SoMa Literary Review - Litigation is War, War is Hell

Litigation is War, War is Hell

By Jon Alan Carroll

It was a moment of turgid revelation. The Chief Operations Officer had lost faith in his own bullshit.

The videoscreen went blank and the COO's white shirt and Midwestern tie disappeared into the vortex.

The assembled employees went right on staring at the blank screen. One or two muttered Yeah-Rights under their breaths.

Once, long ago, they'd all had big hopes for COO Chase Sanders. His gentle eyes, the sincerely sincere smile, all those heartfelt honestlys.

Not much, not anymore. The employees had seen it all now, even honesty. The COO's no-spin spin and no-bullshit bullshit had dropped off the charts, thrown a rod, lost on appeal.

The employees once sat in a big happy group, all home-roomy and chat-roomy, but lately they'd divided and subdivided into tiny, bitter tribes. Mr. Holt sat at the legal department table with the rest of the poker faces.

The IT tech pulled the cables and checked the connections.

Soon enough, the COO's image returned and Chase Sanders was busy denying all the rumors of future layoffs and cutbacks.

"In fact," the COO said, "the hiring freeze will end in the near future."

Mr. Holt thought this was bad sign. In his experience, the words "in fact" always came before the lowest kind of cheeseball rhetoric. In fact, my client did not kill those babies and feed them to rats. And, if he did, they deserved it.

The video-face of the COO grew dark and irritated as he mouthed the company line and ground out the usual day-job dogmeat.

That was unfortunate, because Mr. Holt had been looking forward to some quality bullshit that morning. It was disappointing to see Sanders distributing such low-level tripe, because the COO was better than that.

And there's the problem, Mr. Holt thought. Nobody takes any pride in their work anymore.

The COO signed off his distribution duties and the employees picked through the last of the secondary pastries and marched back to their offices and cubes.

A few were saddened that the COO was not the poet-prophet-warrior they'd been waiting for, the man who would deliver them from their pain and failure and frustration.

For the rest, it just confirmed that of course management spoke in insane, malignant gibberish--how do you think they got where they are?

For Mr. Holt, it didn't matter, or matter much. He was an insurance defense attorney. If he didn't work here, he'd work somewhere else. When your job is predicated on corporate negligence and human stupidity, you'll never be unemployed.

It's Always the Money that Suffers Most

Mr. Holt's office was in the middle of the aisle, far from the corner offices. Although everything was electronic, managing attorney Jim Reid insisted on backing up everything onto paper files, so Mr. Holt's office was cluttered with dozens of paper files, piled halfway to the ceiling.

He considered himself lucky that his boss provided such a rich abundance of leadership.

The files were mostly MVAs, rear-enders, left turns, red-light runners, along with some slips and falls and construction injuries. Every case, overflowing with drama, blood, and Mother Goose theories of liability.

Mr. Holt called up and started reviewing one of the least favorite of his 217 lawsuits.

Trindley, Louise v. Amalgamated Foods, Andrew Groslarski, et al., SF Superior Court, CV 227342, Claim No. 73-66954784

Facts: Plaintiff alleges that she was injured October 4 when Eric Groslarski, delivery driver for Amalgamated Foods, rear-ended her 1988 Honda Civic at the toll plaza for the Bay Bridge .

Plaintiff: 56 y.o., accounts receivable clerk at National Produce, no previous claims.

Injuries: Sprain-strain of cervical spine, exacerbation and aggravation of herniated disc at L-3, headaches.

Liability: Adverse. 1988 Honda Civic, constructive total loss.

He clicked over to the Medical Damages page and walked through the deposition summary again.

Page 34, Line 7: Headache feels like knife stuck into forehead.

Page 42, Lines 14-19: Headache moves around from front of head to back of head. Feels like brains are moving around in my head. Cannot think or concentrate.

Page 56, Lines 27-28: When I try to walk, head hurts. Have to use hand to push head down while walking on sidewalk.

So, instead of getting better and going back to work, Mrs. Trindley tears off on a shopping spree at the Bitterness Mall.

Since her life is ruined, she hires a maid to do the housework while firefighter hubby is at work. She consults with John Krough, Ph.D., to deal with her issues regarding the accident, including three sessions regarding property damage to her elderly Civic.

Mr. Holt is fairly certain that Honda Trauma is not a recognized psychiatric disorder.

Louise Trindley looked maybe 10 years older than her chronological age. Worn hands, 1978 hairdo, deep crevices around her eyes, maybe from drinking but more likely from bad living.

During deposition, she flinched and cringed at the tougher questions. Once in a while, an iron sigh, a dirty look, a response as put-upon and indignant as a talk-radio caller.

Louise Trindley's total presentation was that of a talented victim, a skilled sufferer, a long-term resident of the borderlands between the histrionic and the hysterical.

Someone who cries at card tricks, as the old joke went.

Maybe Louise Trindley was a victim in search of a trauma, and maybe when Groslarski rear-ended her she found the misery she felt she'd always deserved.

But if a jury ever got a good look at this plaintiff, and somehow linked her condition to the accident, they'd award her three boxcars filled with cash.

Liability was adverse. Mr. Holt couldn't take that chance.

He looked up as his next-office-neighbor, Rob Alsculler, barged in without knocking.

Alsculler stood there, a tapeworm in size 8 oxfords, a bedsore on the butt of the state bar, and started his spiel. As he spoke, Alsculler's lips curved upwards and his eyes brightened a bit. Although Mr. Holt couldn't be sure, he believed Alsculler was attempting to smile.

The upshot was that Alsculler wanted to borrow Mr. Holt's assistant to prepare a motion to compel.

Alsculler had gone through 12 or 14 assistants in the last 10 months, nobody could keep track, an endless succession of perms, permatemps, company temps, temp temps.

For some reason, Alsculler's smirks and unhinged harangues and toxic-sludge-pit anti-charisma gave his assistants an irresistible urge to run out screaming or never come back from lunch or give notice on the first day.

Mr. Holt said Laura was very busy that afternoon and started preparing for the Cornwall arbitration.

The Great Fall

"I felt my left foot slide out from under me," plaintiff Cornwall said, "and then I fell on my back. I was in pain, terrible pain."

Sidney Cornwall is middle-aged, egg-shaped, and stuffed into a groaning office chair. Plastered-down hair, no tie, frayed navy blazer. He spent most of the arbitration in saintly agony, but sometimes got caught up in the proceeding and forgot he was supposed to be in pain.

"Then this Spanish guy comes down the stairs, tells me not to move," Cornwall testifies. "I told him I slipped on some water. Then the paramedics came."

And the poor, wheezing paramedics dragged Cornwall to St. Joseph 's Medical Center , where the dx was minor skin abrasions and sprain-strain of the lumbar spine.

Mr. Holt thanked a merciful God that plaintiff lived to sue.

Plaintiff paused and looked around, confused. Apparently Mr. Plaintiff was expecting The Verdict or To Kill a Mockingbird or some hopeless Scott Turow thriller, not three hours in front of a rent-a-judge in a dumpy conference room.

Cornwall leans over and whispers to his lawyer Hartsock. Plaintiff is the fifth obese gentleman to hit the Sir Lancelot stairwell in the last 8 months, and lawyer Hartsock represented every one of them.

Peter Hartsock is famous all over town as the Picasso of all assholes. Just for Men hair, eyes deader than yesterday's dreams, a suit sadder than a libertarian's welfare check.

Mr. Holt ran down the same questions he'd asked at plaintiff's deposition and got the exact same answers. Cornwall described the cause of his alleged fall as a clear fluid, like water.

Judge Rodgers thanks the plaintiff and calls Angelo Lopez. Thick and pompous, Judge Rogers speaks with the cool bluster that comes with a fat judicial pension.

Lopez, Sir Lancelot's assistant manager, tended to plaintiff after the great fall. Lopez is a strong witness, having already testified about three fat guys falling in the stairwell, a slip and fall on a flawless carpet, and one glass display case shattered by a star-crossed pizza lover. It's a dangerous business, peddling suits to the tall and portly.

Sir Lancelot is a dying clothing chain, with one store stuck somewhere on a sad-clown block of Mission Street .

Mr. Holt is old enough to remember when stores like Sir Lancelot were in their prime, back when men wore suits and everybody had a last name.

Lopez identifies himself as the assistant manager, confirms he filled out the Incident Report, and says plaintiff said nothing about water after he fell.

"The handrail is in order," Lopez says. "The no-slip strips are new. The building was reroofed last year."

Lawyer Hartsock pulls himself up to his imposing 5-6 and paces back and forth behind Planet Cornwall. Hartsock has no need for Sir Lancelot Tall & Portly fashions, since he picks his suits off the Extra Dwarfish rack.

"So, Mr. Lopez," Hartsock says, "what did Mr. Cornwall say when you found him writhing in pain on the stairwell?"

"He said he fell," Lopez said.

"Did you inspect the stairwell after the fall?"

"Yes," Lopez said. "There was no water, only stairs."

Hartsock flashes a Mansonesque smile and walks over and looks down at Lopez.

"You previously testified that you filled out Exhibit A, the Incident Report, did you not?"

"Yes," Lopez says.

Hartsock winds back, like he's pitching a no-hitter. "Then why didn't you write down," he says, "that there wasn't any water on the stairwell?"

Lopez looks at Hartsock as if he's been asked if sex was better than rush-hour traffic. "Because there wasn't any water on the stairwell," Lopez says.

Hartsock yells into the air that Lopez and Sir Lancelot are covering up.

"Wrong, Hartsock," Mr. Holt said. He stood up and shot back that plaintiff had the incentive to fabricate, not Sir Lancelot.

Judge Rogers tut-tutted and told both of them to sit down.

Although officially outraged, Mr. Holt kind of admired being accused of covering up nonexistent water. At times, he enjoyed the thought and care that went into a well-crafted lie.

The next witness after Lopez would be plaintiff's chiropractor. "Doctor" Savino was a real piece of work, crooked as a mountain stream, and Mr. Holt had some fun questions for him.

Mr. Holt settled back in. He'd be here all afternoon.

Also by Jon Alan Carroll on SoMa Literary Review:

Only the Young Die Young, Wish I Was Here, Sick Days, The Adventures of the Delusional Cowboy, Misery Can Be Fun, If You Want to Know about Society,
Hold Your Breath for 30 Days, Fresh, Bloated, Decay, Post-Decay, Skeletal [Dance Mix] & The Big Empty Thing

Jon Alan Carroll is a fiction and humor writer. On the Web, his work has appeared in Defenestration, Empty Mirror Books, Monkeybicycle, Opium, Raging Face and Unlikely Stories. In the print press, his work has shown up in the San Francisco Chronicle, the Oakland Tribune, the Santa Cruz Sentinel, Silicon Valley Metro, magazines such as Harpoon and The Nose, and micropress journals like Poultry, No Xmas and Cathedral of Insanity.