Black Iris: Chapter Ten
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Over the next 10 days, McCarthystein and his team work to gather evidence for my case. As a detective, it feels strange letting someone else do the investigating, but after he hears about how I harassed the tenants of the building on the night of the incident, he insists that I stay out of the way and let him earn his 40%. I’ve gotten pretty used to sitting on my ass, so I don’t put up much of a fight.
He learns that the tenant living in the apartment the air conditioner fell from is a 36-year-old nature photographer named Ed Smith who has been on a shoot in South Africa since April. This gets Smith off the hook since Alsephina Realty didn’t have the new air conditioners put in until mid-May. Building inspectors came on June 1st and approved all installations.
Depositions from witnesses are more or less useless, as the only “witnesses” were the tenants I pissed off. The old lady even considered suing me before McCarthystein talked her down. At least her statement confirmed I was there.
The air conditioner itself yields mixed results. Based on the damage it sustained in the fall, accident reconstruction experts determined that it likely struck something on its way to the ground. Proving that “something” was me is another story. They dropped 10 air conditioners out of the same window; four of them landed in the bushes, two of them hit the metal fence, and four hit the pavement, making four very different dents. The rain washed away any traces of blood, and the fur they found on it could have ended up there later when I was carrying it. Everyone agrees that if the thing, in fact, did hit me in the head, it more than likely would have killed me.
***
I’m feeling pretty good about how things are going when I get a manic call from McCarthystein telling me the defense has filed a motion to dismiss and asked for a special meeting with the Judge. The next day, we convene in the Judge’s chambers.
Sharkey, the last of us to arrive, struts into the room with icy confidence that fills me with dread. “Sorry I’m late, Your Honor,” He offers no further explanation.
“Take a seat, Mr. Sharkey.”
Sharkey sits down next to McCarthystein. My own lawyer’s swagger has been replaced with a nervous energy that might have something to do with the cocaine I smell. He keeps fiddling with the Judge’s nameplate, adjusting it to make sure it’s perfectly parallel to the edge of the desk. Judge Percy Keel has been eyeing McCarthystein suspiciously ever since we walked in.
According to McCarthystein, Keel once let a rich polo player off the hook with six months probation after he sexually assaulted a teammate’s mom. The incident was caught on camera, but the Judge thought he saw a glimpse of remorse in the dumb jock’s eyes and didn’t want to ruin the kid’s life over it. It’s a disturbing story, but not as upsetting as the photo on the wall of Keel with a rifle over his shoulder, standing next to the body of a dead lion.
“I trust we’ve all read the memorandum at this point,” the Judge says.
“Yes, Your Honor,” McCarthystein answers.
I actually haven’t read it and have no idea what to expect. McCarthystein insisted it was just legal jargon that I wouldn’t understand anyway.
“Then, Mr. Sharkey, please tell us why you feel this case should be dismissed.”
“Thank you, Your Honor.” Sharkey adjusts himself in his chair so that he’s somehow even more imposing. His briefcase remains at his side, unopened. “As far as the defense is concerned, it’s pretty straightforward. Now, I’ve already cited the precedent that dead people have no legal standing to sue anyone, but even if someone were to sue on the plaintiff’s behalf, you can’t have a wrongful death suit if the victim is not dead. There is no physical evidence that the plaintiff was ever even injured, let alone killed. At no point after the alleged incident did he seek medical attention or consult with a doctor. He is claiming emotional and psychological distress, but has yet to be evaluated by a psychologist.”
McCarthystein’s fidgeting is contagious. I swat the Judge’s nameplate onto the floor.
He glares at me. “Just what the hell are you doing?”
“Sorry, Your Honor. I thought I saw a spider.” I return the nameplate to his desk, and McCarthystein straightens it so it’s once again parallel.
“Please continue, Mr. Sharkey.”
“Frankly, Your Honor, the plaintiff’s request is offensive to the court and to all law-abiding citizens of Kibble. There are no medical bills, burial expenses, or lost wages, so what exactly would the defendant be paying for?”
The Judge looks at McCarthystein for an answer, but the lawyer just stares blankly at the desk. Whatever fiery substance that was burning through his veins earlier seems to have fizzled out. I nudge him.
“Sorry. Uh… it’s only been a couple of weeks. Sometimes psychological trauma takes months or even years to fully manifest.”
Keel removes his glasses dramatically. “Mr. McCarthystein. Your client is asking for $33 million. Can you honestly justify this?”
McCarthystein looks at me with bloodshot eyes. “Uh… I think if — ”
“I’ll take the 35 grand,” I interrupt.
“Excuse me?” the Judge asks.
“The day after it happened, Mr. Sharkey offered me $35 thousand. At the time, I didn’t think it was enough, but I’ve changed my mind.”
“Is this true, Mr. Sharkey?”
“We had an informal discussion, but it was nothing official. At the time he insisted he wouldn’t settle for — ”
“Bullshit! There was a letter on fancy stationery.” I dig my claws into the arms of the chair.
“May I see a copy of this letter?”
“I assure you, Your Honor,” Sharkey says, “no such letter exists. We were merely — ”
“He’s lying!”
“Control yourself, Mr. Snowball. I will not ask you again.”
“Your Honor,” Sharkey continues, “the day after the accident, we came by to check on Mr. Snowball out of concern for his well-being. It was before we knew the facts, so any discussion of compensation was theoretical. Now that we have a better understanding of what actually happened, we do not believe the plaintiff is entitled to any compensation whatsoever.”
I whisper to my lawyer, “Why aren’t you saying anything?”
“Your Honor,” McCarthystein says, snapping out of his daze, “my client is clearly traumatized by the incident. I think $35,000 is a perfectly reasonable settlement.”
“All we know for sure is that one of the air conditioners in our building fell out of a window. There’s no proof that it hit anyone.”
“That’s not true!” I snap. “The experts said it looked like the thing hit something else on the way down.” I nudge my lawyer again. “Tell him.”
“The report did say that, yes,” McCarthystein says.
“The report also said it could have just as easily hit the fence in the front of the building. Again, none of this is conclusive, and none of it matters. Without evidence that the plaintiff was injured, there is no case.”
“I’ll say it again: I wasn’t injured; I was killed. You all know that I’m not a typical human, right? I’m a cat, and I had nine lives. Whenever I die, I get resurrected good as new. Clean bill of health. So, yeah, I guess I don’t have any scars or whatever, but because of that fucking air conditioner, I’m down to my last life, and it’s stressing me the fuck out.”
“Language, Mr. Snowball!”
“Fine. Sorry.” I take a breath. “Listen, maybe there weren’t any witnesses when the thing landed on me, but there is someone who can confirm what I said about my lives.”
The Judge squints. “And who might that be?”
“Osiris, God of the Duat, the Aaruvian underworld.”
This is a bluff. The truth is, gods are forbidden from intervening in Earthly affairs. When my mother came down last year to help save her cult, she justified it by claiming her cult’s enemies on Earth were connected to her political enemies in Aaru. Even that didn’t satisfy everyone up there, so I doubt they’d be cool with me summoning a god to appear in court just so I can get paid.
Sharkey shakes his head. “This is ludicrous. We couldn’t possibly expect a jury to be objective about the testimony of a god from another dimension.”
“I’m inclined to agree.” The Judge takes a breath and returns his glasses to his bronzed face. “Mr. McCarthystein, do you have anything to add?”
McCarthystein looks at me and shrugs. “Not at this time, Your Honor.”
“Are you sure about that? This is your last chance.”
“I… no. That’s all we have.”
“Then, the case is dismissed with prejudice.”
“Yeah, no shit ‘with prejudice,’” I say.
“Uh, ‘with prejudice’ doesn’t mean — ”
“Fuck!” I swat the Judge’s nameplate onto the floor.
“Mr. McCarthystein, please escort your client out of my chambers before I have to call security.”
“Yes, Your Honor.” McCarthystein returns the nameplate to the desk. “Come on, Snowball,” he says, tugging my sleeve. “We better get out of here before you do something you regret.”
From the hallway outside the room, I hear Sharkey and Keel laughing, making plans for a 6:00 a.m. tee time tomorrow.
“What the hell just happened?”
McCarthystein shakes his head. “We got our asses handed to us, that’s what happened.”
“Yeah, no shit. But how?”
“To be honest, we didn’t have the strongest case. Sharkey was right — there just wasn’t any tangible evidence of negligence.”
“That’s not what you said when you showed up at my office a couple weeks ago.”
“I was hoping if we kept things going, they’d eventually make another settlement offer.”
“So why didn’t we do that then? I mean, we were in there for barely two minutes and now it’s all over. It seemed like you weren’t even trying.”
He sighs. “Sharkey got inside my head. I’m good, but he’s on another level. Some call him the Johnnie Cochran of Kibble.”
“Is that why you came in coked off your ass?”
He nods. “It usually helps me focus, but I guess it didn’t this time. Anyway, I’m sorry things didn’t go our way.”
“Sorry, huh. What the hell am I supposed to do now?”
“Move on. This lawsuit cost you nothing. I’ve put in dozens of billable hours that I’ll never get paid for now. I don’t like to lose, Snowball, believe me. Anyway, I have to get back to the office. Want a lift to the bus stop?”
“I’d rather walk.”
“Suit yourself.” McCarthystein climbs into his BMW and speeds off.
I could have had a Bimmer. I wouldn’t have been able to drive it, but it would have looked good parked on the street in front of my building, collecting tickets and bird shit.
The truth is, I was so convinced that I would win the lawsuit that I hadn’t thought about what I would do if I didn’t. Life without either million of dollars or eight extra lives is a terrifying prospect. I’m not sure how other people do it, but it looks like I’m about to find out.