A Case of Greed

http://www.uncialpress.com

CHAPTER ONE

Ann Stivornik padded quietly into my office, looking deeply perplexed. Her brow was wrinkled pensively and, as usual, she was gnawing on the end of a ball point pen. I had originally hired her as my law clerk, but now that she had finished law school at the University of Denver and passed the Colorado bar exam, she was a full-fledged lawyer.

I was clicking away at the computer, preparing for a scheduling conference that was set for the next morning in the Denver District Court. Is something wrong?

I don't know, she said in her monotone voice. How do you get a photograph admitted into evidence?

I stared at her benignly, wondering if she was joking. This was Evidence 101, and Ann had scored at the top of her graduating class. But I quickly realized she was dead serious. She was always dead serious, although since becoming a lawyer, she'd started wearing faint traces of makeup. Before that, she had always gone au natural in terms of facial adornment. She still wore no perfume and she was dressed in what had become her standard office attire: a navy blue skirt and matching jacket over a plain white blouse. I sometimes wondered—privately, of course—whether she had a closet filled with a long row of identical outfits.

But she had one of the best minds I had ever encountered, and she was undeniably a hard worker. I had no regrets about hiring her, and no doubt that she was going to develop into a top-notch lawyer.

I took my hands off the keyboard. You need a witness who either took the photograph or, at a minimum, can testify as to when and where it was taken, and can state that it truly and accurately depicts whatever the picture purports to show. She was still looking perplexed. I gestured for her to sit down. You already know all this. What's the issue?

She edged over to one of the black leather chairs in front of my desk. A friend of mine from law school just called me. She's in the middle of a trial. It's some sort of dispute between neighbors over a boundary fence, which led to a physical confrontation. This morning, the judge refused to admit some photos into evidence. Neither of us can figure out why.

I could understand how a dispute over a fence could escalate into violence. Battles between neighbors were sometimes uglier than divorces. Are the photos important to the case?

Critical. But I don't think it was a question of relevancy, if that's what you're thinking.

It is. What was the basis for the judge to exclude the evidence?

My friend doesn't know. The other lawyer just objected and the judge ruled the pictures inadmissible.

Sounds odd. Who's the judge?

Gumauer. I don't know his first name.

It's Milton. Milton Gumauer. I tried a murder case before him about four years ago, when he was assigned to one of the criminal divisions. He seemed okay. I wonder if your friend just missed something and didn't realize it.

She frowned. I don't think so. She's spent weeks preparing for this trial. She thinks something else is going on. He's ruled against her on almost every issue.

Is anyone else from her firm in court with her? Maybe—

No. She's a solo practitioner. There's no one she can turn to. She was nearly in tears when she called.

I squinted suspiciously at Ann. I could see where this was going, and it surprised me. For years, she and my receptionist, Diana Hollister, had chided me about rushing in to rescue every damsel I encountered who seemed to be in distress. Ann had been the least vocal about it, but it was clear that she thought my legal assistant—Maurice White—and I routinely behaved like Peter Pan's Lost Boys, chasing adventures as though they were butterflies.

So what do you want me to do?

A corner of her lip turned into a satisfied little smile. She knew she had me. Would you be willing to talk to her?

Several mildly amusing comments came to mind, but somehow I knew that she already knew what I was thinking. I decided to take the high road. Sure. Assuming, of course, that she wants me to. She might perceive it as someone trying to swoop in and take over her case.

She won't mind. In fact, she'd be very grateful.

I glanced at my wrist watch. It was nearly one thirty. Then why don't you see if she wants to meet us somewhere this afternoon after court adjourns? Say, five thirty?

She raised a brow. Us?

Oh, yeah. If you're getting me into this, you're coming along for the ride.

I don't understand. We're just going to talk to my friend. How could anything go wrong with that?

How many times had I heard that before?

* * * *

Ann had another surprise for me that Monday afternoon in June. Her friend was drop dead gorgeous. The woman could easily have been a Victoria's Secret model. She wasn't dressed in lingerie, of course, but she had a perfect face, with deep blue eyes and fair, silky skin that appeared to be made of bone china. She was tall, just an inch or two short of my six feet, and statuesque, with voluptuous curves that her expensive gray suit was helpless to conceal. I suppose I had somehow assumed that Ann's friends would all be bookish and as seemingly unconcerned about their appearance as she was. So much for that idea. I could sense that she was watching me as I took in the image of her friend, curious to see how I would react.

Once again, I took the high road and kept it purely professional.

We met at an Irish pub, located two blocks south of the City and County Building, which still housed the civil divisions of the Denver District Court. All of the criminal courts had been relocated to the new Lindsey-Flanigan Courthouse, half a mile to the west. The pub wasn't anything extraordinary: bare brick walls and hardwood floors, faux Tiffany light fixtures, with three wide-screen tvs, a pool table and a cubbyhole that housed the customary dart board.

Ann and I arrived at around five fifteen. Since it was early in the week, the place was nearly empty, with only a few dozen patrons, most of whom, I suspected, were regulars. They seemed very much at home.

Ann and I snagged a table upstairs, away from the bar, where we would have at least a modicum of privacy. When the waitress stopped by our table, I ordered a Guinness and Ann asked for a glass of Chardonnay. As we waited, we talked about one of our cases Ann was taking the lead in handling and, in particular, what types of expert witnesses we should consider using. The deadline for disclosing our experts was rapidly approaching. Her friend, Heather Tumley, arrived a few minutes later, accompanied by her clients, an elderly couple named Hank and Judy Callahan. They were not a happy group. The clients looked weary and dejected. Their lawyer just seemed agitated.

Ann made the introductions. Heather, this is Adam Larsen.

Instead of shaking my proffered hand, her friend covered it with both of hers, which were trembling. Thank you so much for meeting with us.

Hank Callahan was a thin, wiry man with a neatly-trimmed white moustache. "Are you the Adam Larsen?"

With a disarming shrug, I said, Well, I'm the only one I know about. I suppose there could be others.

He thrust out his hand. Hank Callahan. Pleased to meet ya. This is my wife, Judy. I guess we should have figured Heather would have some illustrative friends.

Assuming he meant illustrious, I accepted the handshake. The newcomers pulled up chairs and joined us at our table. Ann wasted no time getting to the point, addressing her friend like a worried mother. How did it go this afternoon?

Ms. Tumley didn't try to sugarcoat it. It was awful! The Judge refused to admit nearly all of our evidence. He wouldn't let any of our photographs in, even though we properly authenticated them under Rules 901(b) and 1004 and addressed the hearsay aspects under 803.

As she spoke, I realized why she and Ann were friends. Like Ann, this woman was extremely bright. She rattled off the rules like a pro.

I said, Was it a question of relevancy or the exhibits being cumulative?

No, no, nothing of the sort. The other attorney just objected as to lack of foundation, and the Court kept the pictures out of evidence. And then when he—the other lawyer—started asking all sorts of improper questions, Judge Gumauer overruled every one of my objections. Her nostrils flared. He told me to sit down and stop whining.

I smiled inwardly. I had a feeling this woman wasn't accustomed to being told no about much of anything. Welcome to the world of litigation. Of course, I kept those thoughts to myself. Instead, I mused aloud, That really doesn't sound like Milton Gumauer. I wonder what's going on.

She rested her chin dejectedly on her palms. Me, too. Do you know anything about him?

Not much. I've only tried one case in front of him, and it was a criminal matter. I don't know what he's like when it comes to civil cases. If I remember right, he's a former DA.

He is. But he's been on the civil bench long enough to know the civil rules, as well.

I turned to her clients. Do you have any thoughts?

Judy Callahan said nothing. She simply stared despairingly at me, looking as though the world was coming to an end.

Her husband said, Just that the Braxtons' lawyer seems to have the judge wrapped around his little pinkie. Even though we're from around here, it feels like we're getting home-towned.

Who's their lawyer?

Ann's friend supplied the answer. Henry Antrim. He's been an absolute— She cut it off, apparently for fear of offending me.

Prick? I suggested. Ann cocked her head in surprise. I seldom used profanity, especially in mixed company. But there was no better word to describe Henry Antrim, and I was fairly certain it was the word that Ms. Tumley had in mind.

Ann's friend laughed, as though I was reading her mind. Exactly. He talks down to me like I'm a moron. I assume it's because I'm young and female.

I said, Not necessarily. He treats everyone that way. He's an equal opportunity prick. You need to be careful around him. He seems to have selective hearing—meaning, he hears what he wants to hear. It's best to deal with him in writing. Otherwise, he'll twist every conversation into something it wasn't.

Yes, I've already had that experience. Fortunately, there's been no serious harm done. Except that we're getting killed in court.

What courtroom are you in?

Ann said, Six. Gumauer is the chief judge.

He is? How did that happen?

Judge Madison retired last year. Remember, we had a case—

Oh, that's right. I forgot. Look, I said to the lawyer and her clients, I don't know if you want me hanging around during your trial, but I have a short hearing in Courtroom One tomorrow morning at eight thirty. It's just down the hall from Gumauer's courtroom. If you'd like, when I'm done, I could drop by and listen to some of the testimony in your case.

Hank Callahan spoke up. We'd mightily appreciate it. We can't catch a break with this judge. He added, with an apologetic gesture toward his lawyer. Heather seems to be doing everything she should be, but it looks like we could use some help. You know what they say about any port in a storm. Realizing how that might have sounded, he started to explain, I didn't mean that the way it sounded. I just—

I understand. I've been through my share of storms. Does anybody feel like eating?

Not so much, he said. We're already getting our lunch handed to us by the judge!

And so I began chasing my next butterfly.

CHAPTER TWO

My hearing in Courtroom One took considerably longer than I expected. It was a construction defects case, meaning that there were lawyers galore: one for the home buyers, two for the general contractor and one attorney for each of the seven subcontractors. Our judge was late, and we got hung up on procedural issues such as how many depositions each party would be allowed to take, and the permissible number of interrogatories and requests for production of documents. Getting that many lawyers—and the judge—to agree upon anything was like herding cats.

As a result, it was nearly ten thirty when Ann and I slipped quietly into Courtroom Six. Like most of the courtrooms in Denver, the entrance was a side door into a big rectangular room. Sounds swirled and echoed off the high ceiling and marble tile floor, muffled only slightly by the red velour curtains that dangled over the large windows.

Judge Gumauer, looking official in his black robe, sat at his elevated desk, backed by a facade wall constructed of ornamentally decorated hardwood panels. The Colorado flag jutted proudly from the panels on his right, with the United States flag on his left. Above his head, in the center of the wall was the official Denver seal. There was no court reporter. They had all been replaced years ago by digital recording machines.

As unobtrusive as Ann and I tried to be, Gumauer spotted us the moment we entered the room. His eyes followed us as we quietly sat down in the second row of hard wooden benches designated for the public. He stared at us for a while and then turned his attention back to the trial. There was only one other spectator, an Asian-looking man, probably in his late twenties. He stared blankly at us as we took our seats, but he neither spoke nor even acknowledged our presence.

Hank Callahan was seated in the witness box. Ann's friend, dressed in a dark blue suit, stood at the speaker's podium, asking him questions about the confrontation that had occurred between him and his neighbors, the Braxtons.

And what did he tell you next, Mr. Callahan?

Henry Antrim, seated at the defense table with a thirtyish couple that I presumed were the Braxtons, leapt to his feet. He was a big man, probably six-two, with a broad chest that looked like a whiskey barrel. Objection, Your Honor. Hearsay.

Sustained, the Judge snapped crisply.

Ann's friend said, Your Honor, I'm not offering the evidence to prove the truth of the matter. It's important testimony to explain why Mr. Callahan reacted to Mr. Braxton's provocation.

Are you having difficulty hearing me, Ms. Tumley? Or am I suddenly speaking some foreign language? The objection is sustained. Move on.

She looked flustered, and took some time to gather her wits.

Well? the judge demanded.

If I could have just a moment, Your Honor, I—

I'll tell you what, Ms. Tumley. We'll take our morning break and you can use the time to get yourself organized. Or perhaps you ought to speak with Mr. Antrim and settle this case. He turned his attention to where Ann and I were sitting. Can I help you with something? The witnesses in this case have been sequestered.

I stood. We're not witnesses, Your Honor. I'm Adam Larsen, and I'm just here as an observer.

I know who you are. He pointed his gavel at me like a loaded rifle. Come into my chambers. Both of you. He banged the gavel against his desk and stood. Court's adjourned.

The judge exited through the door that I knew led to his office. Ann's friend, Heather, was still at the podium, looking dazed. Ann had briefed me on their case, and it certainly wasn't as one-sided as Judge Gumauer seemed to be implying. The Braxtons has been the aggressors, moving into a quiet neighborhood and wreaking havoc. The police had refused to intervene, and a full-blown feud erupted, resulting in a host of accusations and counterclaims. Most of the other neighbors were siding with the Callahans, but the Braxtons had hired Antrim, who'd managed to bully everyone but Heather's clients into submission.

Having seen the judge in action, I understood her frustration. One of the basic exceptions to the hearsay rule was that statements which were otherwise inadmissible could be used to show the effect they had on the listener, which was precisely what Heather had been trying to accomplish. There was no reason for Gumauer to exclude the evidence, especially in a case where there was no jury. A primary report card for judges was whether—and how often—their rulings got reversed by the Court of Appeals. Canny judges knew that, in a bench trial, they could admit virtually everything offered into evidence, and then disregard that evidence as unpersuasive. The mantra was, that goes to the weight of the evidence, not its admissibility, which was judge-speak for I'll let it in, but that doesn't mean I believe it.

I could tell that Heather wanted to talk to me, but Gumauer's order had been direct and I had no particular desire to be held in contempt of court. Besides, I was curious about why he wanted to talk to me. I told Ann, Let's go see what he wants.

She, too, had sensed that there was something peculiar about the judge's order. He seems upset about something. Are we in trouble?

I don't see how. This is a public forum and we have every right to be here.

We left the courtroom and stopped in the de facto anteroom which, unlike the main marble halls at the City and County Building, was finished in drywall painted a pale green. There was another wooden bench along the south wall. In the middle of the north wall, on our left, was a door designated Clerk's Office. I didn't know much about Gumauer's clerk, except that her name was something like Norma or Nora. She was a dour woman, probably in her late fifties. We'd spoken a few times, years earlier, during the criminal trial I tried in front of Gumauer, but there had been no particular connection. In fact, as I approached the door, I remembered to my amusement that Maurice and I had secretly dubbed her Lady Sourpuss.

The door was unlocked and I stepped up to the maple-topped counter. She was seated at her desk, entering something into a computer. Behind her on a large table was an assortment of office equipment, including a photocopier, laser jet printer and a tall stack of files. Off to the side, to her right, was a door that I guessed was a coat closet. Across from that was the door that led ominously to the judge's chambers.

The clerk unhurriedly finished her typing and finally looked up at us. May I help you?

Apparently, the judge wants to see us in chambers.

Really? she said, not bothering to conceal her surprise. He's in the middle of a trial.

I know. We were watching the proceedings. He ordered us to come visit him during the break.

She said in a concerned tone, What did you do?

Nothing. We were just sitting there. I raised my right hand. Scout's honor.

I thought she might actually be amused by that, but no chance. She merely picked up the telephone receiver and pressed a button. Judge, there are two people here to—oh! Yes, sir. Right away. She cradled the receiver. Go on back. She lowered her voice and added, I'd tiptoe, if I were you. He is not in a good mood.

Thank you.

We circled around the counter and headed toward the judge's chambers. I was still carrying the thin manila file folder I had brought to my scheduling conference. I was glad I'd chosen not to bring the entire file, which would have been bulky and unwieldy.

Gumauer's office was typical for the judges in Denver, although his was larger since Division Six was always assigned to the Chief Judge. The room was cold and uninviting. His desk was situated at the north end of the room, perpendicular to a long table that was wide enough for lawyers to sit across from each other without finding themselves face-to-face. There was a credenza behind him, loaded with neatly-stacked rows of files.

His Honor sat like a statue at his desk, his back rigid and his face molded into a ferocious scowl. Without the black robe, he would have been nondescript, not someone you would particularly notice in