Authors: Gene Grossman
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My State Bar hearing has been set for two P.M. two days from now, and there’s still no word from L. Martin. His being present at the hearing would be nice, but if he doesn’t show, then the written papers filed along with my oral argument will have to suffice. The State Bar Judges have probably already read the brief L. Martin had Mel’s office submit, so their minds are probably already made up. The hearing will only be a formality for them to let me know that they’ve already decided they don’t want me to practice law for a while.
The night before the hearing, I receive a message from Mel’s office that contains two items: first, L. Martin will not be attending the Bar hearing: second, for some reason, I’m being sent to Thailand. Air travel and hotel arrangements have already been made and I’ll be leaving a few days after my hearing ends. I’m supposed to learn my assignment when I arrive there. No other explanation is given.
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The day of the hearing I drive towards the State Bar’s Los Angeles offices rehearsing my statement and imagining the worse case scenario, like more trumped up charges being filed as a result of new evidence brought in by Gary Koontz’s office. Not wanting to blow things by being late, I make sure I get there at least an hour before I’m scheduled to be heard, and given the fact that the worst case scenario is still fresh in my mind, I glance toward the State Bar’s office building and what I see sends a cold chill down my spine. It’s happening. The scenario is going to come true. My arch enemy Koontz is now walking out of the State Bar’s building. No doubt he’s been upstairs spilling his guts to the Judges, helping them dream up new charges against me.
You might as well stick a fork in me now. I’m done. No wonder L. Martin didn’t fly in for this hearing: he must have been informed that Koontz was coming in with more charges, so there was no sense wasting a plane ticket on a lost cause. At this point I’m contemplating turning around, driving back to the Marina and spending the rest of the afternoon getting smashed while reading another Sherlock Holmes story, but for some strange reason of morbid curiosity I’ll go up there and watch my own funeral. I might as well see things through all the way to my bitter end.
The surprises aren’t over yet. As I approach the hearing room another witness is coming out. I know he looks familiar, but as usual, can’t remember where I’ve seen him before. As the Sergeant at Arms leads me into the hearing room and tells me to sit down at the table where a “Petitioner” placard is attached, it strikes me: that guy walking out of the room was Jack Bibberman, the clerk from Ricky Hansel’s mailbox place on Ventura Boulevard. He walks over to a bench and sits down in the hallway, probably on call to come in and nail me further. They didn’t miss a trick. Shoot me now, please.
The hearing judge starts to speak, but I can barely hear him. I guess that’s what happens when you’re partly in shock. Your hearing ability starts to fade and the only thing that brings you out of it is the sound of someone saying your name. The worst-case scenario I dreaded is now in play. They’ve probably heard testimony this morning from everyone who wants me ousted, and this afternoon is just a formality to drive the final stake through my Bar license. I hear the judge mention L. Martin Unger’s name and that brings my attention almost all the way back to what’s going on.
The judge says my name and brings me back to reality. “Mister Sharp, do you have anything you’d like to say to this court?” If I didn’t already think that my goose was completely cooked, now would be the time for my opening statement. Maybe I’ll do a little prep work for it by calling Bibberman in from the hallway as a witness. The least I could do is to have him describe Hansel as the one who rented the box. When I was there that day with the adjustor, Bibberman said that he came in once for a UPS package.
“
Your Honor, Petitioner would like to call Mister Jack Bibberman to the stand. He’s already been before the court and we believe he’s seated outside in the hallway.” The judge instructs the Sergeant at Arms to fetch him. He gets seated in the witness chair again and the judge reminds him that he’s still under oath. I start out by asking him a question. My mouth is dry, so the sound comes out a little raspy.
“
Mister Bibberman, do you recall the day that I visited your place of employment to inquire about a certain mailbox there?” He answers immediately, without any hesitation. Somehow I get the feeling that he’d like to help me if he could. “You mentioned that someone came in one time to pick up a UPS package.” He nods in agreement. “Do you remember telling me that?” Again, he complies quickly with a ‘yes’ answer. “If possible, could you please give the Court a description of that person?”
“
Sure, he was a slender guy, probably in his forties with a mostly bald head. The thing I remember most about him was that he had these ‘beady’ eyes. He looked sort of like a guy you wouldn’t buy a used car from. I never saw him before that day, but he did have a key to the box, because he used it to identify himself as a person authorized to pick up the package. I saw him out in the hall, when I came in earlier today. Maybe he was in here, too.”
Ricky Hansel is in his twenties, a little pudgy and has a full head of hair. The court must have realized this too because he no doubt had been in front of them for over an hour of testimony earlier this week. Koontz had also been in the witness chair today, and even the kid’s Saint Bernard would be able to tell that it was him who Bibberman was describing as the guy who had the mailbox key and picked up the package.
I go silent for a minute, trying to figure out the best way to continue my attack, but the judge interrupts my train of thought. “Mister Sharp, we have read and considered the brief filed on your behalf, as well as evidence from both Attorney Gary Koontz and Mister Jack Bibberman, the clerk at Mail Boxes Unlimited in Van Nuys, California. We are now going to take a brief recess to confer in chambers. This hearing will resume in ten minutes, and we suggest that you not go very far from this room Mister Sharp, because when we say ten minutes, we mean ten minutes.”
How nice of them. Instead of calling in the carpenters to nail me to the cross here and now, they’ve decided to toy with me for a while. They’re probably going to spend their ten minutes having a beer and laughing about me sitting out here ‘dangling in the wind.’ I hope that Stuart’s offer to make appearances in Small Claims Court is still on the table, because when these old farts get through with me, for sure there’ll be no practicing of law in my future.
The Sergeant at Arms sticks his head in the door and informs me that the Judges will be taking an additional fifteen minutes. Why not? They can use the extra time to figure out how to add some criminal charges too. I’m going to sit here with my elbows on the table and my head in my hands. They can come back in whenever they feel like it. At this point, I don’t care what they do.
True to their word, their fifteen-minute extension period is up and they’re slowly walking back into the room and taking their seats. The head judge is leaning over and conferring with the others. They all nod in agreement. Good, it’s a unanimous decision to hang me from the ceiling light fixture and leave me up there for another year or so, as a deterrent to all other lawyers who trust their paralegals.
The head Judge bangs his gavel on the table and starts talking. I hear the voice, but the words are just drifting through my head as he states the case name, case number, a brief description of the facts, yada, yada. I wish he’d get it over with already. When he says my name, I reluctantly regain my consciousness.
“
Mister Sharp, we have fully considered the facts and points of law cited by your attorney Mister Unger in the Petition For Reinstatement that he has caused to be filed with this Court. And, in view of the contentions stated therein, and testimony you have elicited from Mister Jack Bibberman, contrasted with the testimony we have heard in this matter from Attorney Gary Koontz, we have come to the conclusion that the facts alleged in your attorney’s brief are true. Therefore, this Court finds that it was attorney Gary Koontz who rented the mailbox in Ricky Hansel’s name. Further investigation that our outside staff conducted has revealed more about this Ricky Hansel’s criminal past and affected his credibility before us. Apparently, his transcripts submitted to enter law school were forged, and his continuing association with Attorney Koontz before, during and after your disciplinary matters has led us to believe that you have been wrongly accused of unethical conduct.
“
Accordingly, your previous suspension has been expunged from your record and you are now reinstated to the active practice of law in the State of California, said rein-statement to be considered retroactive, back to the date of your original wrongful suspension. Furthermore, we have decided that new disciplinary proceedings should be instituted against Attorney Koontz.
“
You will be notified if your testimony is required at his disciplinary hearing and if so notified, we expect your cooperation in full without the need of a formal subpoena.
“
That’s all Mister Sharp. This hearing is now concluded.”
That’s it. He bangs the gavel down and the panel of judges all get up and walk out of the room.
*****
Chapter
6
My head is reeling. Can this really be happening? The Sergeant at Arms slides a document in front of me and gives me some instructions.
“
If you would please sign this standard agreement releasing the California State Bar from any liability for its past handling of this disciplinary matter, your reinstatement as an active member of the California State Bar in good standing to practice law will be effective immediately.” I knew there would probably be a string attached, but I don’t care. I don’t even read the statement. I seem to remember signing it.
Everything that’s happening now is just a blur. I must have signed the document, thanked him, and walked out of the room. At least I hope that’s what I did. All I know is that I’m now in my rented Hummer, driving back to the Marina with a CD blasting. I’m singing a duet with Frank Sinatra. The song is
That’s Life
.
L. Martin sure did get the job done. I can’t wait to meet him because an in-person thank-you should definitely be made… and to Melvin too. Evidently the info I turned in about Ricky Hansel working with Koontz panned out. I don’t know who did the rest of the investigation, found Jack B. the mailbox clerk, served the subpoenas and made the case airtight, but whoever did it pulled off a bang-up job and I’m forever grateful. When the Bar’s through with Koontz, my wife will probably be looking for another jerk to represent her. She should have no problem. There’s no shortage of them out there.
A celebration is definitely called for now, so on the way back to the Marina I stop off at Mi Ranchito, a gourmet Mexican restaurant on Washington Boulevard just east of Centinela, and order the most expensive burrito on the menu, along with several topless Patrón Margaritas. The first time I heard that description, I thought that it was the waitress being described, but as usual, I was wrong. With respect to Margaritas, all it means is without salt on the rim of the glass, and has absolutely nothing to do with the waitress’ attire. And that’s a good thing, because today the owner’s morbidly obese wife has been bringing my drinks to the booth.
After about 32 ounces of Patrón Margaritas I’m partially anesthetized, so I have them call a cab for me. I can always come back for the rental car tomorrow.
As the dock gate slams behind me and I happily stroll down the ramp to the dock I’m in a weakened state and have no energy to resist the abduction as Laverne grabs my arm.
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I must have had a good time last night. All I can remember is that I made a wonderful discovery concerning the reverse correlation between alcohol and aging.
In my eyes, every Margarita I drank erased ten years from Laverne’s appearance, so I was able to journey backward in time and sleep with a very, very young Laverne. Unfortunately the magic spell only lasts as long as the Margaritas, so the sobering-up process reversed the fountain of youth and she aged back to the present while I was sleeping.
Melvin’s office already knew about my reinstatement before I could tell them and I’ve just received my next assignments, which are five court appearances in Santa Monica. Now that I’m a full-fledged attorney again, I’ll be paid the full one hundred dollars for each one of those appearances. This money, along with the five hundred owed to me for the past two weeks’ assignments gives me over a thousand extra dollars to waste, so I’m now making a request to Mel’s office. Because I’m not due in Thailand for another four days, I suggest a slight change in my travel arrangements: I’d like to leave the next morning and stop over in Maui for a few days before continuing on to my appointment in Thailand.
Surprisingly there is no objection, and as a congratulory gesture, the office will be picking up the extra charges incurred by the flight changes, as well as my two-night stay at Lahaina’s Pioneer Inn on Front Street, across from the huge Banyan Tree.
When we discuss my travel plans, Laverne apologizes for not being able to make the trip with me because I’m going during the week, and she just can’t get away from work. I try to look disappointed and say to myself “as if!”
Several years ago my wife and I spent a week’s vacation in Hawaii and visited Maui, a 729-square-mile island seventy miles southeast of Oahu. Maui has a population of less than one hundred thousand people and it’s a charming place to visit. After landing at Kahului Airport, we took a thrilling 27-mile ride on winding roads to the island’s main tourist area, the small oceanfront village of Lahaina. While we were there, our conversation with some people we bumped into at one of the Island’s many art galleries turned to the boat I was restoring in our back yard. John Williams and his wife, the people we were talking to, happened to be members of the local Lahaina Yacht Club, and upon learning we were interested in boating they graciously invited us to be their guests for dinner at the club.