real world update, part twelve
A secret plan is now revealed. . .
So I'm just standing, ya know, stoned drunk and dumbfounded smack fucking dab in the middle of two evils wondering which is the lesser. Adelstein is on my left, reclined on my sofa and drinking my liquor. He got hair goo on my Bose earphones.
Adelstein is a greasy mother fucker. He's vindictive as hell, a squirrely mean little weasel. He connives and he schemes. He slithers.
On my right side, Richardson has taken up residence. His jacket is now off completely and haphazardly hangs on the back of a dining room chair. He sits to its right at the table facing me but slightly askew. There are the three folders, a laptop, a printer, and an increasingly growing pile of what looks like newspaper clippings and stories downloaded from internet news sites that he keeps pulling from pockets in his jacket, from his pants, from every nook and cranny of both his briefcase and he the laptop case. It appears haphazard, but I suspect their is a system.
Richardson is a crafty bastard. Awkward as all fuck in person but when it came to organizing, manipulating, spinning, twisting or outright fabricating numbers and data, Richardson was strong slick and smooth. Put him in a data stream and it's like fighting a croc in the water. It's violent, it's bloody, and you know you're gonna fucking lose. He tends to be gruff, and he bitches a lot. But I've known him since I was a kid, so for me there is also a kinda curmudgeonly uncle quality to him. We share the belief that people are stupid, 'cuz they are. He's a complete fucking mess on the outside, but inside his mind is a master of organization and planning.
Which way to turn?
I settle on Richardson because, like I said, we've got this pseudo-familial thing going on. I take a couple of steps and sit down at the table, "What the fuck, man?"
He tells me I am thoroughly screwed: legally, socially, and eventually physically.
Between drags on those awful Benson & Hedges cigarettes he's smoking he explains to me that for the past five weeks copies of the documents in those two folders we're freely circulated through the best and brightest criminal law firms on the entire Eastern seaboard, from New York to Miami. He shows me a website some Harvard Law students created where they posted the documents along with a real time message forum, e-mail and IM services. They reviewed precedent and argued minutia. Eventually over 1500 possible solutions to my current problems were posted from all over the world. They debated, they argued, they strategized.
Some seemed to be created by drunken fraternity brothers with obvious repressed latent homosexual urges.
Most however were created and posted by the perceived cream of the criminal law crop of all ages, experience, and levels of skill. It is widely believed that whoever pulls my tight white hot ass from the stone of a certain conviction serving serious time will be crowned King of the Defense Lawyers.
As a related issue he relayed to me the details of my current odds at a dozen or so underground off-shore on-line gambling websites. He clicked and tapped and then turned the laptop back so that I could see the screen. I could clearly see that the numbers were overwhelmingly stacked against me, but there was still heavy betting on both sides. Side bets has arisen covering issues such as "how much time will he get?" to "What color tie will the judge be wearing on the day the verdict comes in?"
I'm suitably impressed. My Father, The Bastard, has not forsaken me. It would have taken months and a small army of bureaucrats to do all that shit. But then again, my Father, The Bastard, has never been known to spare any expense to preserve and protect the family name.
"Well, what's the outcome?" I ask.
"Sadly, but not surprising, at least not to me," he pauses briefly for dramatic effect, "the consensus is that you had better not drop the soap in the shower.
"Well shit." I suddenly begin feel heavy from the gravity of my situation.
"That's why we decided to go nuclear. We have created a hydrogen bomb of a plan. Its execution all but guarantees our mutally assured destruction. However, like Obi Wan, it is our only hope."
"I see."
I get up and shuffle across the floor over to Adelstein on my sofa. I kick him softly yet sternly and grab the vodka bottle from his hand while ripping the iPod headphones from his greasy head, "Get your ass in here. Sounds like there's fucking work to do."
He groans and begrudingly sits up.
I walk back across the room and sit back down at my once pristine imported Italian glass dining room table, now covered with my unfulfilled fate in document form. I grab a smoke from Richardson and spark it up. As I exhale my first deep drag right into Richardson's face, I raise the bottle and give it good three count chug. He sits there silent and stoic, with a well-practiced patience at not giving into the rage caused by a tantruming petulant child.
Adelstein gets up like a punished dog. He walks across the room and stops in the doorway. He leans against the frame and looks at Richardson with a knowing grin.
Richardson continues, "and it just might be crazy enough to work."
So I'm just standing, ya know, stoned drunk and dumbfounded smack fucking dab in the middle of two evils wondering which is the lesser. Adelstein is on my left, reclined on my sofa and drinking my liquor. He got hair goo on my Bose earphones.
Adelstein is a greasy mother fucker. He's vindictive as hell, a squirrely mean little weasel. He connives and he schemes. He slithers.
On my right side, Richardson has taken up residence. His jacket is now off completely and haphazardly hangs on the back of a dining room chair. He sits to its right at the table facing me but slightly askew. There are the three folders, a laptop, a printer, and an increasingly growing pile of what looks like newspaper clippings and stories downloaded from internet news sites that he keeps pulling from pockets in his jacket, from his pants, from every nook and cranny of both his briefcase and he the laptop case. It appears haphazard, but I suspect their is a system.
Richardson is a crafty bastard. Awkward as all fuck in person but when it came to organizing, manipulating, spinning, twisting or outright fabricating numbers and data, Richardson was strong slick and smooth. Put him in a data stream and it's like fighting a croc in the water. It's violent, it's bloody, and you know you're gonna fucking lose. He tends to be gruff, and he bitches a lot. But I've known him since I was a kid, so for me there is also a kinda curmudgeonly uncle quality to him. We share the belief that people are stupid, 'cuz they are. He's a complete fucking mess on the outside, but inside his mind is a master of organization and planning.
Which way to turn?
I settle on Richardson because, like I said, we've got this pseudo-familial thing going on. I take a couple of steps and sit down at the table, "What the fuck, man?"
He tells me I am thoroughly screwed: legally, socially, and eventually physically.
Between drags on those awful Benson & Hedges cigarettes he's smoking he explains to me that for the past five weeks copies of the documents in those two folders we're freely circulated through the best and brightest criminal law firms on the entire Eastern seaboard, from New York to Miami. He shows me a website some Harvard Law students created where they posted the documents along with a real time message forum, e-mail and IM services. They reviewed precedent and argued minutia. Eventually over 1500 possible solutions to my current problems were posted from all over the world. They debated, they argued, they strategized.
Some seemed to be created by drunken fraternity brothers with obvious repressed latent homosexual urges.
Most however were created and posted by the perceived cream of the criminal law crop of all ages, experience, and levels of skill. It is widely believed that whoever pulls my tight white hot ass from the stone of a certain conviction serving serious time will be crowned King of the Defense Lawyers.
As a related issue he relayed to me the details of my current odds at a dozen or so underground off-shore on-line gambling websites. He clicked and tapped and then turned the laptop back so that I could see the screen. I could clearly see that the numbers were overwhelmingly stacked against me, but there was still heavy betting on both sides. Side bets has arisen covering issues such as "how much time will he get?" to "What color tie will the judge be wearing on the day the verdict comes in?"
I'm suitably impressed. My Father, The Bastard, has not forsaken me. It would have taken months and a small army of bureaucrats to do all that shit. But then again, my Father, The Bastard, has never been known to spare any expense to preserve and protect the family name.
"Well, what's the outcome?" I ask.
"Sadly, but not surprising, at least not to me," he pauses briefly for dramatic effect, "the consensus is that you had better not drop the soap in the shower.
"Well shit." I suddenly begin feel heavy from the gravity of my situation.
"That's why we decided to go nuclear. We have created a hydrogen bomb of a plan. Its execution all but guarantees our mutally assured destruction. However, like Obi Wan, it is our only hope."
"I see."
I get up and shuffle across the floor over to Adelstein on my sofa. I kick him softly yet sternly and grab the vodka bottle from his hand while ripping the iPod headphones from his greasy head, "Get your ass in here. Sounds like there's fucking work to do."
He groans and begrudingly sits up.
I walk back across the room and sit back down at my once pristine imported Italian glass dining room table, now covered with my unfulfilled fate in document form. I grab a smoke from Richardson and spark it up. As I exhale my first deep drag right into Richardson's face, I raise the bottle and give it good three count chug. He sits there silent and stoic, with a well-practiced patience at not giving into the rage caused by a tantruming petulant child.
Adelstein gets up like a punished dog. He walks across the room and stops in the doorway. He leans against the frame and looks at Richardson with a knowing grin.
Richardson continues, "and it just might be crazy enough to work."
posted by dr noyz @ 5:02 PM
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