As he gets older, I will be entitled to more lenient visitation, but for now things are restricted. There are reasons for this but I’d rather not discuss them now.
Starcher does not smile when they get to the bench. I stand and peck Judith on the cheek, more for the kid’s benefit than hers. She prefers not to touch.
“Hey, buddy,” I say, rubbing his head.
“Hey,” he says, then walks over to a swing and climbs onto it. Judith sits beside me on the bench and we watch him kick and begin swaying.
“How’s he doing?” I ask.
“Fine. His teachers are happy.” A long pause. “I see you’ve been quite busy.”
“Indeed. And you?”
“The usual grind.”
“How’s Ava?” I ask about her partner.
“She’s great. What are your plans for the day?”
Judith does not like leaving our son with me. Once again, I’ve managed to offend the police and this worries her. Worries me too but I would never admit it.
I say, “I figure we’ll do lunch. Then there’s a soccer game at the university this afternoon.”
She thinks a soccer game is safe enough. She says, “I’d like to have him back tonight, if that’s okay.”
“I get thirty-six hours once a month and that’s too much?”
“No, Sebastian, it’s not too much. I’m just worried, that’s all.”
Our fighting days are almost over, I hope. Take two lawyers with sharp elbows and even sharper tongues, give them an unwanted pregnancy, a nasty divorce with brutal aftershocks, and you have two people who can inflict serious damage. We’re still scarred, so we don’t fight, much.
“Fine,” I say, in full retreat. Truthfully, there’s nothing appealing about my apartment and Starcher doesn’t really like staying there, not yet anyway. He’s too short to shoot pool on my vintage table and I don’t own any video games. Maybe when he’s older.
He is being raised by two women who freak out if another kid shoves him at school. I’m not sure I can toughen him up by popping into his life once a month, but I’m trying. Down the road, I suspect he’ll get tired of living with a couple of edgy, intense women and want more time with his old man. My challenge is to remain relevant enough in his life to offer him that option.
“What time shall we meet?” she asks.
“Whenever.”
“I’ll meet you here at 6:00 p.m.,” she says as she gets to her feet and walks away. Starcher, his back to us, soars through the air and does not see her leave. It does not escape me that Judith did not bother to bring an overnight bag for the kid. She had no intention of allowing him to sleep at my place.
I live on the twenty-fifth floor because I feel safer there. I routinely get death threats for a variety of reasons, and I’ve been honest with Judith about this. She is not wrong for wanting the kid at home, where things are probably calmer. Probably, but I don’t know for sure. Just last month Starcher told me his “two mothers” yell at each other all the time.
For lunch we go to my favorite pizza parlor, a place his mothers would never take him. The truth is I don’t care what he eats. In many ways I’m more like a grandparent who spoils the kids before sending them back home. If he wants Ben & Jerry’s before and after lunch, so be it.
As we eat, he comes to life while I quiz him about school. He’s in the second grade in a public school not far from where I grew up. Judith insisted he attend some crunchy little granola academy where all plastic is forbidden and all the teachers wear thick wool socks and old sandals. At $40,000 a year I said hell no. She ran back to court, and for once the judge sided with me. So Starcher is in a normal school with kids of all colors and a seriously cute teacher, recently divorced.
As I’ve said, Starcher was a mistake. Judith and I were in the process of ending our chaotic relationship when she somehow got pregnant. The split grew even more complicated. I moved out and she assumed total possession of him. I was stiff-armed at every point, though, to be honest, I have never clamored to be a father. He’s all hers, at least in her opinion, so it’s becoming hilarious to watch him grow into a little boy who looks exactly like me. My mother found my second-grade school photo. At seven, we could pass for identical twins.
We talk about fighting, the school-yard variety. I ask him if he sees fights during recess, and he says, “Occasionally.” He tells me the story of the day when kids began yelling, “Fight! Fight!” and everyone ran over to watch. Two third graders, one black and one white, were on the ground kicking and squirming, biting and clawing and swapping punches while the crowd yelled encouragement.
“Was it fun to watch?” I ask.
He smiles and says, “Sure. It was cool.”
“What happened?”
“The teachers came and got them and took them into the office. I think they got in trouble.”
“I’m sure they did. Has your mother ever talked to you about fighting?”
He shakes his head. No.
“Okay. Here are the rules. Fighting is bad and will only get you in trouble, so don’t fight. Never start a fight. But, if someone else hits you, or pushes you, or trips you, or if two guys jump on a friend of yours, then sometimes you have to fight. Never back down when the other guy starts a fight. And when you fight, never, never, never give up.”
“Did you get into fights?”
“All the time. I was never a bully and I never started a fight. And I didn’t like to fight, but if the other guy pushed me around, then I hit him back.”
“Did you get in trouble?”
“I did. I took my punishment.”
“What does that mean?”
“Means the teacher yelled at me and my mother yelled at me and maybe they kicked me out of school for half a day or something like that. Again, bud, fighting is wrong.”
“Why do you always call me bud?”
Because I loathe the name your mother chose for you. “Just a nickname, that’s all.”
“Mom says you don’t like my name.”
“Not true, bud.” Judith will always be at war over the soul of her son. She cannot rise above the temptation of the silliest cheap shot. Why on earth would one parent tell a seven-year-old that the other parent doesn’t like his name? I’m sure I’d be shocked at the other crap she’s told him.
Partner has the day off, so I drive my van to the soccer stadium on campus. Starcher thinks the van is cool, with its sofa, swivel chairs, small desk, and television. He’s not sure why I use it as an office, and I have not gone into details about the bulletproof windows and automatic pistol in the console.
It’s a women’s soccer game, not that it matters to me. I don’t follow the sport, so if I’m forced to watch it I’d rather see girls in shorts than guys with hairy legs. Starcher, though, loves the excitement. His mothers do not believe in team sports, so he’s just been signed up for tennis lessons. Nothing wrong with tennis, but if he gets my moves he won’t last long. I always liked to hit. In youth basketball I was the kid with four fouls by halftime. Always more fouls than points. In Pop Warner football I played linebacker because I loved the contact.
After an hour someone finally scores, but by then I’m thinking about the Renfro case and any interest I had in the game is gone. Starcher and I share a popcorn and talk about this and that. The truth is, I’m so far detached from his little world that I can’t sustain a decent conversation.
I’m such a pathetic father.
9.
Sanity slowly arrives in the Renfro disaster. Under pressure from all sides, but especially from my pal at the Chronicle, the City flounders with its response. The chief of police has gone mum, claiming he can’t comment because of pending litigation. The mayor is running for cover, obviously trying to create some distance. Hot on his ass are his enemies, some city councilmen who enjoy the grandstanding and would like to have his job. They are in a minority, though, because no one really wants trouble with the police department.
Sadly, dissent nowadays is co
nsidered unpatriotic, and in our post-9/11 atmosphere any criticism of those in uniform, any uniform, is stifled. Being labeled soft on crime or soft on terror is a politician’s curse.
I’m feeding everything to my pal at the newspaper. Citing unnamed sources, he’s having a ball hammering away at the cops and their tactics, screwups, and attempts to cover up. Using materials from my files, he runs a lengthy piece about the history of botched invasions and excessive force.
I’m getting as much press as I can possibly generate. I cannot lie and say I don’t love this; indeed, I live for it.
The defendants file a motion with Judge Samson and ask him to, in effect, put a muzzle on “all lawyers involved in the civil lawsuit.” Judge Samson denies the motion without even the benefit of a hearing. Right now, the attorneys for the City are terrified of the judge and running for cover. I’m firing as many bullets as possible.
I practice alone, without a real office and certainly without a real staff. It’s extremely difficult for a lone gunman like me to engage in high-powered civil and criminal litigation without some support, which is where the two Harrys come in. Harry Gross and Harry Skulnick run a fifteen-lawyer shop in a converted warehouse downtown by the river. They do mostly appellate work and try to avoid jury trials, and thus spend their hours buried in books and pushing legal pads and briefs around their desks. Our arrangement is simple: They do my research and paperwork, and I give them one-third of the fees. This allows them to play it safe, to keep some distance from me, my clients, and the people I tend to irritate. They will prepare a stack of motions an inch thick, hand it to me for my review and signature, and nothing can be traced back to them. They toil away behind locked doors and never worry about the police. In the case of Sonny Werth—the client who woke up with the tank roaring into his den—the City settled for a million bucks. My cut was 25 percent. The two Harrys got a nice check and everybody was happy, except for Sonny.
In this state, all damages in civil cases are capped at $1 million. This is because the wise people who make the laws in our state legislature decided ten years ago that their judgment was far superior to that of the actual jurors who hear the evidence and evaluate the damages. They, the lawmakers, were hoodwinked by the insurance companies who are still funding the national tort reform movement, a political crusade that has been wildly successful. Virtually every state has fallen in line with caps on damages and other laws designed to keep folks away from the courthouse. So far, no one has seen a decline in insurance rates. An investigative report by my pal at the Chronicle revealed that 90 percent of our legislators took campaign money from the insurance industry. And this is considered a democracy.
Every street lawyer in this state can tell you a horror story of a badly maimed and permanently injured client who, after medical expenses, got almost nothing.
Not long after slamming the courthouse doors, these same wise and courageous legislators passed another law that prohibits homeowners from firing upon cops who invade their homes, regardless of whether the cops have the right home or not. So when Doug Renfro hit the floor and began firing his pistol, he was violating the law, with no real defense.
What about the real criminals? Well, our legislators passed yet another law that grants criminal immunity to SWAT teams who get a bit carried away and shoot the wrong person. In the Renfro disaster, four cops fired at least thirty-eight rounds. It’s not clear who actually shot Doug and his wife, and it doesn’t matter. They are all immune from criminal prosecution.
I spend hours with Doug trying to explain these legal principles, none of which make sense. He wants to know why his wife’s life is worth only $1 million. I explain that his state senator voted for this cap on damages—and that he also takes money from insurance lobbyists—so perhaps Doug should contact this elected official and bitch about the way he votes.
Doug asks, “Then why did we sue for $50 million when the most we can get is only $1 million?” Another question with a long answer. First, it’s called making a statement. We’re angry and fighting back, and suing for $50 million sounds much more aggressive than a mere $1 million. Second, a quirk in this already screwed-up law prohibits the jurors from knowing about the $1 million cap. They can sit through a month of testimony, evaluate the evidence, deliberate thoughtfully, and return a proper verdict of, say, $5 to $10 million. Then they go home, and the next day the judge quietly reduces the verdict down to the cap. The newspaper might trumpet another big verdict, but the lawyers and judges (and insurance companies) know the truth.
It makes no sense, but bear in mind this law was written by the same conspirators who insert endless gibberish into your insurance policies.
Doug asks, “But how can a cop kick in my door and shoot me with immunity, but if I return fire I’m a criminal looking at twenty years?” The simple answer is because they are cops. The complicated answer is that our lawmakers often pass laws that are not fair.
My client is still in mourning, but some of the shock and grief are beginning to subside. His thinking is getting clearer; reality is setting in. His wife is gone, murdered by men who will not be held accountable. Her life is worth only $1 million. And he, Mr. Doug Renfro, is in the midst of a criminal prosecution that will one day drag him into a courtroom where his only hope will be a hung jury.
The road to justice is filled with barriers and land mines, most of them created by men and women who claim to be seeking justice.
10.
My little cage fighter, Tadeo Zapate, has won his last four fights, all by brutal knockouts. That’s eleven in a row, with only three career losses, all on points. He’s now thirty-second in the world bantamweight rankings and moving up nicely. UFC promoters are taking notice. There’s talk of a fight in Vegas in six months, if he keeps winning. Oscar, his trainer, and Norberto, his manager, tell me they can’t keep the kid out of the gym. He is focused, hungry, almost manic in his quest for a title fight. They work him hard and are convinced he can be a top-five contender.
Tonight he fights a tough black kid with the stage name of Crush. I’ve seen Crush fight twice and he doesn’t worry me. He’s just a brawler, a street fighter with limited training in mixed martial arts. In both fights he got knocked out late in the third round because of fatigue. He starts with a bang, cannot pace himself, and pays for it at the end.
I wake up with a bad case of butterflies, thinking of nothing but the fight, and cannot eat breakfast. I’m puttering around the apartment late in the afternoon when Judith calls my cell. There’s an emergency—her college roommate has been seriously injured in an auto accident in Chicago. Judith is racing to the airport. Ava, her partner, is out of town, so it’s up to me to man up and be a father. I bite my tongue and do not tell her that I have plans. It’s fight night!
We meet at the park and she delivers our son, his duffel bag, and a barrage of warnings and instructions. Normally, I’d snap back and we’d argue, but Starcher seems to be in good spirits and eager to get away from her. I’ve never met her college roommate, so I don’t inquire. She storms off, jumps in her car, and disappears. Over pizza, I ask Starcher if he’s ever seen a cage fight on television. Of course not! His mothers monitor everything he reads, watches, eats, drinks, and thinks.
Last month, though, he spent the night with a friend, Tony, who has a big brother named Zack, and late that night Zack pulled out a laptop and they watched all manner of evil, including an Ultimate Fight.
I ask, “How was it?”
“Pretty cool,” he says with a grin. “You’re not mad?”
“Of course not. I love those fights.”
I go on to explain how our night will go. The kid’s face lights up like I’ve never seen. I make him swear that he will not, under any circumstances, tell his mothers about going to the fights. I explain that I have no choice; that I have to be there as part of a team; and that under normal circumstances he would not be invited. “Let me handle your mother,” I say, without much confidence, but then I realize he will be grilled m
ercilessly about the evening.
“Let’s just say we had pizza and watched TV in my apartment, which will be the truth because we’re eating pizza now and we’ll turn on the television when we get to my apartment.”
For a second he looks confused, then lights up again.
Back at my apartment, he watches a cartoon while I change clothes. He likes my shiny yellow jacket with “Tadeo Zapate” emblazoned across the back, and it takes me a while to explain that I work the corner. Each fighter has a corner team to help him between rounds, and, well, I’m in charge of water and anything else that Tadeo might need. No, I’m not really that necessary, but it sure is a lot of fun.
Partner picks us up in the black van and we ride to the city auditorium. For the next two hours, Partner will do the babysitting, a new role for him. Driver, bodyguard, errand boy, investigator, confidant, strategist, and now this. He doesn’t mind. I pull some strings and get them two seats on the floor, six rows back from the cage. Once they are situated with popcorn and sodas, I tell Starcher that I have to go check on my fighter. He’s excited, wide-eyed, chattering away to Partner, who’s already his best friend. Though I know the kid is safe, I’m still worried. Worried that his mother will find out and sue me again for neglect, corruption of a minor, and anything else she can possibly throw at me. Worried also that with this crowd anything can happen. I watch a lot of fights and have often thought that it’s safer inside the ring than out in the crowd. The fans are drinking and rowdy and they want blood.
A city councilwoman in some place like Wichita tried to pass an ordinance that would prohibit anyone under the age of eighteen from being admitted to a cage fight. It failed, but there is some wisdom behind it. Since there’s no such law in our city, young Starcher