Freezing People is (Not) Easy (21 page)

I couldn't believe my rotten luck. I could tell that Worthington was thinking the same thing—he couldn't believe
his
luck. Worthington, the Worm, grinned like a Cheshire cat and acted like he'd just won the lottery.

For five minutes the two bailiffs tried waking Winterbotham. Spectators were laughing, and the reporters were scribbling in their notepads. I sat there confounded, wondering what kept happening to my attorney. The judge looked pissed and
ordered
the bailiffs, “Wake him, clean him up, and drag him, if necessary, into my chambers.”

The bailiffs were big men and looked strong, but Winterbotham was over six feet tall and more than two hundred pounds of dead weight. As the bailiffs lugged him to the restroom, his arms slung over their shoulders, he roused out of unconsciousness and struggled against their firm grip. He yelled and gnashed his teeth like a rabid dog. None of his grunts sounded intelligible though, and I just had to breathe fast.

The judge banged his gavel, attempting to restore some amount of order. Most of the gallery quieted, but he still had to speak over Winterbotham's growling. “When Mr. Winterbotham is able, will the attorneys come to my chambers? Mr. Nelson, will you come also?”

I was shocked, and so was Mr. Freedman, Klockgether's attorney. He told me in all his years practicing law, he had never heard of a defendant being asked to join the attorneys in chambers. “Bob, you should get rid of him. He is making a laughingstock out of you. Tell the judge you want to become your own attorney.”

Thirty minutes later, Winterbotham returned to the courtroom. The bailiff opened the judge's door and ushered us in. After we were seated around an imposing oak table, the judge began. “Mr. Winterbotham, yesterday I gave you twenty-four hours to get your medication adjusted so that you could function in this trial, and you fell asleep right in the middle of a sentence.”

“Yes, sir; I knew I'd need more for the trial, but I guess the doctor hasn't gotten the dosage right yet, Your Honor.”

“Well, I'm going to give you one more chance to get it right, Mr. Winterbotham. If you don't, you're going to be found in contempt of court and will be sentenced to jail. This is your very last chance, do you understand me?”

My attorney nodded, drool stains still on his shirt. “Yes, sir, I do.”

I jumped in and asked, “Wait a minute, what's going on here? What kind of medicine is he taking?”

The judge swung his head to me, and his eyes grew wide. He took a deep breath and said, “Are you telling me you don't know that Mr. Winterbotham is manic-depressive and takes lithium?” I could only shake my head. He turned to my attorney. “Mr. Winterbotham, you don't have a signed release from Mr. Nelson allowing you to represent him in your present condition?”

There was no response.

“Oh, boy,” said the judge. After what seemed like an eternity, the judge looked at Nothern and said, “Let's get brutally honest here. What you and your clients are after is money, and unless I'm wrong, Mr. Nelson has none.”

“That's right, Your Honor,” I answered. “I had to sell my car just to pay Mr. Winterbotham to represent me.”

The judge reminded the plaintiffs' attorneys that I had a guaranteed appeal because of Winterbotham's failure to obtain a written release to represent me while using lithium. I also had an equally good shot at a new trial because of the judge's denial to allow the Anatomical Gift Act to be introduced.

Well, this is an unexpected development,
I thought. I was surprised at his candor and had assumed judges tried to avoid their decisions being overruled, since it might make them look bad. Obviously, with this judge, I was wrong.

“Now I would suggest that you gentlemen let Mr. Nelson out of this action and continue one against Mr. Klockgether, who has the malpractice insurance and the money you're after. Otherwise, even if you win against Mr. Nelson, you can't collect until after his appeal is heard and there is a new trial. Believe me, gentlemen, he will be granted a new trial.”

Nothern and Worthington exchanged conflicted glances and asked the judge if they could have fifteen minutes in private. My one indulgence was enjoying the look of panic smear across Worthington's face as they left the room.

Those next fifteen minutes sitting in the judge's chambers felt like hundreds of years. It felt so long, I wouldn't have been surprised if reanimation had become possible during that interval. I couldn't look at Winterbotham or the judge. I just fidgeted, swallowed up by my deep leather chair. When the attorneys returned, they informed the judge they did not want to release me from the lawsuit. I learned later they felt they needed
me,
the General, to win their case. These guys were great chess players, and they had some brilliant moves planned.

I saw my opening and said, “Your Honor, I would like to make a motion here.” I had never made a motion in my life. Before the judge could reply, I continued, “I would like to make a motion to fire my attorney and represent myself, on the grounds that he keeps falling asleep.”

The judge looked at me with a barely concealed grin. “I'm sorry, Mr. Nelson. I cannot allow that, but if he falls asleep one more time . . . well, we will see what happens then. That's all for today.”

The ride home was a nightmare from hell. Winterbotham looked like a pale, unblinking zombie from a horror movie, and I felt like one of his captured victims. I think he was so addlepated that it didn't register with him that I had asked the judge for permission to fire him. We didn't speak a word, and when we arrived at his house, I jumped out of the car without a good-bye and jogged to my vehicle.

That night I tried to sleep, but my eyes remained wide open as I wondered how much crazier this trial could get. I had never before been in a sinking vortex where things kept spinning faster and faster out of control. I could not comprehend that my attorney, who had gotten my last nickel, was mentally ill and taking lithium, which causes people to fall sleep. People on this medication should not be representing clients in court.

This manic-depressive was representing me, fighting for my honor, my reputation, and my financial future. Yes, he was fighting for my fucking life.

And he was nuts.

On the other side of the courtroom aisle, there was Mr. Nothern, who was so smooth and beguiling that he could convince my mother to side with the plaintiffs. And even more unbelievable, I liked him.

The next morning I had simmered down. I resigned myself to just riding this nutso trial to its conclusion and then deciding how to proceed with my life. Winterbotham always looked great in the morning but deteriorated as the court session went on. He thought I would take the stand that day. We arrived at 8:45 a.m., and court began at 9:00 a.m.

The next witness for the plaintiffs was Marie Brown, Louis Nisco's daughter, who wanted her own piece of the malpractice pie. Years earlier she had called CSC and begged me to move her father's capsule to our Chatsworth facility so that Ed Hope wouldn't kick his body into the street. She essentially testified that I had agreed to pick up her father's capsule and replace the liquid nitrogen for free, forever! That was all Marie offered the court.

Her statements were another pinprick to my soul, an additional betrayal of my decade of service and sacrifice.

Winterbotham asked why anyone would go through all the work and enormous expense of picking up that capsule, moving it to California, storing it, and replacing liquid nitrogen for perhaps centuries. “All of that free of charge,” he said. “Did that make any sense to you, Ms. Brown?”

She shrugged. “I just thought they wanted to do that.”

“You just thought they wanted to accept this responsibility forever for free; that is your testimony before this court today?”

“Yes, sir.”

“How much money did you give Mr. Nelson?”

No answer.

“It was zero. How much did
he
pay on your behalf?”

“Fifteen hundred dollars,” she replied after an interminable pause.

“He was doing you a favor. He rescued your father.” He pointed his finger at her. “You washed your hands of your father's care, and Mr. Nelson stepped up. Isn't that what really happened?”

No answer.

“Please answer the question.”

She said softly, “He deceived me.”

I tried handing Winterbotham her handwritten note that she had sent me after I took charge of her father's capsule. I glanced through the flowery cursive she had sent me then as I listened to her testimony; the startling disconnect wounded me yet again.

 

Mr. Nelson,

This letter is about my father's care and continued suspension. I am simply unable to find the money to help keep his suspension going. At this point in time, I am donating the capsule and my father to the Cryonics Society of California, and whatever happens will be in your hands. I am unable to donate any money whatsoever. At this point in time, I find it necessary to walk away from this responsibility. I wish you good luck and thank you with all my heart for your amazing work in the field of cryonic suspension.

 

Best wishes,

Marie Brown

 

I willed Winterbotham to keep pushing her for the truth, but he didn't. He spun on his heel, stomped back to our table, and sat down.

With that, the plaintiffs rested their case.

The Defense

Winterbotham called me as his first witness for the defense. As I stood with my hand on the Bible being sworn in, I looked across the courtroom and noticed he was laughing. A few minutes earlier he had been glowering, as though he might kill someone.

He sat at the conference table, swinging his legs and giggling like a schoolkid. The judge waited for several minutes before asking if he was ready to proceed with questioning me. Winterbotham snapped to and stood up, but he was still laughing, presumably at me.
Oh, God
, I thought.
What am I doing here? Am I the laughingstock of this entire courtroom?

I was upset. I had hoped my testimony could salvage my case and convince the jury I hadn't deceived anyone. Instead, the focus was entirely on my attorney and his mood swings.

His first question was: “Mr. Nelson, what do you do for a living?”

“I'm an electronics technician, and I own my own business, which gave me the opportunity to function at CSC as president.”

“Mr. Nelson, are you a scientist, an inventor, or a doctor?”

“No, I am not, sir.”

“Then how were you qualified to run a cryonics society and freeze people?” His question had a harsh, sarcastic edge.

I could not believe what the son-of-a-bitch was doing to me! He was treating me like a hostile witness! Well, I had to go on—hoping it would get better.

I said, “It's a matter of faith, Mr. Winterbotham. If you believe—no, strike that—if I believe in something, I give it 100 percent of my support. I felt like this was my calling. Does that make any sense?”

“Certainly it does.” Winterbotham looked at the jury. “Certainly it does. Would you explain to this jury how you became involved in cryonics?”

I answered that I attended one of the first meetings about low-­temperature biology as it applies to human beings. After CSC was formed and I was elected president, I enlisted professionals to help discover reliable methods of human suspended animation.

“Tell us, Mr. Nelson, how much money did you or CSC receive for freezing the first man, Dr. James Bedford?”

“We never received a single penny or a thank-you. As a matter of fact, CSC paid for all the chemicals, the dry ice, and a specially constructed storage container. We also paid for transportation, ten days' storage, and the delivery of Dr. Bedford's body to his son, Norman.”

“Who was the next person frozen by CSC?”

“That was Marie Sweet. She was a valued and active member of CSC.”

“When did Marie Sweet get suspended?”

“August 27, 1967.”

“How much money did CSC receive for Ms. Sweet's suspension?”

“We received three hundred dollars; that was all the money the family had to their name. She and her husband, Russ Van Norden, lived on Social Security. Professor Ettinger also donated one hundred dollars for Marie.”

“Tell us, Mr. Nelson, about the next cryonics freezing.”

“That was Ms. Helen Kline. Helen was the first person I ever spoke to about human suspended animation.”

“When was Ms. Kline suspended?”

“On May 14, 1968.”

“How much money did the CSC receive for Ms. Kline's suspension?”

“We received one hundred dollars one month before she passed away. I knew Ms. Kline was penniless.”

“Well, Mr. Nelson, it doesn't appear that this scam, as Mr. Nothern calls it, is producing any big money! I mean, the first three suspensions brought in a grand total of five hundred dollars.”