Dead Man's Rule (2 page)

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This doesn’t look promising,
Ben Corbin thought as he eyed the potential new client sitting in his lobby. The short, wiry man looked like he was about seventy, and the suit he wore was at least twenty years old. A thick shock of unruly gray hair crowned his large head. The man’s thin, age-spotted hands clutched a dilapidated and overstuffed briefcase in his lap.

Ben didn’t need more clients, he needed more
paying
clients. In the six months since he had opened his own law practice, he hadn’t had any trouble keeping busy. The world, he had discovered, was full of people who wanted to hire a lawyer, but only a fraction of those people had both the desire and the ability to pay their legal bills in a timely fashion. That hadn’t been a problem at Beale & Ripley, the thousand-lawyer firm where Ben had spent the first seven years of his career. He had gone up to his fortieth-floor office every morning, worked hard for ten or twelve hours a day, and cashed a fat paycheck twice a month.

The Law Offices of Benjamin Corbin had opened six months ago last week, and the past half year had been a mixed bag. Ben had won two trials but had been paid for only one of them. And the firm’s expenses were, of course, higher than they had projected. Not a lot, but enough to make their finances uncomfortably tight.

Ben knew he was probably too busy to take the old man’s case, even if the man could and would pay. In fact, Ben knew he really should be preparing for a court hearing he had in less than an hour. The hearing wasn’t particularly important, but the case was. Ben represented a small company called Circuit Dynamics whose trade-secret software had been stolen—or so Ben hoped to prove—by several car-part manufacturers. If Ben won, the damages would be at least $50 million, and Ben would get 10 percent of that under a partial-contingent-fee agreement he had with his client.

He glanced at his watch. The old man had been referred by one of Ben’s more reliable clients, Cathy Pugo, so Ben had to at least talk to him. He swallowed his doubts and strode across the lobby with a smile on his face and his hand out.

“Hello, I’m Ben Corbin.” He shook the man’s hand warmly.

“Mikhail Ivanovsky,” the man said with a sharp nod. “Pleased to meet you, Mr. Corbin.”

“Likewise,” replied Ben. “Please come with me.” He led his guest into the firm’s conference room. It was small, but the table and chairs were beautifully finished solid oak. Ben also took pride in the fact that the paintings on the walls were both originals, though they had come from the Starving Artist gallery west of the Loop. “Can I get you anything to drink?”

“Tea with sugar,” said Ivanovsky in clear but thickly accented English.

Ben picked up the phone and dialed. “Susan, could you bring in tea and sugar for Mr. Ivanovsky? Thanks.” He surreptitiously glanced at his watch again as he sat down at the table. “I have twenty minutes before I need to leave for court. What can I do for you, Mr. Ivanovsky?”

The old man reached down into his battered briefcase and pulled out a stack of papers. “I need you to get some things that are in a safe-deposit box. I bought these things, but they will not give them to me,” he explained opaquely.

“Who won’t give them to you?” asked Ben.

“The bank which this box is in. American Union Bank.” He riffled through the sheaf of papers and handed several to Ben. “Box number 4613 in the LaSalle Street American Union Bank building.”

Ben glanced quickly at the papers, which consisted of a map of downtown Chicago with the location of the bank helpfully marked with a red X, some handwritten Russian notes, and a letter from the bank refusing Mr. “Ivansky” access to the box. “They say their records show that the box belongs to a man named Nikolai Zinoviev,” Ben observed.

“This lies!” Ivanovsky pointed to the letter. “This Zinoviev, he sold it to me for $5,000 last week.”

Ben noticed that Ivanovsky hadn’t handed him a contract for the sale of the box. “Did he sign any papers showing that he sold it to you?”

Ivanovsky hesitated. “Not yet.”

“Have you asked him to?”

“Yes.”

“What did he say?”

“He said he would sign papers from the bank to show that this box is mine, but then he did not do it. Now he will not sign.”

“I see,” Ben said. Now they were getting somewhere. “Were there any witnesses to the conversation where Mr. Zinoviev agreed to sell it to you?”

Ivanovsky frowned and looked down at his hands. “No, we were alone.”

“Did you actually give him the money?”

“Yes, yes.” Ivanovsky shuffled through his papers, happy to be able to prove something again. “Here is the receipts, here is the bank statement showing my account before, and here is another statement showing my account is much lower now.”

Ben’s secretary, Susan, came in with a mug of tea and a sugar bowl for Ivanovsky. He thanked her and dumped four heaping spoonfuls of sugar into his mug. Ben’s teeth hurt as he watched his guest drink. “By the way, what’s in the box?” Ben asked.

“Jewelries.”

“What kind of jewelry?”

Ivanovsky put down his mug. “Okay, here is what happened. I was at Saint Vladimir Church two Sundays ago and I talked to this man, and he told me about a man who died in 1985 and maybe he put some jewelries in this box at American Union Bank on LaSalle Street. This man who died, his brother lives in Chicago now, so I telephoned the brother and asked if it is true. This brother is Nikolai Zinoviev, who is called Nicki.

“I said to Nicki Zinoviev, ‘A man told me that when your brother died, maybe he left jewelries in a safe-deposit box at a bank. I maybe would like to buy these jewelries.’ He knew nothing of this box and was very surprised. He said, ‘You are a very lucky man, Ivanovsky, because I must pay some money to a man today and my bank is closed so I cannot get my money. Because of this, I will sell whatever things are in this box to you for $5,000, but you must pay in the next two hours.’

“American Union Bank is also closed, but I think maybe these jewelries are very valuable, so I take this risk and say yes. I gave him $5,000, and he said we will go to the bank the next day and fill out necessary forms and show the bank papers so we can take the things in the box. But now he says no.”

Ivanovsky’s monologue seemed oddly preplanned to Ben, and he had a vague feeling that there was more going on here than this man was telling him. Ben thought about asking more questions but decided against it. Did he really need to get to the bottom of whatever was going on? Or, more importantly, did he need to do it now? Not really. After all, he hadn’t even taken the case, and he probably wouldn’t. He decided to let it slide, at least for the time being. He glanced at his watch again. He had eight minutes. “Did he say why he won’t give you the jewelry?”

“He says now we have no deal. He says he has sold the jewelries to someone else.”

“So you want your money back?”

Ivanovsky shook his head. His bushy gray hair and spindly neck made him look like a dandelion flopping in the breeze. “No. I want the jewelries.”

“But you said—”

“The jewelries are still in the box. The bank is still looking at the papers Nicki gave them.”

“Okay, I think I have a basic grasp of what your case is about. The real problem I see is money. This isn’t a very large dispute, and litigation is expensive. No matter who you hire, you’ll almost certainly spend more than $5,000 on lawyers. Are you really sure you want to file suit over this?”

Ivanovsky didn’t hesitate. “Yes.”

Ben shrugged. “Okay. And you don’t just want your money back. You want the jewelry, right?”

“Yes.”

“Well, that will mean not just filing a complaint, but also moving for an immediate temporary restraining order, or TRO, to keep Mr.”—he checked his notes—“Mr. Zinoviev and the bank from giving it to someone else. TROs only last ten days, so whether you win or lose the TRO motion, you’ll need to file a motion for a preliminary injunction that will prevent them from doing anything with whatever is in the box. The trial on the preliminary injunction may come within ten days, but what usually happens is that the parties agree to extend the TRO—if it’s granted—and hold the preliminary injunction trial a little later. That way they can do some discovery before jumping straight into a trial. Still, the trial will probably come within a month, which is about two years sooner than in a regular case.

“My old boss used to describe this type of case as ‘litigating with your hair on fire,’ and that’s what it feels like. You’ll be constantly running, from the moment you start until the end of the trial. You’ll also be spending lots of money, because your lawyer will be working for you pretty much full time for the whole month.” Ben did some quick calculations in his head. “It would probably cost you at least $20,000 to get through the preliminary injunction trial. The case won’t end then, but the work and the bills will probably drop off.”

Ivanovsky went a little pale. “I—I do not have so much,” he mumbled, searching through his bag. “I have only $5,000 with me.” He pulled out a stack of traveler’s checks and showed them to Ben with a downcast look on his face. “I have some money saved, and I can get the rest from my pension and from selling some things, but not right away. But next week I will pay. Is this okay?”

Ben was stunned and felt a little sorry for the old man. He was clearly burning through his retirement nest egg to get whatever was in that box. “Uh . . . yeah, sure. I would only need $5,000 up front. Just bring me a bank statement showing me that the rest is there.”

Ivanovsky started to countersign the checks.

“No, no. Wait,” Ben said quickly. “I’m not sure I can take your case. Remember how I said you’ll need a lawyer who can work on this full time for a month? I’ve already got a busy month ahead of me. I wouldn’t want to take your case and then not have the time to represent you as well as you deserve.”

“But you must!” Ivanovsky said with sudden fierceness. “This is a very, very important case. When I told Mrs. Pugo I needed a very good lawyer, she said, ‘Call Ben Corbin, here is his number. He is a good lawyer, Mikhail, the best that you can afford.’ So you must take this case.” He paused. “I need you.”

Ben knew he was running late without looking at his watch. “I have to leave for a hearing now—I apologize for running out so quickly—but I’ll take a close look at my calendar, and I’ll call you tonight to let you know whether I can take the case.” Ben was already thinking about the
Circuit Dynamics
case by the time he closed the door behind Ivanovsky.

Mikhail Ivanovsky took the elevator to the ground floor, walked out of the office building, and turned left. He walked north for a block and a half, then abruptly turned and walked back south for three blocks, intently looking at the other pedestrians as he went. Then he caught a cab to Union Station.

He got on his train, but got off two stops before his station. He watched with great care as the other passengers got off, noted where they went, and then waited alone on the platform for half an hour. When the next train came, he acted as if he were waiting for another train. When the doors were about to close, he leaped in, barely avoiding getting his arm caught. Seats were available, but he stood in the unheated, drafty vestibule for the rest of the trip. When the train reached the next stop, he got off, looked up and down the platform, and then jumped back on.

He got off again at the next station—his actual stop—and walked toward his apartment building. He stopped halfway there and stood in front of a storefront display for several minutes, staring in the window at the reflection of the street behind him. Then he walked briskly around the block twice, once going clockwise and once counterclockwise. Finally satisfied, he went home.

Ben knew he was losing the hearing. The defendants had sent Circuit Dynamics a document request asking for copies of all its tax returns since the day it was incorporated. This, of course, was highly intrusive and had nothing to do with whether the defendants had stolen Circuit Dynamics’ software. Ben had objected to the request, and the defendants had filed a motion to compel, which Ben and defense counsel were now arguing in front of Judge Patrick Ryan.