by Herschel Cozine
This story was the first place winner of a 2003 contest by Untreed Reads.
As a prominent attorney, I have made a name for myself. Whatever name that is depends on whom you ask. At any rate, names don’t concern me. I am only interested in helping those unfortunates who would otherwise be victims of circumstances beyond their control by big corporations and an uncaring public. The money isn’t bad, either.
Harry Bulliam would have been one of those unfortunates if I hadn’t been in the right place at the right time, namely in the United Federal Bank on a Monday morning.
Harry was ahead of me in line. When his turn came, he stepped up to the window and dropped a piece of paper on the counter in front of the teller. The teller, a dour looking woman with a mole on her chin and an attitude in her eyes, frowned at Harry.
“Read it,” he growled.
The teller opened the paper and spread it in front of her. She pursed her lips as she scanned the note, then started to read aloud. “‘To Whom It May Concern: This is a stick up.’”
“Shh!” Harry said. “Not out loud.” He looked around the room nervously.
The teller creased her brows and peered at Harry through her rimless glasses. He motioned to the note, and she continued to read. Then, dropping the note on the counter, she eyed Harry with a bored look.
“What bag?” she asked.
“Huh?”
“This note says to put the money in a bag.”
Harry shrugged. “I forgot to bring it. Use one of your own bags, for Chrissake.”
“The bank doesn’t provide bags, sir. In fact, they frown on this sort of activity.”
“How about your lunch bag?”
“I eat out.”
“Use your purse.”
The teller smiled patiently. “You’d look pretty silly running down the street with a purse under your arm.”
Harry looked frantically around the room, his eyes falling on a box of Kleenex on the desk behind the teller. “Put the money in that box. And hurry up. I have a gun under this coat.”
“Yeah,” the teller said. “That’s what you said in your note. But you must have left your coat with the
bag. You aren’t wearing one.”
Harry’s eyes narrowed to slits, and a worried expression crossed his face. “Well,” he said finally, “if I was wearing one, I’d have a gun under it.”
“If you had a gun,” she replied, nodding to his empty hands.
“Forget the gun!” Harry said in a steely voice.
“I didn’t forget it. You did.”
“Okay, okay,” Harry said. “Just do what I tell you, understand?”
“Sorry,” the teller said peevishly. “You’ll have to fill out a withdrawal slip. I have to account for all the money in my cash drawer. I couldn’t possibly give it to you without a withdrawal slip.”
Harry exploded. “Dammit! I’m a bank robber. We don’t fill out withdrawal slips.”
The teller shrugged. “No slip, no money. There’s a line here, sir.” She waved a hand toward the rest of us.
It will come as no surprise that most of the customers were on their cell phones, blissfully unaware of what was happening. The rest took no notice. Perhaps they didn’t want to get involved. I, on the other hand, was fascinated by the scene. My sixth sense told me that a potential case was in the making.
“All right!” Harry said. “Give me a damn withdrawal slip.” He took the slip, filled it out and handed it to the teller.
She took it and scowled. “It says, ‘all of it’. Does that mean you want the coins, too? You’ll have to be more specific.”
Harry threw up his hands. “Never mind,” he said. “If you’re going to be that way about it, I’ll take my business somewhere else. You’re not the only bank in town, you know.” Grabbing up the note, he headed for the door.
“Have a nice day,” the teller called after him.
Harry walked rapidly, looking over his shoulder at the teller. The bank guard, a gray haired, seventyish man with a bad back and worse eyes, stood dozing by the door. Harry’s advancing form awakened him, and he reached for his gun. Unable to get it from the holster, he stuck out his foot. Harry went sprawling through the door, toppled to the cement, and crashed into the ATM. He sat up dazedly, rubbed his head, and then passed out. The guard straightened up proudly and winked at the teller. “Nobody gets away from Tim O’Toole.”
“You should have let him go,” she said. “He’s a harmless fool. Now we’ll have to fill out a bunch of forms.” She sighed and mumbled to herself.
I, Howard Bellflower, LLD, Attorney-At-Law, had watched the entire episode from my position in line. A lawsuit! A huge settlement! And I would get fifty percent of the money. Of course, the money was secondary. This poor man’s unfortunate treatment was the important thing. I would see to it that he got what was rightfully his. I crossed over to the prone figure, took a business card from my pocket, and placed it in Harry’s hand.
“Call me,” I said. I left the bank, forgetting for the moment that I had never cashed the check I came to the bank to cash. Mrs. Bellflower would remind me of that in her own way. She would have made a good prison guard.
* * *
The trial of Harry Bulliam vs. United Federal Bank, Tim O’Toole, et al, Honorable Willard G. Thornton, presiding, started right on time. Promptly at nine a.m. the bailiff appeared, ordered everyone to rise, and stood aside as the esteemed judge took his place on the bench. I don’t know why they call it a bench. It is more like a recliner, and a plush one at that. I put the thought aside. At the moment the two million dollar lawsuit was all that mattered. I glanced over at the young attorney for the defense, David Horner. He was a hack. I relaxed. This case was in the bag.
The judge pounded his gavel to silence a silent courtroom. Noticing me, he shook his head. “Mister Bellflower,” he said. “Are you taking a break from chasing ambulances?”
That was an unkind cut. I have never in my entire career chased an ambulance. Why should I? I know where they are going, and it is much easier to meet them at the hospital.
The judge seemed to take no notice of my silence. He studied my client for a few seconds. “No histrionics today? No oxygen tanks or body casts?”
I was hurt by his remark. How could he think that I would do such a thing in front of a judge? I only use those tactics for juries. I kept my silence. This was an important case for me, and I would rise above petty comments.
Judge Thornton took the papers from the bailiff and studied them through myopic eyes. Taking an oversized handkerchief from his robe, he removed his glasses, dabbed his eyes and leaned back. “The plaintiff,” he said in a creaky tenor voice, “is seeking damages in the amount of two million dollars for injury and mental distress suffered at the hands of the defendant, United Federal Bank.” He leaned forward and squinted at the document. “Mr. Bullem.”
“Bulliam, your honor,” I corrected.
“Bullem. Bulliam.” The judge waved an impatient hand. “Whatever. According to this complaint, you were leaving the bank when the guard stuck out his foot and tripped you.” Again referring to the document, he said, “…causing physical trauma to the head, shoulders and chin, as well as subcutaneous hemorrhaging of the gluteus maximus.” He looked to me. “What does that mean in English?”
I started to explain when Horner spoke up.
“It means he fell on his ass.”
I was outraged. “This is not a time for frivolity. This is a serious charge, and I request that the counsel for the defense conduct himself accordingly.” I glowered at the attorney, patted Harry on the shoulder with a solicitous hand, and sat down.
“Perhaps,” the judge said. “But at least now I know what the complaint is about.” He turned his attention back to the document, read it silently, shaking his head from time to time. “What were you doing in the bank, Mr. Bulliam?”
“I was there to–”
I jumped up, placed a hand over Harry’s mouth, and addressed the judge. “He was making a withdrawal, Your Honor.”
“Hah!” said the defense attorney.
“In any event, that is irrelevant.” I went on. “My client was leaving the establishment after an unsuccessful transaction. He was acting in an orderly fashion when this man,” –I pointed to Tim O’Toole– “this hooligan, assaulted him.”
“Them’s fighting words, laddie,” O’Toole exploded. “No one calls me a hooligan and gets away with it. Why I’ll lick any man who besmirches the O’Toole name.”
Judge Thornton pounded his gavel. “Order! There will be no more outbursts in this courtroom.”
“Your Honor,” Horner spoke up. “Mr. O’Toole was only doing his duty. The plaintiff had just committed a crime against the bank and was trying to escape.”
I jumped up and gestured to the judge. “Objection! There was no crime committed. My client was simply leaving the bank. He had no weapon of any kind. He posed no threat to the customers or personnel of the establishment. He was viciously attacked, injured, and humiliated and is entitled to compensation for his unfortunate experience.”
“Your Honor,” Horner said. “The plaintiff—Mr. Bulliam—had just tried to rob the bank. Successful or not, his intent was clear. Mister O’Toole here,”–He placed a hand on O’Toole’s shoulder– “was only doing his duty. The plaintiff was clearly trying to escape. As a highly trained security guard, Mister O’Toole acted in a professional, competent manner.”
“He did no such thing!” Harry shouted. “He tripped me. He had a gun and a nightstick. He’s supposed to use them. He didn’t fight fair.” He threw a withering look at O’Toole. “Cheater!”
The judge banged his gavel. “Mister Bulliam,” he said. “If you are going to point, you will use the proper finger.” Turning to me, he said, “Control your client. I won’t tolerate such conduct in my courtroom.”
I motioned Harry to silence. “Forgive my client,” I said, “but he is understandably upset. After all, Your Honor, excessive force was used here, and he has the bruises to prove it. Would you care to see them?”
The judge frowned. “If you’re referring to the condition of his gluteus maximus, I shall take your word for it.” The judge cast a bemused eye over O’Toole. “I find it hard to believe that Mister O’Toole could inflict much damage on your client, Mister Bellflower. Why, Mister Bulliam is fifty pounds heavier and thirty years younger than O’Toole.”
O’Toole came out of his chair. “Makes no difference to me, sir,” he boasted. “The bigger they are the harder they fall, you know. I’m a lean, mean machine, and I don’t back down from a fight.”
The defense attorney pushed O’Toole down into his chair and glanced at the judge apologetically. As well he should. I have no patience with attorneys who can’t control their clients.
“You see,” I said. “This is a clear case of police brutality.”
“May I remind the learned counsel for the plaintiff that a security guard is not a policeman?” Horner said with a smirk.
“Same thing,” I countered. “He wears a uniform. He carries a gun. He–”
“Gentlemen,” Judge Thornton admonished. “Please control yourselves.”
A tense silence fell over the courtroom. Judge Thornton glowered, first at the defense table and then at me. “It seems to me,” he said at last, “that your client was up to no good when he went into that bank. The fact that he committed no crime was not for lack of trying.”
“But, Your Honor, if I may,” I said. “Since there was no crime, then certainly my client cannot be held accountable. And he surely is entitled to compensation for the injuries he sustained at the hands of the bank personnel.”
“Well,” Judge Thornton said. “There is ample evidence here that your client is a bumbling idiot.”
“Even bumbling idiots are entitled to protection under the law,” I replied.
“As well as represented by them,” Judge Thornton said. Under less serious circumstances I would have taken umbrage to that, but there was too much at stake to respond, so I remained silent.
“However, your point is well taken,” the judge went on. “The plaintiff was unnecessarily injured during this event. The fact that he may have tried to rob the bank is immaterial. He posed no threat to anyone and should have been allowed to go. I therefore find for the plaintiff in the amount of one thousand dollars.”
Harry sat up and grinned. “Wow. That’s more than I would have made if I had…”
I silenced him with a look. As you may have noticed, clients have a tendency to talk too much. In Harry’s case, complete silence was barely adequate.
“However,” Thornton continued. “In all good conscience I cannot permit Mister Bulliam to profit from his nefarious intent, thereby setting a dangerous precedent.” He leaned forward and addressed Horner. “I order United Federal Bank to donate the one thousand dollars to charity.”
Horner stood up. “United Federal will, of course, comply with your order, your honor. Is there a particular charity that you have in mind?”
“The charity of my choice,” Thornton replied. “I will direct payment when these proceedings are concluded.” He banged his gavel, stood up, and left the courtroom.
Harry turned to me. “Does that mean I get nothing?” he asked.
“You got that right. In fact, you get less than nothing. There’s the small matter of my fee.”
“Fee?” Harry said. “But we agreed that we’d split the award 50-50. I didn’t get anything.”
“The award was for one thousand dollars. And Howard Bellflower does not work pro bono.”
Harry frowned. “What does that mean?”
“It’s Latin for ‘you owe me five hundred dollars.’” I patted him fondly on the arm. He wasn’t a bad sort, really. Just misguided. I would have gladly represented him for free—pro bono if you will—except for one thing. I’m a lawyer.
I picked up my papers, stuffed them in my briefcase, and headed for the door. Halfway there, I turned to Harry. “By the way, you might find this interesting.”
“What?” Harry asked.
“Judge Thornton’s wife. Do you know her name?”
“Of course not. Why?”
“It’s ‘Charity.’” I chuckled. “Nice name, don’t you think?”
* * *
I read in the paper that Harry Bulliam was arrested the other day for attempted bank robbery. He had tried to steal five hundred dollars from United Federal. It was for his attorney, he told the police. He had even filled out a withdrawal slip for the money. I won’t be representing him this time, however. It’s not that I’m uncaring. Not at all. It’s simply that I’m afraid he couldn’t afford another settlement in his favor.
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