Nods of assent are given all around the table. All their heads are attached to the same string.
* * * *
The Saint Bernard has just entered my stateroom with a message in his mouth. Around here we refer to this as ‘dogmail.’ I remove the moist envelope, blot it dry and open it up to find a letter that came in while I was on vacation. It’s from Indovine’s defense firm:
Dear Mister Sharp:
It has come to our attention that you are desirous of doing some defense work, and we would like to welcome you to the true side of justice by offering to assign some cases to you.
If you would like to associate with us, our client has authorized us to send you the file on a claim that we feel can be handled successfully.
Please contact our office if you’d like to give it a try. Our current schedule allows for a rate of one hundred dollars per hour of pre-trial work, with a minimum advance of fifteen hundred dollars per file, once civil discovery commences.
Sincerely , Charles Indovine
This is encouraging. If I get some work of my own outside of Melvin’s firm, I can keep the whole fee and only pay the office for secretarial services. My deal with Melvin was that as long as I get the firm’s work done, my time is my own to try and build up an independent private practice. I send a message to Indovine’s office that I’ll give the first case a try and that he should send the file over.
To my surprise, a messenger shows up later that afternoon with a package containing a fifteen hundred dollar advance check and the case file.
I’ll never understand why defense firms operate like this. The file indicates that a man named Mike Drago slipped and fell in the bank. Plenty of witnesses, wet floor, real damages, and now they want to spend more money screwing around fighting it than it would cost them to settle it outright. I guess it’s to show people that they’re not pushovers and if you want to make a claim, you’ve got to be prepared for a fight.
Along with the file is a list of approved and authorized resources I’m allowed to use for private investigation, background checks, process serving, surveillance, and a lot of other services I’ll probably never use. It looks like they want to use a one-ton fly swatter on this gnat of a case – but who am I to argue? It’s their money and they obviously want to spend it.
The file indicates that the claimant already has an attorney named Richard Handelmann, with an office on Ventura Boulevard in Encino. I’ve never heard of him but with almost two hundred thousand lawyers in California, it’s hard to keep track.
I get a notice of representation off to Handelmann’s office, letting him know that I’m on the case and decide to see what the scene of the fall looks like. Taking Suzi’s advice, I note my mileage before leaving and then head down Washington Boulevard to Culver City.
After introducing myself to the bank manager, I spend a little time with their seventy-five year old security guard, but he doesn’t remember much about the incident. That’s understandable. He doesn’t remember much about anything.
Next, I check with the bank’s security manager, to see if they caught the fall on one or more of their video cameras. I’m informed that yes, the fall is on tape, and the bank keeps copies of the videos for at least six months.
Wonderful. Not only do I have a losing case, it’s even recorded on the bank’s security cameras. Why the hell didn’t this thing settle already? The claimant’s medical bills are over four thousand, he doesn’t claim any loss of earnings, and the file doesn’t even contain one note about authorizing a settlement.
If I were handling this case on the other side, I’d make a demand of fifteen grand and wait for the defense to come back with a counter-offer. In this file, there isn’t even a demand from the guy’s lawyer. Something doesn’t compute.
All this defense work has tired me out. Time to go back to the boat for a nap.
* * * *
After only about an hour of dozing, the phone rings. The caller ID on my phone shows that it’s my ex-wife Myra, the former deputy district attorney who had me indicted and arrested last year. Fortunately, I beat those charges. “Hello sweetheart, to what do I owe the pleasure of this call?”
“Don’t sweetheart me, you idiot. My sources at the district attorney’s office tell me that your picture turned up on some security tapes today.”
“That’s not surprising. Cameras are everywhere. I stopped for gas. They have cameras at that station. I stopped for a six-pack. They have cameras at the liquor store. Which one did you like best – maybe I can get you an enlargement for your bed stand... or perhaps some wallet-sized?”
“You’re still the schmuck, aren’t you? The cameras I’m talking about are the ones at the bank in Culver City.”
“OK, honey, you caught me. I stopped off at the bank today. Is that against the law?”
“You were there at about two-fifteen this afternoon?”
“Yeah, some time around there. Why?”
“Because the bank was robbed minutes after you left.”
*****
Chapter 3
Now that Myra’s convinced I’m involved with some bank robbers, it’s almost a relief to get a phone call from Stuart. I explain the day’s events to him and let him know that it’s just a coincidence, but he’s a firm believer in the whacko world of hocus-pocus, so in his mind it’s a big conspiracy that I’m now involved in. I tell him to go back to his faith healer for some therapy.
While he’s got me on the phone, he tells me about his buddy Vinnie Norman, who was injured last week when a tree fell on him. Being a friend of Stuart’s, he’s looking for someone to sue. Why am I not surprised?
“Stuart, just because someone’s injured doesn’t mean that someone’s at fault. There are accidents, acts of God, all sorts of reasons why someone can be hurt without having someone to sue.”
“Yeah Pete, I know, but Vinnie was hurt because of a drunk driver.”
“Stu, I thought you said that a tree fell on him.”
“I did, but the tree fell because it was hit by a drunk driver.”
“Well that’s a different story. Do you know if the driver has any insurance?”
“Not likely. He was driving a Lexus that he had just stolen from a restaurant parking lot. He’s in jail.”
“What about Vinnie? Does he have any insurance, like uninsured motorist?”
“Naw, he’s a poor guy. Doesn’t even have a car. He works for me in my Van Nuys warehouse. Do you have any advice for him?”
“Yeah, tell him to take two aspirins and not call me in the morning.”
“Come on Pete, there’s gotta be some-thing you can do.”
I tell Stuart that I’ll look into the matter and that he should stop by the boat tomorrow with the police report of the accident. I really don’t know where to start with this one, but I figure that the internet would be as good a place as any, so I do what any other normal professional person would do - I give the assignment to the little princess in the forward stateroom. She’s the computer whiz. Besides, this’ll be a case that the office will share in, so the office might as well do some work on it.
People who go to law school usually find out pretty early on how they’ll wind up as professionals. There’s an unwritten law that governs the careers of law students, and over the years it’s been found to be quite accurate. Simply stated, the ‘A’ students become judges, the ‘B’ students become teachers, and the ‘C’ students make a really good living, working for the wealthy ‘D’ students.
I was a C-minus student, always hoping that someday my future might be as bright as that of a D student. It never hurts to aim low.
The reason the D students do so well is because instead of developing their knowledge of the law, they spend most of their time developing their knowledge of schmoozing. Law doesn’t bring in clients. Schmoozing does.
If you go to a big accredited law school with ivy growing up the walls, you learn how to play golf. If you go to an un-accredited night law school with mold growing up the walls, you learn how to schmooze. I went to the latter, which was nicknamed the Betty Crocker College of Law, so I never learned how to ruin a perfectly good walk by stopping to try and hit a little ball with a club. All I ever learned how to do was get clients. You never have to worry about having too many clients, because former C-student lawyers looking for work are much easier to find than clients.
* * * *
The next afternoon, Stuart shows up at the boat. He’s looking as round as ever - obviously, he’s not using the weight-reduction juice he sells all over the country. His buddy Vinnie is with him and I’m told that he’s a former XXX film director, who used to turn out a new porno flick every week, until the vice squad put him out of business. Vinnie is a tall, gray man who looks more like a doctor than a pornographer. He looks surprisingly classy, but that image is destroyed as soon as he opens his mouth and I hear his ‘New Joisy’ dialect. Compared to him, all the Sopranos sound like English professors. As we’re talking, I can’t help but notice the odor of grass coming from Vinnie’s sweater… the smoking kind.
During the interview I hear his story. He was walking down the street late at night and stepped into the park for a moment to relieve himself, stopping behind the first tree he saw. While standing there watering the roots, the defendant came speeding down the street, lost control of the vehicle he was driving, and slammed into the tree. It splintered and fell on Vinnie. I can’t recall ever seeing a Perry Mason television episode entitled “The case of the prolific, pot-smoking, peeing pornographer,” but I’ll bet that if it ever appeared in the TV guide, the ratings would have gone through the roof. This may not be a profitable one, but should definitely make it into some legal ‘believe-it-or-not’ book.
I tell them both that I’ll look into the matter and suggest another meeting after I’ve read the police report. As much as I try to hint that the meeting is now over and they should get the hell off of my boat, Stuart can’t resist the opportunity to tell me about the new business he’s starting, with Vinnie’s help.
“Pete, this one’s a winner. You know the old saying ‘you can’t take it with you?’ Well now, you can. I’m buying a used armored truck that Brink’s wants to get rid of, and we’re changing the name on the side of the truck from ‘Brink’s’ to ‘He’s taking it with him.’ Vinnie will be the uniformed driver and we’ll rent it out for funeral processions. I figure that every disgruntled relative who gets shortchanged in somebody’s will should be interested in paying three-fifty to have my truck in the parade to the cemetery. I told a whole bunch of funeral directors that I’d pay a hundred off the top for each job we get from them. Vinnie here’ll get a hundred for the driving and I figure we can do two funerals a day. Whattaya think?”
There are very few times in my life can I remember being at a loss for words, and each time was the result of some outrageous business plan told to me by Stuart. I smile, nod in understanding, and wish him the best of luck in his new enterprise. I remind him to be sure to let me know when he gets his first job - and what the route will be, because it will be a genuine Kodak moment.
* * * *
The local newscast doesn’t mention Vinnie getting hurt while peeing, but there’s plenty of coverage on the bank robbery story. As the razor-cut, blow-dried, empty-headed newsreader drones on, this is just another in a series of well-planned jobs that the authorities believe are being done by an organized gang.
After most bank heists, some frightened teller gets interviewed on camera, then the reporter asks the security guard about the incident, but he doesn’t seem to remember too much about it. They usually attribute his memory loss to shock, but it’s probably senility.
I start to go over the police report of the slip-and-fall case. I can’t think of a defense for this case, so I might as well do the next best thing - build up my billable hours. Indovine’s defense firm is probably billing the insurance company over two hundred an hour for the time that they’re paying me one hundred for, so they’ll no doubt be pleased by my wasted efforts.
I make a note to give Jack Bibberman an assignment on this case. He saved my rear end last year during my State Bar hearing, when he nailed the guy who framed me on an ‘aiding the un-authorized practice of law’ charge, by identifying another attorney as the one who was behind the whole plot. Since then I’ve learned that he’s a real stand-up guy, so I try to toss whatever business I can his way for investigation, process serving and whatever else comes up. I know I’m supposed to use one of Indovine’s private eyes, but I convinced them to let me use Jack and Suzi… for the same billing rates.
Jack’s assignment is to get copies of all the bank’s security videos over the past couple of months, so I can watch them, look for patterns of customer behavior, see if anyone else slipped, see if the security guard remembered to close his fly, and build up my billable hours.
*****
Chapter 4
Suzi came up with some interesting stuff on the drunk driver case. She helps the local police agencies out with some of their computer work, and since she’s like a goddess at the local Chinese restaurant where all the local cops feed at the trough, she usually can get information that normal earthlings aren’t privy to.
The police report lists the vehicle that the drunk stole as an elephant-gray Lexus sport utility vehicle that was in the parking lot of a Mexican restaurant on Washington Boulevard. The keys were left in the ignition because the driver ran in for a minute to pick up a to-go order of vegetarian burritos. The drunken defendant was staggering out of the restaurant just as the Lexus pulled up. The rest is history.
The phone rings. It’s my ex-wife Myra. “Hello my dear, what is it this time? Am I going to be arrested again?”
“No, I just got another phone call from an old friend at the district attorney’s office.”
“Myra, I think you should go back to work there. That’s where all your friends are and with your old boss gone, there’s a tremendous vacuum that needs filling… and you’re just the person to take over as acting chief of the office.”
“They’ve already got that position filled with another jerk, just like my last boss… but you’re right about one thing and if you say anything to anyone about this, I’ll have you killed.”
“Don’t tell me, let me guess. You’re running for District Attorney in the next election?”
“You suck. How did you know that?”
“It figures. Listen, I hate to sound rude, but there’s a gourmet dinner being delivered for me shortly, so let’s cut to the commercial. I know you didn’t call because you want to get laid, so what’s up?”
“As a matter of fact, I do want to get laid, but not by you. The reason I called is to let you know that by some stroke of luck, you’ve won another case. You were working on the defense of that slip and fall matter at the bank, right?”
“Yeah. What about it?”
“The claimant just died in the hospital.”
“Died? Did I hear you right? Did you say he’s dead? How the hell could that happen, all he had was two broken ribs and a bruised kneecap. I don’t believe that the fall could have caused his death. Damn! This went from a slam-dunk case to a quagmire. How did he die? Are there any details available?”
“Yeah, someone smothered him with a pillow.”
Hoping this isn’t the end of my career as an insurance defense attorney, I dash off a quick e-mail to the claimant’s attorney, Richard Handelmann.
Mister Handelmann:
Please relay the condolences of this office to Mister Mike Drago’s loved ones. Now that he has passed on, we will be closing our file.
I send an invoice for my hours to Indovine’s office and decide to spend the rest of the afternoon reading Center Street, a new novel by Leonard Wise.
It never fails. Every time I get com-fortable to read a book, something hits the fan. I hear the pitter patter of huge paws and see that I’m being brought some dog mail. This time it’s a message from Richard Handelmann’s office – a copy of his e-mail:
Dear Mister Sharp:
This office is not closing its file on the Drago incident. It is our contention that the homicide was a foreseeable act and that liability for his death in the hospital should also be your client’s responsibility.
As for the pain and suffering experienced by Mister Drago prior to his death, although precluded by California law, we will be filing our actions in the Federal Courts of Illinois, the state in which the federally licensed defendant bank was chartered.
Wow! This guy’s got stones of steel. He actually wants to hold the bank’s insurance company liable for his client’s murder in the hospital - and wants to make a federal case out of it. This is not a good development, mainly because I know absolutely nothing about federal law… not even enough to advise Indovine about the client’s possible losses in the federal court system.
I think it best to simply let Indovine know everything that’s going on and let him communicate with the insurance company. For once, it’s good to just be a hired hand. All you have to do is your specific job, with no responsibility for decisions.
I instruct the office to forward copies of our correspondence to Indovine’s office and make copies of the police report. Then I call Jack Bibberman. Some investigation is in order because I want to know all there is to know about the late Mike Drago. I’m sure that Indovine will appreciate my help on this case, and I might even be assigned to second-chair at the federal trial. Jack tells me that when he went to the hospital to get a statement on the day that Drago was admitted, he noticed that there were security cameras all around the place. That’s good to know because maybe the police can get some leads on his killer by watching them.
* * * *
With the pressing matters taken care of, I can now devote some time to putting up my Lahaina Yacht Club burgee on the small decorative mast of our motor yacht. I remembered to pick up a replacement during my recent trip to the island because my other burgee went with the old boat when it was towed away by my ex-wife. There’s a certain amount of pride in showing your yacht club’s colors. If I didn’t know better, I might even think I was rich. Yacht clubs here in the Marina charge entrance fees that can be quite costly. In one of them, you’ve got to come up with ten grand to get in.
Fortunately, the Lahaina Yacht Club isn’t like that. It’s for the cruising sailor and is quite reasonable. And because it requires you to personally post your picture on their bulletin board during your probationary period, anyone who’s a member is recognized as actually having been in the Maui location. I try to get back there at least once or twice a year. It’s about the only time I can get some serious reading done without interruption. And speaking of interruption, it must be mail time because the dog has just brought me another juicy item to read. Now that the red burgee is flying, I open the envelope and see that it’s a copy of the police report on Vinnie’s drunk driver case.
There isn’t much in the report to hang my hat on. All it covers is the accident itself, with nothing mentioned about the vehicle theft. I guess that’s in another report, which I also expect to be coming soon. The only item interesting in the report is the driver’s blood alcohol level percentage, which was 0.19.
For many years the legal blood-alcohol percentage limit for driving was 0.10, but organizations like MADD (Mothers Against Drunk Driving) finally got it lowered to 0.08. Because of my experience with drunk driving defense cases, I know that depending on body mass and tolerance, the average person reacts differently to various alcohol blood levels. At the legal limit of 0.08, your reflexes are at least slightly impaired. This I know for a fact because not too long ago, after just two beers at the Chinese restaurant, I almost caused an accident while pulling out of the parking lot. That taught me a valuable lesson, so I don’t drink anymore if I intend to drive within two hours.
In California, if you’re brought to the police station as a drunk driving suspect, you’re given three types of test to choose from to determine the percentage of alcohol in your system: blood, breath or urine. Bartenders usually advise their customers to opt for the urine test, because that requires an extra hour for the police to take you to a local hospital for the test. They’re wrong… the extra hour doesn’t help that much, because if you’re drunk enough to be stopped and brought to the station for testing, an extra hour isn’t nearly enough time to allow your percentage level to go down enough towards the legal limit.
At the old legal limit of 0.10, a guy who’s not too bulky might be a little wobbly on his feet and probably fail the FST: that’s the touch-your-nose, stand balanced one leg, and walk-a-straight-line Field Sobriety Test that cops make you take when you get stopped for being a suspected drunk driver.
Levels between 0.15 and 0.20 will usually make one’s speech slur and the driver will obviously appear under the influence, even to an inexperienced observer.
Once you hit 0.20, the official designation is “shit-faced’ and with that much booze in your system, an average person will most probably have slurred speech and difficulty pronouncing any word with more than two syllables.
Anything over 0.25 will usually result in wet pants and a terrible body odor. Readings over 0.30 can cause special conditions like unconsciousness or death.
In Vinnie’s case, the guy ‘blew’ a 0.19 at the station. This may have been as much as an hour after the accident, so he probably was at the 0.20 level or higher at the time he interrupted Vinnie’s pit stop - and that is definitely drunk, no matter how much body mass or alcohol tolerance you’ve got.
I call county jail to see if there’s any chance of getting to interview him, but they tell me he never got there because Fradkin Bail Bonds took him out of the West Los Angeles Division jail and his sponsor picked him up. I call the bail bond place but they won’t reveal the name of the sponsor, the person putting up the bail.
* * * *
The County of Los Angeles owns all of the waterfront property in Marina del Rey and they lease out large parcels for people to build apartment buildings and boat slips. This evening there’s a fireworks celebration in the Marina, being put on by the new buyer of a large leased anchorage and apartment parcel. He obviously can afford it because his family makes about a million every day, selling oil to the U.S.
At about nine PM, some surprising events take place. First, the fireworks start. They’re on the other side of the Marina, so I can’t see them from our boat, but the sounds are quite loud. Suddenly I’m being pinned to the couch by a heavy weight against my chest. At first I think I might be suffering a heart attack, but when I look down I see that the fireworks have obviously frightened the Saint Bernard, so he decided to jump up into the safety of my lap, where he promptly buries his head under my arm and whines for the next ten minutes until the noises stop.
After it’s over, he looks up at me with a sorrowful face. I return his look with one that says “I’ve got your number now, pal. You’re a big baby.”
Embarrassed, he retreats to the little princess’ forward stateroom, where he could have never gotten away with that stunt because he’s not allowed up on the bunk. It’s a good thing he tried it with me, because if he jumped up on Suzi like that we’d probably need a spatula to scrape her off of the bed.
I turn on the evening news and am surprised to hear that they made an arrest in the Mike Drago case. Evidently, the security cameras paid off, because Drago had been moved into a special intensive care unit where everything in the room is videotaped. To make matters even more interesting, the newsreader goes on:
“We have learned that the district attorney has decided to bring in a special prosecutor on this case… Ms. Myra Scot, a former employee of the district attorney’s office.”
The phone rings. Caller ID is a great invention because it gives me a few seconds to compose myself whenever Myra calls me. “Hello my dear, I see you made the evening news again. Good luck with this one. With the whole act on tape, you should have no problems getting a plea.”
“Peter, I want you to watch me destroy the defense attorney on this one.”
“No thanks sweetheart, I’m not that interested in watching a massacre.”
“That’s not fair. Up until now all you’ve seen me do is annihilate the former district attorney, who was incompetent. This is a capital case, so it’ll probably be a really good lawyer on the other side who will be getting destroyed by my magnificent prosecution.”
“So, what’s that got to do with me?”
“You’ll find out, Petey.” I wish she wouldn’t call me that.
As soon as I hang up with Myra, it rings again. I don’t recognize the number on caller I.D., but pick up the phone anyway. It’s a woman’s voice. “Hello, Mister Sharp?”
“Speaking.”
“This is Mary, Judge Axelrod’s clerk. We just want you to know that on the recommendation of Myra Scot, the special prosecutor, you’ve been appointed as defense counsel on a capital murder case. We’ll have the file delivered to your office. The arraignment has been scheduled for next Tuesday.”
*****
Chapter 5
Losing is not fun, and I ought to know, because I’ve got plenty of experience in that area. When you practice criminal law, about ninety-nine percent of the people you represent actually did what they were charged with doing. The only reason I had a one percent acquittal rate had nothing to do with the defendants’ innocence. It was only because of missing witnesses, evidence that confused the jury, technicalities like the Constitution’s Bill of Rights, or some other reasons that drive prosecutors mad.
This case will not be going into the one percent success group because like all the others, it’s a loser. I’ll have to do my best, but this time there’ll be no walking into court waving a document that clears the client and humiliates the prosecution. I’m afraid those days are over for everyone but Ben Matlock and Perry Mason.
About the only thing I can do on this one is try to break down the timeline of the video. I send a request over to Myra’s office for copies of the tapes they’ve no doubt made for me. The only time that the prosecutors are happy to provide you with their evidence is when it nails your client to the wall beyond any reasonable doubt. I guess it’s time to go downtown, pick up my appointment file and visit the new client.
* * * *
After checking in the front desk of Twin Towers, Los Angeles’ modern county jail, and presenting my State Bar card, a Deputy Sheriff leads me back to the attorney interview area, where I sit and wait about twenty minutes for my client to be brought in.
No client appears. Instead, a jailer comes in and tells me that my client would rather not see me.
This is a new one. After over twenty years of doing this, I’ve never been refused an interview before. And to make it even weirder, I wasn’t forcing myself on this guy, because the court clerk said that he approved of my representing him when the court appointed me.
Just to make sure I’m not missing out on something, on the way out of the building I stop by the Captain’s office to find out exactly what their policy is for inmates who don’t want to see their lawyer. My client was right and I was wrong. The Captain tells me that an inmate does have a right to refuse a visit – even by his own attorney. Not only did he not want to see me – he also gave me an important indication of how difficult this case will be to handle…it’s going to be uphill all the way. If he’s smart enough to avoid meeting with me, I hope he’s also smart enough to figure out some strategy to beat this case – because I sure can’t.
* * * *
Approaching the Marina, I see some-thing that’s now familiar to me but almost caused me to wreck my car the first time I saw it – a huge Saint Bernard driving an electric cart. Actually, as I now know very well, the dog doesn’t drive – it’s Suzi. The dog sits up on the front seat next to her but if you see them from a certain angle, she’s hidden behind the dog.