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.
Sanity slowly arrives in the Renfro disaster. Under pressure from all sides, but especially from my pal at the
Sadly, dissent nowadays is considered 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
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.
