FEBRUARY 3, 2024 – My craziest trial I conducted by the seat of my pants. My client was John, my office building superintendent by way of Sue, the in-house lawyer for Al, who worked for the building owner. Al had retained me as well on matters pertaining to other companies that Al managed.
Sue herself worked in the building—out of a sprawling office on the top floor. I’d known her as long as I’d been a tenant. I’d also known John, the super, from the day I’d moved in. He was taciturn and conscientious. He’d been hugely apologetic over the snafu he’d inadvertently caused on the occasion of that move-in.
In anticipation of my move, I’d ordered a suite of fancy, high-grade office furniture—furniture for which I’d paid a small fortune. Nineteen years later I’d have to pay “CALL J-U-N-K” to discard, not because I’d trashed the cherrywood book cases, desk table and “executive chair” file drawer, credenza, and guest chairs (there was barely a scratch on any of it) but because the bottom had fallen out of the market for used “fancy, high-grade office furniture.” Not even the salvage store of the Salvation Army was interested in my perfectly fine furniture. I’ll never forget the moment that the J-U-N-K crew accidently dropped on the steel bed of their truck, the six-by-three-foot plate glass that had protected the table desk for nearly two decades.
I’d arranged with the vendor of my swanky furniture to deliver between 9:00 and 10:00 on the first day of my lease and occupancy of my new and spacious office overlooking the plaza in front of the Federal Courthouse in downtown Minneapolis. My historic office building, the Flour Exchange, was nestled up against the courthouse.
After 10:00 came and went without my furniture appearing, I phoned the vendor, ready to complain about the late delivery. After all, I had clients to serve, calls to make, documents to draft and print. Operating off the floor amidst a bunch of partially unpacked boxes was not acceptable.
“But our guys tried to deliver,” the vendor’s representative said, “. . . at around 9:30. But the building superintendent said you’d moved out the day before, and he didn’t know where you’d moved or what your new phone number was.”
“Huh?” I said with an edge. “How could you get that so wrong. I’m moving in—today—and I should know, because I’m standing right here in my office and calling you from my office phone, which is sitting on the floor because I don’t have a desk or table or credenza to put it on.”
“You’d better talk to the building guy to figure out what happened. Then call us back and we’ll reschedule.”
In a huff, I tracked down the superintendent—John, whom I’d not yet met. The explanation was as simple as it was improbable: the very day before, a lawyer by the name of Eric Nelson, had, in fact, moved out of the building. Since I was subleasing from another law firm in the building, John hadn’t been apprised that I, Eric Nilsson, would be moving in. When the furniture vendor asked about “Eric Nilsson,” John heard “Eric Nelson.”
Seeing the humor in it all, I had no choice but to drop my indignation and laugh. John was apologetic, and the vendor, accommodating. My furniture arrived 90 minutes later while I was eating a Subway sandwich—pacing my furniture-less office for the last time before it shrank.
Over the years that followed, I’d see John often. Once in a while we’d stop and chat, and though he never stepped out of his laconic mode, I was able to coax bits and pieces of background information out of him. He liked to fish and hang out with his buddies at local bars that featured live music, preferably jazz. He had plenty of gray hair, and, I suspected, had lived quite a lot. John was always cordial toward me.
There came a day when Sue dropped down to my office with a thin red-rope file.
“Do you have a minute?” she asked.
“Sure,” I said.
“I have situation and could use your help . . . Or more directly, John could use your help.”
“Oh?”
Sue explained what was up. Nearly a year before, John had been sued by a woman who claimed John had rammed her car in the parking lot of “Famous Dave’s”—the main restaurant of a small local chain owned by Dave Anderson, a highly successful restaurateur whose origins were on the Lac Courte d’Oreilles Indian Reservation; the very one on which the east half of the lake where our family cabin in northwest Wisconsin is located. Said restaurant, in Minneapolis, was apparently a favorite haunt of John and his two buddies, all of whom were drawn to it by the music.
The woman’s car was badly damaged, and when John steadfastly refused to admit to the nefarious act and pay her recompense, she sued him. Low on funds, however, she qualified for the use of a volunteer legal aid lawyer—a litigator at a high-powered firm, who was doing his pro bono “duty.”
John wasn’t exactly rolling in dough either, but he “had people,” namely Sue and Al. Sue had agreed to represent John thus far in the case. During the year that it had bumped along, attempts at settling the matter had failed. It was now scheduled for trial—two days later—and Sue was in a slight panic. “I don’t do any trial work,” she said. “I could really use your help. I haven’t charged John for representing him, but I don’t expect you to do this for free. I’ll make sure you get paid. We’ll take care of you. I’ll understand if you can’t take on the case or don’t want to. You’ve probably got lots of other stuff going on . . .”
“What do you have there?” I asked, nodding at the folder in her hands.
It wasn’t much. A summons and simple complaint, Sue’s equally simple answer; basic discovery requests; some letters back and forth; a police report, including a statement by the bouncer; a couple of photographs of the parking lot and the damaged car. That was it. There were no witnesses other than the woman, John and his two buddies, and . . . the bar’s bouncer. But none of them had been an eye-witness to the alleged ramming incident. No one denied that the car had been royally bashed in. Someone was lying, and according to Sue, it wasn’t John. The local prosecutor had dropped the case—insufficient evidence.
“We think the woman is simply a deadbeat trying to shake some dollars out of John. Her claim is for $7,000. We’ve already battled his insurance company and lost. They say his policy doesn’t cover intentional acts.”
“What about the woman’s insurance company? Where are they in all of this?”
“She didn’t have collision insurance.”
“Gees, Sue,” I don’t know. “This looks like a can of worms without all that much at stake—a lot for John, maybe, but the cost of a one-day trial is going to be a large percentage of the claim. Even before I examine the facts and merits of the case, I can tell you, you’re gonna be much better off settling. Where did you leave off?”
“Two grand.”
“Two grand? The settlement value now is thirty-five hundred.”
“I suppose. I’m sure Al would agree to that—we’d then just have to work out some long-term arrangement with John to pay us back. We can certainly try for thirty-five hundred, but it’s been a long time since we’ve had any contact with the other side. In the off chance it doesn’t settle tomorrow, I just can’t be the one to try it . . . So what do you think?”
It was late in the afternoon. I wanted to be accommodating, and John seemed like a good guy, certainly not the lying type. Against my better judgment, I said, “Let me take the file home with me this evening. Maybe we could meet first thing in the morning to go over any questions I might have. I can spare a little time around 9:00.”
“That would be fantastic,” said Sue. “I’ll see that you get paid.”
I could see the relief fill the furrows above her eyebrows—and feel her stress transferred to my stomach. After she left my office, I closed the door and dropped the F-bomb ahead of, “why did I sign up for this? I had way more than enough work to keep me in trouble. I didn’t need more.” (Cont.)
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© 2024 by Eric Nilsson
