The Status Quo Ante
by Charles C. Parsons
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Table of Contents parts: 1, 2, 3 |
part 1
Chance dressed to impress for the evening’s meeting. He wore khaki trousers, a white dress shirt and a red-striped tie. Still, he wasn’t sure of the facts on his prospective new client. The only narrative had come from the words of her enraged father, Nate King. Through the telephone, Nate had fumed that his daughter, Laura, had been swindled out of a new car by her boyfriend. The extent of Laura’s financial loss hadn’t inspired dreams of a huge fee, but this incident could be his first fraud case.
He gazed around the small rectangle that was his law office. He’d practiced law for three years in this gloomy under-lit space housed in a pre-war building across the street from the Washington courthouse. If he could score a decent verdict for this Laura, it might elevate him into a lucrative new field. If he could win big, it would ensure his escape from this humble setting.
He heard a rap on his glass office door and rushed to open it. In the hallway, a tall 50ish man stood beside an attractive young woman with dark hair. Laura projected a fetching collegiate look as she twisted nervously in sandals.
He ushered them into his office. Laura wore dark stretchy trousers over long thin legs and a snug yellow tank top. When Laura sat down, Chance noticed she was blushing.
Once seated, Nate abruptly exploded. “My daughter’s been cheated. We need you to sue the bastard who fleeced her.”
Nate rushed into a description of his joy when he bought Laura a college graduation gift, a new Mercury Cougar. She’d further delighted him by landing a responsible analyst’s job downtown at a federal agency.
Nate swallowed hard. “No sooner was she in that new Mercury, than she had a fucking ex-con in her pants.” He leaned across the desk. “I pleaded with her to dump that worthless Willie, but she wouldn’t listen.”
Chance glanced up from the notes he was jotting; he looked across his desk at Laura. Her dark eyes were fixed on the floor, her shoulders hunched. He squeezed his pen and continued with his notes as Nate raced on.
“The Mercury I bought her wasn’t good enough for Willie.” He pointed at Laura. “He conned her into believing they needed a sporty convertible.”
Nate’s fists clenched. “Willie found this cunning thug, Victor Slade, who runs a seedy used car lot in Southeast Washington. Slade parked a red BMW convertible out front. When Willie saw it, it was like waving a red flag at a raging bull.”
Nate leaned over Chance’s desk as he described how the dealer had jockeyed his daughter and her boyfriend into an unfair trade. “Slade demanded fifteen grand in cash plus the brand-new Mercury for that used BMW.”
Nate shook his forearms. “Where’s an ex-con going to get cash for a trade like that? He has no savings, no job.” He glared at Laura. “All he had was this dewy-eyed girl.”
Laura studied her hands in her lap as Nate continued.
“Like a child, Laura emptied her savings, took out a loan and pulled together fourteen grand. Then she drove her Mercury to Slade’s lot and signed over the title. Willie ponied up a grand in bills he got from somewhere; Slade clinched his crooked deal.”
“When did you learn about the trade?” Chance asked.
Nate lowered his chin almost to the desk surface. “Laura didn’t tell me at the time. She just rode off to Baltimore with her ex-con.” His voice faltered. “Somehow in Baltimore, she came to her senses. She took a bus home and came crying to me.”
Chance looked at Laura. “What happened in Baltimore?”
She shook her head. “I don’t want to talk about it.”
Nate pounded the desktop. “She finally saw that Willie was the scum I’d been saying he was.”
Nate first telephoned Willie when he learned the details, demanding the return of the car and Laura’s cash. Willie laughed at him and hung up. Nate consulted two other lawyers, but each turned him down. A co-worker suggested Chance.
Chance laid his notepad on the desk and peered at Nate. “Surely, Laura’s a co-owner of that BMW?”
Nate’s hands shook as he passed Chance a folded gray paper. “Here’s the BMW title on file with the DMV.”
The document was formally stamped “Washington, D.C. Department of Motor Vehicles.” The title identified Willie Drake as the sole owner; the form was notarized by Victor Slade.
Chance put the title down. “Where’s the receipt that itemizes the terms of the trade?”
Nate looked at his daughter. “Do you have anything from Slade?”
Laura’s chin quivered. “No,” she said, “I remember signing a form Slade put in front of me. It had both our names on it. But I don’t have it.”
Chance looked at her closely. She was barely twenty but legally old enough to sign a contract. Still, her black pupils darted about like those of a rattled schoolgirl. His fingers fidgeted beneath the desk. Should he take this case? The other lawyers they’d consulted must’ve calculated the hours they’d spend chasing the deadbeat who’d cheated this girl. They probably decided the case wouldn’t yield a decent fee.
Across the desk, Laura’s fingers fretted along the turquoise beads of her necklace. Chance avoided her gaze, instead staring at the DMV paper on his desk. If he represented her, he’d have his first fraud case. But to win, he’d have to dredge up the evidence that showed this title was bogus. While he did that, Willie might wreck the car.
He looked at them across the desk. “There’s gotta be a receipt showing Laura provided the collateral for the trade. We need it to prove the swindle.”
Nate thrust his right hand across the desk to shake Chance’s palm. “You’re taking our case!”
Chance hastily lifted his palms. “I’ll only take Laura’s case if we can win it in court.” He looked past Nate and into Laura’s eyes. “I’ve never tried a case like this.”
Laura’s face suddenly glowed. “Just tell me what you need. I’ll find it somehow.” Her eagerness startled him.
He regained his composure. “Bring me whatever papers you have on the trade.” Then he leveled with Nate. “This was Laura’s mistake, so if there’s a case to be made, she’s the client.” Nate nodded his ascent.
Chance rose and faced them. “I’ll search for a legal basis to nullify this phony title.” He stared at her. “No promises,” he said.
She nodded. “No promises.”
As they were leaving, Chance looked more closely at Laura. She’d make a pretty client.
When Chance closed the door, his office oozed the odor of layered perspiration. Three years earlier, he’d leased this space right out of law school for its one desirable feature: the lone window facing the Washington D.C. courthouse. His clients had been indigents accused of petty crimes, assigned to him by the nearby judges. These defendants ignored the fragrance; they cared only about acquittals. With his lean, broad shoulders and square face, Chance had quickly excelled in enticing not-guilty verdicts. During his time in this room, he’d compiled a disproportionate record of wins.
Now, instead of hustling payment from a government agency to defend those poor people, he longed to use his training to chase bigger stakes. He yearned to make money suing wrongdoers in civil litigation. This meant investing time and his own money to bankroll the cases he took. Most of all, it meant he had to win to be compensated. He sensed that he could win this case for the pretty young woman he’d just met. Could he somehow persuade a jury to award her a big verdict? He fired up his laptop to begin his research.
* * *
Pages of rumpled handwritten notes surrounded a half-empty cup on Chance’s desk. His eyes burned from the all-nighter he’d pulled struggling to compose a complaint to file in court.
A knock sounded. He rose and stretched before opening the glass door. Laura stood there in a snug navy-blue skirt; she beamed at him through picture-perfect teeth. He caught a whiff of jasmine as she brushed past him. His heart raced as he closed the door.
Once she was seated, she handed him a receipt from the dealership where Nate had purchased the Mercury. She’d also requested her bank to retrieve the loan agreement she’d signed for the cash portion of the transaction.
He rocked back slightly. “These aren’t enough. We need the receipt that itemizes the trade.”
She sat quietly, twisting a lock of dark hair. He brushed his palm over the stubble on his chin. “Why would Slade issue the title of that BMW to your boyfriend?”
Her eyes flashed. “My ex-boyfriend.”
For a few seconds, they examined each other silently. He rephrased the question. “Did you see any paperwork Slade prepared?”
“Not really. He scribbled notes, but I didn’t see them. Before he handed Willie the keys, he had me sign a title paper for the BMW.”
“What happened to it?
“Slade put it back with the other papers on his desk. He said he’d file it with the DMV.”
The dank aroma of his stale coffee pressed in on him. There had to be papers showing Laura’s payment into this one-sided transaction. If he had them, he could win. Yet he wondered about his young woman. He pressed his palms together. “Was it love for Willie that lured you into this scheme?”
Across the desk, Laura bit at her fingernails.
“I thought it was love,” she said. “Now I see it was ownership I was after.”
“Ownership?”
“Willie was a rock star at the club where I hung out,” she said, “with him, I’d snagged the guy every other girl craved.”
He hesitated, then shrugged. “Do you know where the car is?”
“Probably at Willie’s apartment over in Northeast.”
“What’s the address?”
“I don’t know, but I can guide you there.” Her eyes brightened. “You’re going to take my case, aren’t you?”
“As I said, I’ll take your case if we have a chance of winning,” he said, sliding the gray paper title around on his desk. “But let’s agree that if we can’t win, you’ll let me walk away.”
“Please don’t ghost me,” she pleaded. Her body trembled as she continued. “Willie’s an SOB and he’s wrecked my life. In Baltimore, I learned he had herpes. When I got back to D.C. I took a PCR test. He’s infected me.”
His neck muscles tightened as he beheld her pained stare. “Can’t the doctors do anything?”
“No! They can shrink the outbreaks, but they can’t cure the disease.”
He inhaled deeply. “My first civil case and you bring me this?”
She forced a feeble smile. “You’re the only lawyer willing to help.” She leaned across the desk. “Even if you can’t win me back my money, can you get the bastard locked up?”
Her neatly trimmed eyebrows twitched with anger. Even in outrage, she was desirable.
“In civil cases, we only recover money,” he said. “Right now, we don’t even have the evidence for that.”
“Surely, you can find some legal way to punish him, can’t you?”
“Let’s focus on winning this fraud case first.”
They arranged to drive past Willie’s apartment the following evening to see if the car was there. Her eyes were rimmed with red as she closed the glass door.
Seated at his desk, he scratched his chin foraging for some legal safeguard to prevent Willie from infecting other women. He shook his head and returned to his laptop. First, he needed to draft a coherent complaint to file in court. After that, he’d focus on how to root out the receipt he was sure exposed the bogus title.
* * *
Copyright © 2023 by Charles C. Parsons
