Freezing People is (Not) Easy (19 page)

This so-called breaking story was on the news again that night. My “Peter and Paul” statement and the arranged confrontation with Worthington were broadcast, but that was all. Pepper reported that research was ongoing and he would have more at a later date.

Disgusted at Peter Pepper, I called him the next day and said, “Do you realize Worthington made a fool out of you? He used you and he used your news station just to gain publicity for his deep-pockets trial case.” I reiterated, “CSC had frozen most of the patients free of charge. Out of the kindness of our hearts, we were trying to get these people into long-term storage.”

“How much money did you get to save these frozen bodies of people you have never met?”

“CSC didn't get money, and we had to end the vault; that's the story!”

Pepper had two more questions: “First, how much money did you collect from society members for the maintenance of these frozen patients?”

I answered, “On my soul, not a penny ever from anyone.”

“Second,” he asked, “what can you tell me about the lawsuit?”

I said, “We have a mortician who often assisted with our cryonics patients. He has malpractice insurance—in other words, deep pockets that Worthington wants to pillage.”

After that phone conversation,
Channel 2 News
never again mentioned this sordid fabrication. The cemetery owner, Frank Enderle, considered filing both criminal and civil action against the news station for breaking, entering, and trespassing. Because a crippling stroke rendered him unable to walk or speak, the CBS affiliate managed to avoid legal action.

The next few months were a nightmare of expense and confusion. After the
Channel 2 News
farce, the plaintiffs' attorney, Worthington, inundated me with hundreds of hours of interrogatories, all of which required an attorney.

The pressure continued when a journalist wrote an article about Chatsworth claiming that “the stench near the crypt is disarming, strips away all defenses, spins the stomach into a thousand dizzying somersaults.” This was untrue of course. The bodies were placed in sealed containers, wrapped, and intact.

I was tempted to not appear. I would've then lost by default and could simply bankrupt away the judgment. However, I couldn't desert Joseph Klockgether. This money-grabbing scam was an assault not only against me but also against cryonics. Somehow I had to stand by Joseph and fight for justice. I needed a good, but cheap, attorney.

I called the Orange County Legal Aid Society, and they gave me an address and an appointment. When I arrived for my free fifteen-minute consultation, there were twenty other poor people in the waiting room who needed help for their problems. I brought a thirty-pound box filled with years of cryonics documents, Worthington's interrogatories, records, and related evidence. Where the hell could I begin this insane story, with only fifteen minutes to explain everything?

Finally I was called into this tiny cubicle with no room for my box, so the attorney asked me to simply tell him my problem, no records. I began talking ninety miles an hour: “I froze the first man and people started dying, they didn't have any money but I froze them anyway, then the capsules kept failing, then . . . ”

By this point, I couldn't understand myself! But I forged ahead. “This little girl I fell in love with, I mean I didn't really fall in love, I just loved her like a daughter. She died and the family didn't have any money but I froze her. I couldn't help myself; she was such a sweetheart. I . . . I . . . I . . . ”

“Wait a minute,” said the questioner; his name was Winterbotham. “What the hell are you talking about?”

“Cryonics. I'm the ex-president of the Cryonics Society,” I explained.

“You mean the organization that puts people in suspended animation?”

Hearing him say
suspended animation
gave me my first glimmer of hope. “Yes,” I said. “That's me. I'm being sued. Can you help me?”

He reached into his pocket, took out his card, and gave it to me. “Call me tomorrow after 10:00 a.m.” That was against the rules, as he was only supposed to dispense brief legal advice, but he was interested in my story.

I called at ten sharp and made an appointment to meet at his home at 2:00 p.m. We talked for more than four hours, and he reviewed countless documents. This man seemed like the perfect person to combat the sneaky Worthington. He was intelligent and charismatic, and he had a genuine smile. I knew he'd convince a jury to see the truth.

“This case is the most ridiculous effort to extract money from an insurance company I've ever heard,” he said. “There's no doubt we'll win the case. I'll just need fifteen thousand dollars to get started.”

I accepted and turned over a ton of overdue interrogatories. I gave him a postdated check for three thousand dollars and promised to have the remaining twelve thousand paid within thirty days.

Attorney Winterbotham declared that, with the signed Anatomical Gift Act documents, we could not lose. Although we had all the signed documentation showing donation of body and funds, the Harrington brothers claimed we had made a verbal contract that I would provide a twenty-thousand-dollar MVE capsule and that I would replace the liquid nitrogen forever. That was ludicrous, stupid, and, well, creative fibbing. The truth was, as I explained, they had said that ten thousand dollars was all they could afford. And the brothers had never made one donation toward their mother's liquid nitrogen cost.

I will always remember his parting words that day: “The fraud is being perpetrated
against
Mr. Klockgether and you, not the other way around.”

So now I had a clever attorney who was skilled at preparing a case. All I had to do was come up with another twelve thousand dollars. There was only one way—I had to sell my beloved Porsche Speedster. It was twenty-five years old and the last thing in the world I owned of any value. I had held on to the Porsche through all the hardship, sacrifice, and lean years. During those times, I think I knew in my gut to hang on to the car because I would need that money in my darkest hour. That moment had now come. I had given my word to fight this witch hunt to the end, so that's what I was going to do.

Chapter 15

The Trial
2
*

As the trial began,
Winterbotham and I agreed to alternate driving into Los Angeles each day. This would give us an hour each way to dissect the day's proceedings. He had no set strategy; he planned to refute their lies with the truth. He couldn't understand how their case could prevail once we introduced the Anatomical Gift Act. That sounded wonderful, and it would likely end the argument. I felt confident, mostly.

That first day we arrived at the courthouse on a crisp April morning, it was a circus. Cameramen and reporters shouted questions such as, “How many millions did you rip off, Mr. Nelson?” “Did you ever really freeze anyone?”

Holding my head high, I ignored them and strolled up the concrete steps. I had seen comparable dramas with other defendants play out on television, including my stepfather, Big John. The courtroom loomed before me. I always had needed to be in control, and it was scary to realize I had ceded my fate to the judge, jury, and my lawyer.

“All rise.” The bailiff's voice commanded silence, and everyone was settled.

The jury box was on the extreme left of the courtroom, opposite a bank of windows and an evidence table that spanned the length of the courtroom. Klockgether, our attorneys, and I sat on the right side of the aisle, farthest from the jury. From the statue of Blind Justice to the imposing mahogany throne for the judge, everything seemed so grand and imperious. Judge Shelby was big too; the zipper on his black robe was battling with his roly-poly belly. With his girth and white beard, I hoped he'd begin court by saying “Ho, ho, ho” and offer to bring me a “not guilty” verdict for Christmas. When the court session began, the jury selection was a tug-of-war between the plaintiffs and us. They wanted older, conservative people; we wanted the fresh-faced young folks and no grumps.

My first surprise was Thomas Nothern, newly installed cocounsel to the plaintiff, and I realized my case had just become a lot harder. I had envisioned the slimy, devious Worthington repulsing the jury. In contrast, Nothern was so charming he seemed destined for a courtroom. He was a slight man with a severely deformed left leg, so he walked with crutches. He was good-looking and soft-spoken, and with his light Southern drawl, he appeared a kind and friendly gentleman.

As Nothern approached the jury box for his opening statement, he introduced Worthington, the Harrington brothers, and their witnesses. Nothern then explained to the jury how his clients had been duped and defrauded out of thirty-five thousand dollars. He told them that I had come to Des Moines, Iowa, and froze their mother, shipped her to California, put her in temporary dry-ice storage, and then stole their ten thousand dollars, which they said was their mother's entire bequest.

The Harringtons claimed that I promised to provide their mom with a new twenty-thousand-dollar MVE capsule and that I would pay for the liquid nitrogen until their mother could be brought back to life. No matter how long it took! Although they acknowledged they had given only ten thousand dollars to CSC, they wanted an additional fifteen thousand dollars, which they had supposedly spent for her memorial service two years after she had died.

Also, they wanted another ten thousand dollars because their father, who had never been frozen, had been disinterred a year after his death and shipped to Chatsworth to reside with their mother. They claimed I had told them that the CSC had plenty of funds and didn't need any help paying for liquid nitrogen or maintenance. My attorney had his nose in his yellow legal pad, scribbling down notes. It worried me, though, that his hand trembled as his pen flew across the page. He had told me he was confident about our chances, and now he was acting nervous.

When Nothern spoke, he captivated people in an almost magical way. I couldn't help but like him; even more important, I couldn't help but believe him.

“This was a
fraud,
” Nothern intoned, his palms resting on the railing of the jury box, “perpetrated on the country and the world. Bob Nelson was the ‘General,' the leader who deceived people in their
grief,
when they were ready to grasp at any straw to save or bring back a loved one from death. Yes, ladies and gentlemen, it was all just a
scam,
designed to rip people off for their money during the most tragic and vulnerable moment of their life.”

I wanted to scream.
If that was true, why was the CSC vault full of people who paid nothing to get frozen?
Nothern's opening statement was powerful, and he made it so damn believable. I battled my feelings of sympathy for him as he struggled to return to the plaintiff's table on his crutches.

It was now Winterbotham's turn to address the jury. My attorney began by asking them to use plain common sense. “Does it seem even remotely possible that my client, Mr. Nelson, would say, ‘Give CSC ten thousand dollars and we will give you a state-of-the-art MVE capsule that cannot be purchased anywhere in the world for less than twenty thousand dollars'? Does it make sense that CSC, an experimental research society that exists solely on donations, would also perform a complete perfusion and cryogenic freezing on the plaintiffs' mother in Iowa? That CSC would pay all the plane fares round-trip for my client and Joseph Klockgether? Then they would ship the plaintiffs' mother to California and place her in temporary storage for maybe two years, after which they would put her into a capsule and my client would pay the monthly replacement cost of liquid nitrogen to her capsule forever?”

Winterbotham stopped to gauge his effectiveness. “The plaintiffs' argument is silly, and it is easy to show that CSC never agreed to any such nonsense. Both brothers signed the contract that shows the substance of the real agreement made that day. CSC has always expressed in its publications and television and radio appearances that the cost of a complete cryonic suspension was ten thousand dollars plus adequate funds invested to create an endowment for liquid nitrogen replacement, which ranges from ten thousand to fifty thousand dollars. Overall, twenty thousand to sixty thousand dollars is an estimated cost for the complete service, including permanent storage and maintenance.

“There is not one itsy-bitsy piece of evidence to support the plaintiffs' claim regarding their deal with CSC. We have documentation signed by both Harrington brothers regarding their true donation to CSC. You will see that CSC did everything possible to continue Mrs. Harrington's suspension despite their lack of funds. This whole tragedy was an experiment, the capsule failure was an accident, and my client was no longer able to preserve her body.

“No one was at fault. There was absolutely no intent to cheat or defraud. All the money donated to CSC was used to bring about the desired results of both Mr. Nelson and Mrs. Harrington's sons. CSC is a nonprofit medical research foundation. I repeat, every suspension and all money received is a donation.”

Winterbotham paused, his voice becoming softer and more reflective. “We live in an amazing age, full of medical miracles and possibilities. Everything attempted by Mr. Nelson was grounded in the possibilities proposed by top scientists, including the founder of cryonics, Professor Robert Ettinger, and using procedures developed by esteemed medical doctors. This was no snake oil salesman like the plaintiffs would wish you to believe. Nevertheless, cryonics is a long shot. There are no guarantees, and that is why donations are necessary to use these new procedures. The concept of relatives suing for every loved one not revived is truly insane.”

My attorney went on to explain that we did not even have a permanent storage facility at that time, though we did expect to begin constructing one within two to three years.

“I certainly understand their love for their mother, but once Mrs. Harrington was in a capsule, all CSC could promise was their best efforts to keep her there. The Harringtons' responsibility included donating one hundred to three hundred dollars monthly to help with the liquid nitrogen charges. They never did that.

“CSC kept their promise: They froze her, they shipped her to California, and they kept her in dry ice for over two years. They got her into a capsule, and they maintained that capsule for over a year. CSC did what they said they would do.” He stopped and pointed at the plaintiffs. “They did not.”

That ended Winterbotham's presentation, which I thought had sufficiently neutralized Nothern's lies.

At that point the judge ordered a recess and invited the attorneys into his private chambers. After about forty-five minutes, they returned and resumed court. Winterbotham was red with anger and white-knuckled his briefcase. Something was very wrong, and I was suddenly frightened.
What the hell could have happened in there?
When I asked him in a nervous whisper, he mouthed, “Later,” and swatted me away. I recoiled in shock, and he started laughing. After laughing and pointing at my stunned expression, he put his head in his hands, lowered his face to the table, and fell asleep!

As the jury was filing in and everyone else—spectators, clerks, deputies—was coming to attention, my slumbering attorney began snoring! It took a few minutes before everyone realized what was happening. I could hear Dennis Harrington sniggering, and I began to vigorously shake Winterbotham and yell at him to wake up. Klockgether's attorney, Mr. Freedman, whispered through clenched teeth, “Bob, get him up; this is making a terrible impression on the jury.”

No shit.

I stole a quick look at the jury; they were stifling giggles. The judge banged his gavel and ordered the bailiffs to remove the jury. He then ordered them to wake up Winterbotham.

Good luck,
I thought.
I couldn't do it.

After fifteen minutes of cold water compresses to his face and being dragged to his feet, he finally began to respond. At first he was angry, almost combative, and was flailing his arms and yelling at everyone to leave him alone.

Thirty minutes elapsed before he could compose himself enough to properly explain what had just happened.

Judge Shelby took Winterbotham back into his chambers, alone this time. After thirty minutes my attorney came out looking pale and exhausted. He asked me to drive his car home.

For a long time on the freeway, I gripped the steering wheel, not speaking, awash with so many questions and concerns. Then I asked him one of the more benign questions: “What happened the first time you went into the judge's chambers with the other attorneys?”

He lifted his head and mumbled. His words were slurred, so I asked him to repeat them. This time he shouted, “The judge will not allow the AGA into evidence!”

My mind exploded with the ramifications, and I nearly veered our car into the other lane as I tried to absorb this death knell. The Anatomical Gift Act had been our security blanket for the past fifteen years. Without it, we never would have frozen anyone. We were now naked and exposed, without the legal protection we had operated under for years. I couldn't comprehend on what basis the AGA would not be allowed into evidence. It was a legal document, a contract, that the plaintiffs had agreed to and signed, and I had acted in good faith for all those years under the terms of the AGA. For me it made as much sense as a judge summarily and baselessly throwing out someone's marriage license or property deed.

“What,” I finally said, flabbergasted, “are you nuts? That cannot be! That will kill our whole case.” I had been thinking that the judge was leaning toward Nothern, and that had just confirmed it for me.

“I know,” he said, rubbing his temples, I guessed to stay awake. “I'll have to figure out the basis for why he's barring the AGA, but it doesn't matter. I know I can beat this case without it. They have nothing but an unbelievable lie with no supporting evidence. Don't worry. I can do it. Besides, we'd win an appeal if we needed it.”

A guarantee of a new trial offered little comfort—I could barely stomach this trial, let alone the prospect of a second one. I was in so much shock over the devastating bombshell, I never asked about his falling asleep. And unlike my lawyer, I'm sure, I couldn't sleep that night. I just paced my empty and lonely apartment for hours.

The next morning my lawyer looked refreshed and clear-eyed, and he smelled like clean linen and a pricey cologne I hadn't been able to buy for years. I didn't want to risk the positive mood of the day, so I didn't mention his bizarre behavior in court. I did comment on Nothern's skill, and he agreed, adding, “But we have the truth on our side.”

He said he had spent half the previous evening checking the law books and consulting with other attorneys. He had checked our articles of incorporation, and, yes, we were authorized to carry out low-temperature research. The judge had decided incorrectly and had undercut our entire defense.