Teeth and Consequences by V.S. Kemanis
A delivery driver is bitten by a dog owned by a dangerous woman, and engages a hapless lawyer to sue her.
Pumped on adrenaline, Sean sped to the ER, blood-soaked sneaker flooring the gas. Blasting into the 15-mph driveway, the MetroMeals van swerved erratically and jerked to a stop behind a parked ambulance.
Even the sick and injured had to pass security in this small suburban hospital serving a low-rent neighborhood. Minimum-wage guard Taddeo was manning the checkpoint when Sean limped through the public entrance at 4:15pm. An orderly rushed over with a wheelchair. In precisely choreographed haste, Taddeo helped Sean empty his pockets into a plastic tray, and the orderly pushed him through the metal detector to the reception desk.
Behind the glass barrier, the intake clerk needed a few details before unlocking the inner doors to admit Sean. Standing nearby, Taddeo overheard "delivery" and "dog bite" and "right calf." Plenty of moaning. Taddeo handed Sean his cell phone but pushed the wallet and keys through a cutout under the window. "He parked in the driveway." The clerk nodded her understanding. She would notify the groundskeeper.
Taddeo lingered at the desk because he could. As yet, no one else needed screening. Delivery driver. Dog bite. Why not? Streicher paid a 20-spot for every accident victim, a C-note if the plaintiff won the case. No payment if he'd already found the information in a public record. Could the lawyer make a case out of a dog bite? The injury looked serious. Taddeo kept his ears open.
The intake clerk pulled a driver's license from the wallet and read the information to the patient. He confirmed each item with a nod: name, date of birth, address. "Health insurance?" Sean shook his head and groaned in agony, proof of dire need despite inability to pay. With a click, the wide double doors crept inward, and the orderly wheeled him in.
Still quiet at the main entrance. Taddeo pivoted away from reception and thumb typed notes on his smartphone. Everything he remembered. When his shift ended at five, he'd have time to make a handwritten note and deliver it to the attorney before his office closed. Taddeo kept paper, pen, and envelopes in his car for just this purpose. Streicher forbade phone calls, texts, or emails.
Five minutes after five, Taddeo was sweating bullets. His replacement didn't show until nine minutes after the hour, wearing a wrinkled uniform, alcohol on his breath. Taddeo dashed out, and by ten to six, his rubber-soled shoes were squealing down the empty hallway to the lawyer's door. Vinyl lettering identified "Streicher Law Firm, PLLC," the peeling second L drooping like a dying flower.
A few things still puzzled Taddeo. The oddity of a sole practitioner calling himself a "law firm." The shabbiness of Peter Streicher's office in this rundown building despite his proclaimed track record of winning "millions" for his clients.
In the anteroom, Gloria stood at her desk, rifling through her handbag. Time to go home. Her tired, fifty-something eyes met Taddeo's with mild annoyance. He thrust the sealed envelope at her. "For Mr. Streicher. It's about my case." Taddeo's bogus case resided in a thin manilla folder with a single sheet of scribbled "consultation" notes, proof of a legitimate purpose for his visits.
Taking the envelope, Gloria said, "Sure," with a smirk.
"Urgent."
"Yeah. Right away."
"I'll wait."
Gloria tap-tapped on her boss's door and entered with a lackluster announcement. "Urgent, he says." Taddeo caught the lawyer's eye and gave a confident nod before she closed the door. Five minutes later - longer than usual - Gloria emerged with another envelope. A twenty would be inside. More later, if Streicher won the case.
Without a word, Taddeo pocketed the envelope and turned to go. Behind him, Gloria rasped, "You're welcome." With a backhanded wave, he walked out, showing no remorse for extending Gloria's workday. Pete had asked her to make a small change in his advertising flyer and deliver a hundred copies to an intern on her way home.
She pushed her irritation aside and got to work. If nothing else, Gloria was loyal, skilled, and efficient. Pete Streicher didn't need charm or sophistication, qualities she didn't possess. Ten years ago, when she was looking for her next job, Pete was the only one to grant her an interview. The white-shoe lawyers at the big firms smelled underclass in her résumé: three previous employers, solo practitioners who'd gone under. Resigned to her fate, Gloria signed with Pete and stuck with him. He has proven amazingly resilient, clinging to the frayed rope of his practice longer than she expected.
Taddeo's message had given Streicher more than the usual pause. As he pondered the note, Gloria waited with arms crossed, her narrow hips moving slightly right and left with little impatient shifts of weight. "It's no go?"
"Give me a minute." Streicher never passed up a challenge if money could be made. This one wasn't a sure thing. In his twelve years of lawyering, he'd never taken on a dog bite case. Tough to win, owing to the "one free bite" rule - no liability unless the owner knew the animal had previously bitten someone else.
Was there anything promising in Taddeo's note? A few things might elicit a jury's sympathy for the victim. MetroMeals delivery driver. Expecting a delivery, the owner should have secured the dog. Lots of blood. BIG bite. Bad, bad injury. Must be a large, powerful animal, capable of maiming when triggered. Even so, this wasn't proof of a previous bite, and the owner certainly wouldn't admit such a thing under oath. Dogs got a free bite, and their owners got a free lie when there was no evidence to contradict them. Streicher might uncover that evidence, but if not, he'd try to bluff his way to a settlement. Either way, it was worth a try.
Streicher memorized Sean's address on Plantation Boulevard, shredded the note, and put a twenty in an envelope. "We'll follow up." He explained what he needed from Gloria and said, "I'll make some calls and let you know where to take the flyers." He'd get one of his interns to paper the neighborhood.
With a sour face, Gloria accepted her marching orders. Her attitude didn't concern him. Streicher could count on her. She'd stuck with him through the rough times, three complaints of unethical conduct. For the first, the Grievance Committee issued a letter of admonition; the second, an order of public censure; the third, a three-month suspension of his practice. For that one, he gave Gloria an extended vacation at half pay, and she still came back. If he wasn't careful, another complaint might result in disbarment.
But there wouldn't be a next time. He'd adapted, was less impulsive, not so naïve. Twelve years ago, straight out of law school, he vowed never to work under a boss. Proudly solo all the way. But without a track record, it was tough to attract clients. The bold declarations on his webpage weren't enough. "Initial consultation FREE." "You PAY NOTHING unless I win for you." He soon realized that, if clients weren't coming to him, he would have to go to them. Salesmanship and charm were all it took, enhanced by his good looks.
Soon, he was summoned to answer the first complaint against him. At the hearing, he was shocked by the snide insinuations of the attorney for the Grievance Committee. "You're aware, are you not Mr. Streicher, that the Code prohibits ambulance chasing?" That pejorative had never crossed young Streicher's mind. He didn't loiter at accident scenes or in ER waiting rooms. Merely kept his eye on breaking news stories and searched public records. He also had the decency to wait until the injured had returned home. The personal touch was best, face to face. Many slammed the door on him. He accepted that as their prerogative, didn't force his way in. But one of those door-slammers also filed a complaint.
So, he changed his methods. No personal visits. A letter in the victim's mailbox, to be read or tossed in recycling. Second complaint. He distanced himself further, a method that served him well for a while. He tipped a few low-paid janitors to place postcards in the street clothing of hospital-gowned accident victims, to be discovered when they were discharged. Eventually, the third complaint came. Streicher was put out of business for three months.
After the suspension, Streicher restrained himself. He was making an adequate living on referrals from past clients. On his webpage, he could boast a couple of big verdicts and was feeling confident. Around this time, he met Agatha Hellmann, a public defender.
An unusual day for him to be in criminal court. His client - a plaintiff in a personal injury action - had hired him to handle an unrelated intoxicated driving charge. Streicher saw a chance to dismiss the criminal case so it couldn't be used to impeach his client in the civil case, where the other driver was at fault.
As he sat waiting, Agatha was making a legal argument to the judge. Streicher was drawn to her, fascinated by her relentless energy and righteous outrage. The judge didn't like it. "Counselor, I'm warning you, don't take that tone with me." She only grew more belligerent. What was that? An f-bomb. And another. Down came the gavel. "The court holds you in contempt!"
It was love at first sight. Later that year, the two 32-year-old attorneys were married.
Distracted by his love life, Streicher's business suffered. He lost cases. Big jury verdicts were reduced or overturned on appeal. He was hanging on by a thread. His ego took a hit. Aggie was making more money than him on her government salary.
"Advertise," she suggested. "But follow the rules."
"Says Ms. Contempt of Court."
She laughed. "You know me. I take the bullet for my clients."
"Or the jail cell."
"But in your case, Pete, I'd stay on the right side of the line."
"Advertising is too expensive."
"I don't mean TV or radio or billboards. Flyers don't cost much."
"Who would read them?"
"Any mad-as-hell banged up accident victim, that's who."
"It's against the Code to target individuals."
"Then don't. You're not targeting if you stuff a hundred mailboxes."
She had a point. But, as always, the trick was to jump when opportunity called, taking care to obscure the trail between him and his informants. For five years now, his current method has flown under the Grievance Committee's radar.
Gloria rapped twice on the door and walked in. "Pete. Take a look before I make copies." She handed him the usual flyer (bold lettering, photo of his handsome face, scales of justice logo) with the addition she'd made - two words and a question mark:
Barely within the rules of professional conduct prohibiting misrepresentations. The twelve million was technically correct - all his recoveries at the trial level to date - but more than half that amount was uncollectable or reversed on appeal. And though he claimed to charge only on a contingency basis, he often talked his clients into paying upfront expenses like photocopying and filing fees. Overhead was eating him alive.
"Good to go, Gloria. Tim is waiting for the copies. Remind him to double paper Sean O'Halloran's apartment, front door and mailbox."
Six fifteen. Streicher packed up in a hurry and left the office while Gloria was still at the photocopy machine. These days, he tried to get home early. Aggie was in her ninth month, starting her first week of maternity leave, and having trouble adjusting to domestic life. At 37, they'd finally overcome their hesitation to procreate. To prepare themselves, they'd found out the baby's sex. A boy. "The Little Bruiser" they called him for lack of agreement on a name.
Now, more than ever, he needed to make money. Aggie might stay home past her four months of paid leave. Another mouth to feed, a boy who needed a father to look up to.
Back home, he walked into a loving, big-bellied embrace. "This sucks," she said. "How am I going to make it through this, Pete?"
"You're stir crazy?"
"Can't see my swollen feet."
Hands on her shoulders, stomach to stomach, he jumped back. "Whoa! I just felt his feet."
"He's a monster all right."
Hours later, Sean was discharged without the amenities usually afforded insured patients. No one offered a wheelchair or crutches or asked how he'd get home. He couldn't walk the few miles to his apartment. Dozens of stitches held the huge crescent-shaped flap together. Doped up for the pain, he debated who to call. Not MetroMeals. The hospital had already contacted them to pick up the van full of undelivered dinners. Sean had no doubt he'd lost that part-time gig. With no money for an Uber, he had three options: a brother who lived two hours away, an ex-girlfriend engaged to the man she'd left Sean for, and his mother, who lived nearby. He called Ma, his last resort.
Waiting on a bench outside, Sean heard Ma's rattling and belching muffler well before she pulled her beater up to the curb. She stayed behind the wheel as Sean limped over and got in. Ma's reaction was typical for every instance of bad luck her 25-year-old son seemed to attract. "What the hell happened?"
Sean explained in as few words possible. Ma's mood shifted, surprising him. "Good God." Was that a note of concern in her voice or something else? She darted an oblique look at his bandaged leg. "Must hurt like hell. A pit bull? They're the worst. D'you file a police report?"
"Nah. How could I? Had to go to the hospital."
"Do it in the morning. It's the owner's fault. That woman should feel the consequences. They'll put her dog down. You also need a police report to sue her. Where does she live?"
"Big house with a fence all around on Bittersweet Lane." A cul-de-sac just inside the de facto boundary between this neighborhood and that. "I didn't see the dog. It ran around from the backyard when I was at her door."
"Bittersweet Lane. She has money."
"Right about that." The woman ordered a pricey dinner and paid MetroMeals with AmEx over the phone. The receipt was stapled to the bag. No tip. Sean waited at the door - not long - but she sensed what he wanted. In a strange accent she barked, "Sorry. No cash." He hesitated, just long enough for her to go look for her wallet, and - big mistake. That's when the dog came out of nowhere.
Sean told his mother, "She ordered the most expensive meal and didn't even tip me."
"What an ingrate! Show the police your leg and get all the gory details in the report. Sue her for everything she's got."
On the subject of police reports, Sean gave his mother credence. Way back when, she'd filed more than one against Sean's father. Got a protective order and alimony that way, even if he rarely paid. "How much do you think I can get?" The more Sean thought about it, the woman's refusal to tip was an insult worse than the dog bite.
"A lot. You can't work, can you? How you going to pay your rent?" Ma had made it clear there's no place for him at home. She glanced at the bulky white dressing on Sean's calf under the scissored edge of his cutoff pant leg. "Ruined your best pair of pants and shoes, besides."
"Yeah, well, don't know how I can get to a police station..."
A dramatic sigh. A roll of the eyes. "Call them to come over. You can't walk. Makes the police report better. And when that lady pays you, be sure to thank me proper for my advice."
With that, Ma left him curbside in front of his apartment building.
Svetlana was sitting in her living room, stroking Igor's powerfully muscled shoulders, when the doorbell rang. He trotted after her into the foyer. "Sit!" she commanded. Igor obeyed. "Stay."
She'd trained him well, had tamed his baser instincts and bottled his power in usable form - a tool at the ready, when needed. A few days ago, Igor breached the boundaries of his training. Understandable. She'd forgotten to chain him outside or keep him in the house, under her control. Left to his own devices, he acted instinctively on his animal judgments, driven by loyalty to Svetlana and his hyper-sensitivity to her every displeasure. When Igor heard the MetroMeals van, he loped around from the backyard. That delivery kid, like a little beggar, wouldn't leave till he got a tip. Pretended not to hear when she said, "Sorry, no cash." He actually stepped over the threshold and peered inside the house, as if she was hiding something. That boy should thank his good fortune. A single bite. Igor retreated instantly on her command. That's how well she'd trained her protector.
She guessed she hadn't heard the last of it. Perhaps the town would ticket her. Where she grew up, corrupt officials always had their hand out, and it wasn't much different here. Two years ago, soon after she moved into this house, the fire chief came by, threatening a hundred-dollar fine for burning her trash in a metal can in the backyard. She promised to behave and bought him off with a smaller amount. Maybe it helped that Igor was sitting in the foyer directly behind her, patiently awaiting his owner's command.
When she answered the door this time, she assumed that something similar was about to happen. But the young man on her doorstep flashed a phony smile and said, "I have a special delivery for Svetlana Morozova."
"Special?" Maybe this wasn't about Igor. A message from her cousin Valentina. "Special" was a word they'd used for certain jobs, back in the day. Without thinking too hard, Svetlana took the envelope.
The man's smile faded. He'd seen the pit bull. "You've been served," he blurted and darted away.
"Hmph." She scowled at his back and pulled out the legal papers. Plaintiff Sean O'Halloran was suing her for two million dollars. The complaint bore the attorney's name, Peter Streicher, and the address of "Streicher Law Firm, PLLC."
Ridiculous legal nonsense. Svetlana had no thought of hiring a lawyer. She'd take care of these people herself. Better yet, this might be a fun project for Valentina. A civil complaint, a civil response. In their retirement, the cousins called up their respective skills when needed, making use of Valentina's beauty and ingenuity more often than Svetlana's muscle and rage.
Under Valentina's influence, Svetlana had been working on redirecting her anger. She went downstairs to her basement gym, where she lifted weights for an hour. Igor kept her company, panting his appreciation of her strength and vitality as she tossed out endearments in her native Russian. Moy krasivyy muzhchina. My beautiful man.
On her way back upstairs for a shower, the doorbell rang again. "What now?" She commanded Igor to sit behind her as she answered the door.
Two men stood there, a police officer and an official in a khaki uniform fitted with protective gear. Eyeing her glistening biceps, the cop said, "Svetlana Morozova?"
She nodded.
He flashed an ID. "Sergeant Bradley Thorne, County Police." With a little jolt, his eyes widened when he noticed Igor. "Secure your dog, ma'am."
"He's very tame, Sergeant." She sparkled and smiled at him as if to charm, thinking to herself, what fools. Her buff, forty-seven-year-old body was more powerfully muscled than the bodies of these men. The sergeant quaked in his boots. His companion was skinny under that padding, a shell-like chest guard, massive gloves, and safety helmet with face shield.
"I have an order to impound the dog." Sergeant Thorne took out some papers.
Svetlana tensed. Igor growled. "Hush, Igor." She waved off the papers. "Some mistake. My dog? You have no right. This is America."
"It's a court order, ma'am. The police report is attached. Your animal is a threat to health and safety." Leery of the dog, Thorne stepped backward while stretching his arm toward her. He lost his grip, and the papers fluttered to the ground.
Khaki Uniform took over. With a signal to men in a van parked at the curb, he stepped into the doorway. Igor bared his teeth. "Control your dog, lady. He bites me, he gets euthanized." Svetlana tried to close the door, but he inserted his booted foot in the opening. Two more khaki uniforms ran up the front walk. Igor growled but wouldn't move without a new command. Svetlana let go of the door and grabbed Igor by the collar. "I have him. See? A good dog. It's a lie. All lies!"
But she was outnumbered, one strong woman against three inferior, padded men. Igor could have taken them out, but she swallowed the command, having better sense than to risk arrest. Before surrendering her beloved animal, she dropped to her knees, flung her arms around his neck, and whispered soothing Russian in his ear. Instantly, Igor lost the growl and lapsed into calm compliance. With a final kiss, she assured him, "Be patient, my love. I will come get you."
That evening, bereft and dogless, Svetlana called Valentina, venting her outrage in rapid fire Russian. "The police took Igor. Locked up my beautiful man. Gave me some papers saying he's dangerous. Such lies. He obeys me completely. You know how well I trained my sweetheart -"
"To protect you, when needed."
"Once or twice, maybe, but I took care of those. No complaints from anyone. This is different. A court case." She read a paragraph from the impound order, describing an appeal process. "You see? I can get him back if they drop the case."
"What's it about?"
"A greedy delivery boy is suing me for two million dollars. MetroMeals. I paid for the food but he wouldn't leave, wanted a tip. So pushy, he nearly broke into the house. Igor bit him on the leg."
"You set the dog on him?"
"Of course not. I could have taken care of that skinny punk myself, but Igor used his own judgment. Very wisely, I would say. The kid deserved it. One bite is all he got. Igor let go the minute I called him off. Hardly worth two million."
Valentina was skeptical. Although she believed that Svetlana had, "once or twice," adequately buried the consequences of Igor's attacks, she also knew that lawsuits don't go away so easily. The plaintiff could cause trouble if his lawyer found a way to prove that Svetlana knowingly harbored a vicious animal. Unlikely, perhaps, to uncover that evidence, but Valentina didn't know everything Igor had done in the past two years.
Svetlana's love for her trained attack dog was a holdover from her past, along with her stubborn attraction to the criminal element. Why else would Svetlana choose a home - although tucked in a nice enclave - within a few blocks of a high crime area? She kept Igor for protection from enemies, both past and present. Valentina didn't feel the same need and had a different taste in animals. Her own canine companion was a tote-bag-sized white Maltese named Aleksei.
Despite their differences, Valentina was ready to help. The cousins were close. Their bond of mutual protection and support originated long ago in a pact between their fathers, the Morozov brothers from Norilsk (may they both rest in peace). The brothers' middle-aged daughters were now retired from their respective associations with that underworld organization known as Bratva, living comfortably on their nest eggs. They'd each bought a home in this suburban county, far from the concrete jungle where they once survived on a diet of clever scheming and brutality.
"This one's spetsial'nyy, don't you think?"
"Svetlana. A delivery boy? Have you no heart?" Just when Valentina started to think that retirement had softened her cousin, she said something like this. Back in the day, that word would set the duo in motion. Valentina, a consummate actress, could play any part - sultry honeypot, wealthy socialite, narcotics dealer - whatever was needed to hook the catch for Svetlana. But a delivery boy asking for a tip was not a Special. "I'll take care of it. Give me the information."
Svetlana heaved a sigh redolent of longing for old times. "All right, cousin. I did think you might enjoy this one." She gave Valentina the names and addresses in the police report and civil complaint. Client and attorney.
What a dump. Standing in the stinking vestibule of O'Halloran's apartment building at 1850 Plantation Boulevard, Valentina pulled on the handle of the locked inner door. She adjusted the shoulder strap of her baby-blue tote, and Aleksei erupted in three little yips. "Quiet, Alyosha." Her gentle scolding with a favorite diminutive silenced her little one. "That's a good darling."
She easily opened the oft-jimmied lock with a credit card, avoided the iffy elevator, and walked up four flights. At 4F, she knocked. Waited. Knocked harder. Waited longer. Ear to the door, she heard no signs of life, although muffled yells from an apartment down the hall competed for her attention.
Unbeknownst to Valentina, Sean was passed out on his ratty couch, temporarily dead to the world from a double dose of codeine to kill the pain.
Outside again, Valentina exhaled the foul air she'd been forced to breathe and set out on the five-minute walk to her car. Parking was impossible in this crowded neighborhood of apartment dwellers. On the sidewalk, she dodged overturned recycling bins and spilled leftovers from a sloppy sanitation pickup. A breeze kicked up a few identical papers. The photograph caught her eye. Was that...? Attorney Peter Streicher, none other. Only an hour ago while researching this project, she'd seen that headshot on his webpage. She picked up the cleanest flyer, read his pitch, and laughed out loud. This was perfect. Alyosha matched her pleasure with a happy volley of excited yapping.
On the intercom, Gloria announced the visitor with her usual fanfare. "Pete. Someone to see you about a new case. I'll send her in." She clicked off without getting her boss's approval. New business always took priority. She told Valentina, "Go on in," as her eyes dropped to the baby-blue tote. Is there an animal in there?
Streicher barely glanced up from the paperwork on his desk, then did a doubletake and lingered. When Valentina entered a room, men usually gave her their full attention.
She closed the door behind her and quickly sized up her prey. This man was five to seven years younger than her, moderately handsome and still believed in his attractiveness despite the wear and tear of professional defeat. From the looks of his low-rent office, he could use his share of the dog bite money. Valentina didn't miss a detail, always attentive to the needs of every stakeholder when working on a project. Along with her many other assets, her former boss appreciated her compassionate core. No need to destroy the enemy in every case. Business often continued on better footing if everyone got a little something in the resolution of their conflict. Sometimes, that wasn't possible.
Valentina roughened her near perfect English, adding a not-so-Russian accent. "You are Peter Streicher? 'I win millions for you'?"
"Came to the right place." He smiled and indicated a chair across from him at the desk. "Have a seat."
"Thank you." Before sitting, she placed the tote on the floor, showing off her nimbleness in profile with a straight-legged bend from the waist. Then she crouched to unzip the tote, coming up with Alyosha under her left arm. "You mind?"
The stunned lawyer shook his head. "Not at all."
Hugging the dog to her chest, she sat and stroked his crown. "I love dogs and they love me. You see?"
"I do."
"I bring him here to show you this animal love I have -" Alyosha yipped. "Hush, darling." To Streicher: "I show you because I want you for my lawyer."
Streicher caught his breath and gulped. "I see..."
"Do you see? Is not my fault that dog bite me."
"Your dog?" He tipped his head toward the Maltese.
"Oh, no no no! Not my darling Alyosha. A big one. Your specialty, isn't it?" She bent over the arm of the chair to get a folded paper out of the tote and gave it a one-handed shake, opening it for his eyes before she put it away again.
Streicher seemed confused. Valentina was too well turned out to live on Plantation Boulevard. "Well, yes, I do handle that kind of case. Did you, um, get the flyer in the mail?"
"No, a friend remember my terrible dog bite and give me your paper. 'Make that woman pay, Valentina.' I suffered, you know. Still have a scar. Here. Look." She stood up, leaned across the desk, and thrust her bare right forearm under Streicher's nose as she clutched Alyosha under her left arm. Too close for the canine, who rumbled a high-pitched growl.
Valentina quickly sat again, satisfied that she'd given the attorney a vague impression of the faded purple marks. Teeth marks, to be sure, but of human origin. An ex-lover, one of her favorites, had gotten carried away one night. She shivered pleasantly to recall those delicious sensations on her delicate inner forearm.
An unusual spot, Streicher was thinking. "You must have gotten very close -"
"Because I love the animals and they love me. Was my old neighborhood, a nice day. I like to walk. You too?"
He nodded, but his pale complexion told her that he rarely got outside.
"At this house, I stop to rest. Fence all around it, big dog inside, panting like this." She demonstrated with her lovely tongue. "A beautiful, strong dog. Looked friendly. Maybe I can pet him. I lean over the fence, both arms down," she twitched the fingers of her right hand in a beckoning gesture, "and, oh! Happen so fast." She pulled her arm back.
"Ouch," Streicher said.
"More than ouch. Blood dripping. Lady comes out and say, 'Very sorry.' She give me a towel and I wrap it and just go away. Did not even think..."
"That you might have a cause of action."
"You mean, for money."
"Yes, but it depends. I can look into it. Do you remember the address?"
"The number? No, but the street, very cute name. Bittersweet Lane. Only house with a fence."
Streicher fairly jumped in his seat but pretended he was about to stand up anyway. He went to his messy credenza, picked up a photo, and turned to show her. "This it?"
She popped up, all excited. "How you know this house?"
"Another case. That dog bit someone else."
"No!" She stepped closer, her liquid brown eyes flitting rapidly from the photo to Streicher's face and back again. "That dog did it again?"
"Yes." Face to face, they froze in a locked stare before he could think of his next question. "When did this dog bite you?"
"I don't know. Before I moved."
"When was that?"
"Four years ago."
"Hmm." Streicher turned and put the photo on the credenza. "There's a three-year statute of limitations."
"Limitations?"
"It's too late for you to sue the dog owner." He returned to his desk chair.
"Oh." Valentina slumped in dramatic disappointment. Alyosha whimpered in commiseration. "Hm... how you say that? She get away with it."
Streicher sat taller and broke into a smile. "Not necessarily. I have an idea."
She rushed back to her chair and said, "Tell me." Gazing at him expectantly, she kept the victory out of her eyes. Good. He thinks it's his idea.
"If you testify in the other case, we can make sure she doesn't get away with it."
"For that other person, not me."
"But I can pay you a witness fee. Even more if we win the case. You'll get some compensation and teach her a lesson at the same time."
Valentina's eyes lit up.
"You like the idea?" he asked.
"Yes."
"Good. Let me get some information from you." He picked up a pen. "Name, address, and phone."
Valentina dipped into the tote bag for her wallet. She let go of Alyosha as she plucked out the driver's license she'd chosen from several in her small safe at home. The dog stayed seated on her lap, ears perked.
"Valentina... Smith?"
"My married name." She winked. "Oh, I divorce that one but keep the name. Easier to be Smith. No one here can say Craioveanue."
"Your maiden name."
"Yes."
"Where are you from?"
"Romania. Transylvania region."
His eyes flickered.
"Don't mistake me. Proud Transylvanian. I love my name. Did you know? My hobby is names. Peter. A very good one."
He gave her a blank look.
"You don't know meaning of Peter?" A dramatic pause. "Rock."
"Is that so?"
"And Valentina mean strong and healthy." Alyosha barked for emphasis. She pointed at Streicher. "The rock." At herself. "Strong and healthy. A good team."
Pro se defendant Svetlana Morozova adamantly refused to settle, pushed for an early trial date, and demanded release of her beloved Igor. She called the pound and was told they did not have "visiting hours." She made a personal visit anyway.
The impatient Khaki Uniform at the desk wouldn't give an inch. "Lady, this isn't a petting zoo." His growl was accompanied by a backup chorus of animal voices echoing from deep within the facility. Was that Igor she heard, carrying the bassline?
She shoved the order under his nose. "You stole my dog with these lies. I demand to see him." She pointed at the case number. "Tell me which cage."
"I can't let you back there."
"Then you go. Find him and give him this." She'd brought one of her sweat-soaked (air dried) sport bras and put it on the counter.
"Okay, okay." The man punched the numbers into his computer, and that's when she saw it written on his face. The knowledge. The guilt. The treachery. He reached under the counter for something but came up empty-handed and tapped the keyboard a few more times, stalling.
"What is it?"
"Uh, looks like your dog... isn't here. A notice went out in the mail yesterday."
"What notice?"
"He couldn't be handled. Too dangerous. They euthanized him."
"No! That's some other dog. You give me Igor when they dismiss the case."
He turned the monitor toward her. "Says here."
Her eyes flitted around the screen and went wild. "Last week? You don't call me, you just kill him?"
Emotional pet owners came with the job. He'd pressed the silent alarm under the counter, and two Khaki Uniforms were already behind her. It took all three men to drag Svetlana, kicking and screaming, out of the building.
On trial day, the new father wasn't his sharpest. Throughout the night, The Little Bruiser (given name Rex) had vocalized his needs every two hours. Appearing before Judge Blanca Moreno on little sleep was dangerous. She was no fan of Streicher's, unimpressed with his advocacy skills and well-aware of his past troubles with the Grievance Committee.
Nonetheless, Streicher was confident of victory. He had a lock on this case, not to mention his advantage over an adversary who foolishly believed she could handle her own defense without a lawyer.
At counsel table, he placed his client at the end closer to the jury with his leg propped on a chair. Months after the bite, Sean's injury still swelled painfully, making any kind of work impossible (so he would testify). His mother, Kerry Coughlin, sat in the audience. She'd been a real pest during trial prep, but Streicher firmly refused her offer to testify about her son's suffering. Kerry was a loose cannon.
An electric jolt sucked out his breath when he first laid eyes on Svetlana. She was built like a linebacker. Once that sunk in, he supposed it would help his case. A human thunderbolt with a vicious dog. Dangerous. She was a magnet for Kerry's dagger eyes and silent loathing, a more productive message than the occasional bad vibes that radiated between mother and son across the courtroom.
Streicher displayed his exhibits to the jury on a large computer screen, once they were admitted into evidence. He first offered Sean's medical records. When the judge asked Svetlana if she had any objection, she stood and waved a hand. "Whatever." Nor did she object to the photo of Igor. "That's my darling," she agreed, then ranted, "They murdered you, my sweet man!" The judge admonished her and told the jury to disregard her comments.
But Svetlana was just warming up.
Streicher's expert witness testified that pit bulls were responsible for seventy percent of all injuries and deaths from dog assaults. Svetlana jumped up and yelled "Lies!" and "Not my Igor." Next, a Khaki Uniform testified that her vicious dog had to be euthanized, touching off a jag of dramatic sobbing and breast beating.
When Sean limped up to the witness stand, Svetlana was ready to explode. She fumed and spat out "Eh" in disgust when Sean pointed her out as the owner of the fenced home on Bittersweet Lane, identifying it by photo. Next on the screen were gory images of Sean's injury as he testified about Igor's attack.
"Did you do anything to provoke the animal?"
"No. I just handed her the bag. That's all. The dog came out of nowhere."
"Wrong, wrong, wrong," Svetlana yelled.
"Ms. Morozova -"
"He was trying to break into my house."
"Enough. Sit down," Judge Moreno warned. "You'll get your chance to testify."
At the end of Sean's oft-interrupted testimony, Streicher was at a crossroads. Should he call Valentina now, on his direct case, or wait until rebuttal? He wanted to save the best for last - catching Svetlana in a lie. But he risked dismissal of his case for insufficiency. The evidence, thus far, raised an inference that Svetlana knew she harbored an attack dog, but it did not prove a previous bite. He decided to take the risk and wait. The judge could hardly back out of her promise to give the defendant her day in court.
Streicher subtly tipped his head toward the defendant as he met the judge's eyes. "The plaintiff rests but reserves rebuttal." The judge went along.
Without an attorney, Svetlana was allowed to testify in narrative form. She laid it on thick about the delivery boy's breach of her threshold and Igor's protective reaction to the intruder. Streicher didn't object, assuming correctly that she would volunteer what he needed: "A good dog. Before this, Igor never bit anyone." On cross-examination, he got her to repeat it.
When she'd finished her defense, Streicher smiled inwardly and said, "Your Honor, the plaintiff calls Valentina Smith in rebuttal." This was going to be good.
Valentina parted the swinging doors and walked up the aisle, all eyes on her. A quick look passed between the cousins as the clerk administered the oath.
Streicher projected the image of Svetlana's house on the screen. "Ms. Smith, are you familiar with this house on Bittersweet Lane?"
"Yes! This is why I come to your office when I get this paper..." She pulled the folded flyer from a pocket.
"That wasn't my question -"
"...but you say it is too late to sue."
"May I see that?" The judge reached down from the bench and Valentina handed it up.
"Objection!" How could he have forgotten to take that flyer away from her? But he never thought...
"Objecting to your own witness, counselor?"
"This is irrelevant, Your Honor."
The judge scanned the paper and asked Valentina, "Where did you get this?"
"From my friend who live at 1850 Plantation."
Streicher broke out in a sweat. Judge Moreno's eyes narrowed on him. "I'll hold this under advisement. Continue."
He straightened up and cleared his throat, but his stride was broken. "M-Ms. Smith, please tell the jury what happened about four years ago at this house on Bittersweet Lane."
"I lean over the fence to pet a dog. Friendly looking dog. But it bit my arm." She turned to the jury and held up her forearm. "Blood everywhere. Lady come out and says, 'I'm sorry' and give me a towel."
"Take a look around the courtroom and tell us if you see that woman here today."
Valentina made the rounds slowly, pausing on each face. Kerry, Svetlana, the female jurors, a few court employees. She stopped on the judge's face. "No. I do not see."
Svetlana jumped up. "Of course she doesn't."
"Understandable, after four years," Streicher interrupted, frantically tapping through the exhibits on the screen.
"But I remember the dog..."
"Four years?" Svetlana cut in.
"Hold on, Ms. Smith, I'll get the photo of that dog."
"Ridiculous!" Svetlana huffed and crossed her powerful arms.
"Big, furry dog, not sure how you call it, German Shepard maybe..."
"This one, Ms. Smith?"
"No no no," Valentina shook her head prettily. "Dog with lots of fur. Not that one."
"I didn't even live there!"
Judge Moreno wiped the smile from her lips and brought down the gavel. Time to end the free-for-all, despite her enjoyment of it. "Ms. Morozova, are you saying you didn't live there four years ago?"
"I've been there two years."
The judge turned to Streicher. "Forgot to check property records, counselor? I'm declaring a mistrial." A final bang of the gavel.
As the courtroom cleared, Judge Moreno called the pro se defendant up to the bench for a little legal advice: File a motion to dismiss for insufficient evidence and complain to the Grievance Committee about Streicher's unethical advertising and obvious incompetence.
Svetlana took the advice and submitted her own colorfully phrased, handwritten complaint. But that wasn't the end of it. Sean - at Ma's urging - bypassed his worthless attorney and started harassing Svetlana, putting nasty messages and gory photos of his injury in her mailbox. "Your dog did this. Pay up!" He kept on, even after the judge signed an order dismissing the case.
Sue them? Call the police? Not in Svetlana's playbook. Valentina paid her a visit to discuss the problem. She wisely left Aleksei at home, not sure how her little one would fare in the company of Svetlana's new pit bull, Bronya.
"She's a miracle." Dog at her feet, Svetlana caressed an ear. "She follows every command, spoken and unspoken, gestures and hand signals. She'll do anything I want, from ladylike punishment up to the ultimate. Strong as a man, like Igor."
Valentina knew what was on her mind. "Cousin, this isn't the way. That boy and his mother are poor. You remember what that's like. They'll be happy with something small and agree to go away. Ten thousand, maybe."
"I should pay them for harassing me?"
"You did forget to chain Igor."
"And you made that lawyer think he had a good case instead of dismissing it..."
"All right..."
"...and meanwhile, they killed Igor."
"I'll pay them with my money. Satisfied? We already got back at the lawyer."
"Are you serious? That little complaint? Doesn't do enough to honor Igor. Judges and lawyers never really punish one of their own."
They discussed it further and came up with a plan they could live with.
The next day, shouldering Alyosha in the baby-blue tote, Valentina visited the lawyer while Gloria was out to lunch. Head in hands, Streicher was slumped over his desk.
His head popped up at her bright, "Pete!" accompanied by Alyosha's energetic yipping.
"What are you doing here? Came to gloat?"
"No. I come to say sorry." She placed the tote on the floor and sat down. "I didn't mean..."
"Oh, you meant it." Did he know? Didn't matter. She was untouchable, her perjury undetectable. She was the divorcée Valentina Smith, married to Gregory Smith just long enough to get her green card. And the previous owner of Svetlana's house did have a German Shephard. The cousins met the elderly lady and her dog at an open house where Svetlana made the offer to buy the property. The fence around the perimeter was one of the selling points. Valentina checked, and the elderly woman has since passed away.
Acting fast, she saw a way to deflect. "So sweet! Your baby?" She grabbed a framed photo from his desk.
"Yup." He couldn't help smiling. "That's Rex. Six months old."
"Big-little Rex. The Rock made a King!"
"Is that so?"
Her eyes grew moist as she gently replaced the photo. "For the baby, we should solve your troubles. I am sorry."
"I bet you are."
"And so is the Russian."
"I bet she is."
"Seriously. After the trial, I apologize and we talk. My new friend is feeling bad about everyone. The boy, his mother, even you."
"Oh yeah? She filed a complaint against me."
"Only because of Igor. She's heartbroken. Her beloved pet, like a son. How do you feel if your baby is murdered?"
His eyes flashed wider in alarm and darted to baby Rex's chubby cheeks.
"They kill her baby, and no one apologize."
"Well, she didn't apologize to my client. Her dog nearly took his leg off. He's out of work and could sue me for malpractice, thanks to you."
"Yes, we must get rid of that boy."
"Take out a contract on him?" He snickered sarcastically.
If only he knew... But Valentina was here on a diplomatic mission. "What I am saying, that boy is also big problem for Svetlana. Constantly bothering her, still begging for money. She want you to help her make a deal and make him go away."
Streicher laughed, but he paid attention when Valentina outlined the terms. Svetlana was willing to drop her grievance against Streicher and pay Sean ten thousand dollars if Sean waived all claims against both of them.
"Why will he accept ten thousand?"
"I already ask."
"Oh, yeah?"
"He is poor, you know. Huge amount for him." And if he tried to back out, Valentina had ways to make him sign the waiver. "And best thing, she give check to you, and you give to Sean. Rock is the big man again! Just bring some legal paper for him to sign." She brushed her palms together three times: "Gone gone gone!" In the tote bag, Alyosha yapped agreement.
"I'll have Gloria prepare the waiver, but why would Morozova do this? What's in the deal for her? The case is dismissed. Sean has no legal right to her money. He doesn't have a leg to stand on... figuratively speaking."
"Ah, well this is it. One more term, important for her, small thing for you. Help mend the grieving heart, you know." Valentina beat her breastbone with a soft fist. "You must go to her house for the ten thousand check. She will give it and take back her grievance only if you say sorry, face to face." Valentina acted it out. "'My deepest sympathies. I am very sorry about Igor. I did not say to them to kill your dog. If I knew I would try to stop them. I grieve for you.' Something like that. Make it good."
He wasn't yet convinced, but it didn't take Valentina much longer.
With a smile on her face, Valentina left Streicher's office, satisfied with the deal. It was always better this way. Give something to get something.
There was just one thing that worried her.
On the sidewalk, she pulled out her cellphone. "Cousin, it's arranged for Thursday morning. But there's one thing we didn't know - he's a new father."
"Why does that matter?"
"You should see the beautiful baby boy. Rex is his name. The little King."
"Always so sentimental, Valya."
"And you, always so extreme." She'd already talked Svetlana out of the extreme, but the middle range left much to the imagination.
"Don't worry. I get it."
"Do you?"
"It's what you told me before, about the law. Bronya gets one free bite, doesn't she?"
"Yes, but you must promise me one thing. Something ladylike."
Svetlana heaved a big sigh. "I promise." Between the cousins, a promise was never broken.
"Kisses." Valentina put her phone in the tote, praised Alyosha with, "What a good darling," and walked on.
 |
| Image generated with OpenAI |
Even the sick and injured had to pass security in this small suburban hospital serving a low-rent neighborhood. Minimum-wage guard Taddeo was manning the checkpoint when Sean limped through the public entrance at 4:15pm. An orderly rushed over with a wheelchair. In precisely choreographed haste, Taddeo helped Sean empty his pockets into a plastic tray, and the orderly pushed him through the metal detector to the reception desk.
Behind the glass barrier, the intake clerk needed a few details before unlocking the inner doors to admit Sean. Standing nearby, Taddeo overheard "delivery" and "dog bite" and "right calf." Plenty of moaning. Taddeo handed Sean his cell phone but pushed the wallet and keys through a cutout under the window. "He parked in the driveway." The clerk nodded her understanding. She would notify the groundskeeper.
Taddeo lingered at the desk because he could. As yet, no one else needed screening. Delivery driver. Dog bite. Why not? Streicher paid a 20-spot for every accident victim, a C-note if the plaintiff won the case. No payment if he'd already found the information in a public record. Could the lawyer make a case out of a dog bite? The injury looked serious. Taddeo kept his ears open.
The intake clerk pulled a driver's license from the wallet and read the information to the patient. He confirmed each item with a nod: name, date of birth, address. "Health insurance?" Sean shook his head and groaned in agony, proof of dire need despite inability to pay. With a click, the wide double doors crept inward, and the orderly wheeled him in.
Still quiet at the main entrance. Taddeo pivoted away from reception and thumb typed notes on his smartphone. Everything he remembered. When his shift ended at five, he'd have time to make a handwritten note and deliver it to the attorney before his office closed. Taddeo kept paper, pen, and envelopes in his car for just this purpose. Streicher forbade phone calls, texts, or emails.
Five minutes after five, Taddeo was sweating bullets. His replacement didn't show until nine minutes after the hour, wearing a wrinkled uniform, alcohol on his breath. Taddeo dashed out, and by ten to six, his rubber-soled shoes were squealing down the empty hallway to the lawyer's door. Vinyl lettering identified "Streicher Law Firm, PLLC," the peeling second L drooping like a dying flower.
A few things still puzzled Taddeo. The oddity of a sole practitioner calling himself a "law firm." The shabbiness of Peter Streicher's office in this rundown building despite his proclaimed track record of winning "millions" for his clients.
In the anteroom, Gloria stood at her desk, rifling through her handbag. Time to go home. Her tired, fifty-something eyes met Taddeo's with mild annoyance. He thrust the sealed envelope at her. "For Mr. Streicher. It's about my case." Taddeo's bogus case resided in a thin manilla folder with a single sheet of scribbled "consultation" notes, proof of a legitimate purpose for his visits.
Taking the envelope, Gloria said, "Sure," with a smirk.
"Urgent."
"Yeah. Right away."
"I'll wait."
Gloria tap-tapped on her boss's door and entered with a lackluster announcement. "Urgent, he says." Taddeo caught the lawyer's eye and gave a confident nod before she closed the door. Five minutes later - longer than usual - Gloria emerged with another envelope. A twenty would be inside. More later, if Streicher won the case.
Without a word, Taddeo pocketed the envelope and turned to go. Behind him, Gloria rasped, "You're welcome." With a backhanded wave, he walked out, showing no remorse for extending Gloria's workday. Pete had asked her to make a small change in his advertising flyer and deliver a hundred copies to an intern on her way home.
She pushed her irritation aside and got to work. If nothing else, Gloria was loyal, skilled, and efficient. Pete Streicher didn't need charm or sophistication, qualities she didn't possess. Ten years ago, when she was looking for her next job, Pete was the only one to grant her an interview. The white-shoe lawyers at the big firms smelled underclass in her résumé: three previous employers, solo practitioners who'd gone under. Resigned to her fate, Gloria signed with Pete and stuck with him. He has proven amazingly resilient, clinging to the frayed rope of his practice longer than she expected.
Taddeo's message had given Streicher more than the usual pause. As he pondered the note, Gloria waited with arms crossed, her narrow hips moving slightly right and left with little impatient shifts of weight. "It's no go?"
"Give me a minute." Streicher never passed up a challenge if money could be made. This one wasn't a sure thing. In his twelve years of lawyering, he'd never taken on a dog bite case. Tough to win, owing to the "one free bite" rule - no liability unless the owner knew the animal had previously bitten someone else.
Was there anything promising in Taddeo's note? A few things might elicit a jury's sympathy for the victim. MetroMeals delivery driver. Expecting a delivery, the owner should have secured the dog. Lots of blood. BIG bite. Bad, bad injury. Must be a large, powerful animal, capable of maiming when triggered. Even so, this wasn't proof of a previous bite, and the owner certainly wouldn't admit such a thing under oath. Dogs got a free bite, and their owners got a free lie when there was no evidence to contradict them. Streicher might uncover that evidence, but if not, he'd try to bluff his way to a settlement. Either way, it was worth a try.
Streicher memorized Sean's address on Plantation Boulevard, shredded the note, and put a twenty in an envelope. "We'll follow up." He explained what he needed from Gloria and said, "I'll make some calls and let you know where to take the flyers." He'd get one of his interns to paper the neighborhood.
With a sour face, Gloria accepted her marching orders. Her attitude didn't concern him. Streicher could count on her. She'd stuck with him through the rough times, three complaints of unethical conduct. For the first, the Grievance Committee issued a letter of admonition; the second, an order of public censure; the third, a three-month suspension of his practice. For that one, he gave Gloria an extended vacation at half pay, and she still came back. If he wasn't careful, another complaint might result in disbarment.
But there wouldn't be a next time. He'd adapted, was less impulsive, not so naïve. Twelve years ago, straight out of law school, he vowed never to work under a boss. Proudly solo all the way. But without a track record, it was tough to attract clients. The bold declarations on his webpage weren't enough. "Initial consultation FREE." "You PAY NOTHING unless I win for you." He soon realized that, if clients weren't coming to him, he would have to go to them. Salesmanship and charm were all it took, enhanced by his good looks.
Soon, he was summoned to answer the first complaint against him. At the hearing, he was shocked by the snide insinuations of the attorney for the Grievance Committee. "You're aware, are you not Mr. Streicher, that the Code prohibits ambulance chasing?" That pejorative had never crossed young Streicher's mind. He didn't loiter at accident scenes or in ER waiting rooms. Merely kept his eye on breaking news stories and searched public records. He also had the decency to wait until the injured had returned home. The personal touch was best, face to face. Many slammed the door on him. He accepted that as their prerogative, didn't force his way in. But one of those door-slammers also filed a complaint.
So, he changed his methods. No personal visits. A letter in the victim's mailbox, to be read or tossed in recycling. Second complaint. He distanced himself further, a method that served him well for a while. He tipped a few low-paid janitors to place postcards in the street clothing of hospital-gowned accident victims, to be discovered when they were discharged. Eventually, the third complaint came. Streicher was put out of business for three months.
After the suspension, Streicher restrained himself. He was making an adequate living on referrals from past clients. On his webpage, he could boast a couple of big verdicts and was feeling confident. Around this time, he met Agatha Hellmann, a public defender.
An unusual day for him to be in criminal court. His client - a plaintiff in a personal injury action - had hired him to handle an unrelated intoxicated driving charge. Streicher saw a chance to dismiss the criminal case so it couldn't be used to impeach his client in the civil case, where the other driver was at fault.
As he sat waiting, Agatha was making a legal argument to the judge. Streicher was drawn to her, fascinated by her relentless energy and righteous outrage. The judge didn't like it. "Counselor, I'm warning you, don't take that tone with me." She only grew more belligerent. What was that? An f-bomb. And another. Down came the gavel. "The court holds you in contempt!"
It was love at first sight. Later that year, the two 32-year-old attorneys were married.
Distracted by his love life, Streicher's business suffered. He lost cases. Big jury verdicts were reduced or overturned on appeal. He was hanging on by a thread. His ego took a hit. Aggie was making more money than him on her government salary.
"Advertise," she suggested. "But follow the rules."
"Says Ms. Contempt of Court."
She laughed. "You know me. I take the bullet for my clients."
"Or the jail cell."
"But in your case, Pete, I'd stay on the right side of the line."
"Advertising is too expensive."
"I don't mean TV or radio or billboards. Flyers don't cost much."
"Who would read them?"
"Any mad-as-hell banged up accident victim, that's who."
"It's against the Code to target individuals."
"Then don't. You're not targeting if you stuff a hundred mailboxes."
She had a point. But, as always, the trick was to jump when opportunity called, taking care to obscure the trail between him and his informants. For five years now, his current method has flown under the Grievance Committee's radar.
Gloria rapped twice on the door and walked in. "Pete. Take a look before I make copies." She handed him the usual flyer (bold lettering, photo of his handsome face, scales of justice logo) with the addition she'd made - two words and a question mark:
Have you been injured through no fault of your own? Traffic accident? Defective product? Dog bite? You may have a claim for damages. Pay nothing unless we recover for you! Call Streicher Law Firm: 1-800-IAM-INJURED. We've won TWELVE MILLION for our clients!*
*Past jury verdicts do not guarantee recovery in your case.
Barely within the rules of professional conduct prohibiting misrepresentations. The twelve million was technically correct - all his recoveries at the trial level to date - but more than half that amount was uncollectable or reversed on appeal. And though he claimed to charge only on a contingency basis, he often talked his clients into paying upfront expenses like photocopying and filing fees. Overhead was eating him alive.
"Good to go, Gloria. Tim is waiting for the copies. Remind him to double paper Sean O'Halloran's apartment, front door and mailbox."
Six fifteen. Streicher packed up in a hurry and left the office while Gloria was still at the photocopy machine. These days, he tried to get home early. Aggie was in her ninth month, starting her first week of maternity leave, and having trouble adjusting to domestic life. At 37, they'd finally overcome their hesitation to procreate. To prepare themselves, they'd found out the baby's sex. A boy. "The Little Bruiser" they called him for lack of agreement on a name.
Now, more than ever, he needed to make money. Aggie might stay home past her four months of paid leave. Another mouth to feed, a boy who needed a father to look up to.
Back home, he walked into a loving, big-bellied embrace. "This sucks," she said. "How am I going to make it through this, Pete?"
"You're stir crazy?"
"Can't see my swollen feet."
Hands on her shoulders, stomach to stomach, he jumped back. "Whoa! I just felt his feet."
"He's a monster all right."
Hours later, Sean was discharged without the amenities usually afforded insured patients. No one offered a wheelchair or crutches or asked how he'd get home. He couldn't walk the few miles to his apartment. Dozens of stitches held the huge crescent-shaped flap together. Doped up for the pain, he debated who to call. Not MetroMeals. The hospital had already contacted them to pick up the van full of undelivered dinners. Sean had no doubt he'd lost that part-time gig. With no money for an Uber, he had three options: a brother who lived two hours away, an ex-girlfriend engaged to the man she'd left Sean for, and his mother, who lived nearby. He called Ma, his last resort.
Waiting on a bench outside, Sean heard Ma's rattling and belching muffler well before she pulled her beater up to the curb. She stayed behind the wheel as Sean limped over and got in. Ma's reaction was typical for every instance of bad luck her 25-year-old son seemed to attract. "What the hell happened?"
Sean explained in as few words possible. Ma's mood shifted, surprising him. "Good God." Was that a note of concern in her voice or something else? She darted an oblique look at his bandaged leg. "Must hurt like hell. A pit bull? They're the worst. D'you file a police report?"
"Nah. How could I? Had to go to the hospital."
"Do it in the morning. It's the owner's fault. That woman should feel the consequences. They'll put her dog down. You also need a police report to sue her. Where does she live?"
"Big house with a fence all around on Bittersweet Lane." A cul-de-sac just inside the de facto boundary between this neighborhood and that. "I didn't see the dog. It ran around from the backyard when I was at her door."
"Bittersweet Lane. She has money."
"Right about that." The woman ordered a pricey dinner and paid MetroMeals with AmEx over the phone. The receipt was stapled to the bag. No tip. Sean waited at the door - not long - but she sensed what he wanted. In a strange accent she barked, "Sorry. No cash." He hesitated, just long enough for her to go look for her wallet, and - big mistake. That's when the dog came out of nowhere.
Sean told his mother, "She ordered the most expensive meal and didn't even tip me."
"What an ingrate! Show the police your leg and get all the gory details in the report. Sue her for everything she's got."
On the subject of police reports, Sean gave his mother credence. Way back when, she'd filed more than one against Sean's father. Got a protective order and alimony that way, even if he rarely paid. "How much do you think I can get?" The more Sean thought about it, the woman's refusal to tip was an insult worse than the dog bite.
"A lot. You can't work, can you? How you going to pay your rent?" Ma had made it clear there's no place for him at home. She glanced at the bulky white dressing on Sean's calf under the scissored edge of his cutoff pant leg. "Ruined your best pair of pants and shoes, besides."
"Yeah, well, don't know how I can get to a police station..."
A dramatic sigh. A roll of the eyes. "Call them to come over. You can't walk. Makes the police report better. And when that lady pays you, be sure to thank me proper for my advice."
With that, Ma left him curbside in front of his apartment building.
Svetlana was sitting in her living room, stroking Igor's powerfully muscled shoulders, when the doorbell rang. He trotted after her into the foyer. "Sit!" she commanded. Igor obeyed. "Stay."
She'd trained him well, had tamed his baser instincts and bottled his power in usable form - a tool at the ready, when needed. A few days ago, Igor breached the boundaries of his training. Understandable. She'd forgotten to chain him outside or keep him in the house, under her control. Left to his own devices, he acted instinctively on his animal judgments, driven by loyalty to Svetlana and his hyper-sensitivity to her every displeasure. When Igor heard the MetroMeals van, he loped around from the backyard. That delivery kid, like a little beggar, wouldn't leave till he got a tip. Pretended not to hear when she said, "Sorry, no cash." He actually stepped over the threshold and peered inside the house, as if she was hiding something. That boy should thank his good fortune. A single bite. Igor retreated instantly on her command. That's how well she'd trained her protector.
She guessed she hadn't heard the last of it. Perhaps the town would ticket her. Where she grew up, corrupt officials always had their hand out, and it wasn't much different here. Two years ago, soon after she moved into this house, the fire chief came by, threatening a hundred-dollar fine for burning her trash in a metal can in the backyard. She promised to behave and bought him off with a smaller amount. Maybe it helped that Igor was sitting in the foyer directly behind her, patiently awaiting his owner's command.
When she answered the door this time, she assumed that something similar was about to happen. But the young man on her doorstep flashed a phony smile and said, "I have a special delivery for Svetlana Morozova."
"Special?" Maybe this wasn't about Igor. A message from her cousin Valentina. "Special" was a word they'd used for certain jobs, back in the day. Without thinking too hard, Svetlana took the envelope.
The man's smile faded. He'd seen the pit bull. "You've been served," he blurted and darted away.
"Hmph." She scowled at his back and pulled out the legal papers. Plaintiff Sean O'Halloran was suing her for two million dollars. The complaint bore the attorney's name, Peter Streicher, and the address of "Streicher Law Firm, PLLC."
Ridiculous legal nonsense. Svetlana had no thought of hiring a lawyer. She'd take care of these people herself. Better yet, this might be a fun project for Valentina. A civil complaint, a civil response. In their retirement, the cousins called up their respective skills when needed, making use of Valentina's beauty and ingenuity more often than Svetlana's muscle and rage.
Under Valentina's influence, Svetlana had been working on redirecting her anger. She went downstairs to her basement gym, where she lifted weights for an hour. Igor kept her company, panting his appreciation of her strength and vitality as she tossed out endearments in her native Russian. Moy krasivyy muzhchina. My beautiful man.
On her way back upstairs for a shower, the doorbell rang again. "What now?" She commanded Igor to sit behind her as she answered the door.
Two men stood there, a police officer and an official in a khaki uniform fitted with protective gear. Eyeing her glistening biceps, the cop said, "Svetlana Morozova?"
She nodded.
He flashed an ID. "Sergeant Bradley Thorne, County Police." With a little jolt, his eyes widened when he noticed Igor. "Secure your dog, ma'am."
"He's very tame, Sergeant." She sparkled and smiled at him as if to charm, thinking to herself, what fools. Her buff, forty-seven-year-old body was more powerfully muscled than the bodies of these men. The sergeant quaked in his boots. His companion was skinny under that padding, a shell-like chest guard, massive gloves, and safety helmet with face shield.
"I have an order to impound the dog." Sergeant Thorne took out some papers.
Svetlana tensed. Igor growled. "Hush, Igor." She waved off the papers. "Some mistake. My dog? You have no right. This is America."
"It's a court order, ma'am. The police report is attached. Your animal is a threat to health and safety." Leery of the dog, Thorne stepped backward while stretching his arm toward her. He lost his grip, and the papers fluttered to the ground.
Khaki Uniform took over. With a signal to men in a van parked at the curb, he stepped into the doorway. Igor bared his teeth. "Control your dog, lady. He bites me, he gets euthanized." Svetlana tried to close the door, but he inserted his booted foot in the opening. Two more khaki uniforms ran up the front walk. Igor growled but wouldn't move without a new command. Svetlana let go of the door and grabbed Igor by the collar. "I have him. See? A good dog. It's a lie. All lies!"
But she was outnumbered, one strong woman against three inferior, padded men. Igor could have taken them out, but she swallowed the command, having better sense than to risk arrest. Before surrendering her beloved animal, she dropped to her knees, flung her arms around his neck, and whispered soothing Russian in his ear. Instantly, Igor lost the growl and lapsed into calm compliance. With a final kiss, she assured him, "Be patient, my love. I will come get you."
That evening, bereft and dogless, Svetlana called Valentina, venting her outrage in rapid fire Russian. "The police took Igor. Locked up my beautiful man. Gave me some papers saying he's dangerous. Such lies. He obeys me completely. You know how well I trained my sweetheart -"
"To protect you, when needed."
"Once or twice, maybe, but I took care of those. No complaints from anyone. This is different. A court case." She read a paragraph from the impound order, describing an appeal process. "You see? I can get him back if they drop the case."
"What's it about?"
"A greedy delivery boy is suing me for two million dollars. MetroMeals. I paid for the food but he wouldn't leave, wanted a tip. So pushy, he nearly broke into the house. Igor bit him on the leg."
"You set the dog on him?"
"Of course not. I could have taken care of that skinny punk myself, but Igor used his own judgment. Very wisely, I would say. The kid deserved it. One bite is all he got. Igor let go the minute I called him off. Hardly worth two million."
Valentina was skeptical. Although she believed that Svetlana had, "once or twice," adequately buried the consequences of Igor's attacks, she also knew that lawsuits don't go away so easily. The plaintiff could cause trouble if his lawyer found a way to prove that Svetlana knowingly harbored a vicious animal. Unlikely, perhaps, to uncover that evidence, but Valentina didn't know everything Igor had done in the past two years.
Svetlana's love for her trained attack dog was a holdover from her past, along with her stubborn attraction to the criminal element. Why else would Svetlana choose a home - although tucked in a nice enclave - within a few blocks of a high crime area? She kept Igor for protection from enemies, both past and present. Valentina didn't feel the same need and had a different taste in animals. Her own canine companion was a tote-bag-sized white Maltese named Aleksei.
Despite their differences, Valentina was ready to help. The cousins were close. Their bond of mutual protection and support originated long ago in a pact between their fathers, the Morozov brothers from Norilsk (may they both rest in peace). The brothers' middle-aged daughters were now retired from their respective associations with that underworld organization known as Bratva, living comfortably on their nest eggs. They'd each bought a home in this suburban county, far from the concrete jungle where they once survived on a diet of clever scheming and brutality.
"This one's spetsial'nyy, don't you think?"
"Svetlana. A delivery boy? Have you no heart?" Just when Valentina started to think that retirement had softened her cousin, she said something like this. Back in the day, that word would set the duo in motion. Valentina, a consummate actress, could play any part - sultry honeypot, wealthy socialite, narcotics dealer - whatever was needed to hook the catch for Svetlana. But a delivery boy asking for a tip was not a Special. "I'll take care of it. Give me the information."
Svetlana heaved a sigh redolent of longing for old times. "All right, cousin. I did think you might enjoy this one." She gave Valentina the names and addresses in the police report and civil complaint. Client and attorney.
What a dump. Standing in the stinking vestibule of O'Halloran's apartment building at 1850 Plantation Boulevard, Valentina pulled on the handle of the locked inner door. She adjusted the shoulder strap of her baby-blue tote, and Aleksei erupted in three little yips. "Quiet, Alyosha." Her gentle scolding with a favorite diminutive silenced her little one. "That's a good darling."
She easily opened the oft-jimmied lock with a credit card, avoided the iffy elevator, and walked up four flights. At 4F, she knocked. Waited. Knocked harder. Waited longer. Ear to the door, she heard no signs of life, although muffled yells from an apartment down the hall competed for her attention.
Unbeknownst to Valentina, Sean was passed out on his ratty couch, temporarily dead to the world from a double dose of codeine to kill the pain.
Outside again, Valentina exhaled the foul air she'd been forced to breathe and set out on the five-minute walk to her car. Parking was impossible in this crowded neighborhood of apartment dwellers. On the sidewalk, she dodged overturned recycling bins and spilled leftovers from a sloppy sanitation pickup. A breeze kicked up a few identical papers. The photograph caught her eye. Was that...? Attorney Peter Streicher, none other. Only an hour ago while researching this project, she'd seen that headshot on his webpage. She picked up the cleanest flyer, read his pitch, and laughed out loud. This was perfect. Alyosha matched her pleasure with a happy volley of excited yapping.
On the intercom, Gloria announced the visitor with her usual fanfare. "Pete. Someone to see you about a new case. I'll send her in." She clicked off without getting her boss's approval. New business always took priority. She told Valentina, "Go on in," as her eyes dropped to the baby-blue tote. Is there an animal in there?
Streicher barely glanced up from the paperwork on his desk, then did a doubletake and lingered. When Valentina entered a room, men usually gave her their full attention.
She closed the door behind her and quickly sized up her prey. This man was five to seven years younger than her, moderately handsome and still believed in his attractiveness despite the wear and tear of professional defeat. From the looks of his low-rent office, he could use his share of the dog bite money. Valentina didn't miss a detail, always attentive to the needs of every stakeholder when working on a project. Along with her many other assets, her former boss appreciated her compassionate core. No need to destroy the enemy in every case. Business often continued on better footing if everyone got a little something in the resolution of their conflict. Sometimes, that wasn't possible.
Valentina roughened her near perfect English, adding a not-so-Russian accent. "You are Peter Streicher? 'I win millions for you'?"
"Came to the right place." He smiled and indicated a chair across from him at the desk. "Have a seat."
"Thank you." Before sitting, she placed the tote on the floor, showing off her nimbleness in profile with a straight-legged bend from the waist. Then she crouched to unzip the tote, coming up with Alyosha under her left arm. "You mind?"
The stunned lawyer shook his head. "Not at all."
Hugging the dog to her chest, she sat and stroked his crown. "I love dogs and they love me. You see?"
"I do."
"I bring him here to show you this animal love I have -" Alyosha yipped. "Hush, darling." To Streicher: "I show you because I want you for my lawyer."
Streicher caught his breath and gulped. "I see..."
"Do you see? Is not my fault that dog bite me."
"Your dog?" He tipped his head toward the Maltese.
"Oh, no no no! Not my darling Alyosha. A big one. Your specialty, isn't it?" She bent over the arm of the chair to get a folded paper out of the tote and gave it a one-handed shake, opening it for his eyes before she put it away again.
Streicher seemed confused. Valentina was too well turned out to live on Plantation Boulevard. "Well, yes, I do handle that kind of case. Did you, um, get the flyer in the mail?"
"No, a friend remember my terrible dog bite and give me your paper. 'Make that woman pay, Valentina.' I suffered, you know. Still have a scar. Here. Look." She stood up, leaned across the desk, and thrust her bare right forearm under Streicher's nose as she clutched Alyosha under her left arm. Too close for the canine, who rumbled a high-pitched growl.
Valentina quickly sat again, satisfied that she'd given the attorney a vague impression of the faded purple marks. Teeth marks, to be sure, but of human origin. An ex-lover, one of her favorites, had gotten carried away one night. She shivered pleasantly to recall those delicious sensations on her delicate inner forearm.
An unusual spot, Streicher was thinking. "You must have gotten very close -"
"Because I love the animals and they love me. Was my old neighborhood, a nice day. I like to walk. You too?"
He nodded, but his pale complexion told her that he rarely got outside.
"At this house, I stop to rest. Fence all around it, big dog inside, panting like this." She demonstrated with her lovely tongue. "A beautiful, strong dog. Looked friendly. Maybe I can pet him. I lean over the fence, both arms down," she twitched the fingers of her right hand in a beckoning gesture, "and, oh! Happen so fast." She pulled her arm back.
"Ouch," Streicher said.
"More than ouch. Blood dripping. Lady comes out and say, 'Very sorry.' She give me a towel and I wrap it and just go away. Did not even think..."
"That you might have a cause of action."
"You mean, for money."
"Yes, but it depends. I can look into it. Do you remember the address?"
"The number? No, but the street, very cute name. Bittersweet Lane. Only house with a fence."
Streicher fairly jumped in his seat but pretended he was about to stand up anyway. He went to his messy credenza, picked up a photo, and turned to show her. "This it?"
She popped up, all excited. "How you know this house?"
"Another case. That dog bit someone else."
"No!" She stepped closer, her liquid brown eyes flitting rapidly from the photo to Streicher's face and back again. "That dog did it again?"
"Yes." Face to face, they froze in a locked stare before he could think of his next question. "When did this dog bite you?"
"I don't know. Before I moved."
"When was that?"
"Four years ago."
"Hmm." Streicher turned and put the photo on the credenza. "There's a three-year statute of limitations."
"Limitations?"
"It's too late for you to sue the dog owner." He returned to his desk chair.
"Oh." Valentina slumped in dramatic disappointment. Alyosha whimpered in commiseration. "Hm... how you say that? She get away with it."
Streicher sat taller and broke into a smile. "Not necessarily. I have an idea."
She rushed back to her chair and said, "Tell me." Gazing at him expectantly, she kept the victory out of her eyes. Good. He thinks it's his idea.
"If you testify in the other case, we can make sure she doesn't get away with it."
"For that other person, not me."
"But I can pay you a witness fee. Even more if we win the case. You'll get some compensation and teach her a lesson at the same time."
Valentina's eyes lit up.
"You like the idea?" he asked.
"Yes."
"Good. Let me get some information from you." He picked up a pen. "Name, address, and phone."
Valentina dipped into the tote bag for her wallet. She let go of Alyosha as she plucked out the driver's license she'd chosen from several in her small safe at home. The dog stayed seated on her lap, ears perked.
"Valentina... Smith?"
"My married name." She winked. "Oh, I divorce that one but keep the name. Easier to be Smith. No one here can say Craioveanue."
"Your maiden name."
"Yes."
"Where are you from?"
"Romania. Transylvania region."
His eyes flickered.
"Don't mistake me. Proud Transylvanian. I love my name. Did you know? My hobby is names. Peter. A very good one."
He gave her a blank look.
"You don't know meaning of Peter?" A dramatic pause. "Rock."
"Is that so?"
"And Valentina mean strong and healthy." Alyosha barked for emphasis. She pointed at Streicher. "The rock." At herself. "Strong and healthy. A good team."
Pro se defendant Svetlana Morozova adamantly refused to settle, pushed for an early trial date, and demanded release of her beloved Igor. She called the pound and was told they did not have "visiting hours." She made a personal visit anyway.
The impatient Khaki Uniform at the desk wouldn't give an inch. "Lady, this isn't a petting zoo." His growl was accompanied by a backup chorus of animal voices echoing from deep within the facility. Was that Igor she heard, carrying the bassline?
She shoved the order under his nose. "You stole my dog with these lies. I demand to see him." She pointed at the case number. "Tell me which cage."
"I can't let you back there."
"Then you go. Find him and give him this." She'd brought one of her sweat-soaked (air dried) sport bras and put it on the counter.
"Okay, okay." The man punched the numbers into his computer, and that's when she saw it written on his face. The knowledge. The guilt. The treachery. He reached under the counter for something but came up empty-handed and tapped the keyboard a few more times, stalling.
"What is it?"
"Uh, looks like your dog... isn't here. A notice went out in the mail yesterday."
"What notice?"
"He couldn't be handled. Too dangerous. They euthanized him."
"No! That's some other dog. You give me Igor when they dismiss the case."
He turned the monitor toward her. "Says here."
Her eyes flitted around the screen and went wild. "Last week? You don't call me, you just kill him?"
Emotional pet owners came with the job. He'd pressed the silent alarm under the counter, and two Khaki Uniforms were already behind her. It took all three men to drag Svetlana, kicking and screaming, out of the building.
On trial day, the new father wasn't his sharpest. Throughout the night, The Little Bruiser (given name Rex) had vocalized his needs every two hours. Appearing before Judge Blanca Moreno on little sleep was dangerous. She was no fan of Streicher's, unimpressed with his advocacy skills and well-aware of his past troubles with the Grievance Committee.
Nonetheless, Streicher was confident of victory. He had a lock on this case, not to mention his advantage over an adversary who foolishly believed she could handle her own defense without a lawyer.
At counsel table, he placed his client at the end closer to the jury with his leg propped on a chair. Months after the bite, Sean's injury still swelled painfully, making any kind of work impossible (so he would testify). His mother, Kerry Coughlin, sat in the audience. She'd been a real pest during trial prep, but Streicher firmly refused her offer to testify about her son's suffering. Kerry was a loose cannon.
An electric jolt sucked out his breath when he first laid eyes on Svetlana. She was built like a linebacker. Once that sunk in, he supposed it would help his case. A human thunderbolt with a vicious dog. Dangerous. She was a magnet for Kerry's dagger eyes and silent loathing, a more productive message than the occasional bad vibes that radiated between mother and son across the courtroom.
Streicher displayed his exhibits to the jury on a large computer screen, once they were admitted into evidence. He first offered Sean's medical records. When the judge asked Svetlana if she had any objection, she stood and waved a hand. "Whatever." Nor did she object to the photo of Igor. "That's my darling," she agreed, then ranted, "They murdered you, my sweet man!" The judge admonished her and told the jury to disregard her comments.
But Svetlana was just warming up.
Streicher's expert witness testified that pit bulls were responsible for seventy percent of all injuries and deaths from dog assaults. Svetlana jumped up and yelled "Lies!" and "Not my Igor." Next, a Khaki Uniform testified that her vicious dog had to be euthanized, touching off a jag of dramatic sobbing and breast beating.
When Sean limped up to the witness stand, Svetlana was ready to explode. She fumed and spat out "Eh" in disgust when Sean pointed her out as the owner of the fenced home on Bittersweet Lane, identifying it by photo. Next on the screen were gory images of Sean's injury as he testified about Igor's attack.
"Did you do anything to provoke the animal?"
"No. I just handed her the bag. That's all. The dog came out of nowhere."
"Wrong, wrong, wrong," Svetlana yelled.
"Ms. Morozova -"
"He was trying to break into my house."
"Enough. Sit down," Judge Moreno warned. "You'll get your chance to testify."
At the end of Sean's oft-interrupted testimony, Streicher was at a crossroads. Should he call Valentina now, on his direct case, or wait until rebuttal? He wanted to save the best for last - catching Svetlana in a lie. But he risked dismissal of his case for insufficiency. The evidence, thus far, raised an inference that Svetlana knew she harbored an attack dog, but it did not prove a previous bite. He decided to take the risk and wait. The judge could hardly back out of her promise to give the defendant her day in court.
Streicher subtly tipped his head toward the defendant as he met the judge's eyes. "The plaintiff rests but reserves rebuttal." The judge went along.
Without an attorney, Svetlana was allowed to testify in narrative form. She laid it on thick about the delivery boy's breach of her threshold and Igor's protective reaction to the intruder. Streicher didn't object, assuming correctly that she would volunteer what he needed: "A good dog. Before this, Igor never bit anyone." On cross-examination, he got her to repeat it.
When she'd finished her defense, Streicher smiled inwardly and said, "Your Honor, the plaintiff calls Valentina Smith in rebuttal." This was going to be good.
Valentina parted the swinging doors and walked up the aisle, all eyes on her. A quick look passed between the cousins as the clerk administered the oath.
Streicher projected the image of Svetlana's house on the screen. "Ms. Smith, are you familiar with this house on Bittersweet Lane?"
"Yes! This is why I come to your office when I get this paper..." She pulled the folded flyer from a pocket.
"That wasn't my question -"
"...but you say it is too late to sue."
"May I see that?" The judge reached down from the bench and Valentina handed it up.
"Objection!" How could he have forgotten to take that flyer away from her? But he never thought...
"Objecting to your own witness, counselor?"
"This is irrelevant, Your Honor."
The judge scanned the paper and asked Valentina, "Where did you get this?"
"From my friend who live at 1850 Plantation."
Streicher broke out in a sweat. Judge Moreno's eyes narrowed on him. "I'll hold this under advisement. Continue."
He straightened up and cleared his throat, but his stride was broken. "M-Ms. Smith, please tell the jury what happened about four years ago at this house on Bittersweet Lane."
"I lean over the fence to pet a dog. Friendly looking dog. But it bit my arm." She turned to the jury and held up her forearm. "Blood everywhere. Lady come out and says, 'I'm sorry' and give me a towel."
"Take a look around the courtroom and tell us if you see that woman here today."
Valentina made the rounds slowly, pausing on each face. Kerry, Svetlana, the female jurors, a few court employees. She stopped on the judge's face. "No. I do not see."
Svetlana jumped up. "Of course she doesn't."
"Understandable, after four years," Streicher interrupted, frantically tapping through the exhibits on the screen.
"But I remember the dog..."
"Four years?" Svetlana cut in.
"Hold on, Ms. Smith, I'll get the photo of that dog."
"Ridiculous!" Svetlana huffed and crossed her powerful arms.
"Big, furry dog, not sure how you call it, German Shepard maybe..."
"This one, Ms. Smith?"
"No no no," Valentina shook her head prettily. "Dog with lots of fur. Not that one."
"I didn't even live there!"
Judge Moreno wiped the smile from her lips and brought down the gavel. Time to end the free-for-all, despite her enjoyment of it. "Ms. Morozova, are you saying you didn't live there four years ago?"
"I've been there two years."
The judge turned to Streicher. "Forgot to check property records, counselor? I'm declaring a mistrial." A final bang of the gavel.
As the courtroom cleared, Judge Moreno called the pro se defendant up to the bench for a little legal advice: File a motion to dismiss for insufficient evidence and complain to the Grievance Committee about Streicher's unethical advertising and obvious incompetence.
Svetlana took the advice and submitted her own colorfully phrased, handwritten complaint. But that wasn't the end of it. Sean - at Ma's urging - bypassed his worthless attorney and started harassing Svetlana, putting nasty messages and gory photos of his injury in her mailbox. "Your dog did this. Pay up!" He kept on, even after the judge signed an order dismissing the case.
Sue them? Call the police? Not in Svetlana's playbook. Valentina paid her a visit to discuss the problem. She wisely left Aleksei at home, not sure how her little one would fare in the company of Svetlana's new pit bull, Bronya.
"She's a miracle." Dog at her feet, Svetlana caressed an ear. "She follows every command, spoken and unspoken, gestures and hand signals. She'll do anything I want, from ladylike punishment up to the ultimate. Strong as a man, like Igor."
Valentina knew what was on her mind. "Cousin, this isn't the way. That boy and his mother are poor. You remember what that's like. They'll be happy with something small and agree to go away. Ten thousand, maybe."
"I should pay them for harassing me?"
"You did forget to chain Igor."
"And you made that lawyer think he had a good case instead of dismissing it..."
"All right..."
"...and meanwhile, they killed Igor."
"I'll pay them with my money. Satisfied? We already got back at the lawyer."
"Are you serious? That little complaint? Doesn't do enough to honor Igor. Judges and lawyers never really punish one of their own."
They discussed it further and came up with a plan they could live with.
The next day, shouldering Alyosha in the baby-blue tote, Valentina visited the lawyer while Gloria was out to lunch. Head in hands, Streicher was slumped over his desk.
His head popped up at her bright, "Pete!" accompanied by Alyosha's energetic yipping.
"What are you doing here? Came to gloat?"
"No. I come to say sorry." She placed the tote on the floor and sat down. "I didn't mean..."
"Oh, you meant it." Did he know? Didn't matter. She was untouchable, her perjury undetectable. She was the divorcée Valentina Smith, married to Gregory Smith just long enough to get her green card. And the previous owner of Svetlana's house did have a German Shephard. The cousins met the elderly lady and her dog at an open house where Svetlana made the offer to buy the property. The fence around the perimeter was one of the selling points. Valentina checked, and the elderly woman has since passed away.
Acting fast, she saw a way to deflect. "So sweet! Your baby?" She grabbed a framed photo from his desk.
"Yup." He couldn't help smiling. "That's Rex. Six months old."
"Big-little Rex. The Rock made a King!"
"Is that so?"
Her eyes grew moist as she gently replaced the photo. "For the baby, we should solve your troubles. I am sorry."
"I bet you are."
"And so is the Russian."
"I bet she is."
"Seriously. After the trial, I apologize and we talk. My new friend is feeling bad about everyone. The boy, his mother, even you."
"Oh yeah? She filed a complaint against me."
"Only because of Igor. She's heartbroken. Her beloved pet, like a son. How do you feel if your baby is murdered?"
His eyes flashed wider in alarm and darted to baby Rex's chubby cheeks.
"They kill her baby, and no one apologize."
"Well, she didn't apologize to my client. Her dog nearly took his leg off. He's out of work and could sue me for malpractice, thanks to you."
"Yes, we must get rid of that boy."
"Take out a contract on him?" He snickered sarcastically.
If only he knew... But Valentina was here on a diplomatic mission. "What I am saying, that boy is also big problem for Svetlana. Constantly bothering her, still begging for money. She want you to help her make a deal and make him go away."
Streicher laughed, but he paid attention when Valentina outlined the terms. Svetlana was willing to drop her grievance against Streicher and pay Sean ten thousand dollars if Sean waived all claims against both of them.
"Why will he accept ten thousand?"
"I already ask."
"Oh, yeah?"
"He is poor, you know. Huge amount for him." And if he tried to back out, Valentina had ways to make him sign the waiver. "And best thing, she give check to you, and you give to Sean. Rock is the big man again! Just bring some legal paper for him to sign." She brushed her palms together three times: "Gone gone gone!" In the tote bag, Alyosha yapped agreement.
"I'll have Gloria prepare the waiver, but why would Morozova do this? What's in the deal for her? The case is dismissed. Sean has no legal right to her money. He doesn't have a leg to stand on... figuratively speaking."
"Ah, well this is it. One more term, important for her, small thing for you. Help mend the grieving heart, you know." Valentina beat her breastbone with a soft fist. "You must go to her house for the ten thousand check. She will give it and take back her grievance only if you say sorry, face to face." Valentina acted it out. "'My deepest sympathies. I am very sorry about Igor. I did not say to them to kill your dog. If I knew I would try to stop them. I grieve for you.' Something like that. Make it good."
He wasn't yet convinced, but it didn't take Valentina much longer.
With a smile on her face, Valentina left Streicher's office, satisfied with the deal. It was always better this way. Give something to get something.
There was just one thing that worried her.
On the sidewalk, she pulled out her cellphone. "Cousin, it's arranged for Thursday morning. But there's one thing we didn't know - he's a new father."
"Why does that matter?"
"You should see the beautiful baby boy. Rex is his name. The little King."
"Always so sentimental, Valya."
"And you, always so extreme." She'd already talked Svetlana out of the extreme, but the middle range left much to the imagination.
"Don't worry. I get it."
"Do you?"
"It's what you told me before, about the law. Bronya gets one free bite, doesn't she?"
"Yes, but you must promise me one thing. Something ladylike."
Svetlana heaved a big sigh. "I promise." Between the cousins, a promise was never broken.
"Kisses." Valentina put her phone in the tote, praised Alyosha with, "What a good darling," and walked on.
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