OCTOBER 16, 2022 – (Cont.) During the early morning flight, I did three things to prepare for my meeting: 1. Read The Art of the Deal; 2. Ordered two whiskey sours; and 3. While consuming the whiskey sours, reflected on instructive experiences representing my most challenging clients over the years, especially the one who was “off his meds” during a non-binding arbitration hearing and subsequent jury trial . . .
. . . In honor of my confidentiality obligations, I’ll refer to said client as “Mike,” not by his real name. We actually got along well over the years, but it took lots of effort on my part—and getting paid up front. Mike was a self-made man who was a savant when it came to numbers. He could add, subtract, multiply and divide six-digit numbers faster than the most powerful Cray of the time. Because of this rare talent, he’d done well for himself, but in the wake of his frenetic “work-style” was scorched earth.
Mike was a big, strappin’ guy who worked mainly by impulse. In several respects he was an intelligent version of the Don. In keeping with his passion for speed, Mike flew his own airplane, a photo of which—taken in-flight—adorned his office wall. Soon after the Wellstone crash just weeks before the 2002 election, I asked Mike if he’d ever had a close call in his plane. “Oh, all the time!” he said, without batting an eyelash. I wasn’t surprised.
He then added that we “should go for a spin some time.”
“Poor choice of words, [Mike],” I said. He’s be the last person I’d want to see at the controls of a plane in which I was a passenger.
Among Mike’s memorable traits was what I called, “directive whiplash.” A prime example was the command he once gave me, which almost verbatim went like this: “I want you to sue [so-and-so], no holds barred. He’s the biggest lying, cheating, sonofabitch the world has ever seen, and I hate his guts—can’t stand him—but go easy on ’im, ’cause he’s a really nice guy and I like him.”
I knew Mike well enough to know that what he meant was, “I’m mad at him but I’ll get over it—in fact, I just did.”
During the aforementioned arbitration hearing in a matter wholly unrelated to the guy Mike wanted—and didn’t want—me to sue, Mike couldn’t control himself during opposing counsel’s examination of the guy who was suing Mike.
“Liar!” Mike said—out loud, repeatedly. Exercising far more patience than was appropriate, opposing counsel finally mumbled an objection. The arbitrator, mostly asleep at the switch, woke up and said, “Mr. Nilsson, you need to get your client under control. I’m calling a short recess so you can do that.”
Whereupon, I marched Mike into the hallway and read him the Riot Act. But he’d have none of it. “Oh com’ on!” he said, so angrily he was getting ready to spit until I told him not to. “If that arbitrator [were] worth his salt,” Mike said, “he’d ignore the fact I’m an asshole!” (Cont.)
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© 2022 by Eric Nilsson
