Played!
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"Fans of quick reads like James Patterson's popular 'BookShots' series will be well served by this thriller's fast pace." —Library Journal
Every law firm has its backroom bench of brilliant workaholic nerds ferocious in their commitment to the law and to their clients. Such a player is Milton Bernstein of Abbott & Windsor. He's highly valued by the partners for his skills, but untested in the courtroom.
Milton's younger brother, Hal, is his polar opposite-strikingly handsome, a high-school baseball legend in St. Louis who was on his way to the major leagues until he destroyed his prospects in a motorcycle accident. Hal had been, and still is, the adored Bernstein brother-worshipped by his mother, his aunts, and the rest of his family, plus all the high school and college cheerleaders. Milton has learned to live with his lower star-power while Hal unabashedly admires Milton's career and happy marriage.
Neither brilliant nor driven, Hal has to face up to earning a living. For now he's killing time as a lifeguard at an exclusive country club. His days at the pool are mostly filled with women, kids, and fantasies about the hot babe called Cherry.
But the lives of both brothers are about to change. Cherry, the bombshell third wife of St. Louis' most shark-like litigator, Leonard Pitt, unexpectedly turns Hal's advances around. They become lovers. Coincidentally, Milton becomes the attack dog behind litigation to nail Pitt for running an insurance scam on his injured clients.
Tangling with the Pitts is a game-changer for both brothers. Everyone is a tool of someone else. The players' roster widens to include a judge who's nursed a 30-year grudge against Pitt, the judge's astute clerk, and a crooked cop. Then Milton suddenly finds himself fielding Hal's arrest for kidnapping and murder.
Played! is fast-moving, fun and, at its core, a story of brotherly love and loyalty. And baseball.
Michael A. Kahn
Michael Kahn is a trial lawyer by day and an author at night. He wrote his first novel, Grave Designs, on a challenge from his wife Margi, who got tired of listening to the same answer whenever she asked him about a book he was reading. "Not bad," he would say, "but I could write a better book than that." "Then write one," she finally said, "or please shut up." So he shut up—no easy task for an attorney—and then he wrote one. Kahn is the award-winning author of: eleven Rachel Gold novels; three standalone novels: Played!, The Sirena Quest, and, under the pen name Michael Baron, The Mourning Sexton, and several short stories. In addition to his day job as a trial lawyer, he is an adjunct professor of law at Washington University in St. Louis, where he teaches a class on censorship and free expression. Married to his high school sweetheart, he is the father of five and the grandfather of, so far, seven.
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Played! - Michael A. Kahn
Played!
A Novel
Michael A. Kahn
Poisoned Pen Press
29375.pngCopyright
Copyright © 2017 by Michael A. Kahn
First E-book Edition 2017
ISBN: 9781464208379 Ebook
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in, or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the publisher of this book.
The historical characters and events portrayed in this book are inventions of the author or used fictitiously.
Poisoned Pen Press
4014 N. Goldwater Boulevard, #201
Scottsdale, Arizona 85251
www.poisonedpenpress.com
Contents
Played!
Copyright
Contents
Dedication
Epigraph
Stage 1: The Windup
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-one
Chapter Twenty-two
Stage 2: The Pivot
Chapter Twenty-three
Chapter Twenty-four
Chapter Twenty-five
Chapter Twenty-six
Chapter Twenty-seven
Chapter Twenty-eight
Stage 3: The Leg Lift
Chapter Twenty-nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-one
Chapter Thirty-two
Chapter Thirty-three
Chapter Thirty-four
Chapter Thirty-five
Stage 4: The Stride
Chapter Thirty-six
Chapter Thirty-seven
Chapter Thirty-eight
Chapter Thirty-nine
Chapter Forty
Chapter Forty-one
Chapter Forty-two
Chapter Forty-three
Chapter Forty-four
Chapter Forty-five
Chapter Forty-six
Stage 5: The Release
Chapter Forty-seven
Chapter Forty-eight
Stage 6: The Follow-Through
Chapter Forty-nine
Chapter Fifty
Chapter Fifty-one
More from this Author
Contact Us
Dedication
For Jane, Deb, and Julie
from your brother with love and admiration
Epigraph
I see great things in baseball.
—Walt Whitman
It gets late early out there.
—Yogi Berra
Stage 1: The Windup
Chapter One
The older members enter the traditional way, pulling up to the main entrance beneath the portico in their Mercedeses and BMWs and Cadillacs. They accept a deferential greeting from the parking valet and stroll down the main hall to the locker rooms to change into their swimwear. But others—especially the teenagers and the young mothers with children—prefer the direct route, which is through the entrance gate west of the parking lot.
On this sunny Thursday morning in late August, Patty and Josh are seated on folding chairs behind the table at the entrance gate. Patty is a freshman at Mizzou, Josh a sophomore at DePauw. Although their ostensible job is to check membership cards, this is, after all, Old Chatham Country Club, and at Old Chatham Country Club the first assignment for every summer hire is to memorize the names and faces of all members.
A mother with two small boys walks through the entrance gate.
Good morning, Mrs. Appleton,
Josh says.
Good morning, Josh. I just saw your mother at Neiman Marcus. She told me to remind you about the Mortons’ party tonight. Hello, Patty, dear.
Patty smiles. Hi, Mrs. Appleton.
She turns to the boys. Hello, Trip. Hello, Fordham.
Hi,
the two boys respond in unison, and without enthusiasm.
As the boys follow their mother into the pool area, Patty opens her book again.
After a few minutes, Josh announces, Oh, yeah!
Patty turns toward him with a frown. What?
Grinning, he nods toward the parking lot. The goddess has arrived.
Patty follows his gaze and then rolls her eyes. I cannot believe you guys.
A fiery red Corvette has pulled into a parking spot two rows back from the entrance gate. The driver’s door opens and a stunning blonde emerges. Today she has on a short white caftan cover-up tied loosely at the waist over a white one-piece swimsuit. She’s wearing red espadrille wedge sandals and big sunglasses.
I’m in love,
Josh says.
Forget it, you doofus.
Patty shakes her head. Look at her ring finger. And she’s probably thirty years old.
Cherry Pitt reaches the entrance table where Josh and Patty are seated. She pauses and turns her beach bag toward them. Her membership card dangles from the bag handle.
Hello, Mrs. Pitt,
Josh says in a sunny voice. It certainly is a beautiful day for a dip.
Um-hmm,
Cherry says, distracted, scanning the pool area. She walks past them onto the pool deck.
Have a nice day, Mrs. Pitt,
Josh calls after her.
Josh turns in his chair and stares at Cherry’s backside as she walks toward a lounge chair.
Have a nice day, Mrs. Pitt,
Patty repeats in a nerdy voice.
I’m in love,
he says.
Have a nice day, Mrs. Pitt,
she repeats, in an even nerdier voice and returns to her book.
Josh watches as Cherry slips off her caftan, her backside to him. She bends over at the waist to set down her beach bag by the chair.
He groans. Lord have mercy.
Patty shakes her head. Men.
Neither of them noticed the late-model black Mustang. It entered the parking lot as Cherry was walking toward the entrance gate, paused until she had entered the pool area, and then pulled into a space facing the pool area, one row behind her red Corvette. The Mustang idles there with a throaty rumble.
Cherry settles into the lounge chair and opens a magazine on her lap.
After a few minutes, the Mustang shifts into gear, backs out of the parking space, and starts down the aisle. As it heads toward the exit, the tinted window on the driver’s side lowers. A smoked-down Tiparillo arcs end over end toward the asphalt and scatters sparks as it lands.
Chapter Two
Twenty miles east of Old Chatham Country Club, on an upper floor in the Metropolitan Square Building, Milton Bernstein snorts.
We are in his office, which charitably could be described as cluttered. The desk is a jumble of yellow legal pads, marked-up pages from various court papers, stacks of pleadings binders, and deposition transcripts. Documents are scattered in piles throughout the office. A dying rubber plant sags in the corner, its last three leaves a faded brownish-green.
Milton is on the telephone, the receiver pinned between his neck and shoulder, shaking his head. The Arch and the Mississippi River are visible from the office window behind him.
That is patently absurd,
he says.
Sighing in exasperation as he listens to the lawyer on the other end of the call, Milton removes his horn-rimmed glasses, leans back in his chair, holds the glasses above his head, squints at the smudged lenses, and puts them back on.
Janet Perry is seated on the chair facing Milton’s desk. She is twenty-seven years old, slender, pale and—like most associates at the international law firm of Abbott & Windsor—intense. She studies notes on a yellow legal pad on her lap.
Milton stands. He is grasping the telephone receiver with one hand and jabbing at the air with the forefinger of the other. You can assure your client that I shall make it an unforgettable deposition. By ten a.m. next Monday I plan to be charging through the rice paddies and taking no prisoners.
If you have ever practiced in a major law firm in this country, then you know Milton Bernstein. Each such law firm has at least one Milton Bernstein. Abbott & Windsor has two, and one of them is actually named Milton Bernstein. The other, in the Chicago office, is named Melvin Needlebaum.
Regardless of their actual name, all Milton Bernsteins share a basic taxonomy. They are brilliant workaholic nerds, but—and this is important—they are not passive or submissive or bashful. Milton Bernsteins are ferocious in their commitment to the law and in their advocacy on behalf of clients, often to the exasperation of their opponents. Able to quote from memory key passages from obscure cases on even more obscure points of law, they are never at a loss for words, whether in a conference room or a courtroom. Never. They may pause for a moment, blinking at you from behind the thick lenses of their glasses, but then they will deliver a full paragraph of legalese on whatever topic you happened to raise. Although they may never have played a competitive sport in high school, and would likely have been classified 4-F by the Selective Service System, they are true warriors.
As Milton shakes his head in anger, Lawrence Armstrong strolls into the office. Lawrence nods at Janet, lifts a stack of pleading files off the chair next to hers, and sits. Lawrence Armstrong is a senior partner at Abbott & Windsor, a litigator who specializes in complex commercial disputes. Despite the salt-and-pepper comb-over, he has the handsome features of an aging Hollywood star with the build of a man who still plays tennis four mornings a week at his country club, squash racquets in the winter.
Milton is rapping a pencil on top of the computer screen. Now he jerks forward, eyebrows raised.
Spare me, Joel,
he says. Anyone with the brains God gave a goose would know that was patently absurd.
Janet turns to Armstrong and whispers, Are you here on the Pitt case?
Armstrong smiles at Janet and nods. Once a noted trial lawyer, Armstrong spends most of his time these days overseeing the litigation needs of his clients. With a book of business in the mid-seven-figures, there is plenty to oversee, including the Pitt case he assigned to Milton.
Although Milton Bernstein matches no one’s image of a trial lawyer, Lawrence Armstrong can see beyond that. He knows that Milton’s special traits—dogged persistence, encyclopedic knowledge of the law, obsessive attention to detail—make him a good choice for the Pitt lawsuit. Indeed, those very traits, coupled with Milton’s 2,800-plus billable hours per year, convinced the firm’s partners, including Lawrence Armstrong, to elevate him to partnership last year, just two weeks before his thirtieth birthday. Non-equity, of course, but a partnership nevertheless.
A beep from the computer snaps Milton’s head back toward the screen. As he lowers himself into his chair, he shouts into the phone, You, sir, have launched the first missile. Prepare for Armageddon!
He slams down the receiver and leans forward to squint at the monitor screen, reading the Westlaw search results. Superb.
He rapidly types in a new search request, hits SEND, and then looks up, squinting first at Janet and then at Armstrong.
Yes?
Armstrong says, Leonard Pitt and Associates.
Milton grins. America’s favorite chaser. Defender of the lumpen proletariat. And a genuine sleaze bag.
Do we have a lawsuit?
Armstrong asks.
Milton rubs his hands together and raises his eyebrows. We’re getting close. Ms. Perry has been researching some of the legal issues.
He turns to Janet. Did you find the Edwards Electric case?
Janet nods as she flips through her notes. It seems right on point on the enterprise element.
She turns to Armstrong. To bring suit against Leonard Pitt under RICO, we need to—
Wait.
Milton cranes his neck toward the ceiling, eyes shut tight. Wait, wait. I think I have a better case. A 2002 decision out of the Tenth Circuit. Let’s see, let’s see. Ah, yes. Ames Financial Group versus toward… versus toward… aha, versus Patterson Industries, Inc. While not directly on point, there is a section on—
—time out.
Armstrong has formed a T with his hands. Let’s cut to the chase, Milton. Where do things stand with this lawsuit?
Milton is staring at the computer screen in disbelief. Two hundred and eleven cases? What kind of computer search is that?
Milton.
Armstrong’s voice carries both his irritation and his authority.
Milton looks up with a sheepish grin. Okay, okay. How much do you know about Leonard Pitt?
Not much,
Armstrong says. He’s a politically connected plaintiff’s personal injury lawyer.
Milton nods. He is, indeed. By way of background, Leonard Pitt is an ex-Marine. He served in Vietnam. Started his career in municipal court, hustling the halls for clients. Remained there seven years, then he teamed up with Sam Blumenfeld. That partnership ended when Blumenfeld was convicted of eleven counts of mail fraud. He died of a stroke three years later in Marion.
Who is she?
Janet says, taking notes.
It,
Armstrong says. The federal penitentiary in Southern Illinois.
Milton resumes. "Pitt has been a lone wolf ever since. His firm is Leonard Pitt and Associates. The so-called ‘Associates’ are two third-rate lawyers, four paralegals, and somewhere between five and nine chasers.