The Sanction
by Charles Parsons
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Table of Contents parts 1, 2, 3 |
part 1
Sweat oozed through Chance’s white shirt as we descended the steps leading to the courthouse basement. When he clutched the handrail, a faint smell of body odor filled the blue blazer that hung limply on his long frame. This scent of his sweat was unusual. In my four years as his law office associate, I’d seen Chance fidgety before. Like any litigator out to win a verdict for his client, he was naturally anxious. But now, he was trembling.
“Hal’s got the proof he needs to strip me of my law license,” he muttered.
On the staircase, I reached out and patted his shoulder. Beneath my fingers, I could feel him quivering. “I don’t think your license is in danger. At worst, you might get a public censure,” I said, stepping down to the next stair. “Come on. Let’s find that conference room down here.”
He took another step down before again stopping. “Justin, a public censure is obscene! My name listed in the Bar Journal with details of my sexual misconduct. I’ll be shamed before the whole legal community.”
I frowned up the stairs at him. “Calm down! Any Journal entry is bound to mention that you recovered a big verdict for the client you had sex with. Many lawyers will be envious, not repulsed.”
Chance grimaced then recited Othello. “Who steals my purse steals trash, but he that filches from me my good name robs me of that which enriches me. He makes me poor indeed.” It seemed to console him. He resumed his journey down the staircase.
We struggled to see in the dim basement. Ahead of us was a translucent glass door marked “Hearing Room.” My palm was moist as I switched on a neon light. The gray walls of the room were barren of any art as if intended to emphasize its soulless reality. A long Formica conference table stood in the center surrounded by white folding chairs.
“So, this is where Disciplinary Committee complaints get decided,” I said. “No wonder some guys call it the Star Chamber.” I put my valise on the table,
Moments later, the door opened behind us, and Martin Marshall, Chance’s long-time mentor, strolled in. He wore a tailored three-piece navy-blue suit with a white shirt and a bright, striped tie. He tossed his leather carrying case onto the table, trying to defuse the tension.
“I’m here to defend you in this burlesque drama.” He grinned at Chance. “Bring on the dancing girls.”
Chance forced a smile. “The diva in this opera won’t be dancing unless she’s learned how to shimmy on a prosthesis.” He collapsed into a chair. “Martin, Hal’s got the goods on me, doesn’t he? I should never have represented Mimi.”
Martin shrugged. “The sex was probably her payback to you. She came to you with a difficult liability case. You got her a good money recovery against that hotel.”
I interrupted Martin. “When Mimi came to our office, she’d just had her right foot amputated. She was desperate for a good lawyer to sue to recover for her loss.”
Martin listened intently to me. I described Mimi’s arrival in our office hunched over her black cane. To sit down, she had to hold the chair with her free arm and swing her right leg to lower herself into the seat. Yet even crippled, Mimi still flashed her classic youthful allure in a pink silk tank top blouse. Her neat long blond hair kissed her back between tanned, bare shoulders. As she twisted to sit, I noticed she wore tight, white flared jeans that emphasized her slim thighs.
I recalled several Bar Receptions I’d attended at which her husband, Harold Mason, a prominent defense attorney, had proudly squired her around a room full of envious lawyers. Personally, Mimi had always struck me as a woman spoiled by her good looks. But now, balanced on that cane, she’d won my sympathy.
“Hal insists my case is hopeless,” she told me. “He says he’s defended trip and fall cases like mine for years and won every one. But I kept pestering him. Finally, he suggested I consult Chance. Hal says Chance is an avant-garde kinda lawyer.” Hal’s praise surprised me. He usually deigned to acknowledge Chance.
Mimi explained that she’d fractured her right ankle in a fall while entering the newly renovated Marabella Hotel on 15th Street. The newspapers had heralded the Marabella as Washington’s swankest new hotel. Mimi had driven into Washington from her suburban home to attend a women’s beauty contest.
I glanced up from making notes on a yellow pad. “Were you planning to be a contestant again?”
“Me back on the catwalk in a bikini?” She laughed. “Those days are over. Hal and I have two children that have left me with stretch marks.”
Her fall caused what her doctors called a comminuted tri-malleolar fracture. It required surgery to install metal pins and a titanium plate to stabilize the many internal bone fragments. Following the surgery, Mimi developed an infection which had quickly become gangrenous. Her right ankle had to be amputated.
When I asked to see her injury, she slipped off a low-heeled boot and tugged at her right pant leg. A stainless-steel rod extended from the lower portion of her shapely tanned calf into a complex prosthesis resembling a metal foot. When Mimi saw my shocked expression, she said, “I won’t be strutting on a runway anymore.”
“What caused your fall?”
“I tripped on a single step down about ten feet inside the lobby door. The marble floor was black, and I couldn’t see it.”
“Were you keeping a proper lookout for your own safety?”
Mimi’s neatly groomed eyebrows narrowed.
“You sound like Hal. Listen, anyone entering that hotel would be distracted,” she said. “The redecorated lobby had been filled with bright pink sofas, navy blue chairs, and shimmering chandeliers hanging from the ceiling. Right out of Hollywood.”
As she spoke, Chance strode into the library, his trim torso displayed neatly in a snug tan sport coat, one button fastened. He wore only black socks on his feet. His blond hair was tousled, and his dark tie had been loosened several inches. He beamed when he saw Mimi.
“It’s been months since I saw you with Hal at that Bar dinner,” he said. “How have you two been?”
She paused then answered, “Right now, we’re in another trial separation. But I’m here because he convinced me only you could win my case.”
Chance sat down near her and listened intently as I related what had happened. He stiffened when he saw her prosthesis. First, he consoled her, then asked her questions that ruled out drug or alcohol as causes of her fall. As he regarded Mimi, I saw his eyebrows tugged warmly together as though this woman was the diva he needed for an opera he was composing.
Mimi bit her lip. “Hal and Justin here are convinced there’s no recourse.”
Chance pressed his fingers tips together in front of his chest. “Well, it seems foolish to me that the hotel located a single stair in the path of entering guests. I wonder if others have stumbled on that step.”
Mimi’s eyes brightened. “While I was waiting for the ambulance, a security guard mentioned he’d made reports of other folks stumbling on that step.”
Chance rubbed his chin. “It would be interesting to know if the hotel has a surveillance camera mounted inside that doorway.”
Mimi leaned forward. “Chance, please take my case.”
“We need to prove the hotel created a visual distraction for unsuspecting guests,” he said. “But if they did, I’ll be pleased to represent you.”
Chance opened his laptop and typed Mimi’s information into our office template as she answered his questions. Mimi was the mother of two young children and had been estranged from her husband for almost a year before the injury forced her back into the marital home. Before she’d married, she’d attempted to be an artist, but settled on a career as a fashion model.
When he finished typing, Chance printed our office contingent fee agreement. He asked Mimi not to sign it until he’d surveyed the hotel lobby. He hoped to find evidence of a calculated corporate plan that had distracted her, causing the fall. He rose, promised her he’d make a hotel inspection visit soon, then said goodbye. He carried his laptop to his office, leaving me with her.
Mimi stood up and leaned on her cane, pleading. “Justin, that hotel robbed me of something very precious. Please push your boss to get justice for me.” She leaned closer and dropped her voice. “There still isn’t a Mrs. Chance, is there?”
“No,” I replied, “Chance is married to his work.”
As I spoke, a relaxed smile crossed her face. Then, she limped toward our office door.
* * *
Two days later, Chance and I stood in the shadow of the United States Treasury Department on Fifteenth Street and admired the early twentieth-century building across the road; it was now the Marabella Hotel. Cream-colored stucco detailing imparted a sense of grandeur to the red brick façade. Tall, gleaming windows offered glimpses of the luxury within. An engraved decoration under the roof border resembled a crown on a noble edifice.
Chance chuckled. “Perfect place for a beauty contest.”
When we approached the F Street entrance, a small billboard stood beside the doorway where Mimi had entered. A multi-colored picture on the placard proclaimed that inside a “sleekly modernistic” lobby awaited us.
Inside, beyond the revolving glass door, yellowish images danced dimly on the black marble floor, inviting us to something glittering ahead. Chance quickly opened his dark camera bag and seized his digital camera. He began to photograph the enticing route to the lobby ahead.
I grabbed his elbow. “Watch out for the step.” I pointed to a single black lower step without a handrail.
Chance quickly turned his camera and used a flash to capture the opaque step. He then resumed snapping pictures as we proceeded toward the lobby.
A security guard in a navy-blue uniform tapped my shoulder. “We’d prefer no pictures in the foyer. The flash detracts from the appeal of the lobby ahead.”
I pointed at the dark single step. “That step doesn’t belong in this entry,” I said. “Why is it here?”
“It was original to the building. When the new owners renovated the interior, they let the contractor leave it in place.”
“Looks risky to me.”
The guard nodded. “I told the manager at one of our safety meetings that people were tripping there. I suggested we replace the step with a ramp.”
“What happened?”
“Nothing.” He shrugged as we walked into the lobby. “I even showed him a video of several guests stumbling on the step, but he blamed the guests.”
In the expansive lobby, a bright glass mobile shimmered from the ceiling, glowing like a strobe light. The walls were painted a peach yellow and plastered with several enlarged French posters. The couches were bright red.
Chance paraded about the lobby snapping picture then letting his camera dangle on a lanyard around his neck. “Wow,” he exclaimed. “In an oddball way, this lobby has a surreal Tinseltown sort of style.”
* * *
On the drive back, I mentioned to Chance what the security guard told me. His voice was ecstatic. “The hotel’s treated that step like it’s a trivial defect. It’s not. We can nail them with a good human factors expert.”
“How?”
“A human factors scientist evaluates how people ordinarily interact with a new environment. He studies their mental and visual capabilities, and how surroundings affect human perceptions. To me, the darkened hallway to that glitzy lobby was visually distracting.”
“If you can prove that, Mimi’s going to cheer. This means everything to her.”
“You make her sound desperate.”
“She is. She’s looking for a hero to recover for her disability.”
The day after we visited the Marabella Hotel, Mimi came to our office to sign our contingent fee retainer agreement. Her cheeks flushed as Chance described how he hoped to use a human factors expert’s testimony. Chance insisted that Mimi’s fall was a predictable occurrence caused by the hotel’s refusal to eliminate the step.
Mimi’s teeth gleamed. “I knew you’d come through for me. I even bought you a present to seal our partnership.” She produced a canvas bag from which she withdrew a framed Daumier print inside an expansive French courtroom.
The picture depicted a wiry French advocate standing in dark robes gesturing dramatically before seated judges. The gowned figure was pleading, pointing toward his desperate female client’s anxious face.
Chance’s eyes sparkled in a sheepish smile. “That’s us, I guess.”
Later, when he hung the picture over his desk in his office, I scoffed. “Surely you don’t regard Mimi as some impoverished client, do you? Desperate maybe, and willing to do whatever it takes to win. But she’s not down and out liked that French lady.”
He grinned. “Justin, Mimi and I share a common fantasy.”
* * *
Copyright © 2024 by Charles Parsons
