INJURY ATTORNEYS

 

I met my friend Marty for coffee the other day. I knew he’d been in an accident, but I was shocked to see him enter our local Starbucks on crutches with a very large brace on his right knee. Our conversation went like this:

“Ohmygod, Marty! I had no idea it was this bad. How are you doing, buddy?”

“Not so good, Chuck. And now I have to battle the insurance company. The settlement they’re offering isn’t fair. What a hassle!”

“So, what are you going to do?”

“I’m going to hire one of those injury attorney firms, you know, the ones that tout the really big settlements on TV.”

“Oh, yeah? Which firm are you considering?”

“Well, there’s Morgan & Morgan. I like their ads. They’re not afraid to be funny. They say they are the biggest, and size matters. Wink, wink.”

“Okay, humor is good.”

“But then, there’s Easton & Easton.” Marty’s face brightened. “They say, ‘Let our family help yours.’ I like that.”

“Sure, family is important.”

“And, there’s Larry H. Parker…looks like another family firm, though Larry H. doesn’t look so good in the ads. Know what I mean?”

“Hmmm…good health is important.”

“I also kind of like this guy, Sweet James.” Marty’s enthusiasm spiked. “He’s really quirky, and quirky can be effective in the courtroom. Am I right?”

“I suppose quirky has its place.”

“But who names their baby boy ‘Sweet’? I mean, maybe that’s a little too quirky.”

“Maybe it’s a partnership, you know, ‘Sweet & James’?”

Marty scratched his head. “I also like those two guys, The Law Brothers. I like the idea of two young dudes, hungry to establish themselves, fighting for me.”

“Young dudes could be good.”

“And then there’s Jacoby & Meyers. They’ve been around forever. Maybe the first guys to advertise on TV. Am I right?”

“Longevity is a good sign.”

“Here’s another one—The Barnes Firm. I really like their jingle. ‘The Barnes Firm/Injury attorneys/Call 1-800 eight million.’ Clever, eh? Implies they’ll win eight million for you.”

“So, Marty, what’s it gonna be?”

“I don’t know, Chuck. I just can’t make up my mind.”

“Okay, here’s what we’ll do. I’m writing all the names on slips of paper, we’ll put them in my cap, and you’ll draw the winner… There, everybody is in the cap… I’ll shake it up… okay, now draw.”

“Thanks, Chuck, this is a big help… Okay, here it is. It’s Easton & Easton. But wait a minute! They say when they take your case, you become part of their family. Does this mean I’ll be invited to Thanksgiving dinner? With all their clients, it would have to be in, like, a convention center. That would be a little weird.”

“Just make the call, Marty. We’ll worry about Thanksgiving later.”

And just like that, Marty joined the Easton family. I'll let you know how it turns out.

_____

  

 THE SPOTLESS MIND

 

Ira Sharp sits in the exam room, waiting for the doctor to arrive. There is a tap on the door and his primary care physician enters the room.

“Mr. Sharp! It’s good to see you, sir.” Dr. Young extends his hand.

“Oh…hi, doc. I was expecting Dr. Johnson.”

“He retired three years ago, Mr. Sharp. I’m Dr. Horace Young, your PCP.”

“So, old Johnson retired, that son of a gun. Anyway, nice to meet you.”

“Uh…this is the second time I’ve seen you, Mr. Sharp. Let’s see…the last time was six months ago.”

“If you say so. Hey, you know these gowns are a pain in the neck. It’s really hard to tie them in the back. They should have Velcro, know what I mean?”

“I’ll make a note of it.”

“I mean, I can put my underwear on standing up, but I have a heck of a time with these dang ties.”

Dr. Young studies a large, flat-screen monitor. “Let’s see…your lab results all look good, blood pressure is normal. Let me listen to your chest here with my stethoscope.”

“Hey, that thing is cold!”

“Sorry ’bout that.” He completes his examination. “So, Mr. Sharp, what brings you in today? Anything specific you want me to check?”

“Yeah, doc, there is. I want you to give me one of those cognitive exams, you know, like President Trump takes.”

“Oh, really? Why is that, Mr. Sharp?”

“My friends are giving me a hard time, tellin’ me I’m full of you-know-what. I want to take that exam to show them I’m a genius, just like the president.”

“Sir, that’s really not the purpose of a cognitive exam—”

“I know the president took it three times, aced it every time. Do you think I’d have to take it three times, doc?”

“Hmm… have you been having any symptoms, Mr. Sharp? Any memory loss?”

“Will I have to read something when I take the test? I think I left my glasses at home.”

“They're up on your forehead, Mr. Sharp.”

“Oh yeah. Thanks, doc.”

“Now, about the test—”

“What test?”

“The cognitive exam you were asking about.”

“Oh, that reminds me. I want you to give me one of those cognitive tests, you know, like President Trump.”

“Oh boy…” Dr. Young sighs, shakes his head, and types a note into the medical record...

Robust, healthy octogenarian presents, requesting a cognitive exam to certify his genius to skeptical friends. This is the third such request I’ve had this week. MACA…Make America Cognitive Again.

_____

 

 

 STATEMENT

The door to a small, private room at Mar-a-Lago opens, and three top aides to President Donald Trump enter. Present are Susie Wiles, Stephen Miller, and Karoline Leavitt. They gather around a small, round table and drop notebooks on the polished oak surface. Wiles opens the meeting.

“Okay, so we just received word that Robert Mueller died.” She scribbles a note on her legal pad. “Our job is to craft a statement for the president, and we’ve got to do it quickly. The more time that passes, the more pressure he's going to be under. What should the president’s statement be?”

Miller scoffs, “Why say anything? Old dude, had Parkinson’s, so he died.”

“Come on, Stephen, we’ve got to have a statement. Dignified, if possible. What do we know about him, other than his time as Special Counsel and the Mueller Report?”

“Let’s see,” Leavitt says, “he served four years in the Marine Corps, beginning in 1968, including service in Vietnam, where he earned the Bronze Star and a Purple Heart. He graduated from NYU, graduated from University of Virginia Law, served as a prosecutor, including a case against John Gotti. Served as FBI Director for twelve years, beginning in 2001 and through the September 11 attacks, and he’s credited with establishing the FBI as an effective counter-terrorist organization. In 2017, he was appointed Special Counsel to investigate Russian interference in the 2016 election.”

“Special Counsel…Russia, Russia, Russia,” Miller says. “That’s all we need to know.”

“How about this,” Leavitt offers, “He spent his entire adult life in service to his country. Our condolences to his family.”

“Or,” Wiles begins, “From his decorated service in the Marine Corps, to his twelve-year tenure as Director of the FBI, Mueller served his country with honor.”

Miller scowls. “POTUS won’t like that.”

“Okay, Stephen, what would you say?” Wiles is a little exasperated.

“How ’bout this: He served in the Marines, he was a lawyer, and he was FBI Director. RIP.”

“That’s a little terse, don’t you think?” Leavitt is clearly uncomfortable.

“What if we combine Karoline’s and mine?” Wiles says. “How about, ‘From his decorated service in the Marine Corps, to his dedication to the rule of law, to his transformative service as FBI Director, Robert Mueller spent his entire adult life in service to his country. Our sincere condolences to his family.’”

There is a knock on the door and Wiles goes to open it. An aide, standing in the hall, hands her a note. She returns to the table.

“The president has already released a statement…on Truth Social.” She pauses and looks at her colleagues. “It says, 

Robert Mueller just died. Good, I’m glad he’s dead. He can no longer hurt innocent people!

Silence fills the room for several seconds. Miller breaks it.

“Okay, so that’s that. I’m going back to my room, maybe take a nap.”

“Me too,” Wiles adds.

“Wait a minute!” Leavitt shouts. “What about me? I’m going to have to face the press corps. What am I gonna say about this…this…this statement?”

“You’ll figure it out, kid,” Wiles says. “Do what you usually do. Blame it on James Comey and Joe Biden.”

Wiles and Miller leave the room while Leavitt searches for a waste basket to vomit in.

_____

 

 

 FIFTY GRAND

(Apologies to Ernest Hemingway)

 

I decided to check out the Sunday morning talk shows, most of them long-running institutions in the news business. I turned on my TV and caught “State of the Union” in progress. Dana Bash was hosting, posing questions to Attorney General Pam Bondi.

“Attorney General Bondi, in your hearing with the Judiciary Committee, you failed to answer a question about future prosecutions of abusers named in the Epstein files—”

“Don’t tell me how to answer questions! You with your lousy ratings and your network going bankrupt.”

“But, General Bondi, I’m simply—”

“This is ridiculous. I mean…the Dow is at 50,000 and the S&P 500 is at 7,000. That’s what we should be talking about.”

“Yes, General Bondi, but…”

I switched channels and landed on “Face the Nation,” where Margaret Brennan was interviewing Secretary of State Marco Rubio.

“Mr. Secretary, the administration has staged a massive military buildup surrounding Iran. What is the president’s plan, and what are his goals?”

“Well, Margaret, it’s clear that Iran needs to agree to a deal that eliminates for all time their ambition to achieve a nuclear capability.”

“Are we talking regime change, Mr. Secretary?”

“I’m not going to disclose the president’s strategic thinking, Margaret. Just remember, the Dow is at 50,000 and the S&P 500 is at 7,000.”

“But what does that have to do with Iran—"

I changed the channel again, picking up “This Week with George Stephanopoulos.” George had a question for Secretary of Commerce Howard Lutnick.

“Secretary Lutnick, why did you go to Epstein Island for lunch, well after Jeffery Epstein was convicted of sexual misconduct?”

“George, I went there with my wife, my four children, and our nannies. There were other family members there, too. We left after an hour, and I took everyone with me—including the nannies.”

“Yes, sir, but in past statements—”

“George, what you have to remember is that the Dow is at 50,000. Fifty thousand, George! And the S&P 500 is at 7,000. Let’s talk about that.”

I changed the channel one more time and landed in the middle of “Fox News Sunday,” just as Shannon Bream introduced a film clip of President Trump commenting on the Supreme Court decision regarding his tariff authority.

“It’s a terrible decision. Disgraceful. I’m very disappointed in several justices. They’ve embarrassed their families. We are the hottest nation on the planet. Trillions of dollars pouring in. Nobody’s seen anything like it. They say, ‘Sir, I could kiss you.’ I say, ‘I’d rather you didn’t.’ And the Dow is at 50,000. And the S&P 500…I call it the S&P…it’s the S&P…is over 7,000...”

I turned off the TV and called my friend Billie.

“Hey, Billie, let’s go to Postino and celebrate.”

“Celebrate what?” Billie was puzzled.

“Are you kidding me? The Dow is at 50,000 and the S&P 500 is at 7,000.”

“Chuck,” she said, very calmly, “you know that the wealthiest 10% in the country own 87% of all stocks. The Dow and the S&P are not the economy, my friend.”

“Ah, come on, Billie. Don’t be a buzz kill. It’s happy hour until 5:00 pm. Bring Mike and let’s celebrate.”

“Oh, all right. We’ll see you there in an hour. And don’t go getting a head start.”

I ended the call and went to shower and shave. I mean, it’s not every day you wake up to find you live in the hottest country in the world, and the Dow… well, you know the rest.  

_____

 

 Operations

 

Our friends Carlton “Chip” Smith and Karen Jones (See “Windy City Gambit”) have abandoned their travel coordination venture and joined the Department of Homeland Security as public relations consultants. Their current assignment: create new “operation” names for future DHS enforcement actions. They are waiting nervously in a conference room, expecting border czar Tom Homan to arrive at any moment. The door swings open and Homan and his entourage—six very large men wearing dark suits and red ties, earpieces firmly in place—enter the room.

“Chip, Karen, good to see you again,” Homan says. “Okay, you know your assignment. We need names for future operations, now that we are wrapping things up in Minnesota. ‘Operation Midway Blitz’ worked well in Chicago, and ‘Operation Metro Surge’ was okay for Minneapolis, but the president’s favorite so far was ‘Operation Catch of the Day’ up in Portland, Maine.” Homan chuckles. “He really liked the whimsy, the regional reference, all that. So, let’s hear what you have for me on our list of blue cities. Let’s start with Detroit.”

“Yes, sir,” Karen replies. “How about ‘Operation Motown Beat.’”

Homan writes it down. “Hmm… I like it! A nice, strong verb. We could say beatdown, but beat is more subtle. What about Philadelphia?”

Chip jumps in. “We’re thinking ‘Operation Brotherly Shove.’”

“That’s good. Invokes brotherly love and Eagles football. Let's go to Milwaukee. What have you got?

"We're thinking 'Operation Miller Time,''' Karen says.

Homan breaks up laughing. "Oh my goodness! Stephen will love it." He recovers his composure. "Now, what if we have to go up north to Boston, bother Bean Town a little? Whataya have for me?”

“We like ‘Operation You've Been Scrod,’” Chip says.

“Scrod?” Homan looks puzzled. “Is that past-perfect for—"

“No, sir. It’s a popular seafood dish in Boston.”

“Oh, okay…I like it,” Homan says. “Nice double enten… uh double—”

“Double meaning, sir. That’s what we were shooting for.” Karen smiles.

“Let’s go out west. What about those bastards up in Washington state?” Homan is leaning into the discussion. “Let’s try Seattle.”

“Here’s one with local culture,” Chip says. ‘Operation Tall Grande Venti.’”

Homan pulls on his chin. “Okay…that’s not bad. Do you have an alternative?”

“Well,” Chip says, “there’s ‘Operation Seattle Slew.’”

“What?” Homan is confused. “I don’t get it.”

“Seattle Slew was a beloved racehorse, a Triple Crown winner in 1977.”

“Nah, find something else. The president isn’t a big racing fan. Let’s move down the coast to Portland, Oregon. You know we’ve had operations there, but never a catchy name. What do you have?”

“We have ‘Operation Ducks on the Pond.’ You know, Ducks, for the University of Oregon?” Karen waits anxiously.

“Hmmm… too bland,” Homan says. “Make it ‘Operation Sitting Ducks.’”

The large men, standing at ease around the room, nod and murmur approval.

“Moving right along…” Homan is growing impatient. “What do you have for that hell hole, Oakland, down in California?”

Chip hesitates. He’s not confident about this one. “We have ‘Operation No There There.’”

“What the Sam Hill—” Homan looks annoyed.

“Sir, Gertrude Stein once said about Oakland, ‘There is no there there.’”

“Okay, ditch the literary references. You know the president doesn’t read.” Suddenly, Homan’s eyes widen. “I’ve got it! We’ll call it ‘Operation East Bay Tide.’ That could take in Richmond, San Pablo, Berkeley, Emeryville, Oakland, and as far south as you want to go.”

His entourage erupts with words of praise.

“Well played, sir!”

“Outstanding!”

“Brilliant, chief!”

 Homan checks his watch. “I’ve gotta go…another meeting I can’t miss. Chip, Karen, you’ve made a start here but keep at it! The president wants our officers in every blue city before the midterms.”

He rises, his entourage with him. Someone opens the door and they file out. Homan calls over his shoulder as he exits, “Don’t forget Baltimore, Atlanta, and San Francisco. And we may have to surge Los Angeles again. Peddle to the medal, you two!”

The door slams shut.

Karen glares at Chip. “Operation Seattle Slew? Where did you pull that one from?”

“Hey, I was on the spot, and besides, slew is a darn good verb.” Chip throws up his hands. “And you’re the one who came up with Operation No There There.”

“Okay, okay, I’m just sayin’. We can’t afford to lose this gig. Let’s get to work. What do you have for Baltimore?”

“It’s gonna be a long night,” Chip says. “Let’s get some food and coffee in here. How ’bout something from Cava?”

_____

 

 

 Forty-seven Day Wonders

 

[Scene: A small gymnasium somewhere in St. Paul, MN. Captain Justice Hardon addresses a group of ICE trainees as they approach the end of their forty-seven days of training.]

Hardon: All right, listen up. We’re approaching the end of your training program, but you’re not there yet. You need to master two final skills—the five-man DT takedown and the side window breakout. This morning, we are going to focus on the takedown. [A trainee raises his hand.] Yes, trainee Schmuckly, what is it?

Schmuckly: Sir, what is a DT?

Hardon: Domestic Terrorist, Schmuckly. Pay attention, dammit! … Okay, Lieutenant Kickintush, bring in the “volunteers.”

[Lt. Kickintush leads six men into the gym. They are dressed in heavy parkas and winter gear and can be heard speaking to one another in Spanish. One of the volunteers is thrust into the center of the floor. He is quickly surrounded by five veteran ICE officers who slam him to the floor, pin him face-down with a knee in the back, and slap on handcuffs.]

Volunteer [screaming]: Aieee! ¡Madre de Dios!

Lt. Kickintush [holding a stopwatch]: Not bad. Twenty-five seconds. Attention trainees! Did you all see the trip-and-throw technique? And the five-man-pounce with knee-in-the-back? Master those techniques if you want to claim your fifty-thousand-dollar bonus.

Trainees: Sir! Yes Sir!

Lt. Kickintush: Okay, divide into groups of five. You’ll each get your turn with a volunteer DT. You must—I repeat, must—pass this test to complete Day 47.

[Trainee Schmuckly raises his hand again.]

Capt. Hardon: What is it, Schmuckly?

Schmuckly: Sir, why is it necessary for five officers to slam the DT on the ground? I mean, my old man says that back in the 60’s, one officer could throw a guy up against a building and shout, “Up against the wall, motherf—ker,” then cuff him one arm at a time. Just one officer. Seems like a waste to use five guys.

Capt. Hardon: It’s not the sixties anymore, Schmuckly. The people need to be shown who is in charge. Got it?

Schmuckly: Uh…okay.

Hardon: Say what?!

Schmuckly: Sir! Yes Sir!

[The session continues, each group of trainees getting a chance to slam a volunteer to the floor and cuff him, accompanied by screams and cries for mercy. Lt. Kickintush records a score for each trainee. The session ends and the volunteers are carried away on stretchers to waiting ambulances…  Capt. Hardon addresses the group.]

Hardon: Okay, men, good work. There is a bus waiting outside to take you to the Metropolitan Junk Yard for window breakout training. Let’s go…on the double!

[Scene: The parking lot of the Metropolitan Junk Yard. Inside the chain-link fence, hundreds of wrecked cars wait to be sent to the enormous crusher, the next step on the journey to reclaiming the scrap metal…  Once again, Capt. Hardon addresses the trainees.]

Hardon: This afternoon, we are going to work on your window breakout technique. You will learn to shatter driver-side and/or passenger-side windows, using your metal batons, with no more than three blows. All those junk cars have windows waiting for you. And remember, this is the final step in your training. If you can’t accomplish a complete breakout in three blows, you will be sent back to Day 40 to repeat your training—flash-bang deployment, teargas canister bowling, pepper ball marksmanship, and so forth. Understood? [Again, a trainee raises his hand.] Yes, Schmuckly, what is it now?

Schmuckly: Sir, a question about policy. Should we break out a window, with all the flying glass, if there is a child inside the vehicle?

Hardon: Read the policy, Schmuckly! Of course, you break out the window if a child is inside. ESPECIALLY if there is a child inside. What part of the policy do you not understand?

Schmuckly: I don’t know, sir. It just seems dangerous. I thought we were deploying a “slightly lighter hand.”

Hardon: Okay, I’ve heard enough of this guy. Kickintush, get him out of here.

[Kickintush gives a signal and five veteran officers surround Schmuckly. He is thrown to the pavement, face down, knee in the back. The cuffs are slapped on and he is carried away.]

Schmuckly [crying frantically]: Wait! Stop! I take it all back! I’ll break every window I see…kid or no kiiiiid… [His voice fades as he is thrown into the back of an unmarked SUV.]

Hardon: Any more questions? … I didn’t think so. All right, let’s get into that junk yard and break some F-ing glass!

[And thus, a new class of Forty-seven Day Wonders is readied for “The Streets of Minneapolis.”]

_____

 

Author's note: Well, whataya know... the A-Listers are starting to show up. Google Bruce Springsteen's "The Streets of Minneapolis" and give it a listen. It echos the protest songs of a kid from Hibbing, Minnesota, named Robert Zimmerman, aka Bob Dylan. I think the echos are intentional. What do you think?

C.W. Spooner 

Calling All A-Listers…

 

[Scene: The basement of a small church somewhere in Minneapolis. A group of two dozen men and women meet to plan a march protesting ICE and other Federal agencies, and the tactics deployed in the city. The group leader, Bart Knutsen, speaks…]

“Okay, we’ve notified the authorities, we have our permits, and here is the plan. On Friday, two days from now, we will march on 3^rd Avenue from the Convention Center, past City Hall, to the Federal Building and Courthouse, where we will hold a major rally—”

“A-listers,” a silver-haired man in the back of the room calls out.

“I’m sorry," Bart says. "What was that?” Bart peers into the back of the room, looking for the man who spoke out.

“I said, ‘A-listers.’” The old man stands up. “You should have some A-listers to lead your march.”

Bart recognizes the man. It is his father. “Oh…Hi, Pop. Thanks for coming out. Everyone—that’s my dad, Bart Sr.”

[The room erupts with cries of “Hi, Pop! Welcome! Glad you’re here!”]

“Let’s get back to reviewing the plan, shall we?” Bart tries to regain control of the meeting.

“I cut my teeth on protest marches in the sixties,” Pop says. “We always had celebrities up front, leading the march. Guaranteed to lead the evening news and get front-page photos on every newspaper in the country.”

“Yeah, thanks for that, Pop—” Bart is clearly annoyed.

“Harry Belafonte. Sydney Poitier. Marlon Brando. Rita Moreno. Paul Newman. Sammy Davis Jr. They all came out,” Pop says.

“Okay, moving on—”

“And Pete Seeger, and Joan Baez, they always showed up. Didn’t even need to ask. And Joan would drag Bob Dylan along, too.” Pop smiles as the memory warms his heart.

“Tell us more, Pop!” someone in the crowd shouts.

“Pete singing, ‘This land is your land…,’ and Joanie and Bob singing, ‘Blowin’ in the Wind.’ Everybody joining in on ‘We Shall Overcome.’ I tell ya, it was beautiful.”

“Ah geez…” Bart drops his chin to his chest; his audience has been hijacked.

“But…sad to say, all those old lions are either gone, or they’re just too old,” Pop continues. “Dylan—he don’t march no mo.” The crowd chuckles. Pop has their rapt attention. “So… I’m kinda out of touch. Who are the young lions today? Who can step up and take the torch, so to speak?”

[People in the crowd look at each other and shrug their shoulders.]

“How ’bout that beautiful girl, used to sing with Destiny’s Child?”

“You mean Beyonce’, Pop?”

“Yeah, her. And she could bring her hubby. What’s his name…Jazzy?”

“It’s Jay Z, Pop.”

“There ya go. And Jay Z could bring Chris Rock. And Chris could bring Will Smith.”

[The room explodes with laughter. People begin to shout suggestions.]

“What about Taylor Swift? And she could bring Travis.”

“And Travis could invite Patrick and Brittany Mahomes.”

Pop grins from ear to ear. “That’s the spirit! That would be a fine front line for your march. The press would be all over it. And don’t you have some sports heroes in this town? What about Anthony Edwards and Justin Jefferson? What about the Hall-of-famer Joe Mauer?”

“Okay, calm down, everybody,” Bart cries. “It’s a little late for A-listers. Besides, let’s face it, none of ’em want to come out in Minneapolis in January.”

[The room goes silent. Several people nod their heads in agreement. If only this were July or August.]

“Maybe you’re right, son,” Pop says. “Maybe it’s too cold for A-listers. Or maybe it’s because brown people don’t buy tickets…but the MAGA folks do.” In Pop’s mind, Pete Seeger and Joan Baez are singing, “Where have all the flowers gone…”

[Pop turns to leave, climbing the stairs to street level. The people watch him go in silence. Finally, Bart resumes the planning session…]

“Okay, the march will step off from the Convention Center at 10 am sharp…”

_____