« Last Post: The Obsession |Main| Next Post: Finishing Crocodemon »

May 20, 2008

Recourse

Written by Girth McDürchstein on May 20, 2008 6:32 PM
Permalink |  Colby & Perdida Mildew Recording Artists  | Digg It

“You obviously don’t understand,” Feinstein whined. “There is nothing we can do about Mildew.”

“There has to be a way,” I barked.

“I’m the lawyer here, kid. Trust me.”

I didn’t know what to say to him. He’d been my lawyer for over a decade, but his expertise seemed to have slipped over the past few years. Was it time to seek out someone new?

“I think I might need to get some fresh perspective on this,” I told Feinstein.

“No, no, wait!” Feinstein said. “You’re not dumping me, are ya?”

“Look, man,” I said as gently as possible. “I don’t turn my back on friends, but I can’t blame myself for this. I gave that contract for you to look over and make sure they didn’t fuck me. You said it was fine, and now I find we’re not getting any advance and we only stand to make a dollar a year on residuals. Sounds fucked to me.”

“Me too.” I noticed for the first time how flushed and red his face looked.

“Sorry, Herc,” I said. “I’m not dumping you, but I at least need to feel out somebody else’s advice. I need someone else to tell me whether or not we can get out of what you got me into.”

“I’m telling you, kid, there’s no way,” Feinstein repeated.

“We’ll see,” I sighed.

Marty had already left word that he set up an afternoon meeting at a firm in Pasadena. It took me way too long to drive out there, but Marty had done the legwork, and I figured it couldn’t possibly be worse than Feinstein.

When I pulled into the parking lot, things were already looking up: they were housed in a giant building made of reflective glass. Big firm, big quality.

The lobby security desk printed out a badge with my name and the floor I had access to, then pointed out an express elevator for me to ride. Up on the 32nd floor, I left my name with a receptionist who seated me in a waiting area secreted away in what resembled a 19th-century English drawing room. I put on a complimentary smoking jacket, poured a snifter of sherry, and waited.

After perhaps 20 minutes, the receptionist entered and said, “Mr. McDürchstein, Ella Fitzsimons is ready to see you.”

I nodded and followed her through a labyrinth of halls until we reached a mid-sized office. A middle-aged woman with a bun of blonde-gray hair as tightly wound as her demeanor stood and reached her hand across the desk. I shook it, and we both sat down. The receptionist left.

“So,” she said, “Mr. Rabinowicz mentioned some contract disputes or—”

“Sort of,” I said, handing her a copy of the contract. “I took this to my usual lawyer, and he said it was fine, but it’s apparently not. I need to know if there’s any way to get out of it.”

Perusing the contract, Ella Fitzsimons grunted and said, “California will traditionally uphold a conditional three-day opt-out, which any attorney worth his salt would have told you before it was too late. Yours neglected to mention that, obviously, and by now it’s too late. Let me see…” She sighed. “I admit it’s extremely unfair, but I’m afraid it’s about as rock-solid as one can get. Your attorney signed it with a notary witness, which would suggest to any court that you tried to do the right thing. You should have been apprised of the dangers, but the burden lies on you to find a competent lawyer to interpret the agreement and, if necessary, re-negotiate it. I’m sorry, Mr. McDürchstein. If it’s any consolation, I believe your current attorney should be recommended to the Bar Association for censure.”

“If he is, do we have a leg to stand on?”

“You would if he had already been sanction, censured, or disbarred but neglected to mention this,” Fitzsimons said. “Unfortunately, this contract would serve as little more than an evidentiary example of his malpractice.”

“That sucks, dude,” I said. “What do I do?”

Ella Fitzsimons shrugged. “Appeal to the reasonable nature of this Dean Charleston fellow. Try to re-negotiate a fairer contract that would render this one null. Feel free to contact me for help.”

“I’m sure I will,” I sighed. “Thanks.”

On my way back to Studio City, Feinstein hit me on my cell phone. He was in a blind, slurring rage, screaming at me about disbarment. I tried to explain to him the difference between censure and disbarment, but he didn’t care. He knew his legal career would end if any heat came down on him. Anyone who tried to dig up dirt would find skeletons.

Lots and lots of skeletons.