JANUARY 31, 2024 – (Cont.) The arbitration took place in a room of the old Minneapolis City Hall, a massive structure built of Cyclopean granite blocks to withstand a direct hit by a nuclear warhead, even though its construction was completed 60 years before the obliteration of Hiroshima and Nagasaki. When the building was deemed obsolete for modern use—in 1960—the game plan for its replacement changed when the estimated cost of razing the building far exceeded the expense of retrofitting it.
My office at the time was in the historic Flour Exchange Building—another building dating back to the 19th century—on the block facing City Hall. Walter arrived at my quarters with no time to spare. He looked frazzled. We then marched to the arbitration hearing and were the last to arrive. The arbitrator, a well-regarded litigator at a reputable firm, was of temperament similar to the plaintiff and plaintiff’s counsel. Their calm minds were about to be greatly disturbed.
Walter was in a foul mood and of no mind to observe any rules of decorum. In fact, after he unleashed his initial salvo of profanities, I wondered if he wasn’t a little out of his mind. Less than a minute into the plaintiff’s testimony, Walter went ballistic, accusing his adversary of everything between twisting the truth and outright lying. The arbitrator and I attempted to quiet Walter down, but nothing we said was working.
“Excuse me, gentlemen,” I said, looking at the arbitrator, then across the table at opposing counsel and his client. “Could we have a brief recess to allow me to conference with my client outside the room?”
“Please do,” said the arbitrator.
I then grabbed Walter by the arm and said, “Follow me.”
Before the door had closed behind us, Walter started in again on his verbal attack. “The guy’s lying. Lying.”
“Shhhhhh!” I said, finger pressed hard against my lips.
“Don’t shush me,” said Walter, as I pulled him by the sleeve around the corner away from the hearing room. “This is such a bullshit proceeding. I’m done. I’m through. You can go back and tell them whatever you want to tell them, but I’m finished. As far as I’m concerned, this arbitration is over.” Walter’s robust voice echoed off the stone walls and tile floors up and down the hallway.
“Walter,” I said sternly in a whisper so loud it hurt. “Look at me.” Reluctantly he did, but there was fury in his eyes. “We have to go through this, through the arbitration. Even though it’s non-binding, you’re not helping yourself by intentionally flunking all tests of respect, decorum, and propriety in there. You’re not helping yourself by being a total asshole.
I thought Walter was going to bite my head off. “Godammit!” he said, ignoring my signal to lower volume. “If that arbitrator was worth his salt he’d ignore the fact I’m an asshole.”
I nearly burst out laughing at the same time I shushed Walter again. “Walter. Listen to me,” I said. “He’s not going to ignore the fact you’re an asshole—oops, sorry, Walter; the fact you’re acting like one. He’s going to jam his adverse decision right down your throat, and though it’s non-binding, he’ll give [Bill (not his real name of Walter’s adversary)] reason to think he’s got a big advantage over you in this litigation, which is going to translate to a higher settlement range.”
“Doesn’t matter,” said Walter. “I’d never settle with him anyway. We’ll go to trial, and we’ll win.”
“Okay, fine, Walter. We’ll go to trial, if that’s what you want, but there’s risk with any trial, no matter how great you think your case is.”
“Are you telling me you don’t think our case is that strong?”
“Walter, can I be totally candid?”
“Shoot.”
“I can’t guarantee we’re going to win, but I’ll tell you this: If I can win this case for you, you can lose it for me unless you straighten yourself out and behave yourself. Got it?”
“Got it.”
I had my doubts.
We returned to the hearing room, and the arbitration continued. Walter was more subdued but still required several reminders by the arbitrator, reinforced by me with the aid of my right wingtip in Walter’s left shin. It was a wonder that the proceeding reached a natural conclusion, not an abrupt ending. Walter refused to shake anyone’s hand. When the show was over, he bolted. I bade a quick farewell to everyone and chased after Walter, catching up just as he was exiting the building.
“Walter,” I said. “You’re going to follow me straight back to my office.”
“What for?”
“You’re going to sit down while I punch out a letter of apology to the arbitrator and opposing counsel . . . for you to sign . . . that I can get into the mail yet today.”
“Nah!”
“Yes. It’s the least we can do to repair the damage you caused at that blasted hearing.”
Walter complied—initially, anyway. I led him straight over to my building, up the elevator, into my office suite, down the hall and into my office. “Si-down,” I said, “and don’t get up until I’m finished writing the letter. He complied. I banged out a missive and printed it out. Yanking the page off the tray, I reached across my desk and handed the letter to Walter. “Take a look while I proof it on my screen,” I said.
In the midst of my limited editing on the computer, Walter crumpled the paper angrily. I whipped around just as he pitched it over his shoulder. “What are you doing?” I said.
“I don’t need to apologize to anyone,” he said.
“Oh no?”
“No.”
I stood up, leaned on fists on my desk and glared at Walter. “Walter,” I said, “maybe you need to apologize to yourself, because if this case goes haywire, which is where it’s headed, you’re going to be the principal cause.”
Something finally clicked—like some kind of internal switch inside Walter’s beehive of a brain. He turned contrite. He apologized. He allowed me to reprint the letter, whereupon he reviewed and signed it.
I never heard another thing about it from anyone. The arbitration order came back in favor of the plaintiff—no surprise there—but it was free of any kind of personal reprimand. A minor victory, I thought. With the failure of a subsequent last ditch settlement attempt—prompted by the other side—I was struck by the unhappy realization that I’d have to try the damn case.
When this sank in, my principal dilemma was whether I should exclude Walter from the courtroom except when he had to testify. If I allowed his attendance, which would be the normal practice, I risked that he’d be uncontrollable—much to his detriment. Yet his absence would be just as conspicuous as his obstreperous presence—and potentially just as damaging.
Weeks passed. The trial date loomed disturbingly close. Time to part the waters around the rest of my practice to make room for trial prep. The bigger challenge was to convince Walter that he too had to part the waters—and not simply by roaring across a lake on his souped up PWC. (Cont.)
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© 2024 by Eric Nilsson
