Flinch Factor, The Read online

  The judge shook his head and snorted. “Mr. Crane, you expect me to believe that your client would rather pedal around on a bike than sit across the table from this pretty gal and answer her questions?”

  The judge gave me a big wink as he twirled one end of his handlebar mustache between his thumb and finger.

  “Heck,” he said with a chuckle, “you can take my deposition anytime you want, Miss Gold.”

  I formed a polite smile. “Thank you, Your Honor.”

  Flinch was in his forties and single. He frequented singles’ bars, according to a female friend of mine. He arrived occasionally in his judicial robe, apparently in the belief that it would improve his chances. She was in a bar once when he pulled out a gavel from under his robe and pounded it on the bar, demanding another Loch Ness Monster, a favorite drink of his that includes equal parts Bailey’s Irish Cream, Jägermeister, and liqueur.

  Crane said, “My client has no problem answering Miss Gold’s questions. The problem is scheduling the deposition. As the Court may know, Mr. Rubenstein is an avid triathlon competitor. Moreover, he uses each triathlon as an opportunity to benefit our community by making a significant charitable pledge tied to his scores at the event. At last summer’s triathlon in San Diego, his scores translated into a contribution to the Arthritis Foundation of fifty thousand dollars. Fifty thousand, Your Honor. This time he’s made the pledge to the Children’s Foundation. Those poor disadvantaged children need my client to stick with his training schedule.”

  “Triathlons, eh?” the judge said. “Reminds me of a Jewish joke. Heard it last week from Judge Bernstein. He’s a Jew, so there’s nothing offensive here—or if there is, take it up with him. Anyway, he told me he was heading off to the JCC for a Jewish triathlon. I ask him, ‘What the heck is a Jewish triathlon?’ Know what he said?”

  Rob Crane stared at the judge, his expression neutral. “I do not know, Your Honor.”

  “A shvitz, a whirlpool, and a massage.” The judge laughed, shaking his head. “That’s a good one, eh? Yessiree, bob.”

  His smile faded. “Where were we?”

  I said, “We were discussing Mr. Crane’s client’s purported scheduling problems, Your Honor.”

  “There is nothing purported about it,” Crane snapped.

  “Your Honor,” I said, “I have been trying to schedule Mr. Rubenstein’s deposition for more than two months. Every date I’ve offered has been rejected because of some alleged scheduling conflict. Two weeks ago I sent Mr. Crane a letter in which I set forth twelve different dates this month and asked him to pick the one most convenient to his client. He had one of his associates send me a reply stating that Mr. Rubenstein was unavailable on all twelve dates and was not available at anytime in the foreseeable future. Here is that correspondence.”

  I handed photocopies to the judge and Crane.

  While the judge studied the letters, I said, “You will note that one of the days I proposed in my letter was the third of this month.”

  “Let me see—ah, yes, here it is. The third.”

  “And that was one of the days that Mr. Rubenstein was supposedly too busy to be deposed.”

  Judge Flinch glanced at the other letter and nodded. “Yep. Too busy.”

  “The third was last Monday. Here is a copy of an article that appeared in the Post-Dispatch four days later on Friday.”

  I handed copies to the judge and Crane.

  “As you can see,” I continued, “it’s a feature story on the growing number of men who go to spas for facials and other treatments. Let me direct the Court’s attention to the seventh paragraph, which I will now read into the record.”

  “‘On Monday of this week,’” I read, “’I visited the lavish Stonewater Spa in the upscale Plaza Frontenac shopping mall in the hopes of getting some insights into this trend. Who should I find in the lounge area talking business on his cell phone? None other than high-powered real estate developer Ken Rubenstein, who was treating himself that day to the $250 Man Collection package, which features a pedicure, a manicure, a facial and a 60-minute deep tissue massage.’ End quote.”

  I set my copy of the article down on the podium.

  “In short, Your Honor,” I said, “Mr. Rubenstein couldn’t be deposed last Monday because he was getting his toes moisturized.”

  Judge Flinch leaned back in his chair, smirking at Crane. “Busted, bee-atch! What do you say to that?”

  “I am quite certain that at the time we responded to Ms. Gold’s letter my client was busy on that date. As we all know, appointments change, meetings get cancelled, schedules free up at the last moment. Those things happen.”

  “Not here, Mr. Crane. Your motion is denied.”

  The judge turned to me. “When do you want the deposition?”

  “Next Friday. Starting at ten a.m.”

  “Friday it is. Draft me an order.”

  “Your Honor,” Crane said, anger in voice, “my client has a training schedule. He needs to get his miles in that day.”

  “Tell him to bring his bike to the depo, Mr. Crane. He can pedal himself out of there as soon as Ms. Gold says she has no further questions.” He paused, a smile forming. “By the way, does your guy wear one of those goofy outfits when he goes biking?”

  Crane frowned. “Goofy outfits?”

  “You know what I mean. Those little tight Spandex shorts.”

  “I would assume that he wears the accepted cycling attire, Your Honor, including bicycle shorts.”

  “Is he going to wear those things around Miss Gold?”

  Crane glanced over at me, irritated. “If he has to, he will. She’s a big girl.”

  The judge laughed. “Your client better be the big one. If he’s going to be parading around in mixed company in a pair of tights, I hope for his sake he can fill them out, if you know what I mean.”

  Crane gazed at the judge, his jaw clenched.

  “Well, Counselor?”

  “I can assure the Court and Ms. Gold that Mr. Rubenstein fills his shorts most impressively.”

  The judge widened his eyes and looked at me. “My, my. What do you make of that claim, Miss Gold?”

  “If anyone would know, Your Honor, it would be Mr. Crane.”

  The judge exploded into laughter. “Bull’s-eye!”

  He stood, still laughing, and headed toward the door to his chambers.

  Pausing, he turned back to us.

  “Draft me an order, Miss Gold.”

  He glanced at his long-suffering court reporter. “Court is in recess, Lois.”

  He turned back to us. “I’m starting to feel the public’s need to know.” He raised his eyebrows. “This one might be ready for prime time.”

  He made a pistol with his hand, took aim at us, and said, “See you later, alligator.”

  I wrote out the order and waited in the courtroom while his clerk walked it into the judge’s chamber for his signature and then made copies for the lawyers. It took about ten minutes, which I devoted to an internal monologue of complaints to my mother for getting me involved in this Frankenstein case. Although fairness and decency were on my clients’ side, the rule of law was not—and the rule of law is what counts, even in the courtroom of Judge Flinch.

  Flinch’s last comment—about the public’s need to know and the case’s almost-ready-for-prime-time status—raised the prospect of yet another unwelcome complication, namely, television coverage. While Oliver Wendell Holmes, Jr., Louis Brandeis, and Learned Hand might top the list of exemplars for most judges, Howard Flinch’s two idols are Lance Ito and Judy “Judge Judy” Scheindlin. He has signed photos of each framed and hanging on the wall of his chambers. A framed custom-made bumper sticker above his desk reads “WWJJD?”—which stands for “What would Judge Judy do?” While others might quote Confucius or Mark Twain, Flinch preferred to preface his profundities with
a reference to the presiding judge in the OJ Simpson case, as in: “Ah, yes, as Judge Ito would say,…”

  About once a year over the past decade—mostly for trials but sometimes for hearings—Judge Flinch has unilaterally declared that the public’s “sacred right of access” trumped local court rules and required that his courtroom be opened to all media. Each time—to the exasperation of the presiding judge—the local stations sent over film crews, confident that a Judge Flinch Extravaganza would deliver ratings worth preempting their soaps. Would my Frankenstein case provide Judge Flinch with his next television performance? The thought made me shudder.

  When I stepped off the elevator on the first floor I was surprised to find Rob Crane waiting for me in the lobby. He ended his cell phone call as I approached.

  “Here’s your copy of the order,” I said, handing it to him.

  “I spoke to my client.”

  “Good. Be sure to tell him I want the deposition to start on time. If he tries to pull what O’Brien did, I’ll come back here that day and ask the judge for sanctions.”

  O’Brien was the vice-president of Rubenstein’s company, Ruby Productions. His deposition had been scheduled to start at one p.m. a week ago. He and his attorney (one of Crane’s associates) arrived two hours late.

  “Calm down, Rachel. I wasn’t talking to him about the starting time of the deposition. I was discussing a more important issue in this case.”

  “You mean whether to show up in a business suit or bicycle shorts? Since it’s a video deposition, I vote for bicycle shorts.”

  “I’m not joking here, Rachel.”

  “Rob, we’ve spent enough time together for one day. If you have something to say, say it. I need to get going.”

  “The issue I discussed with my client concerned the fate of your lawsuit. Specifically, our prior settlement offer. The deposition is next Friday. If your clients would like to settle this dispute, they have until the close of business next Wednesday. We previously offered to pay each of your clients an amount equal to ten percent above the appraised value of their homes. That is a generous offer by any measure. We are now willing to augment that offer. Until the close of business on Wednesday, my client is willing to pay each of your clients fifteen percent above the appraised value. It has to be unanimous, though. Every one of your clients has to sign on. If your clients reject that offer, my client has instructed me to ramp up this litigation. I currently have one associate and one partner assisting me on this case. If the settlement deadline passes, I will add two more associates.”

  “Five to one, eh?”

  He gave me a cold smile. “Correct.”

  “Maybe I better start lifting weights.”

  “Maybe you better start talking some sense to your clients. This is a good settlement offer. If your clients don’t take it, I can assure you they will get exactly what they deserve. As will you.”

  “Give it a rest, Rob. We’re lawyers. Our job is to try to get our clients what they deserve. Maybe we’ll both succeed. Meanwhile, I will pass along your offer—and your threat.”

  I turned and walked away.

  Chapter Four

  Benny was seated on a stool at the kitchen island. I was at the sink, a dishtowel in my hand. We’d been discussing my Frankenstein case, including the bizarre hearing before Judge Flinch yesterday afternoon. Benny took another swig of beer and set the bottle down in front of him. I started drying a pot as he studied the bottle.

  “Well?” I asked.

  He looked up, the hint of a smile on his lips.“I believe Benjamin Franklin said it first and said it best.”

  “Is that so?” I leaned back against the sink. “And what was it that Ben said?”

  “For want of a handjob the case was lost.”

  I started drying the colander. “Benjamin Franklin, eh?”

  His grin broadened. “Poor Richard’s Almanac, I believe.”

  I set down the colander. “I don’t recall that one.”

  “That is why you are still a working stiff—albeit a gorgeous one with an All-World tush—while I have become a tenured professor of law.”

  He looked, of course, nothing like a professor of law, tenured or otherwise. He was unshaven, and his shaggy Jew-fro was in need of a trim. He wore a vintage green-and-white New York Jets Joe Namath jersey, baggy khakis, and red Chuck Taylor All-Star Hi Tops. Nevertheless, he was a professor, and a noteworthy one at that. He had come to my house for dinner direct from the law school, where that afternoon he had taught his Advanced Antitrust Seminar. If you want to get away with that scruffy look, especially at an ambitious law school like Washington University’s, you better reside in the academic stratosphere with Professor Benjamin Goldberg.

  I placed my dishtowel over my heart in feigned gratitude. “I thank you, Professor, and my tush thanks you. Now what are you talking about? Specifically, what handjob?”

  “The missing one.”

  “Missing from what?”

  “From your date with Rob Crane.”

  “What date with Rob Crane?”

  “Back in high school. Your senior year, I believe.”

  “How do you know about that?”

  “Your mom told me.”

  “My mother told you that I went on a date with Rob Crane back in high school?”

  “A date. Singular. That would appear to be the key.”

  “The key to what?”

  “To this screwed up lawsuit you’re in. Am I right?”

  “About what?”

  “That you didn’t give Rob Crane a handjob at the end of that night. Correct?”

  “What does that have to do with—”

  “—am I right?”

  I reddened slightly. “You are.”

  He leaned back with a knowing grin and lifted his beer bottle. “I rest my case.”

  Despite his national reputation in the field of trade regulation law, Professor Benjamin Goldberg remains my beloved Benny: vulgar, fat, gluttonous and rowdy. But also ferociously loyal and wonderfully funny and my very best friend in the whole world. I love him like the brother I never had. We met as junior associates in the Chicago offices of Abbott & Windsor. A few years later, we both escaped that LaSalle Street sweatshop—Benny to teach law at De Paul, me to go solo as Rachel Gold, Attorney at Law. Different reasons brought us to St. Louis. For me, it was a yearning to live closer to my mother after my father died. For Benny, a year later, it was an offer he couldn’t refuse from Washington University.

  He finished off the beer in two slugs.

  “Another one?” I asked.

  He pondered the question as he semi-stifled a belch that rattled the china.

  “Ordinarily I’d say no, but I better have one for health reasons.”

  I opened the fridge and took out another bottle of Sam Adams Boston Lager from the six-pack Benny had brought for dinner along with a bouquet of flowers and a kosher salami he’d ordered for me from the butcher in his New Jersey hometown and that he claimed was sufficient justification, on its own, for the laws of kashruth. I pried off the bottle cap and handed him the beer.“What health reasons?”

  “Some brilliant scientist has discovered that beer contains antioxidants, whatever the hell they are. But, as the old saying goes, eternal vigilance is the price of health.”

  “Benjamin Franklin again?”

  “You might be right.”

  “Can we return to Rob Crane?”

  “My pleasure.”

  “Of what possible relevance is my date with him back then?”

  “According to your Mom, Rob Crane was a big shot at St. Louis Country Day. President of the class, all-state in football senior year. Right?”

  “Okay.”

  “I wasn’t born or raised here, so I don’t have that bizarre St. Louis obsession with where you went to high school and wha
t that fact says about you, but I’ve been here long enough to figure out that if you’re talking about a guy who went to Country Day, the odds of him being an arrogant jerk are significantly higher than a guy who went to, say, Kirkwood. You with me so far?”

  “Continue.”

  “And if you’re talking about a Jewish guy that went to Country Day—especially back then—the chances approach one-hundred percent. So let’s return to the night in question. We have Mr. Big Man on Campus who has stooped to take out a cheerleader from a public high school. Now granted, she’s smart and feisty and beautiful and possesses the aforementioned All-World tuchus, but she’s still a public school girl. That means she’s supposed to be in awe of Mr. Country Day Stud. She’s supposed to feel like she’s on a date with a goddam rock star.”

  He took a swig of beer.

  “You with me so far?”

  “Continue.”

  “There are certain rules of behavior that govern such a date, including the female’s execution of the appropriate closing act. The only acceptable alternative to that act would be what in the vernacular of that era was known as ‘bare second.’ I am assuming that Mr. Wonderful did not experience the celestial delights of bare second. Correct?”

  “Are you kidding? No way.”

  Benny chuckled. “Did you at least kiss the bastard?”

  “I shook his hand.”

  Benny burst into laughter. “That’s all?”

  “That was more than enough.”

  “Weren’t too wild about him, eh?”

  “He was stuck on himself. The whole night, every time we passed by a mirror, he’d pause to check himself out. I couldn’t wait to get away from him. At the end of the night, he tried to kiss me in the car. I told him no. I tried to be nice about it. I didn’t want to be mean. I just wanted to get away from him. He walked me to the door. Before he could try to kiss me again, I held out my hand.”