Solomon & Lord Drop Anchor by Paul Levine Read Free Book Online Page A

and dropped the
malpractice complaint on my desk as if it carried the plague. While
I read it, he walked around my office, ostensibly admiring the view
of the bay, but surreptitiously looking for merit badges on the
walls. He couldn’t find any. No diplomas, no awards from the
Kiwanis. I hung my Supreme Court admission ticket above the toilet
at home. Covers a crack in the plaster. He stopped in front of a
photo of my college football team, one of those posed shots with a
hundred twenty guys filling the bleachers.
    “You played football,” he said. Impressed. He
couldn’t be sure I ever graduated from law school, but he was happy
I could hit a blocking sled.
    “A lead-footed linebacker,” I said. “Better
at lawyering than covering the tight end over the middle.”
    “Been defending doctors long?”
    “Not as long as I played games in the PD’s
office, keeping some very bad actors on the street.”
    “Why’d you leave?”
    “It made me puke.”
    “Huh?”
    “Realizing every client I ever had was
guilty. Not always with what they’re charged, but guilty of some
crime, sometimes worse than the charge.”
    I told him how it felt to see some slimeball
go free after a warrantless search, then pimp-roll back into the
courtroom for pistol-whipping a sixty-year-old liquor store clerk. Ja-cob, my man, they got no probable cause .
    Told him I quit and did plaintiff’s PI. Half
my clients were phonies. Phony injuries and phony doctors or real
injuries and no insurance.
    “So representing doctors is a step up,” Roger
Salisbury had said brightly.
    “From the gutter to the curb.”
    That look again.
    “I sold out, joined the high-rise set at
rich, old Harman & Fox,” I told him. “Ordinarily, the
dark-wood-and-deep-carpet types wouldn’t give a guy like me a
second look. Afraid I’d spill the soup on my vest, if I owned one.
But they woke up one day and figured they didn’t have anybody who
could try a case. They could shuffle papers and write memos, but
they didn’t know how to tap dance in front of a jury. So I won some
cases, a few for very dangerous doctors.”
    Now his puzzled look changed to one of
concern.
    “Bottom line,” I said, using a favorite
expression of the corporate gazoonies who ruled the firm. “I’ve
spent my entire career looking for the good guys and have yet to
find them.”
    He was quiet a moment, probably wondering if
I was incompetent. Good, we were even. I always assume the worst.
Fewer surprises later.
    Things improved after that. I checked up on
him. His rep was okay. Board certified and no prior lawsuits. He
probably checked me out, too. Found out I’ve never been disbarred,
committed, or convicted of moral turpitude. And the only time I was
arrested it was a case of mistaken identity—I didn’t know the guy I
hit was a cop.
    * * *
    So here we were, waiting for dos
chicas to powder their noses or inhale something into them, and
my mind was stuck on the mundane subject of the pending trial.
    “Roger, let’s talk about tomorrow. Cefalo
will put the widow on first thing. Today I was watching you out of
the corner of my eye and you were staring at her. I know she looks
like a million bucks, but if I saw it while I was getting
blindsided by Wallbanger Watkins, I’m sure the jurors did, too. It
could be mistaken for a look of guilt, like you feel sorry you
croaked her old man. That’s worse than having the hots for
her.”
    “Okay, didn’t know I was doing it. Probably
just staring into space.”
    “Yeah sure. The point is, she’s likely to be
a very good witness. The men in the jury all want in her pants, the
women want to mother her.”
    “Okay already, I get the point.”
    “Good. I don’t want to concern you, but the
lovely widow is a real problem for us. She can make the jury forget
all our medical mumbo jumbo. That gray silk dress today with the
strand of white pearls. Classy but not too flashy.”
    Salisbury laughed. “You ought to see her in a
strapless cocktail