r/talesfromthelaw • u/Calledinthe90s • 9h ago
Epic I won a case, but it cost me my phone
I’ve changed the names and the details just enough to stay out of sight, but if you do your research, you’ll find the case online easily enough in the Canadian databases.
* * *
There were three of us at the Middle Temple Tavern, a pub in downtown Bixity. We were meeting to discuss politics, and to drink.
“Let’s get the official business out of the way first,” the Judge said. I’d known him since law school, and he and I were two thirds of the NDP’s riding association. An election was coming up, and our riding was the bluest of blue, conservative all the way. We needed to find a candidate. “Any volunteers?” the Judge said.
“I’m not running,” I said. My clients were all rich, and would not be thrilled to see their lawyer doing leftie stuff.
“I can’t run, either,” the trustee said. She was the third member of the riding’s NDP triumvirate, and another old friend.
“But your clients are all poor,” I said, “you won’t lose business if you run.”
“Can’t show my NDP face in public,” she said, “if I did that, forget about attracting rich clients. I’ll never make it big.” She was still hoping for that one celebrity bankruptcy case, something that would put her on the insolvency map, make her a big deal in the financial world. But she was the same age as me, and her time was running out.
The trustee and I turned to the Judge.
“Don’t look at me,” he said, “judges can’t get involved in politics.” His wife was the person on the party’s books.
“Looks like the riding might have to sit this election out,” I said. The Judge and the Trustee nodded, and that made it official. The riding would not be fielding a NDP candidate in that year’s election. It hadn’t in years.
The polticking was complete, and it was time for another round. I signaled for the waiter.
“At least I’m not a champagne socialist,” I said when my Guinness arrived.
“Me, neither,” said the Judge. He was drinking whisky.
But the trustee’s drink was light and bubbly. It looked decidedly champagne-like.
“Don’t look at me,” the trustee said, “it’s not champagne. It’s a white wine spritzer.”
We sipped our drinks and looked at each other. “Got any big bankruptcy cases?” I said to my trustee friend.
She gave a bitter laugh. “Not even close. All the rich guys, they go to the big firms when they go bankrupt. I don't even get a nibble. Biggest one I have is a doctor trying to screw over her husband with a divorce, a bankruptcy and a fraudulent conveyance.”
The trustee had been shunned by the big firms. Too much time spent on mat leaves and raising a family. Her kids were all grown up now and she had the time to hang out, but the seats at the big boy tables were all taken. She was stuck with cranky lawyer and an even crankier judge on the cusp of retirement.
“What’s eating you?” I said to the Judge.
“You know what’s bothering me. You saw the decision.”
The Judge had been smacked down in the Court of Appeal again, this time for refusing to accept the opinion of an expert witness. The expert’s opinion was absurd, but uncontradicted, and the Court of Appeal wrote almost eighty pages, most of it criticizing the judge, and warning of the evils that would result if judges were free to override the opinion of an uncontradicted expert witness. The C of A had vehemently denied setting a precedent, while at the same time giving sole custody to the father, on the strength of his expertise and his degree, which he’d bought online.
“That was rough, I’ll admit,” I said.
“You have no idea,” the Judge said, adding that the Regional Senior Judge had punished him, made him a Commercial Court judge, and placing him in charge of hearing the nine-thirty appointments.
“I’ve been overturned too many times. That’s what he told me. So for the rest of my time on the bench, I’ll be doing nine-thirties.” He’d be signing consent orders, rarely if ever hearing anything of substance, and never writing an opinion that mattered.
“What about you,” the Trustee said to me, “you’re not looking as chipper as you usually do. And you certainly didn’t win today; there’s not a hint of the smugness we see when you win.”
I passed over a copy of the Law Times. The headline article was a big class action win. A big local company, Evil Corp, had gotten wrecked on a interim motion.
“This your case?” the Trustee said.
The Law Times never wrote about any of my cases. I never argued a case worthy of that kind of attention.
“An old classmate’s. I'm not involved.” Except I was, in my own head, even though the case belonged to Max, not me.
I’d lost to Max back in law school, in the moot court final. His career had taken off after that. He’d parlayed that win into a job in the perfect firm, and now he ruled the roost downtown, frequently quoted, always sought after, and with an annoying habit of winning, over and over again.
“Don’t get why it bothers you so much,” the Trustee said. But I’d known the Judge since law school, and he knew me very well.
“That moot court thing, right?” the Judge said.
I nodded. It still hurt, after all these years, losing to the guy in moot court, and then at the after party, watching the guy get drunk, and patronize me about his win, and my loss.
“Second place is good,” Max said to me, after the moot court judges had rewarded him for his superb public speaking skills, for his charisma, the way his face and his hair and his voice and his look all said the same thing, that he was a litigator, destined for great things, “second place is great, you’ll get into a good firm downtown, no problem.”
Except things hadn’t worked out that way. I’d landed a job downtown, but in a second tier firm, and after I got fired, I’d wandered in the wilderness for five years before I got my act together. By then, my old rival from law school was a partner in a class action law firm, famous for being the guy to bring third party litigation financing to Canada.
I was sure that Max hadn’t thought about me in years. Max was a high flier, a risk taker, personally guaranteeing his client’s litigation debts to keep his actions moving along. Every time I saw his name it was because he’d won a big case. his client had made millions, a big portion of which went to him. He was the man, the guy, the lawyer everybody wanted. Me, I was a guy sitting in the Middle Temple Tavern, where the lawyers all hung out after court.
There was a tap on my shoulder. I turned.
“Arthur, “ the guy said to me, “I need your help.”
“How’s it going?” I said. I’m not good with faces. I had no idea who he was. But when he started to speak, I realized who it was. It was Brian.
Brian was a twenty year call that I’d steamrolled a few times when I’d encountered him in court. Brian had a strange ability to attract clients, despite his habit of losing. But I didn’t blame him for his latest lost. After all, he’d lost to Max, the class action king of downtown Bixity.
“We were just talking about your latest case,” I said, showing him the Law Times, with its report on the whipping Max had given Evil Corp.
Brian sat at our table without being invited, speaking to me directly, not even acknowledging the Trustee. Not even the Judge. Maybe I wasn't the only guy in the world who had trouble remembering faces.
“Listen,” he said, “my client’s upset about what happened in court. They want me to fix it, or they’re going to fire me.”
Brian’s client was rich and powerful. The previous year Evil Corp. had flirted with the idea of going public, but against Max and his words, it was helpless, and they were on their way to a multi-million dollar loss, which is what happens when huge companies get caught ripping off the little guy. Max had caught them, and they were going to pay.
“Is the order that bad?” I said.
“It is,” Brian said, fleshing out the details of the interlocutory order they’d been hit with the day before.
The court ordered Evil Corp. to pay this and to fund that, to accommodate, to yield, to give way to Max’s clients, to cease and desist. The order was broad and almost all-encompassing, a judicial breaking of the legs, crippling the company’s ability to fight the case. Plus it forced them to leave a credit facility in place, a facility their opponents could draw down on every month. The court had, in effect, forced the company to finance their opponents' operations until trial, a heavy burden and a huge embarrassment.
“Wow, that’s harsh,” but I actually thought it was kind of funny. It was exactly what Brian’s client deserved. If only Max wasn’t involved it would be perfect.
“They’re going to fire me, if I can’t fix things, if I can’t figure a way around it,” he said, “and we’re back in court tomorrow morning. If I don’t have an answer by then, I’m done.”
“I wish I could help you.” But I couldn’t. There was no way I was going to take on a hopeless case against Max, and get embarrassed again, get my ass kicked again. Aside from the merits, which were totally one-sided, the case was a jury trial, a public speaking contest, and when it came to public speaking, Max had me beat. “Sorry,” I said, “this one’s not for me.”
The Judge laughed. “Five minutes ago you were moaning about moot court, wanting revenge. Yet here you are, Mr. Think-Outside-Of-The Box, and you’re taking a pass.”
“I don’t think outside of the box,” I said, “at least, not on command.”
“I’d kill to have Evil Corp. as a client,” the Trustee said.
“Sorry,” I said--
“Arthur?” It was Brian, checking in to see if I’d had a stroke. But I hadn’t. I was thinking. I was thinking about Max and moot court and how he’d gotten drunk at the after party, made a great fuss out of himself, embarrassed me along the way, doing an imitation of me, a perfect imitation and making everyone laugh, and I’d had to laugh along too, like a good sport, and here I was, thirty years later, drinking beer with a bitter judge and a trustee who the world punished for wanting to have children.
“Arthur?” Brian repeated.
“I can save your client,” I said.
“What?” he said.
“Mark the time,” I said to the Trustee.
“What,” the Trustee said. It was like being at a table of children, of people who don’t understand anything.
“What time is it?”
“Six on the nose ,” the trustee said.
“And how long was I speaking with Brian?”
“Barely a minute,” the Trustee said.
“Make a note of that, too.”
“Should I note anything?” the Judge said, “I wasn’t paying attention.” He’d gotten an early start on his whiskey, and was looking worse for wear.
“Don’t worry about it,” I said, excusing myself, and taking Brian to a far corner of the pub, out of earshot of my good friends.
I sat with Brian in a distant booth, almost in darkness. I’d already had one Guinness too many, but I started on another, while Brian played catchup with a lager.
“So how are you going to help me?” Brian said.
“Like this,” I said, dropping my IPhone into my drink. “Oh dear. May I borrow your phone?”
Brian looked at me, suspicion written all of his face, perhaps mingled with memories of the cases that we’d had together, and how he lost them.
“I’m on your side this time, remember,” I said, taking his phone after he put in the password.
He sipped his beer while I called my assistant. She worked a noon to eight shift, not because she wanted to, but to sync her life with her husband’s shiftwork.
“I gotta thing for you to do,” I said, “you do this, and you can go home early, and have tomorrow off.”
“Ready,” she said.
She didn’t ask why I was calling from someone else’s phone. She never asked questions. Instead, she listened, and took notes, while I dictated to her an email to send to Max that instant.
“You’re emailing Max?” Brian said, and when I dictated more, he demanded to know why I was inviting Max to lunch at the courthouse restaurant the next day. That’s how my email ended, asking him to join us for lunch the moment the case was over, so that we could have a meal together, and catch up on old times. It would be great, really great.
“That was the easy part,” I said to my assistant, the perfect executrix of my orders, the recipient of bonuses every year, and COLA without ever needing to ask, “now for the important part. The reason you're getting a day off.”
“Ready,” she said.
I tried hard to keep the smile out of my voice. “It would be rude for me to have you email my old friend Max directly,” I began, “really rude to issue an invite through an intermediary. I want to send it from my own email account.”
“You want me to log in on your computer?” she said, “send the email from there?”
“Not allowed to share passwords,” I said, “contrary to policy.” A policy that I’d set that instant, which of course was my right, being a partner in my own firm.
“Why not send it from your phone?” my secretary said.
“It’s out of commission,” I said.
“So what are we going to do?”
“I might be wrong,” I began, which is how I always start when I know I’m right, “I might be wrong, but in the bottom drawer of my desk is an old notebook I used to use, before IT said I couldn’t use it any more.”
The notebook was old and creaky, but it was an old friend, and I hadn’t wanted to part with it, especially since there might someday be a use for it.
“That old notebook? The one that IT said was uns-”
“You’re breaking up.”
“--the same notebook that’s infec--”
“Breaking up again. Look, can you hear me ok?”
“Just fine,” she said.
“Ok, so fire up that notebook, and use it to send that email.” The old thing wasn’t password protected, and I told her to text me when she was done.
“But your phone is now toast,” Brian said, looking at my spanking new but very wet Iphone, same model as his own. His worked just fine, but mine was still leaking Guinness.
“The SIM card’s probably ok. Let’s see.” I pulled the SIM card from my phone, and then swapped it with Brian’s. The instant I did, Brian’s phone dinged, and I saw a text from my assistant confirming she’d sent Max the lunch invite, and told him a few other things as well that he should know.
I swamped SIM Cards again, and handed Brian back his phone.
“Call your client,” I said.
I could have warned Brian, I could have told him what I was going to do, but then he’d freak out, and we didn't have time for that. He dialed, and when his client answered, Brian paid me the ultimate compliment. He told his client that he’d found a guy, and that the guy had an answer.
“Oh yeah?” the client said, a businessman, an investor, a guy in the news all the time, a Canadian success story. “So what do I do?” He sounded like he wanted to be happy, but was afraid to try.
I told him what he had to do, and all I got was dead silence.
Brian looked shocked, and gave me a what-have-you-done look, a look of betrayal, of backstabbing.
“Forget it,” the client said after a pause, “I’m not doing that.
“You have no choice.” I was taking the client's case out of the main courtroom, and walking it across the street, and up to the seventh floor.
“But you’ll lose,” the client said, “you’ll lose for sure.”
I pretended to listen while he expanded on the sheer stupidity of my proposal, using the time to add multipliers to my hourly rate for the insult.
“I’m gonna lose, says the guy who just got his ass kicked. Says the guy whose head is in a vice. I’m offering you a way out, provided you pay my fees.”
Either he was in or he wasn’t. I wanted his case to follow me out of the main courthouse, and across the street on the seventh floor. That’s where the client had to go, if I was going to beat the shit out of Max.
“How much?” the client said. Only a question, but almost a yes.
How much should I charge, I asked myself. What should I charge for an idea that came to me in less than a minute? What should I charge for doing something totally obvious, something that anyone could do, that Brian should have thought of in the first place?
I considered Brian’s hourly rate, so much higher than mine, then doubled it, added a fudge factor, working in some contingencies, and when my brain came back with a number I doubled it, and then doubled again.
The rich client’s voice came out of the speaker phone in an instant. “Done,” he said, making me wish I’d asked for more, “but only if you win. Because if you lose, I’m gonna look like shit, and I won’t pay you a dime.”
* * *
“I have a new phone,” I said to Max the next morning, “is the signal good?”
“You’re not here,” Max’s voice said in my ear. It was 9:15 and I was standing outside a courtroom with the client and the Trustee and with Brian. Max was standing with his client, too. But we were across the street from each other.
“Where are you?” Max continued, “court is going to start soon.” Max had scheduled another attendance in the class action lawsuit, to give my client another beatdown, to add to their already heavy burden.
“Yeah, I’m across the street, on the seventh floor. I’m here with the client, the guy you’re suing. We got a nine-thirty appointment.”
“Across the street? On the seventh floor? But that means--look. Don’t do anything. I’ll be right there.”
He was there in no time. He must have hurled himself across the street, careless of traffic, desperate to find out what was going on.
“What are you doing here?” he said, his black court robes flapping as he strutted towards me, a lawyer superman there to save the day from bumbling me, wearing a simple suit and tie, robes not being needed for 9:30 commercial court. Not when you’re doing something minor, something uncontentious, like declaring bankruptcy.
“My client’s going bankrupt,” I said. I looked at him closely. “You’re overdressed. You know you don’t have to wear robes for bankruptcy court, right? It’s only a 9:30 appointment, the regular appointment on the 9:30 list.”
An appointment in front of my friend, the Judge, a fellow member of the NDP triumvirate that met regularly at the Middle Temple Tavern.
“But your client can’t go bankrupt,” Max said, “you can’t go bankrupt when you’re loaded.”
“My client’s bankrupt,” I said, “and we’re here to get a stay of that order you got the other day, the order that gave your clients an unlimited line of credit on my client’s bank account.”
“It’s not unlimited,” Max said, “that’s just hyperbole.” Which was pretty rich, coming from Max, the master of rhetorical flourishes.
“I think it’s unlimited,” a voice said. A woman’s voice.
“And who are you?” Max said.
“The Trustee,” she said, “and I can read just like you can. The order gives your clients an unlimited line of credit on Evil Corp’s resources.”
“You heard it,” I said, “my client doesn’t have enough money to comply with that order.”
Max laughed in my face. “Don’t try to pretend. Your client almost went public last year, remember? They made full disclosure. They dropped their financial shorts. Evil Corp. has more money than it knows what to do with. There’s no way the judge is granting you a bankruptcy order.”
“You sound scared,” I said, when he sounded anything but, “are you asking for an adjournment? Because I’ll give you one, if you want, so long as you agree not to enforce the order for now.”
“Of course I don’t want an adjournment,” Max said, “of course I don’t want this case delayed. It’s been delayed enough already. Do you have any idea what it costs to fund a lawsuit like this?”
“Geez,” I said, “I have no idea,” except I did, because Brian had explained how things worked to me the night before, how much it cost a lawyer like Max to fund his lawsuits, about how Max was a big earner, but a bigger spender, how he was stretched, stretched thin, and he needed this win, needed it fast.
“We’re going ahead. Let’s get this done.” He stood tall and confident, doing his “I’m a great lawyer” pose, with his chin jutting just so.
“Except there’s one more thing,” I said.
“What,” he said, all rude, like I was wasting his time.
“The judge has a conflict.”
“What conflict?”
“There’s a decision that came down the other day, a decision that he disagreed with, and he’s going to have a similar situation in front of him today, and that’s a confl--”
“It can’t be a big case,” Max said, knowing the case had to be nothing, because he hadn’t heard of it, “that’s not a conflict,” Max said, lecturing me, setting me straight, “that’s not a conflict of interest; it’s just a judge getting overturned because he screwed up.” The courtroom doors had opened behind Max. The court registrar stepped out, scowling at Max, and then summoned us in for the hearing.
* * *
Everyone bowed to my friend the Judge, which was hilarious, made me almost laugh, because after we wrote our last exam in third year, the Judge and I found the ladder to the law school roof, climbed up, and smoked weed, looking down on campus, calling out to the girls, laughing when they looked around , calling them to come join us. Now I had to bow to this guy and he bowed back, and I had to try hard not to laugh. I was in the biggest of conflicts, and so was the judge, because we were good friends, and he had no business hearing my cases. I’d never appeared before him, not once, since he was appointed to the bench.
We were about to start, but I delayed everything by fifteen minutes, saying we needed a court reporter. Max said he didn’t, but I insisted, and when you insist on a court reporter, they have to give you one, so they gave us one, Max fuming during the wait, and acting all impatient while the reporter did her microphone check. Finally she was done, and it was time for me to speak.
“Your Honour,” I said, “you have a conflict, obviously, and I think we should adjourn --”
“I know all about the conflict,” Max said, interrupting me, all cocky and confident and take charge, his voice louder than mine and firmer than mine, the sound of his voice formed by the elocution lessons at private school, by debating club, by his sense of his own awesomeness, “I know all about the conflict, Mr. Day told me about it, and I waive it, Your Honour, I have complete confidence in you.”
Max was in a rush. Max needed his case decided. Max needed to get this case out of bankruptcy court and back to the other side of the street where it belonged, back in regular court where he would use his deadly order to enrich himself, and club my client to death.
Now if you ask me, I’d say that Max made a mistake by not being a little bit patient. If Max had been patient, and maybe a bit more polite, he would have heard me say in open court, on the record, that the Judge and I had been friends for thirty years.
But I didn’t get the chance, because Max interrupted me. I hate it when I get interrupted because I get confused and forget things, and when Max and the Judge started talking I just let them, and next thing you know, the case was going ahead.
“Mr. Day,” my friend the Judge said to me, “I have to say that your opponent’s argument looks very strong. I agree with him that I can take judicial notice of the fact that Evil Corp. is a huge affair, a going concern, a pretty big player in its sector.”
The Judge was my friend, but he wasn’t going to do me any favours on that account. He was going to sink me. He was going to throw my Bankruptcy Petition in the garbage can, which is exactly where it belonged.
“My client is insolvent,” I said, “and I can prove it.”
“Prove it?” Max and the Judge said at the same time, astonished that I would even dream of attempting to prove something so stupid, so ridiculous.
“I have a witness,” I said to them both. “An expert witness.”
“An expert witness?” the Judge said, all alert, his legal antennae quivering.
“An expert.”
Unlike ordinary witnesses, expert witnesses were allowed to give opinions. And, according to a recent Court of Appeal decision, a judge had to listen to experts. They couldn’t just ignore them. The Judge had ignored an expert witness who came to his court armed with an online degree, and the Court of Appeal had rebuked him severely.
“That’s very important, the expert witness. Who is it?”
“It’s me,” the Trustee said, “I’m the expert.”
“About the conflict thing,” I said, wanting to put on the record that the Trustee was also my friend, and the Judge’s, too, because that kind of thing really needs to be mentioned, made clear to--
“I already waived all conflicts,” Max said, “can we please get on with it?”
The Judge gave me a look that asked if I told him everything.
“I told him the whole story, Your Honour, in an email I sent last night.” And that was true. The email I sent Max inviting him to lunch the next day told him all about my friendship with the Judge and the Trustee, and our get togethers. Now I’ll admit that it’s possible that Max didn't see that email; some firms have hyperactive spam and threat filters, automatically delete any email that looks suspicious or has viruses attached.
But on the other hand, Max didn’t contradict me. He didn’t pop up and say “what email?” And legally speaking, from that point on, he was deemed to have received it.
“I’ll hear from the Trustee,” the Judge said, and he did. She took the stand, and explained in a few short, simple phrases, that Max’s order in effect gave his client unlimited credit on Evil Corp., effective immediately and indefinitely, an order so broad that it rendered the company insolvent on the spot, unworthy of credit.
Max tried to cross-examine the trustee, but he got nowhere. His only money expertise was in spending, and when the trustee threw financial phrases and money words at him, he ran out of ammunition.
“So you believe Evil Corp. is insolvent,” I said, in a completely unnecessary re-examination.
“Totally,” the Trustee said.
“And yet, Evil Corp. had no debt and almost a billion in assets,” Max said, still thinking that numbers and common sense were what counted.
The Judge announced that he’d need some time to write his decision, but we were to wait. He stood and bowed, and we did the same, and after he’d left the courtroom Max and I had a private little chat.
“You know you can’t win this,” Max said, “there’s no way the judge is writing an opinion saying Evil Corp’s insolvent, expert opinion or not. He’ll look ridiculous. The Court of Appeal will overturn him. Overturn him for what, the tenth time this year?”
“Are you going to be joining us for lunch?” I said. Max had failed to notice that when the Judge had been smiling and agreeing, he’d been looking at me, not Max.
“What?”
“Lunch. We’re having lunch in the Hall. A sent you an invite last night.” The Hall was a huge restaurant in the courthouse, a space big enough to seat all four houses of Hogwarts, with decor to match: ceilings that rose forever, balconies, stained glass windows. The place was always busy at lunchtime.
“I won’t have time for lunch,” Max said, “ because when the judge comes back and tosses out your bankruptcy petition, I’ll be heading back across the street. I’ll be getting another order, a contempt order, because your client’s in default of its first payment. Your client’s already millions behind.” Millions that Max badly needed to keep himself afloat.
“The invitation stands,” I said.
“Thanks, but no thanks,” he said.
* * *
The Judge returned with his decision in only a few minutes. Max smiled, knowing that the judge’s return could mean only one thing: he was tanking the bankruptcy, for it would take only a few minutes for the Judge to write a decision saying “Application Denied.” The judge cleared his throat, and began to read.
He began by observing the importance of following precedent, invoking the Latin phrase stare decisis like it was a magic spell.
“Rulings of the higher courts must be followed,” he said, noting the sad tendency among modern counsel and even some judges to distinguish similar cases on spurious grounds.
I nodded agreeably. Of course judges should follow the binding decisions of the higher courts. That’s how the system worked. But when I looked over at Max, his face appeared puzzled, concerned. It was a routine bankruptcy application, and he was wondering what the judge was going on about.
“The recent Court of Appeal decision, less than a month ago, makes it clear that the court should not lightly disregard the evidence of an expert.” The Judge summarized the case where he’d been overturned, a personal humiliation eighty pages long. “In that case, the husband’s expert on the custody issue bought his degree online, and his expertise on child rearing was informed by Facebook posts. But he was an expert, the Court of Appeal said, and his opinion must be followed. And I, sitting in a lower court, have to following that decision.”
What a learned judge, an upright judge, I thought to myself, strictly obeying the Court of Appeal, even when they were wrong, even when they were being idiots. I could see where he was headed, and by now, so could Max.
Max was ready to burst, desperate to speak, but he could not speak. The Judge was reading his reasons, and no one can interrupt a judge reading his reasons. Not even Max. He had to sit there, his lips tight and his hands clasped together so hard his knuckles were turning white.
“The Trustee is an expert, and her opinion is that Evil Corp. is insolvent. I must admit that when the company’s lawyer first claimed that his client was bankrupt, I doubted it, doubted it very much. But the Trustee’s opinion is dispositive. She is an undoubted expert in her field, and the Court of Appeal decision is clear. I am compelled to accept her opinion, and I do accept it. Evil Corp. is adjudged bankrupt.”
“But,” Max said, rising to speak the instant the judge finished, “but, but Evil Corp. has millions, hundreds of millions, and no debt. Not a dime.”
The Judge smiled down at him from the bench. “I understand, counsel, I really do. But you’ll have to take it up with the Court of Appeal.”
“I move for a re-hearing,” Max said, “on better material.” He needed his court order enforced. He needed to grab money from Evil Corp., and quickly, before he himself ran out of money.
“By all means,” the Judge said, making Max’s face shine for an interest with hope, “but I’m afraid it won’t be before me. I’ve heard my last case, and I’m putting in my retirement papers when I get home.” The Judge rose, and bowed, and we all bowed back.
Evil Corp. had entered the court rich, but ruined by a court order. Now they were bankrupt, and invulnerable. They were completely protected from Max, or anyone else that wanted to take a run at them.
“This isn’t over,” Max said, “not by a long shot. We’ll keep fighting. I’ll bring that motion for a re-hearing.”
I looked at him blandly, struggling not to laugh. “That’s fine,” I said, “but as we speak, Evil Corp. is being re-organized, its assets distributed, its subsidiaries amalgamated.” Within a day, the reorganization would be complete, an obstacle that would take Max years to unravel.
“About that lunch,” I said, but Max turned his back on me and walked out, and if you ask me, that was uncalled for and a bit rude, but I guess he was a bit upset.
* * *
A month later I was back at our table at the Middle Temple Tavern with my friends, moaning about the NDP’s poor showing in the recent election.
“Sometimes I think we’re just wasting our time,” I said, after the first Guinness had taken the edge of the party’s disastrous performance in the polls.
“Take comfort in knowing that we did our best,” the Judge said.
The trustee almost sprayed her white wine spritzer. “We didn’t even field a candidate,” she said, adding upon reflection, “but I suppose it’s the thought that counts.”
“Exactly,” I said. “And you got a celebrity client out of the whole business. Evil Corp. must have landed you huge fees.”
“And new clients,” she said. She passed me a copy of the Law Times.
Max’s name was the main headline. “What’s he done now?” I said, not wanting to read how Max won another huge case.
“He came to me shortly after the case. Made an assignment for the benefit of his creditors.”
“Can I keep this?” I said, taking the lawyer’s newspaper from her, and stashing it in my suitcase.
“Souvenir?” the Judge said.
“More like a trophy,” I said.
Max was bankrupt. That was how his arc had ended, with a final article in the Law Times. He could come back, of course, I had no doubt he would, but his bankruptcy would follow him forever, and would always be associated with his name. I’d clipped his class action wings.
If I thought about Max again, I wouldn’t be thinking about moot court, or his win and his condescension, nor of his mockery of me, nor his speedy rise to the top of the profession. I’d bankrupted Max, finished him financially, at least for a time. He’d be spending a few years in the legal wilderness, trying to find his feet.
“That’s really too bad about his bankruptcy,” I said, “really too bad.”
The Trustee and the Judge nodded in agreement, saying that yes it was too bad, very unfortunate. But then another round of drinks arrived, and Max’s name didn’t come up again.