The Reform Artists: A Legal Suspense, Spy Thriller (The Reform Artists Series Book 1) (8 page)

In civil court, the alleged guilty parties had to provide, and pay for, their own counsel. They were not entitled, as they are, in criminal cases, to free legal representation from the Public Defender’s Office, and this held true even if they had no money.
Meanwhile, the term ‘alleged’ was never used, in the text of the VAWA, to refer to an “abuser.” The law repeatedly referred, indirectly, to women as the ‘victims’ and to men as the ‘abusers’ (as if they already had been tried and convicted of the ‘alleged’ offenses.)

The VAWA also was funded legislation. Each year, it poured tens of millions of federal dollars into programs designed to document and aid female victims of domestic violence—and to indoctrinate judges on how to try the cases. Funding recipients immediately had a stake in portraying men as the perennial abusers and women as the eternal victims—despite a growing body of empirical evidence to the contrary.

For a brief time, Swindell and several of his cronies bemoaned the damage the VAWA was doing to family law, as heavy-handed tactics and unethical maneuverings quickly became the order of the day. But soon—surprisingly soon—the VAWA showed them another side: the positive effect the law was having on their practices’ bottom lines, through the heightened conflict it generated between estranged spouses.

Marginal cases that would have settled quickly in the past were suddenly going to trial—with legal fees mounting all the while—as men fought either to get even with their wives or to avoid losing their children, their reputations and their prior standards of living. Swindell and his fellow lawyers watched in amazement as this runaway tractor-trailer miraculously morphed into a big, fat, legal gravy train.

Swindell was ‘old school’ enough that he never exploited the VAWA for his own tactical advantage. But he never fought against its misuse by others, either. He had read the subtext in conversations with his peers. He had attended the government-funded Continuing Legal Education workshops that tirelessly beat the drum about the growing menace of male-initiated domestic violence. And he had reviewed his law firm’s now permanently inflated balance sheet often enough to know better.

So, in the face of what his legal training and his own good sense told him to be a great and terrible wrong, Swindell remained silent. He resolved, simply, to give his clients his best efforts. He would ‘fight the good fight’ exclusively in the courtroom, where the odds grew increasingly long for the men he typically represented.

Meanwhile, like an oncologist treating a terminal patient, Swindell learned to manage the information he shared with his clients. He would withhold bad news as long as possible, in order to give them hope, to boost their spirits—and to keep his fees flowing.

As he watched his clients struggle, like so many lost souls, to climb out of the legal quicksand they found themselves in, to end the horrible nightmare and to break free of the vicious snare divorce court had become, Swindell assumed the role of quiet confidant. He was part philosopher, part silent witness to their misery. If he could not help them, he would try his best to
understand
them or to make them
feel
understood. That was the least he could do.

As long as he received his fee, Swindell, like a modern-day Charon, would calmly guide his clients across the deep and terrible waters of divorce, steadily rowing forward, ever forward, until they reached the far shore. Once in the shallows, he would lift his oars and allow the boat to glide forward the last, few remaining feet, as the awful mists cleared and his clients found themselves staring up at the dark, and foreboding, Gates of Hell.

Swindell took the cigar from his mouth and tapped it twice against the edge of his ashtray. Two inches of gray, spent tobacco ash fell away, revealing a glowing, orange core. He looked down at his case-management program. The counter showed seven minutes had elapsed on his yet-to-be-placed call to Beverly West. Already, with the software’s rounding-up feature, the call had cost his client sixty dollars. If he was efficient and could limit his actual time on the phone with West to less than five minutes, Swindell could prevent the ‘meter’ from adding yet a third, thirty-dollar increment to Martin’s bill. Buoyed by this uncharacteristically altruistic thought, Swindell picked up the phone and threw himself back into his work.

Beverly West bit her lower lip so hard that it bled, when Swindell called her just before noon, Wednesday, to say that Martin had completely rejected her client’s settlement offer. Fortunately, she managed to keep her cool when it finally became her turn to speak.

“Your client,” she said into the phone, with all the nonchalance and bravado she could muster, “is either a brave man or an ignoramus. Our offer is extremely generous. This case is a slam dunk.”

“On the other hand,” Swindell countered, “maybe you’re the ignoramus, Bev, and your case is anythin' but –. Well, we’ll all know soon enough.”

“Don’t forget to tell your client about the many risks associated with going to trial, Chester. I wouldn’t want you to give him future grounds for suing you for malpractice.”

Swindell chuckled. “Thanks for lookin’ out for me, Bev. It’s quite comfortin’.”

“My pleasure, counselor. Call me if the ‘lunatic’ changes his mind.”

“I certainly will, but I wouldn’t hold my breath. He seems quite determined.”

“That’s splendid! I’ll send my victory suit out to the dry cleaners this afternoon. You know, it’s the one I wore for the last three cases of ours that went all the way. See you in court.”

“It sure looks that way.”

As soon as the call ended, Beverly dialed Katie Silkwood’s cell phone. “Katie,” she said, “we’ve got a problem.”

Katie, who was at a patient’s bedside, cupped the phone with her hand and stepped away for some privacy. “What’s the matter, Beverly?” she whispered.

“I presented our settlement offer to your husband’s lawyer yesterday, and he just called me back.” She paused. “Your husband has rejected it out of hand.”

“Well,” Katie said, stepping out into the hallway, “you told me it was just our opening position, so, I didn’t expect him to accept it without some changes. What’s his counter offer?”

“That’s just it, Katie. There is no counter offer. Martin doesn’t want to settle. We’re going to trial.”

“What?!” Katie shouted, as orderlies, visitors and a few gowned patients, who were walking down the hall, towing their drip lines behind them, all suddenly turned their heads in her direction. Her voice quickly returned to a whisper. “You said Martin had way too much to lose to risk a hearing!”

“I know, Katie. And he does. As I told you, almost
all
of my domestic violence cases settle at this point for precisely that reason. I must admit, your husband’s response caught me completely off guard. I thought you said he was as an extremely conservative, deeply private, risk-averse man?”

“That’s how I’ve always thought of him. He’s certainly not a gambler, if that’s what you mean.”

“Well, my dear, you may want to dust off the old dossier. It appears ‘hubby’ has grown himself an impressive, new pair of balls.”

“Wonderful! So, what do you intend to do about that?”

“Katie, ‘gelding’ is not a skill set you’ll find listed anywhere on my resume.”

“Well, after talking to your references, it probably
should
be.”

“Really?”

Katie’s tone became far more serious. “Listen, Beverly, you promised me this would all be over quickly and cleanly. I cannot afford a full-blown trial now. I mean, this isn’t even the actual divorce case. I trusted you, when you said there would be no surprises. Now, you need to make this right.”

“I understand how you feel, but as I have told you, repeatedly, Katie, there are no ‘guarantees’ in divorce cases. As your lawyer, I can express my opinion about how things might turn out, but I can’t promise or guarantee you anything.”

“I don’t know, Beverly. ‘No surprises’ sounds an awful lot like a guarantee to me.”

“That’s not a place you want to go with me, Katie.”

Katie thought about that for a moment. “Fine, but I expect more from a lawyer with your reputation, and your hourly rate, than: ‘Katie, we’ve got a problem.’ I would think you would have a solution or two in mind before picking up the phone and ruining my day.”

“Point taken, Katie.”

“So, what can we do now? Should you go back to them with a more generous settlement offer, one that possibly gives Marty more time with the kids, but not nearly enough to approach joint custody?”

“No. To return to the bargaining table now with any revised offer, after we’ve been completely rebuffed like this, would make us appear desperate. That would only make matters worse.”

“Great. So what do you propose we do?”

Beverly considered the options. “For the moment, nothing.”

Katie wanted to scream, but she held back. “How much extra could this little domestic violence hearing wind up costing me, Beverly?”

“It all depends. I don’t see it lasting for more than a day, but then, there’s considerable prep time involved. You’re probably looking at costs of somewhere between   $4,000 and $5,000. But, Katie, that’s –”

“I know, ‘not a guarantee?’”

“Right. In addition, a bad outcome in the domestic Violence case, while still a remote possibility, is something we must now consider. That could further complicate matters.”

“Meaning it could cost me even more in legal fees?”

“I’m sorry, Katie, but that is how the system works.”

Katie could now feel a panic attack coming on. Her head throbbed and her pulse quickened. She steadied herself against the hallway wall, as inconspicuously as possible, to counter her sudden light-headedness. Then, she made her way toward a small, rarely used family waiting area.

“Katie? Katie, are you still there?”

“Yes, Beverly. Hold on a minute, please.”

Katie opened the door a crack and looked inside. The room was empty, so she went in, closed the door behind her, and took several deep breaths. “My plan—our plan,” she said, slipping into a seat, “had been to use the money I withdrew from the household checking account to pay my divorce expenses. What am I supposed to do now? I’m not sure I can manage this, too.”

“First of all, Katie, this is no time to panic. I know it may not seem like it, but next Monday is still five days off. That’s an eternity in this kind of case. So, you need to get a grip on yourself. This probably is just a minor bump on the road. We have not driven into a sinkhole.

“You wanted to know what I think. I suggest we start by reassessing the situation. Right now, we know your husband is angry. OK, maybe this is just his way of blowing off steam. He already may have come to his senses—or he probably will soon. If his attorney, Mr. Swindell, does his job—and I have every reason to believe he will—he probably will push Martin to come up with some sort of counter offer. That way, Martin might be able to get most of what he wants without the added costs, and risks, of a trial. Believe me, Katie, this matter is far from over.”

Katie’s breathing had finally returned to normal.

Beverly continued. “I gave your husband’s attorney plenty to think about, when he told me about Martin’s decision. As a tactical matter, I think we need to give them a day or two to stew on this. Meanwhile, you probably should start working on our contingency plan.”

“What is that, again?” Katie asked.

“The plan is for you to pass the hat around to family, friends and acquaintances and ask them to help underwrite your attempt to break free from an abusive marriage that now threatens you and your kids.”

“I’m not sure I’m ready to start making those calls just yet, Beverly.”

“That’s OK. I just want you to start compiling your list of people
to
call.”

“All right,” Katie said. “I can certainly do that.”

Martin felt elated after his phone call with Swindell. Despite his attorney’s renewed warnings about the risks of trying cases in the female-biased Family Courts, Martin had stuck to his guns. He cupped his hands behind his head, put his feet on top of his credenza and smiled. He had seized the initiative, rejected Katie’s lopsided settlement offer and, more importantly, demanded that they go directly to trial.

The decision had been bold and gutsy. Katie would never expect it. He wished he could be there, like the proverbial ‘fly on the wall,’ to see the panic register on her face when she would hear the news. At least, Katie would now know that she had a fight on her hands. Her husband was not going to be a pushover.

On another level, Martin felt he had no choice but to reject Katie’s proposal. Even if she had intended it merely as an opening gambit in their negotiations, her offer sought to marginalize Martin’s role in his kids’ lives, and he would have none of that. In marriage, Martin and Katie had been equal partners in parenting. He expected no less in divorce. After all, he reasoned, he loved his kids and they loved him. Why should a change in marital status suddenly affect that?

By reaffirming his commitment to his children and his principles, Martin also hoped to send a clear message to Katie. If she could be fair and reasonable regarding the divorce, then he would cooperate, but if she preferred to behave selfishly and without regard for his interests, or the best interests of their children, then he would oppose her with all the resources at his disposal.

The decision had re-energized Martin. For the first time in days, he walked with a spring in his step and a glint in his eye. He seemed more upbeat, more optimistic. But Martin’s newfound confidence would not survive the afternoon.

At four o’clock, Monique buzzed Martin on the intercom and asked if he had time to meet, briefly, with Santori and Feldman, in Santori’s office?”

“Sure. When?”

“Now, if possible.”

“OK. Just give me a minute to finish what I’m doing, and I’ll be right there.”

Martin quickly wrapped up his work and, once more, headed for the hexagonal office at the south end of the building.

The scene that greeted him there bore little resemblance to the relaxed, congenial atmosphere he had experienced the previous day. When Martin came through the door, he found Santori and Feldman seated side-by-side in chairs, intently pouring over copies of some type of report. Rick Wainwright, the firm’s long-time legal counsel and trusted advisor, sat across from them on the couch. His briefcase lay open beside him, and he held a third copy of the report in his hands.

At six-foot-four, with a rugged, stocky build, Wainwright still looked the part of a former all-American lacrosse player. Wainwright had paid his way through undergraduate school, by earning a full athletic scholarship to Johns Hopkins University. From there, he went on to Georgetown University Law School, where he ranked seventh in his class. His jet-black hair, now graying at the temples, and his ruddy complexion were the only hints of his mixed ancestry. Wainwright was third-generation Irish-American on his father’s side and full-blooded Cherokee Indian on his mother’s. Cratered scars from severe childhood acne added further character to an otherwise handsome, youthful face.

“You wanted to see me?” Martin asked.

Santori glanced up from his report with a pained look in his eyes. “Marty, glad you could make it,” he said flatly. Then, he took a deep breath. “Lock the door behind you, please, and take a seat.”

“Lock the door? What’s going on, Joe? You look like someone’s been putting the screws to you.”

Martin and Wainwright exchanged quick nods of recognition. “No offense meant, Rick,” Martin began, turning back to his partners, “but why is counsel here?”

“None taken,” Wainwright said.

“We have a serious problem on our hands, Marty,” Santori began, “with potentially grave implications for the firm...and for you, in particular.”

“For me?” Martin frowned, as he sat down at the opposite end of the couch from Wainwright. “Why, me?”

“I’ll get to that in a minute,” Santori said.

“Rick’s been briefing us,” Feldman added.

“Briefing you on
what
?”

“‘What’ is not the operative word, Marty,” Santori said. He paused and briefly closed his eyes, while he gathered his thoughts. “The correct word, in this instance, would be ‘Who.’ And, although I’m still trying to get my head around it, the ‘who,’ appears to be ‘you.’”

“Me? What the hell did I do?”

Santori’s eyes flashed rage. “It’s really what you didn’t do, Marty. It appears you didn’t tell us the truth yesterday.”

“I most certainly did,” Martin said, straightening up in his seat. “I was incredibly forthcoming with you guys. In fact, I volunteered the information that Katie and I were separating and would likely be getting a divorce. And I was under no obligation to tell you anything. You said so yourself, Joe, when you told me how much you appreciated me coming forward.”

Santori glared at Martin. “What do you take me for, Marty, a fool? Your divorce was never the issue.”

“Then, what is?”

“When you left here yesterday,” Santori said, “I was deeply concerned that serious trouble might lie ahead for you. Ironically, I did not want you to encounter any unpleasant ‘surprises’ along the way. I consider you a valued partner and friend, and I wanted to help. I knew you’d never contact Rick on your own, so I asked Dave to get in touch with him on your behalf.”

“You did
what?”
Martin asked.

Wainwright cleared his throat. “Marty, your partners asked me, as corporate counsel, to dig around a little and check out the lawyers representing you and Kate. They wanted to know about their past success rates and the kind of tactics they typically employ. I sent one of our junior associates out to review the case filings in Circuit Court, in order to identify the attorneys of record. She called me a little while later concerned, because she couldn’t find any paperwork about your divorce.”

“Of course not,” Martin said. “Those papers haven’t even been filed yet! That proves how early I brought you guys into the loop.”

“Well,” Wainwright continued, “to be thorough, and since she already was at the Courthouse, I asked her to swing by the district court on her way back. There, she found a filing for the only active
Silkwood v. Silkwood
case, in Montgomery County.”

Martin swallowed hard.

“It was a petition for a Temporary Restraining Order against you, Marty, brought on charges stemming from four ‘alleged’ instances of domestic violence. And, as I assume you know, the petition was granted last Monday.”

“That’s right,” Martin said.

Santori was seething. “How could you, Marty?” he asked. “I stood there at the door with you yesterday, and I asked you, man-to-man, if there was anything else related to your divorce that we should know about—anything that could potentially harm the firm. Do you remember that?”

“Yes, I do.”

“And knowing about these charges, and the potential damage they could cause, you still looked me in the eye and said, ‘No?’”

“That’s right.” Martin said.

“How is that even
possible
?”

“Well, to start with, Joe, the charges Katie made are completely false, and I intend to prove it.”

“Who cares?!” Santori shouted, throwing his copy of Wainwright’s report flying across the room. “True, false, it doesn’t matter! The charges exist, don’t they? They’re now part of the public record. Don’t you understand what that means?”

“Apparently not,” Martin said.

“It means the charges are
out there
, Marty. A black mark on your character is now available for anyone with an Internet connection to see—including our potential clients. Any firm that performs due diligence prior to engaging us, and runs background checks on the partners, will be able to find it. Your prospective audit clients will see that you’ve been accused of domestic violence. How do you think that’s going to sit with them?”

A silence fell over the room. Martin looked anxiously at Wainwright. “Is he right, Rick? Will these records remain out there even if I win in court?”

Wainwright seemed taken aback. “Even if you win, Marty?” he said, shaking his head in disbelief. “I hope you’re not serious. If you fight this thing in court, and
lose
, it could destroy your career. As Joe just explained, you could become a major liability for the firm.

“You know,” he added, “there’s a whole HR side to this issue that we haven’t even addressed yet, although it’s in my report.”

“What are you talking about?” Martin asked.

Feldman spoke up. “As lead auditor, Marty, you oversee teams of men and women—married and singl
e—
who travel with you out of town, often for several days at a time, right?”

“Yes.”

“Now, suppose a woman who works for you proves to be incompetent. You let her go, as you should, but then, she, or her attorney, discovers that you’ve been named, publicly, as the aggressor in a domestic violence case. That might encourage her to retaliate by filing sexual harassment charges, or something equally unpleasant, against you. The mere threat to file would give her enormous leverage. We probably would have to settle."

“Is that a real possibility?” Martin asked Wainwright.

“I put it in the report, Marty. What do you think?”

Martin shook his head. “This thing is an absolute nightmare!”

“Now, he’s starting to get it!” Santori said.

“Marty, would you like my opinion?” Wainwright asked.

“Yes.”

“I think you need to make this case go away as quickly, and quietly, as possible. Settle with your wife. Get her attorney to withdraw her complaint, if possible. Who knows, you might even get the judge to remove the filing from the public record for the very reasons we’ve just discussed.”

“Otherwise?” Martin asked.

“Otherwise?” Santori said mocking him. “Marty, there is no
‘otherwise.’
”

“Are you guys telling m
e—
no,
ordering
m
e—
to give up my right to a hearing?”

“No,” Santori said. “We are strongly encouraging you to be practical here, to consider your career and your continued involvement with this firm and to exercise sound judgment.”

“Why would you want a trial anyway?” Feldman asked. “It’s not like you’d have a chance of winning.”

Martin glared at him. “How could you possibly know that?”

“Well,” Wainwright, interjected, “if we go by your lawyer’s track record, Dave’s got a point. I looked it up. Swindell has faced Beverly West six times in domestic violence cases. He settled five of those cases before trial, and he lost the remaining one in court. That makes him 0 for 6 in terms of outright wins.”

“He’s batting a big goose egg against her,” Feldman said.

“Were you aware of that, Marty?” Santori asked.

“No,” Martin said. He was starting to feel nauseous.

“You’ve got other problems, too,” Wainwright added. “You may have a strong case, and your wife’s allegations may be completely false, but you still have to prove that in court.”

“Right,” Martin said, “because the judge already has ignored any presumption of innocence on my part?”

“That’s correct,” Wainwright said. “So, how do you expect to do that?”

“Well,” Martin said, “each time Katie claims she called the police, I was out of town doing audits.”

“Are you sure about that?” Wainwright asked.

“Yep.”

“Your wife’s got some nerve!” Feldman said, with genuine admiration.

“Perhaps,” Wainwright said. “Or maybe she knows the odds of a case like this ever going to trial. Remember, her attorney, Beverly West, is a master strategist in these kinds of domestic violence cases.

“If you’re right, Marty, and Katie made the whole thing up,” Wainwright continued, “then one way to prove your innocence would be to show the judge that the police reports from her alleged 911 calls don’t exist, right?”

Martin nodded agreement. “Yeah, I guess.”

“Forget it,” Wainwright said. “That’s never going to happen.”

“Why the Hell not?”

“Marty, your court date is set for next Monday, isn’t it?”

“Yes.”

“That’s a legal requirement. The court must give you a hearing within seven days of issuing a Temporary Restraining Order against you. Sounds reasonable enough, right?”

“Yeah.”

“The problem is, the law also gives the police ten business days, or two weeks, to respond to any evidence request. That means, they don't have to produce those police reports until a week or more after your hearing date.”

Martin looked stunned. “That makes absolutely no sense.”

“Welcome to my world, Marty. The legal system is sometimes as close as we may ever get to experiencing life in a parallel universe.”