Last Chance Lassiter, Page 3

"I want you to sue the Biscayne Times over its matchmaking ads," said Myron, a pot-bellied 45-year-old with a slipping toupee.

  "You didn't meet the love of your life? I'm shocked."

  "It's not just that."

  "There are no guarantees. I'm pretty sure there's a disclaimer."

  "They're letting the women lie," Myron barreled ahead. "'Supermodel looks.' Then she uses a picture that's gotta be 30 years old. Another one says, 'great sense of humor.' I told her my best midget walks into a bar joke, and she didn't laugh. Then there's the one who claimed her body type was 'athletic and toned.' The woman was a blimp."

  "So you want me to..."

  "Sue the Times for allowing false advertising."

  I watched the guy as he fingered the fringes of his toupee. There was a gravy stain on his white guayaberra just above a missing button about nipple high. He reeked of cigarette smoke, and I'd guess his age at north of fifty.

  "What about your ad, Myron? What'd you say about yourself?"

  "How's that relevant?"

  "Oh, trust me on this."

  "My ad said something like, 'Fit, handsome, charming ex-tennis champion, 39, seeks smart, sexy woman 18 to 29.'"

  "Tennis champ?" I just wanted to know if there was one true statement in his profile.

  "Table tennis, actually. Third place in summer camp back in the day."

  "May I be blunt, Myron?"

  "Sure..."

  "Get the hell out of my office."

  ***

  Potential client number two was a very angry man who wanted to sue his wife for the return of his kidney. Seems he donated the organ to her, and she expressed her gratitude by having an affair with the transplant surgeon.

  I put down my legal pad and wondered if I had chosen the wrong career. I could have coached football at a junior high school somewhere in Colorado. Ski in the winter, hike in the summer. Leave the bizarro craziness of Miami behind.

  ***

  One more customer – I'd started adopting Cece's term – was waiting when the one-kidneyed litigant left. This guy was in his early thirties with his arm in an elevated cast. It didn't take a genius to figure out this was a personal injury case – ka-ching, ka-ching – might be in my future.

  "So I'm the passenger in this taxi..." the guy begins.

  Good news. Taxi companies have plenty of insurance.

  "And the cabbie slams on the brakes. I mean, slammed them to the floor, and I go flying right into the back of the front seat and break my elbow."

  "Sounds like a winner." Finally, I thought. "What's the reason the cabbie hit the brakes so hard?"

  The guy suddenly got a sheepish look.

  "What?" I asked.

  "I hope it doesn't hurt my case, but at the time he hit the brakes, I'd pulled a gun and was robbing him."

  ***

  My last potential client of the morning was an African-American woman in her late twenties, wearing a summery sleeveless dress festooned with sunflowers. She said her name was Sherrell Johnson.

  "You ever handle copyright infringement cases?" she asked.

  "Never."

  "Do you know anything about that area of the law?"

  "I learned a little in law school, enough to get a C in the course."

  She studied me a moment. She seemed to be considering whether it was a waste of time to talk further with such a sorry-ass lawyer."

  "You ever hear the name Cadillac Johnson?" she asked.

  I shook my head. "Nope. Should I?"

  "My grandfather. A rock-and-roller back in the fifties. What about M.C. Silky?"

  "Sure. Hip-hop D.J. got his start on the Beach. Now he's a big-time rapper. I think I read he's got a movie coming out."

  "He's a thief."

  "Go on."

  "He stole Grandad's song. I'm Leaving You, Baby."

  I shrugged. "Never heard of it."

  "Silky laid in some rap, calls it Don't Cry, Baby."

  "That one, I've heard."

  She opened her purse and handed me a compact audio cassette. The cover art showed a bare-chested, heavily muscled multi-tattooed African American man, bursting out of heavy chains. "M.C. Silky Unchained."

  "Ms. Johnson..."

  "Call me Sherrell."

  "Sherrell, I know this much. Recording stars have a big hit, people come out of the woodwork, claiming plagiarism."

  She stiffened in her chair. "Grandad didn't come out of the woodwork," she fired back. "He paid his dues. Played juke joints and fish fries and clubs where you could get your throat slashed, and he's got nothing to show for it."

  "But is that M.C. Silky's fault?"

  "He stole Grandad's song, dammit!"

  "Okay. Okay."

  "Punk-ass rapper's making millions. Grandad's on food stamps."

  Everything about Sherrell Johnson rang true. The love for her grandfather. The indignation that he'd been ripped off. I would need to listen to both songs, then hire an expert witness to dissect them. M.C. Silky would doubtless be represented by deep-carpet lawyers with more resources than I could muster. There'd be lots of discovery, a ton of costs. Not easy for a lawyer flying solo.

  "Are you able to pay a retainer?" I asked.

  "No way. You have to take the case on a contingency fee."

  "If I take the case, and let me emphasize 'If,' I'll fight like hell for you, just like it said in the ad."

  "What ad?"

  "In the Beach Gazette."

  "I didn't see any ad. Who would choose a lawyer that way?"

  "You'd be surprised. Or maybe not. How'd you get my name?"

  "I was referred by another lawyer. A pretty distinguished one at that."

  "Who?"

  "Mr. Lyle Krippendorf."

  "What?"

  "He spoke very highly of you. His exact words were: 'Jake Lassiter's the man to litigate this. He packs a helluva punch.'"

  -6-

  One Third of Nothing Is Nothing

  "Why the hell would Krippendorf send a client your way?" Doc Charlie Riggs asked.

  "Because he thinks I'm a good lawyer."

  "Hah!" Doc Riggs hacked up a wad of phlegm and spat at the trunk of a cabbage palm tree. Doc was in his sixties, a small, compact man with strong hands from clipping through bones and pulling out intestines hand-over-hand in thousands of autopsies. A bent fish hook held his spectacles together where they'd lost a screw.

  We were in the backyard of his house, just off Krome Avenue, so far west as to be nearly in the Everglades. It was an old Cracker house built in the 1930s. Steep metal roof, white painted wood, and a covered wrap-around porch. Wearing work boots, a wide-brimmed straw hat, and faded lab pants, Doc Riggs was spading fertilizer between rows of lemon trees. I was pushing the old geezer's wheelbarrow.

  "You got a second reason?" he asked. "Maybe a more logical one than he admires your legal skills."

  "Krippendorf represents M.C. Silky's record label. He had to turn down representing Cadillac Johnson because of the conflict of interest, so he told Sherrell to call me."

  "So of all the lawyers in Miami, and we're talking thousands now, Krippendorf picks you."

  "Yeah."

  "As his opponent!"

  "You're saying he thinks he can beat me."

  "Like a drum."

  "Okay, he thinks I'm a screw-up, a loser, a washout."

  Doc Riggs examined a leaf on one of the lemon trees.

  "Jump in anytime, Charlie, and disagree."

  "You want my advice, Jake?"

  "That's why I'm here."

  He shoveled a wad of fertilizer onto the base of a tree trunk. "Turn down the case."

  "Too late. I told the client's granddaughter I'd take the case, subject to a music expert supporting the claim of plagiarism."

  "You get a deposit for costs?"

  "Not a cent."

  "A retainer for fees?"

  "Nope. A straight contingency. One third of the recovery."

  "One third of nothing is nothing."

  "Tha
nks for the vote of confidence."

  "Thought you wanted the truth. That's what you always told me."

  I positioned myself in the sparse shade of a lemon tree. There was no breeze this far from the ocean, and I had soaked through my orange Hurricanes t-shirt and felt droplets of sweat running down my back into the waistband of my running shorts. "When I was in seventh grade, you came to my civics class down in Key Largo. You remember?"

  "Hell no. I talked to a lot of little shits from Key West to Fort Pierce back in those days."

  "It was Law Week, or something like that. We were learning about the criminal justice system, and you told us what the medical examiner did."

  "Must have grossed you out."

  "Not me. I loved it. Anyway, you told the kids. Jus est ars boni...something or other."

  "Jus est ars boni et aequi. Law is the art of the good and the just." Charlie exhaled a sigh. "Don't believe everything carved in marble pediments."

  "Hell, I don't. I know justice doesn't just flow from the law like coins from a slot machine. You gotta fight for it. You gotta put everything on the line for it."

  Charlie pulled up the brim of his straw hat and squinted at me through his eyeglasses. "You talking about your case or mine?"

  "You rolled over, Charlie. You gave up when you wouldn't let me sue the bastards who fired you."

  "You're too young. You don't understand."

  "I understand you can't fear losing. You can't be afraid of going up against stronger adversaries."

  "I knew what I was facing. Powerful people wanted me out of the M.E.'s job. They would find a way to win. They always do."

  "They? The big, scary they..."

  "The power structure, Jake. In my case, the state attorney, the county mayor, and the sheriff, not to mention their big-money supporters downtown. In your case, should you be foolish enough to take it, you'll be facing a deep carpet lawyer who contributes to every judge's re-election and has wormed his way into the very same group."

  "Don't you see it, Charlie? The power structure, whoever the hell they are, can only scare us if we let them. They're just shadows."

  "They're real, dammit! That's why I didn't fight them. They would have crushed me, just like they're gonna crush you."

  -7-

  Reversing the Hook

  It was a neighborhood of liquor stores, hubcap shops, and crumbling apartment buildings off 27th Avenue, just north of the Miami River. A silver Range Rover with tinted windows rolled by, hip-hop electro sounds of Afrika Bambaataa coming from inside.

  I was driving my Olds 442 ragtop with Sherrell Johnson riding shotgun. The vintage car was canary yellow and the huge engine rumbled agreeably.

  Ignoring the stares of a half-dozen gangbangers, I parked in front of the Palmetto Arms apartments. I didn't know if the place was named for the tree or the bug, the Florida cockroach. It was three-stories of crumbling concrete-block and stucco. No elevator, so we hauled ass to the third floor, with me hoping that my car would not be taken for a joy ride, stripped, or shipped to Central America by the time we came out.

  As we walked along the third floor corridor, Sherrell said, "There's a retirement home we've been looking at down in Kendall. Clean. Quiet. Expensive."

  "If we win this case," I said, "money won't be a problem."

  I could hear the singing before Sherrell used a key to open the door to number 319.

  "I'm leaving you baby...

  Got to say goodbye..."

  She swung the door open. Inside, sitting at the kitchen table was a lean, white-haired African-American man in his seventies. He played a weathered acoustic guitar and kept singing, ignoring us.

  "I'm leaving you baby...

  Don't ask why.

  I'm leaving you baby...

  Baby, baby, baby don't cry."

  He put the guitar on the table and looked up at me. "I'm Cadillac Johnson. Thanks to everyone for coming tonight. Stick around for the girls, especially our headliner, Miss Blaze Starr herself."

  I was gaping until he broke into a wide grin. "Aw, c'mon, Mr. Lassiter. Just messing with you. I ain't senile."

  I let out a breath and smiled. "You have a sweet voice, Mr. Johnson."

  "Call me, Cadillac. And how 'bout the words and music? Wrote that back in the summer of '59. Just broke up with this lady." He smiled again. "'Cause I'd met Sherrell's grandmother."

  Picking up his guitar, Cadillac finished the song. When he was done, I applauded. He offered me a drink. I declined and took a seat next to him. He appraised me with kind eyes. I didn't see any of the anger his granddaughter seemed to carry around like a sack of heavy rocks.

  "Now, listen to this." Sherrell reached into her handbag and pulled out a cassette. A ghetto blaster – a boom box the size of a suitcase – sat on the kitchen table. Sherrell placed the cassette in the slot and hit PLAY. M.C. Silky began singing.

  "Don't cry baby...

  You're my sexy lady.

  Don't cry baby..

  Baby, baby, baby."

  It was louder than Cadillac's song. A faster beat, too. But I couldn't deny the similarities of melody and lyrics. Was it illegal plagiarism though? I didn't know enough to venture either a musical or a legal opinion.

  "Did you hear how Silky reversed Grandad's hook?" Sherrell said.

  "Mine's up-down," Cadillac said. Ba-by, ba-by. His is down-up. Ba-by, ba-by.

  "I think I heard it. But I can't say for sure. And I've got to warn you. These cases are tough. Unless an expert backs you up, we're–""

  "Don't see why," Cadillac interrupted. "If I stole your wallet, I'd go to jail."

  "There's sort of a presumption against the people suing big-time performers. Most recording stars have been sued. Mick Jagger. Michael Bolton, Brian Wilson. And they almost always win."

  "Ain't about the money, Mr. Lassiter. "Stealing my song's like taking part of me. You understand that?"

  I chewed it over a second. "I think so. Your music is your legacy. It's what you leave behind."

  The old man smiled warmly and turned to his granddaughter. "The boy gets it."

  Then he started singing softly to himself, and I figured it was time to go.

  -8-

  The Florida Bar vs. Jacob Lassiter

  Willard Buckstrom's chambers smelled of dry leather and cigarette smoke.

  Even in those days, smoking was not permitted in the old limestone courthouse on Flagler Street. Except in Judge Buckstrom's chambers. His Honor chain-smoked Camels, so he could hardly complain when lawyers lit up.

  I don't smoke.

  I don't know if James Farrell – my client for ten minutes before I slugged him – had the dirty habit. He didn't try lighting up today, not with his jaw wired shut. I gave him a tight little grin when I walked into chambers and sat across the table from him. His grimace was even tighter.

  Next to Farrell was George Grumley, the Florida Bar investigator who didn't like my interior decorating or my attitude. He acknowledged me by a little head shake, left to right and back again, sort of a negative hello.

  Judge Buckstrom's job was to hear a bit of evidence and file recommendations with the Bar. That could include everything from dismissing Farrell's complaint against me to a public scolding called a "censure," or even suspension or disbarment. A mahogany plaque for my wall and an "attaboy" were probably out of the question.

  "Let's cut to the meat," Judge Buckstrom said, perhaps thinking of the bacon cheeseburger he usually had for lunch. "Mr. Lassiter, what the heck prompted you to strike Mr. Farrell?"

  "Because he told me was gonna..."

  "Objection, hearsay!" Grumley called out.

  "Sustained." The judge flicked his cigarette lighter and put the spark to a Camel.

  "Judge, I thought the rules of evidence were relaxed for this sort of hearing," I said.

  "They are and they aren't." Really sounding like a judge now.

  "Meaning?"

  The judge exhaled three smoke rings. "I'll give you some latitude but
not a lot of longitude."

  Grumley nodded as if this were the wisest statement he'd ever heard. Me? I didn't know what the hell the judge was talking about. His Honor was like that. Trying to sound profound, he was capable of unleashing strings of non sequiturs.

  Before ascending to the bench, as they say, as if the judge were a deity, Buckstrom had been a partner in a law firm defending nursing homes that allowed patients to develop bed sores, drown in their own vomit, and in one notable case, get eaten by an alligator. Really. The poor old guy wandered out the front door of the nursing home and fell into a canal bordering the property.

  "So not every rule of evidence applies, Your Honor?" I ventured.

  "Precisely. But not exactly."

  "I see." But of course, I was blind.

  "We'll relax some rules without getting all loosey-goosey," the judge said.

  This time, I nodded. I might as well pretend to know what was going on.

  "So let me ask again," the judge instructed. "Without telling me what Mr. Farrell said to you, why did you strike him?"

  I thought about my answer a moment. It was a quiet moment, except for Farrell slurping water through a straw.

  "Because based on what he said, which I won't repeat, I knew he was going to–"

  "Objection!" Grumley sang out. "Violates attorney-client privilege."

  "Sustained." A dry, hacking smoker's cough came from somewhere deep inside the judge who then turned to Farrell. "Do you waive the privilege?"

  Through his locked jaw, Farrell murmured, "No shur."

  "Should we try again, Mr. Lassiter?"

  "I don't know, Your Honor. You're handcuffing me."

  "Not yet, Mr. Lassiter. Not yet."

  The judge tapped some ashes into a crystal bowl and opened the file. I'm pretty good at reading upside down, a useful skill when visiting opposing lawyers' offices. From what I could see, he was reviewing Grumley's investigative report.

  After a moment, the judge read aloud. "'I will live by no code but my own?' What's that mean, Mr. Lassiter?"

  "It's just a personal philosophy."