R.I.P. Mr. Crichton

Michael Crichton has left the planet.

I remember in fifth grade, watching my brother violently react when my mom interrupted his reading of Jurassic Park.  "Have you ever been so into a book that when somebody rips you out of it you feel like throwing up?"  I got the video game for Christmas that year and watched the movie a billion times.  Then in eighth grade, I finally opened the book and read for days.

In college, I branched out and read The Andromeda Strain.  I thought that I had read better books, but I also thought it had a really interesting premise.  I read Rising Sun, The Terminal Man, and A Case of Need before I stumbled on one of my favorite novels of all time: Sphere.  In my goodreads.com account, Sphere is one of only two books I honor with five out of five stars.  Later, I gave The Great Train Robbery and Travels four stars.

I'm in the process of reading the seven novels of his I haven't read yet.  They don't always rival Shakespeare, but they're always exciting and always interesting and always fun.  I can't say that Mr. Crichton was a good friend of mine, but I can say that I have enjoyed the hours I've spent reading his work.

If nothing else, I hope Mr. Crichton would be honored by my saying that he's the kind of writer who makes me want to write novels.

Ejection

“Mr. Caswell.”

Shit. “Yes, sir.”

“Do you agree with Ms. O'Brien's assertion that the third exception to The Rule”---you can hear the capital letters---“was intended to allow case agents to remain in the courtroom?”

Shit shit. I have no idea. Case agents? Or is that the second exception? Maybe it's the fourth exception.

“Mr. Caswell, are you with us?”

“Yes, sir. I---I think I agree with Ms. O'Brien---to a certain extent---”

“To what extent?”

Shit shit shit shit. Why can I only think of four-letter words? Why can't I think about the third exception to The Rule? Why don't I highlight my reading?

“Well, sir, I, uh, I believe the third exception was, uh, was intended to allow the presence of certain witnesses---”

“Yes, we all know that, Mr. Caswell. What witnesses?”

“Uh, witnesses who are essential to the presentation of the case . . .” That's all I've got. I know I'm just repeating the rule. He knows I'm just repeating the rule. Shit shit. There's a pause. Maybe he's bored with me---

“Mr. Caswell. The whole prospect of this conversation---some might call it a monologue---is to ascertain what the drafters meant when they said 'witnesses essential to the presentation of the case'. Do you have any productive thoughts on that topic?”

He's just berating me now. I can take this. I'm in my third year of law school. I have self-confidence. “The drafters were referring to, uh, witnesses like case agents in the, uh, second exception---”

“Yes, Mr. Caswell, Ms. O'Brien has already established that. We've moved on to the third exception. Do you think---as Ms. O'Brien seems to---that the drafters would write up two exceptions that both allowed the presence of the same witnesses?”

“No, sir---”

“Because that's absurd. Do you think the drafters were absurd?”

“No, sir---”

“Then why don't you tell me whose presence is allowed in the courtroom under the third exception?”

Shit. “The third exception lets those witnesses who are essential to the presentation of the case remain in the courtroom during the testimony given by other witnesses . . .”

“Mr. Caswell, this is not a reading class. I believe that your ninety-three classmates have been reading for at least twenty years by now. Do you think your classmates don't know how to read?”

“No, sir, I---”

“Then Mr. Caswell, I suggest you expound on your thoughts as to what witnesses are essential to the presentation of the case.”

Shit. A big fat nothing stares up at me from my books. I read something about this last night. Cops are in the second exception; victims are in the fourth. But what the heck is the third exception? Maybe page 87---

“Mr. Caswell?”

“Yes, sir.” No no---not 87, 94---

“Whose presence is allowed under the third exception to The Rule?”

Maybe it's page 82. No no. Maybe it's not even in this book. Was it in a case? C'mon c'mon c'mon---shit shit shit---

“Mr. Caswell?”

“Yes, sir, uh, the third exception allows the presence of . . .”

“Yes?”

shit shit shit shit

“Have you read the advisory comments to Rule 615?”

Shit. “Yes, sir.”

“All of them?”

Shit shit. “Yes, sir.”

“What about the second paragraph?”

Shit. Why don't I highlight? “Yes, sir.”

“Then why don't you know the answer to my question?”

Stop. You don't own me. There are people at home who love me and who think I'm a pretty smart kid. They think I'll be an excellent lawy---

“Mr. Caswell, you didn't come to class without being thoroughly prepared, did you? Because if you did, then perhaps it'd be in your interest---really ours---if you stopped wasting everybody's time.”

“I prepared, sir---”

“If you prepared, Mr. Caswell, then why don't you know whose presence is allowed under the third exception to The Rule? It seems a pretty basic proposition to me.”

Yeah, if you've been teaching evidence since before King John signed the Magna Carta.

“Mr. Caswell, I'd like you to do the class a favor. You see, there's some ambiguity in the case law about the third exception, and I'd like you to sort it out for the class. Write a memo noting each circuit's stance on the third exception, as well as any definitive case law out of the Supreme Court, if there is any. If any states have any special rules, I think your colleagues would benefit from that as well. Now, I recognize that this is a pretty big question of law. So instead of the usual twenty-four hours, you have forty-eight. I'd like your memo on my desk no later than Friday morning.”

“Yes, sir.”

“And Mr. Caswell? I believe there's a cup of coffee waiting for you in the student lounge.”

Shit . . .

“Now, Ms. O'Brien, as we were saying . . .”

Genesis of a Weekend

It's funny how sometimes life feels like a movie written by some really fantastic director.  Friday, I walked out the doors at work into a light, drizzly, showery rain that felt too cold for early August.  It was the kind of rain where it's too wet to put up your umbrella, but you feel foolish holding it over your head.  Even when you open it, you still get wet from about your shoulders down.  The sky was grey and the wind was chilly.

I walked the block-and-a-half to the Metro stop, trying to decide whether to open my umbrella or not.  At the top of the escalators that go down to the platform, the homeless man with eight phonebooks (as a bed?) was covering himself in a trash bag cut like a poncho.  That stop doesn't have any kind of a portico, so the early August sleet didn't stop until I reached the platform.  By then, I was damp enough to be slightly miserable.  I boarded the train a few minutes later, and read a paragraph or two in my too-hard-to-read-on-the-train book.  I got off at my stop twenty minutes later, and climbed up the escalator to my neighborhood.

And the sky was a deep oceanic blue.  A few pretty clouds dotted the sky like South Pacific islands.  The wind blew warm.  The people around me smiled at nothing.  My steps got lighter, and my weekend began.

Delinquent

They served me a month and a half ago.  I didn't pay my child support, but I didn't see my child, either.  If I'd seen him, then I might have paid.  Their lawyer says I'm $30,000 behind, but that can't be right.  But I guess it is.  I'm $30,000 behind, and I'm going to jail.  Well this sucks.

First Day in Court

My dress brown shoes squeak on the hundred-year-old tile.  The hallway goes silent, and everybody stops to look at me.  They're looking at me like I don't belong here.  But I belong here, and I know it, even if they don't.  Maybe I'm making up what I see in their eyes.  I'm nervous; that's all.  Time to go to court.

Perqs

The CEO of Wal*Mart never pays for groceries. The CEO of Coke is never thirsty, and the CEO of Exxon never drives past E. The CEO of Toyota drives a company Lexus while the CEO of Harley Davidson rides a company hog. The CEO of Hummer wishes he drove a smaller vehicle—but he’s not really that concerned. Shawn took the first job he was offered out of law school. He sued his clients’ clients, and he collected their escort fees. Now he never parties alone.

See more progress on: post really, really, really short stories.

Another Successful Mediation

We figured it all out. She got the pots, and he got the pans. After I wrote up the agreement, I left to make copies. When I came back, she was on her knees, and his pants were around his ankles. I wonder what happened to the lawyers. Husband and Wife are still here, but they don't need mercenaries anymore. My work here is done.

Playing with Fire

Tomàs has been chasing me since I lost El Coyotito's trial. He finally found me two days ago, in my office. He duct taped my arms to the arms of my office chair. Then, he took my keys and locked me in my office. I don't know what happened to my secretary. I'm not sure I want to know. I've had a lot of time to think these past two days, and so to avoid thinking about my poor secretary, I ponder: How did I get here?

I guess it's the same way everybody else gets where they are. Reading Steinbeck and Harper Lee in high school got me angry about social injustice. My college political science professor pushed me toward law school. Law school taught me how to vent constructively. When I got out, I fought for criminals and the Constitution. That's how I met El Coyotito. (Only his friends can call him Javier Reyno.) And I guess El Coyotito is how I got here.

When I first met El Coyotito, he wasn't yet a druglord; he was just a mule who'd crossed at Eagle Pass on the wrong day. After I handled his drug trafficking charges agreeably, he started sending his "associates" to me. Before long, El Coyotito made me his abogado and put me on the payroll. I worked out of his South Texas headquarters and untied any legal knots he and his associates tied. I was hammering out a plea bargain the day the Feds nabbed El Coyotito. Tomàs succeeded as acting president, and I started delegating. I devoted all my time to freeing mi jefe.

Thirteen months later, El Coyotito's jury didn't understand my position. They convicted El Coyotito and sentenced him, like fools, to prison. I understood what that meant for me. I told the Feds everything I knew, and they hid me in Iowa. I sat for the Iowa Bar under a new name and started organizing small businesses and doing divorces.

But prison can't hold back the long arm of El Coyotito. Tomàs has found me. And suddenly, he's back in my office. He steps toward me with a cell phone in his right hand and a pistol in his left. He puts the phone to my ear. "Lo siento, Abogado. I liked you. But you will be an example." Tomàs raises the pistol. I close my eyes, bracing for the blast. Pleadingly, I wonder--How did I get here?

Where Everybody Knows Your Name

Carries she more than just trouble-drowning shots,

A comfort derived from the itch. No more than a

Rash, a constant, recurring rash to be scratched,

Loathed and cursed, and comforted, customers are

Akin to her own self-begotten brood.

Normally, he lounges at the end of the bar,

Obliges himself to drink full his tab,

Remembers to forget to go home. He is

Maturity’s masterpiece.

Contrary to popular belief, the

Lazius postalis developed in ancient

Ireland and was known for doing his work

Fast, but evolution has brought

Fashionable tardiness to the fore.

Simple.

Arrogant.

Male.

Dire straits, a crossroads in her life. How did she get so

Involved in the Boston bar scene

Against her pre-post-graduate dreams?

None of her former colleagues accepts her

Efforts at becoming haute-couture.

Can anyone evade his charm?

Others you can ignore, but try ignoring

A man who names the beer mugs.

Confused and confusing he is, but ever straining to

Help those whom he loves.

Call one more round on the

House. You can be sure that

Everybody knows your name; that

Everybody’s problems are the same; that you can

Return whenever you like. Just be

Sure to reciprocate.

(c) 2008, Jeremy Masten

The House of the Rising Sun

Mary and her neighbors ruled their little piece of the world like any other cul-de-sac in middle class America.  "You shall not park automobiles beside the curb against traffic for more than 24 hours consecutively."  "You shall not allow the grass in your front lawn to grow taller than 3 inches."  "You shall not place and leave a basketball hoop or any other sports equipment in the front yard for more than 2 days consecutively."  "You shall not operate a business out of your house."  They ruled the cul-de-sac strictly but politely.

Mary owned the ranch-style on the eastern half of the cul-de-sac.  The two oak trees she planted (one on each side of the sidewalk) right after she bought the house reached 40 feet into the sky and at least 30 into the ground.  The shrubbery guarding her front porch was neatly clipped to perfect rectangular prisms.  The layers of dupioni silk shrouding her windows elegantly shrouded her living room and front bedrooms from nosy neighbors.  None of this drew attention to Mary's house.  That's how she liked it and how the cul-de-sac liked it.

Despite--or perhaps because of--Mary's penchant for privacy, the cul-de-sac loved her.  She never asked questions, but she always knew somehow when somebody's wife needed help.  She always brought a comforting meal and helped with one or two of the wife's chores.  Once, while Susan visited her elderly parents in Iowa, Mary performed all of Susan's motherly and wifely duties: she woke the children, served breakfast, clothed the children, delivered the children to school, served Susan's husband's lunch, brought the children home from school, served dinner, and finished the evening with ice cream for the kids and a drink for Susan's husband.  And Mary didn't particularly care for Susan; she felt obliged as a neighbor to help out.

But Susan returned from Iowa a day early.  It was evening, and the television watched the children while Susan's husband was notably absent.  She called the office, but no one answered.  She called his mobile phone, but he wasn't available.  She asked her children, but they didn't know.  Only peeved at his absence, she wandered toward her bedroom--absentmindedly planning a hot bath--and thought about her parents.  Her bored hands found that month's bank statement, and her bored eyes skimmed it half-heartedly.  Her ennui didn't hide check number 2846, made out to Mary for $300, memo: Roxie, but for any of the thousand reasons one ignores unpleasant facts, her bored hands put the bank statement back on the table in the hall, and the bath took all her attention.  Nothing better than to watch the day's worries swirl down the drain after a bath.

While Susan undressed in her bedroom in her house, Susan's husband dressed in Roxie's bedroom in Mary's house.  He tightened his belt and tied his shoes, and Roxie straightened her tousled sheets.  He gave Mary another $300-check, memo: Roxie, and went back home to Susan.

(c) 2008 by Jeremy Masten