Legal Nightmare

Legal Nightmare

A Legal Thriller

by

Robert James Allison

Copyright © 2012 by Robert James Allison

ISBN 978-130168-600-1

Published by First Suitor Enterprises at Smashwords

February 2013

Cover photo: Courtroom 7 - Robert N.C. Nix Federal Courthouse, Philadelphia, PA

(U.S. Government works)

All rights reserved

Names, characters, and incidents depicted in this book are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental and beyond the intent of the author or the publisher. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.

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http://www.RobertJamesAllison.com

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Dedication

To those lawyers dedicated to serving their clients, above even their own interests.

Chapter One

He knew if the man kept to his schedule he would be leaving soon, then later would be the time to strike. Caution was his foremost quality, because he hadn’t stayed out of prison by being careless. Actually, he had not always stayed out of prison, but he had done pretty well considering the number of crimes he had committed over the years. He had gotten away with murder, literally, and many times, but he had never done more than short stretches for any crime and he had always gotten away with the big ones.

Soon the man should be leaving his office, he always did this time of year on a Friday and then later, around 7:00 it would be time to act. The money was already in the bank, his employer had that much faith in his abilities and this one would be a piece of cake. Absently he fingered the snub-nosed .38 in his right-hand jacket pocket. It wouldn’t be necessary on this job if everything went according to plan and he saw no reason to doubt that, but the feel of the cold steel and checkered wooden grip of the gun made him feel even more confident. In a few minutes the man would leave, a few hours later the whole town, almost to a man would head for the local high school football field for the home game. The town took its high school sports seriously and that made what he was about to do even easier, even the local cop would be there, the little downtown would be ripe for the picking, but he was only interested in one piece of fruit, for now.

~*~

Frank Burrows scratched his head in exasperation, let out a grunt, and turned once again to the sheet of paper placed haphazardly beside his desktop computer. The single sheet of white paper with typewritten instructions and little annoying graphics, depicting hands with pointing fingers all over its face, was a portion of the 300 page federal district court electronic case filing (ECF) manual. He hated this stupid electronic filing nonsense that the federal courts had initiated a few years ago. Fortunately, or unfortunately, he wasn’t really sure, he didn’t have to use it that much, since he tried to avoid federal court, but he had a case in federal court now, and he was stuck. The district court clerk wouldn’t take paper anymore and stupidly, in his humble opinion, which no one cared about, didn’t even keep paper copies of anything that had been filed electronically. As a result, he was forced to wade through the maze of gibberish on not only the paper, but the computer screen, too, just to get through the various web pages and select the right options to get his document filed, he hoped, correctly.

He knew all too well how picky the district court clerk was, too. The first time he had used the system he had read the book carefully, gone to all the training, prepared his document, signed it, scanned it into his computer, and electronically filed it, all in a matter of 15 hours or so. Not ten seconds after he pulled the trigger, that’s how he thought about the act of left clicking on the final submit and point of no return button, he received a not-so-nice email from one of the deputy clerks saying that he was not allowed to submit a document with a handwritten signature, they only took electronic signatures and any future documents signed by hand would be stricken. That blew his mind. All of his life he had learned that the signature of someone on a document was his bond and now it wasn’t even allowed. He had to scan the stupid document into the computer anyway, so why not sign it? No way. It had to have the ‘s’ with a forward slash in front of his typed name and that was the signature. How stupid, he thought. Anyone could sign anything, with anyone’s name and submit it to the court. All they needed was a login user name and password. He had been real careful about where he kept his password after that, deciding immediately that maybe the little ‘post it’ smiley face stuck on the top right-hand corner of his computer terminal was probably not the most secure place.

After what seemed an eternity of reading screens, glancing with a grimace at the ECF manual pages, and selecting options, Frank reached the end of his quest when he saw the long sought after ‘submit’ button. Gingerly, with sweat actually popping out on his brow, he left-clicked on the ‘submit’ button with his mouse and mentally crossed his fingers that he wouldn’t get an error, or another email from the clerk.

Nervously, wiping his forehead with the back of his left hand, he waited to see if an email came. One did and his heart skipped several beats as he opened it, wondering what he had done wrong this time, but it was an acknowledgement of his filing, not a ‘nasty-o-gram’, as he referred to what was officially called a ‘memnoc’ or memo of non-compliance in federal court. He clicked on the document link contained in the email and that took him back into the ECF system so that he could view the document to verify it was his and that it was all correct, as if he could change it now. Not even the clerk could change a document once it was filed, the best that could be done was to ask the court to withdraw it and submit an amended document in its place and that type of thing was not well received by the judges. He knew an electronic notice with the same link would be sent to all attorneys of record in the case and they would view and print the document for their files. He didn’t have to print it, because he had the original and was required by the rules to keep it in his file for five years. The court didn’t have the space to store all that paper, but they assumed he did, or more accurately, didn’t care if he did or not, just so long as they didn’t have to store it.

Once he had verified the document and printed the electronic receipt for his file, he closed up his file, or rather the portion of it he was working with, the whole file was scattered all over his desk and part of the floor. Leaning back tiredly in his well-worn cloth-covered swivel office chair, he crossed his arms and waited for his computer to shut down.

As he waited, he glanced around his bleak office. Not much to it he had to admit. It was just a two-room affair, one being a conference room that doubled for a break room with a coffee pot and small office-sized refrigerator. The main room contained his very old wooden desk, a non-matching chair, a couple of other non-matching chairs for clients, a copier that worked most of the time, a locking filing cabinet which no longer locked, one of the slowest computers ever made, and a printer. There was a bathroom, too, but Frank didn’t count that as a room. It was barely large enough to turn around in and when you were in there, no matter what position you were in, you could still be talking to a client or talk on the phone, all at the same time if you were of a mind to, but Frank never had been. He might be a two-bit lawyer in a small town, but he had more class than most gave him credit for. With a mental shrug at the conclusion of his survey he knew the whole place together wasn’t very impressive, but it was all he could afford and he got by with it, which pretty much summed up his legal practice—he got by.

He glanced at the wall clock that had also seen better days and noted that it was only two o’clock, but he was leaving the office early today. It was Friday and the local high school football game was a home game. He liked to go to the local high school games, because it was about the only social event he got any enjoyment out of lately. In fact, it was about the only social event he engaged in anymore. It only cost a buck to get in and for another couple of bucks you could get a hot dog or hamburger with coffee at the tailgate across the street from the field.

A few years ago his nephew had been a lineman on the team and Frank had gotten into the habit of going to the games. When his nephew graduated, Frank kept going. Palasades was just a bump in the road south and east of Chicago, Illinois, near the Indiana line, and the local football team was about the only excitement it ever saw. They won the state championship a few years ago and frequently made the playoffs. Football was about all anyone talked about in Palasades in the fall and sometimes all of the rest of the year.

With a sigh, he went through the motions of straightening up his desk, moved the portion of the file on the floor out of his way with his left foot, stood up and walked around the office to turn off everything. He checked the coffee pot to make sure it was off, although not cleaned out, turned off the copy machine, grabbed the garbage bag in which he had earlier collected all the garbage; he couldn’t afford professional office cleaning and didn’t need it anyway, and stepped out the front door. Once he had tossed the garbage into his car he went back to the office, collected his briefcase, and locked the office door. If he saw the man across the street nonchalantly looking his way, he didn’t take note of him.

Frank was beat and he was moving like a zombie, his feet felt like lead weights. He had been all week working on that motion to compel discovery, and two hours since lunch, just getting it filed. What a pain, he thought. Stupid federal government, abolish paper and handwritten signatures, all in favor of the space-saving digital age. It was simply sheer nonsense. Well, at least the state courts haven’t gotten on the electronic bandwagon yet. They’d kill you if you tried to file a document without actually signing it. Roughly he turned the key in the ignition, dropped the shift lever into drive and with a quick glance over his left shoulder pulled away from the curb. Once again he did not see or take note of the man across the street casually watching him drive away.

~*~

Hey, Lawyer, how’s it going? Frank heard a voice ask, as he took the last step up the metal bleachers to the platform at the base of the seats on the home side of the Palasades High School football field; in contrast the visitor’s side only had a few scattered warped wooden benches. He looked up to see Tom Dailey, a squat, pudgy man in his 30s, wearing a Palasades Pirates’ sweatshirt and holding a roast beef sandwich in his hands, sitting about two rows up.

On his way up the middle of the bleachers, with his folding bleacher seat in one hand and program in the other, he stopped near Tom. Okay, Tom. Same old garbage. Trying to pay the bills.

Yeah, right. You lawyers got it made. I was by your office at 3:00 and you were already gone for the day. Out spending all that money?

Naw. I had to quit early in order to haul all of this week’s money to the bank before it closed. I had to make three trips today. I’ve flat wore out the second wheelbarrow this year and it ain’t near Christmas yet. Frank had long ago stopped trying to convince anyone in this town that he wasn’t rich and getting richer. As he talked, he glanced around the bleachers and saw many other familiar faces, in fact they were all familiar. He knew all their names and most of their kids. He never went anywhere in this town that he didn’t meet someone he knew, or someone who knew him. To most of the town he was simply ‘the lawyer’, not Frank, not Mr. Burrows, just ‘the lawyer’ and it suited him, he had no illusions of grandeur. He was a realist.

He was a small-town, two-bit lawyer in anybody’s book and his bills looked just as big as the next guy’s. Still, everyone thought he was well off, so he had given up trying to convince them otherwise. He gave away as much advice as he charged for most days and got no credit for doing it, but he did it anyway. Somewhere along the line in his upbringing he was taught that it was better to give than to receive, and Frank did a lot of giving. It didn’t bother him all that much that his efforts weren’t appreciated, because he was just being what he was and he couldn’t blame the town for thinking of him in the same way that he thought of himself, a small-town lawyer. Still, he hoped this federal case would change a few things. It had the potential, if he could just hang in there long enough to smoke out the cockroaches. That big defense firm was eating up his funds with discovery. The costs for taking depositions of experts and the subpoena fees were pinching his already meager bank account. He needed a big hit and he needed it fast, or some other influx of cash. His clients had no money to help him so he had to advance all the costs, hoping to weather the storm and make a big strike in the end.

Shaking off his troubles, he said, see you later, Tom, and continued up the bleachers on his way to find a seat. In response, he waved and nodded at several other people in the bleachers on his way up to his usual seat and as he clamped his chair onto the seat and settled down beside Steve Purcell he decided that maybe some people did appreciate him, maybe.

Hey, Steve. How’s your kid’s arm this year? Is it going to hold up? We need a good quarterback that can stay the course.

He’ll hold up. Doc said he just sprained a muscle last week. He’s good to go.

Good.

You got any kids, Frank?

Nope. The old lady left me a few years ago for a real lawyer up in the county seat.

Real lawyer?

Yep. Like I told that guy that came in last week complaining about me losing his case and then sending him a bill for 500 bucks. I said, ‘shoot, if I’d known you wanted a real lawyer I would have sent you up to Harmon. The lawyers up there will charge you 500 just to talk about filing your case’.

No kidding. What’d he say?

Nothing. Didn’t pay his bill, either. Guess I’ll have to go to Harmon and get me a real lawyer and sue him, Frank ended lightly.

You don’t sound too upset about it.

It doesn’t do any good to get upset, Steve. I don’t get mad. I get even. I’m only 38 and I’ll live to see that guy dead and buried. Maybe his old lady will bring me his estate and I’ll get my money then. Or maybe I’ll file a claim on his estate and collect that way. Either way, I won’t do any more work for him. You only stiff Frank Burrows once.

I’ll remember that. Guess I got one free case coming, huh? he said with a laugh.

Yeah, you and everybody else in this town, but only one.

~*~

Nancy Burrows dropped heavily onto the sofa, kicked off her shoes and grabbed the TV remote. She hit the red power button, flipped through the channels until she got to the local news and settled back to rest for a few moments before checking on supper again.

The news reporter was saying, The investigation into the fire at a local attorney’s office is still ongoing. The State of Illinois Fire Marshal’s Office refused to comment officially, but an anonymous source said the fire was suspicious. Early this morning the fire totally destroyed the law office of Frank Burrows in downtown Palasades and damaged two adjacent buildings less severely. No word on its origin as of yet and Mr. Burrows was not available for comment.

Clarence! Clarence! She yelled.

Clarence Burrows, a tall, skinny man in his 40s with thick, black, heavy-rimmed glasses and a bushy moustache, shot into the living room saying, What? You okay? Something wrong?

Have you talked to your brother today?

No, why would I? We don’t talk, remember? Disgust evident in his tone and a heavy frown appearing on his face.

Well his law office burned down.

Really? When?

Early this morning according to what the news just said.

What else? Anyone hurt?

Didn’t say, but I don’t see how, since it was early this morning and it’s Saturday. I don’t imagine anyone was around.

What started it?

They didn’t say, but it is suspicious and is still under investigation.

Frank probably torched it, Clarence said in a matter-of-fact tone as he leaned on the doorframe.

Clarence!

Defensively, he shot back, Well, he never had any money you know and now he’s got that big federal class action case he’s always talking about against Coal Masters Incorporated. That’s got to be draining him. He has to need some cash and what better way to get it?

Chidingly, Nancy stated, That’s a horrible thing to accuse your own brother of, Clarence.

Got no brother as far as I’m concerned. Don’t forget, Nan, he’s why I lost my job at Coal Masters Incorporated and why we’re barely making ends meet with me running my own computer repair shop.

He didn’t get you fired.

Sure did. He filed that suit against them and they canned me. I talked to him ‘til I was blue in the face, did everything and said everything short of begging him not to file it. I asked him to get another lawyer for that tramp, but he wouldn’t. He wanted the big fee. Coal Masters Incorporated was afraid I was going to spy for him and that was that, all them years down the tube.

He said he’d help you. He said he’d look into your firing, to see if you had a case against them for firing you without cause.

Who are you kidding, Nan? I’d have needed five lawyers a lot better than that bum to get that job back. You don’t understand, Nan. A company like that, they make things up if they have to. They’d have made me look like the Son of Sam on paper. All false, but there would have been nothing anyone could have done. I’ve seen it happen.

To whom?

Never mind. I just seen it is all. Now here we sit, pushing 50 and almost no income. No retirement for us now. They took that away, too, as you well know. Lousy money grubbing bum, got no brother, none at all, not no more.

We’re not pushing 50 too hard, Clarence. You just turned 46 this year and I won’t be 46 until the end of next year.

Clarence responded, sullenly, Well anyway, I’m glad mom and dad ain’t alive to see what he’s turned out to be. He always was a little on the shady side if you ask me. No sir, I wouldn’t put it past him to have torched that place his own self.

~*~

Frank was standing outside what used to be his office, but was now a crime scene. He had his hands jammed in the front pockets of his faded blue jeans, looking forlornly about. The sickening burnt smell hung ominously in the air. Yellow police tape was stretched everywhere and the only people allowed inside were police and fire marshal investigators. One fire engine was still standing by with several firemen in attendance, in case of a hot spot, Frank surmised, but it looked pretty cold to him. Frank figured the local fire department just wanted to prolong the action, there not being much in this little town outside of the occasional brush fire. The little law office had never been much, but it was nothing now. It was a charred, one-story, brick-front building stuck between two other two-story, brick-front buildings. Neither of those had been seriously damaged, but his building was a total loss.

Frank was watching one of the investigators from the state fire marshal’s office walk out of the charred remains. He had seen the investigators go in earlier and you couldn’t miss them as they all had on black coats with State Fire Marshal emblazoned on the back. The one he was watching now brushed off his coveralls with a no longer white handkerchief and deftly ducked under the police tape.

Frank waited until he had straightened up and then asked, Hey, when can I go in and see if anything is salvageable?

The investigator stopped and consulted his note pad.

You Frank Burrows?

Yes, I’m the owner and I need to see what I can salvage.

Nothing salvageable in there, Mr. Burrows. Even the little safe door was sprung from the heat.

I see, Frank replied with a defeated tone.

I need to talk with you, sir. Could you come over to my car so that we can arrange a time and place to sit down and take your statement?

Statement about what? You know more than I do. I got a call early this morning from Chuck Peters, the chief of police, saying my office was on fire. I came right down, and I’ve been here ever since, trying to get some answers.

The investigator gave him a bored look.

Still have to get your statement.

How did it start, can you tell?

Arson. No doubt about it. We found accelerants all over the place.

Accelerants? You mean like gas or something?

The lab will say for sure, but they were accelerants for sure.

Whereabouts did you find these accelerants?

Can’t tell you that. I need your statement first.

Why? Frank asked, but he needn’t have and he didn’t really expect an answer. He could tell from the tone of the investigator’s voice that he was a suspect, if not the suspect.

Can’t say right now, but let’s set up a time for you to come to my office.

No.

Huh?

No, no statement.

Oh? The investigator asked skeptically, with a look of confirmation on his face.

Look, I’m no rocket scientist, but I am a lawyer and I know how to read the focus of an investigation. You’re focusing on me. Why, I don’t know, but I can tell that you are. I’m not going to help you and I’m not going to hinder you. For now you don’t get a statement. When you are ready to tell me what you know, then I’ll tell you what I know.

You realize you could be arrested?

For what?

Arson.

You need some proof of that and I don’t think you have it or you would have already arrested me. I’ve been down this road before with numerous clients and I know that when you have a case you make an arrest. You don’t just talk about it. Now, what do you know?

Frank had made that firm statement with more bluster and confidence than he actually felt and hoped he had pulled it off. Sure he had been down similar roads before, none involving arson or serious criminal charges against a client, but he had dealt with the police on behalf of former clients. Never on his own behalf, he realized and it was much different when it was your neck on the line. He now had a sudden appreciation for the actions and feelings of some of his former clients, at the time he had thought they were over-reacting.

Sorry, can’t tell you. You can file a freedom of information request with the state fire marshal’s office, but then you know about that. You’re a lawyer, he replied snidely and walked off.

As he watched the back of the departing investigator, trying to bore a hole in his back with his eyes, Frank was beside himself. According to the somewhat surly investigator, nothing was salvageable. That being true, and he had no reason to doubt it, that also meant that his office was a total loss, all of his files were burned to a crisp and all of his equipment was destroyed. To make matters worse, although a few minutes ago he didn’t think they could get worse, he was a suspect. He guessed he shouldn’t have been surprised. After all, he was the only person who had access, since he had no secretary and no partners or associates. His finances weren’t in the best of shape and he had no alibi. He was a prime suspect in his own book, so how could he blame them for reaching the same conclusion? Shoot, I wouldn’t even think of defending a client in the same position without at least a grand up front. With unusual mirth considering the situation, he realized that for the second time in less than an hour he was able to relate to his clients, he didn’t have a grand to spare, either.

Frank started putting his analytical-lawyer mind to work and his only question was how did the arsonist get inside? Surely there was some evidence of forced entry, but then again after a fire he supposed that could be hard to determine.

Frank?

He heard the voice from behind him and turned to see Steve Wilkerson approaching with his rolling gait. Steve was a big burly guy of near 50 and looked like a professional wrestler, but he wasn’t, he was Frank’s insurance agent.

Steve.

Sorry about all this, Frank, I notified the company this morning just as the call came over the scanner. Figured you’d be too busy to call me and would want to get the jump on things. They are sending out an adjuster, along with a fire investigator. I’m not sure they’ll get in though. Seems the cops have a pretty tight lid on this place.

Yeah. Can’t get in myself. The investigator over there, waiving his right hand toward the direction the fire marshal investigator went, said the place was a total loss, nothing for me to even salvage. Even the little safe didn’t hold up. It only had some old wills and abstracts in it anyway. Nothing really valuable, but it will cause some of my clients some grief replacing them.

I’m surprised they won’t at least let you in to help them inventory the loss and help them reconstruct the office.

No, they say it’s arson, and although they didn’t say it, I figured out pretty quick that I’m a suspect. They didn’t deny that when I confronted them with the fact.

Suspect!

Yep.

Based on what?

They won’t tell me, Steve, but I can guess.

Oh?

Sure. It’s the usual. They probably found no sign of forced entry. I’m the only one with access and all that. Just between you and me and the bank and everyone else in this small town, my finances ain’t the best. Not hard to figure.

I see. Well, maybe they’ll let the company investigator in on what they have and we can pass it along.

I’d appreciate that, Steve. How long before they pay off so that I can get some new equipment?

Steve pursed his lips in thought and then said, well, you need to file a formal claim and then our adjuster and investigator will look into the matter. They’ll be around for a quick look see right soon, but until you file a claim our hands are tied. At least two to three weeks though, maybe more like two months.

Two months!

I’m not for sure, Frank. That’s the normal procedure. I don’t get in on that end of it. I’ll do what I can to speed it along for you, his tone plaintive.

Thanks, Steve. I really need some cash to get some equipment and get up and running again. I’ve got one case that needs immediate attention.

Yeah, that’s no secret in this small town, just like everything else, but don’t you have a back up computer at home?

No.

But you’re data, you did back it up, and it is at home, right? Steve asked incredulous.

No. It was backed up all right, but it was in the safe that didn’t survive, Frank dismally replied.

"Not smart, Frank. You always keep a