Reckless Disregard (7 page)

The judge shakes his head. “Ms. Diamond—”

“Apologies, Your Honor. I meant to say wiseass.” There’s laughter, but this time none of it comes from my side of the room. The worst part is that the judge laughs too.

“Let’s say you’re right about requiring the defendant to appear for deposition in person,” the judge says. “Why so soon?”

“Because the man who hides behind the name Poniard has no respect for the law. Unless we can inspect his computer and take his deposition immediately, we’ll have no chance of preserving evidence that will show that he targeted Mr. Bishop for political purposes. Poniard is a radical and a propagandist posing as some sort of artist. Here are his words: ‘I design my video games to subvert, and I don’t mean just laws or governments, but also the minds of the game players.’ Remember that children and teenagers play his video games. He also says, ‘The only laws I respect are the rules of my own games, because I create them. The rest is just flawed coding that needs to be deleted.’” She shakes her head disdainfully. “Poniard may have already destroyed evidence. But we won’t know unless we have a chance to look, and the longer we have to wait, the longer he’ll have to cover up. We have a right to question him and do a forensic analysis of his computers right away. Poniard should be ordered to appear in this courtroom in three days so that we can get a fair chance at discovery. Thank you, Your Honor.”

She’s left me an opening by focusing on rhetoric and not on the letter of the law, which is on my side. She’s a gifted advocate. I was gifted once, but no longer. I’m still more experienced, though, and experience is one of the two antidotes to the venom that is talent, preparation being the other. So said Harmon Cherry.

Harmon wasn’t always right.

I get to my feet slowly, so as to keep my balance. Like Lovely, I try rhetoric, taking a risk in quoting the controversial Ayn Rand: “Civilization is the progress toward a society of privacy.” I cite the favorable legal precedent in great detail. It’s all to no avail. An impatient Judge Triggs looks up at the ceiling. Stage fright is a peculiarly repellant form of narcissism, and now I begin to focus not on what I’m saying but on the sound of my own voice, which grates like feedback from a cheap guitar amp. Some of the media members have folded up their laptops. The Poniard freaks are as quiet and wrung-out as mourners at the end of a funeral.

I hear Tom Petty singing, “I Won’t Back Down.”

For a moment I think I’m hallucinating, suffering a new symptom of stage fright. Then the smartphone plays the chorus twice more before its owner locates the power button.

“Whose phone?” the judge says.

No response.

“The owner of the cell phone shall identify himself or herself!” A bellow this time.

Again, there are no volunteers. The judge looks at his bailiff and then at his clerk, who both shake their heads.

Silence—not empty but palpable, a whiff of sulfur before the bomb explodes. It’s I who light the fuse.

“Your Honor, it’s Brandon Placek’s phone.” I know because I’ve heard his ringtone before, an obvious symbol of what he must consider his journalistic iconoclasm in the face of the powers that be.

“Identify him,” the judge says.

I point to Placek, who’s smirking like an insubordinate teen whose life’s goal is to flout his parents’ values. He mouths the word
asshole
.

I’ve never been a stool pigeon. On the contrary, I keep far too many secrets. But Placek is in the business of tattling on others for profit and so deserves to suffer at least a pinprick’s worth of retribution. Two years ago, he almost destroyed Lovely’s career by revealing that as a young woman she performed in hardcore porn videos. They still call her names online—the Licentious Litigator, the “Solicitor” General, the Courthouse Whore, and terms uglier and far more graphic. I blame not only Placek but also Lou Frantz, who permitted his client to leak the information in an attempt to derail my trial. I can’t begin to fathom why she’s gone back to work for someone who’d do that to her.

Now she’s looking down at the table, grinning slightly. She probably thinks I ratted Placek out on her account. Sadly, it’s just the opposite.

“Stand up, sir,” the judge says to Placek.

Placek stands.

“Give your cell phone to the bailiff,” the judge says.

“I won’t do that, Judge. I’m a news reporter and need my phone to do my job.”

“Hand it over or I’ll hold you in contempt and you’ll spend the night in jail.”

Placek puts the phone in his pocket and crosses his arms. “I’m a member of the news media. The Constitution guarantees freedom of the press. You can’t confiscate my phone any more than you could have taken away a reporter’s typewriter thirty years ago.” Though I hate to admit it, he’s right—Triggs is exceeding his authority. But sometimes a little judicial insanity is exactly what an underdog attorney needs. Placek has given me more ammunition than I hoped for.

“Your Honor,” I say. “I give you the online media in all its arrogance. Brandon Placek is one of the people . . . no, one of the wolves . . . to whom William Bishop and his lawyers would throw my client. Placek calls himself a journalist but makes his living off of the next premature death of a big-breasted reality star, the next manufactured political scandal, the next accidentally-on-purpose celebrity sex tape.”

The judge puts down his pen and sits back in his chair. He’s listening.

“The desire for privacy is one of the things that makes us human, that separates us from beasts,” I continue. “If we’re lucky, the right of privacy lets us forget a difficult childhood, escape a troubled past. Privacy allows us to maintain our dignity.

“And then there’s Poniard. He’s a worldwide celebrity.” I turn and gesture toward the cosplayers. “As you can tell, there are people who worship him and his video games. And despite all that, he’s chosen to remain anonymous, to maintain a private life. That’s refreshing in this era of Kardashians and New Jersey Housewives. And yet people like Brandon Placek would sacrifice Poniard’s right of privacy in the guise of seeking truth. Your Honor, there’s no good reason to order Poniard’s deposition to go forward on Friday, and there’s no reason to order him to ever appear in person. I implore that you not make Poniard choose between his right to privacy and his due process right to defend himself in this lawsuit.”

Lovely is at the lectern before I sit down. “Mr. Stern likes to throw around quotes about privacy. How about this one from Judge Richard Posner? ‘Privacy is greatly overrated because it means concealment. People conceal things in order to fool other people.’” And that’s exactly what Mr. Stern is trying to do. His client leveled the most scurrilous charges against a good man and sent the libel out to billions of people on the Internet. And now we’re supposed to feel sorry for poor Poniard. The hypocrisy of the argument is breathtaking. Poniard’s problems are of his own making, and he shouldn’t be able to hide behind—”

“I understand your point, Ms. Diamond,” the judge says. “But not to put too technical a spin on it, two wrongs don’t make—”

“Except there aren’t two wrongs here, there’s only one wrong, and that’s Poniard’s—”

“My point, counsel, is that—”

“—obvious libel of Mr. Bishop.”

“One moment, Ms. Diamond, I—”

“If you’d only let me finish my sentence—”

“Ms. Diamond, stop talking now!”

Maybe Harmon
was
right about experience trumping talent.

Her jaw quivers and her lips move, and I think, Lovely, please don’t say another word, because I don’t want to win this way, and I don’t want to see you screw up.

The judge shakes a finger at her. “Ms. Diamond, I’ve read about you. Given your checkered past, I would think that if you weren’t advocating a case, you’d be the first one to agree that a person has the right to keep their private life private.”

The spectators react with a mixture of gasps and titters, the media with frenzied keystrokes on laptops, because what can be more newsworthy than a judge’s reference to a female attorney’s porn past? I stand up to speak, though a lawyer should never stand up to speak when he’s winning. “Your Honor, I want to state for the record that the defense rests on the merits. The defense does not agree with the reference to Ms. Diamond’s past.”

“I don’t need Mr. Stern or anyone else to help me,” Lovely says. “I’m not ashamed of my past, and I don’t care what the media says about me. Unlike Poniard, I’m perfectly willing to live with the consequences of my choices. If you’d really done research on me, Judge Triggs, you’d know that. The only thing that Mr. Stern and I agree on, Your Honor, is that it’s inappropriate for the Court to bring my personal life into a legal argument.”

“I’ve heard enough,” the judge says. “The application to take Poniard’s deposition in three days is denied. You’ll both follow the normal rules of procedure.”

Lovely grabs the sides of the podium. “Your Honor, I haven’t finished—”

“Yes, you have,” the judge says. “Here’s my order. Poniard doesn’t have to appear in person for a deposition. The deposition will be taken telephonically or by other audio means. Ms. Diamond, when you do depose him, you and your colleagues may
not
ask him any questions about his identity, residence, whereabouts, or other identifying information. Mr. Stern, be forewarned that if you proceed this way, you are not permitted to call Poniard as a witness at trial. You’re stuck with his audio deposition, and I’m sure you know that’s a poor substitute for a live witness.” He picks up a file folder, turns pages, puts it down, and whispers to his court clerk, who shrugs.

“Will this be a jury trial?”

“Defendant will not demand a jury,” I say. No jury would trust someone who refuses to show up and defend himself. I like Judge Triggs. We’ll have a better chance if he decides the case.

“Ms. Diamond, will the plaintiff demand a jury?” the judge asks.

“No, Your Honor,” Lovely says, her displeasure with the answer evident in her abrupt tone. I’m sure that’s what Frantz instructed her to say, that he’s concerned that twelve ordinary people wouldn’t relate to Bishop, a billionaire with a reputation for destroying anyone who stands in his way. Thanks to Brandon Placek’s cell phone, I got the better of this one.

“All right then,” Judge Triggs said. “A court trial. That’ll expedite things.” He abruptly gets up and lumbers back to his chambers before those in the courtroom can stand. It’s surprising that such a big man can move so fast. He’s evidently forgotten about jailing Brandon Placek.

Lovely leaves the courtroom immediately, pushing past the media. They begin shouting questions to me, all variations of “Who is Poniard?” Placek outlasts them all, taunting me about Lovely’s adult film career, as if the stale story still means something to me. I sit down at counsel table with my back to him until he leaves. When I turn around, Poniard’s cosplay fans are standing. They begin to clap. They don’t realize that this most insignificant of victories has nothing to do with whether Poniard has libeled William Bishop or with what happened to Paula Felicity McGrath almost thirty years earlier.

The Hoar Frost Queen and Bugsy are arguing—well, the HF Queen is arguing—about Brighton. She comes home and announces that he shouldn’t be allowed to play
Abduction!
, says that the game is a lie and children shouldn’t be exposed to lies. Now Bugsy says that she’s being unfair, that television and movies and, yes, video games are lies, but they’re supposed to be, and that Brighton is doing very well in school, so why not give the kid a break? The HF Queen starts ranting about her
fucked-up life
, and all the while Bugsy stands leaning against the wall, arms crossed and eyes half-closed, maybe listening to her, maybe not. When the HF Queen notices Brighton peeking out through the crack in the door of his room, she raises her hand and points, her fingernails a burnished maroon, and it seems as if she’s about to issue an edict in that icy voice so cutting that it can lop off the head of an impudent subject, but instead she drops her arm wearily, goes into her bedroom, and closes the door. Brighton, figuring that it’s safe to leave his own room, walks up to Bugsy and shrugs a question. Bugsy raises a hand palm forward, a gesture that can mean
leave me alone
,
leave her alone
, or
leave it to me
. This time it means all three. Bugsy turns and goes into the large room with the pool table and the big-screen TV that he calls his study.

It’s true that Brighton is doing well in school—almost. When he first came to live in this house, he worried that the Archwood Community School of the Santa Monica Mountains—that’s actually what they call the place—would be too difficult, that all the kids would be geniuses. But it’s not hard at all, no harder than his old public school was, and while the kids are richer than his former classmates, they certainly aren’t any smarter. In fact, they’re dumber if you factor in their lack of street smarts. He’s doing well in math (graphing, fractions, no problem) and Language Arts/Literature (they’re reading
Peter and the Starcatchers
, a book about an orphan, how annoying). Social studies is the problem, although Bugsy and the HF Queen don’t know it yet. He doesn’t see the point of history, even when the teacher talks about being doomed to repeat the past. So what? No matter how bad the past was, how can anyone be sure that the future won’t be worse? But what worries him is this new assignment. It’s going to ruin his grade. He has to write a report on his family history, an assignment that will supposedly teach them about immigration in America but really is intended to get the students’ grandparents to donate money for the new gymnasium. So said Bugsy. Which made the HF Queen mad.
Don’t make the kid a cynic
, she said, as if Brighton weren’t one already. Anyway, what family history does he have to write about? That his parents abandoned him when he was a baby, that his Aunt Greta took him in, that she died ten years later of cardiac arrest, and that Bugsy and the HF Queen showed up? He will
not
write about Bugsy and the HF Queen.