“Not only do I have proof of service. Service was covered on NBC, CBS, ABC, CNN and CNBC. How much more proof does the court require?”
“Yes, but whom did you serve papers to? The court will agree that you presented documents to a man in a costume. But this court does not recognize that you have correctly identified the party you wish to sue.”
“What are you talking about? He’s Excelsior. Everybody knows Excelsior.”
“And everyone knows Mickey Mouse as well. And if you want to sue a man who wears a Mickey Mouse costume, you don’t file suit against Mickey Mouse. You find out the man’s name and file the proper legal papers in the proper legal manner. Your case is dismissed.”
“This is a travesty! A friggin tra-ves-ty. I don’t have to put up with this kind of runaround.”
“Yes, in fact you do,” says the judge. He drops the gavel.
“Son-of-a-bitch,” Topper grumbles as he storms from the courtroom. “I need an angle.”
Twenty minutes later Topper has related the whole story to Edwin. “We’re sunk. We’re sunk before we even get out of the harbor.”
“I am shocked,” says Edwin, not shocked in the least.
“I know, right, you at least think they would play by their own rules?”
“No, I am shocked that you managed to leave the courtroom without being held in contempt.”
“What? Let my passion interfere with my work? Sir, I am a professional. But I don’t know what to do with this. I’m stymied. We could try getting the case heard in another court, but, if this is going to be their defense…”
Edwin smiles at his little friend. “Topper, don’t worry. This is a simple problem. Easy to solve.”
“Easy to solve? We can’t even appeal because we never even got to trial! This is a complete failure of the legal system! What can we do?”
“Clearly they have forced our hand. We have no choice but to reveal Excelsior’s secret identity,” Edwin says as he picks up the phone.
Topper recoils in shock and amazement. “You know Excelsior’s secret identity? You mean you’ve known all along?”
“I haven’t the faintest idea who he is.”
“But then how?”
“Shh, Topper, shhh.”
The next day a two-page advertisement appears in the paper claiming that Excelsior is really Ron Koch, a city garbage man and known pederast. Shortly after publication a completely nondescript lawyer arrives at Edwin’s office and serves him with the papers for a defamation of character lawsuit. Somehow, the case is moved to the top of the docket, and Topper and Edwin stand in court two days later.
“Your honor, this man has falsely accused one of America’s great heroes of being a child molester. Decency itself has been wounded. And cries for redress in the amount of 1.3 million” says the counsel for Excelsior.
When the judge looks to the defense table, he is surprised to see Edwin Windsor was writing a check.
“Does the defense have anything to say?” the Judge asks Topper.
“As much as it pains me to say it your honor, we have no argument,” says Topper.
Edwin rises and carries the check to the prosecution. He says, “You win.”
The attorney looks at it and says, “It’s too much. You made it out for 1.4 million? Why would you do that?”
“Call it a tip,” says Edwin as he leaves the courtroom.
“Well, I don’t know what just happened, but this very strange case is closed,” says the Judge as he bangs his gavel.
“Why would you do that?” the government attorney asks Topper.
“‘Cause now, my walleyed friend, we have precedent. If Excelsior doesn’t need to reveal his true identity to sue us, then we don’t need to know his true identity to sue him.”
The attorney blinks twice, then realizes that Topper is right. “Oh my God. What have we done?”
“Bingo Walleye, ya screwed up.” Topper looks towards Edwin. “He’s not a trial lawyer. But he’s very, very smart.”
“Call the judge back,” the attorney yells, “We’ve got to reopen the case.”
“Here’s a copy of the papers I already served your client. I’ll see you in court. You’ll see me in your nightmares.”
Chapter Forty-Seven. Backrooms
There are those who think that the business of the law is conducted in the open air of the courtroom. That every discussion and decision is held in the hallowed halls of justice amid august assembly with wise fathers in togas chiseling words in stone so that Justice might be preserved through the ages. But it is not so. That’s the nickel tour. That’s civics class. That’s the “Babies-come-from-Storks” explanation. And just like the miracle of birth, the reality of the manufacture of justice is much, much messier.
The trial is just the tip of the iceberg. Here’s a peek below the waterline.
R. Lee McEllroy, representing Excelsior, comes from a long line of silver-tongued devils. He is well respected as a defense attorney, and highly regarded as a fixer. Topper knows him well, and has, at various times, carried a marker on him for debts he has acquired from him in a regular card game run by the Clerk of Court. McEllroy is an ideal choice as local counsel for the government’s defense of Excelsior.
At first, R. Lee is a little in awe of Excelsior. After all, this is the man who had stopped the Sprawl invasion almost single-handedly. But as soon as the great man opens his mouth, McEllroy realizes that he is a client just like any other. Maybe more so.
“It’s bullshit that I even have to be here,” Excelsior says, “What good are you if you can’t even get me out of this bullshit court case?”
“Mr. Uh, Excelsior, uh, we’ve passed the point in the process where the case can be dismissed by the judge. Since you’re not willing to settle –'
“It’s not me, it’s him. Them, the government.” With a jerk of a gauntleted hand, he indicates Gus sitting the corner. Gus hooks a lung rocket in the corner of his ragged mouth.
“Uh, there’s no smoking in my office,” says McEllroy.
“Of course, we could settle,” Gus says as he lights up anyway. He takes a long draw, then rolls the cigarette around between his thumb and forefinger. “But then we’ll just have to keep paying. And paying. And paying. No, if we are going to fight this fight, we’re going to fight it and win it so it stays won. So nobody else ever thinks to come looking for money.”
“I’m not going to do it,” says Excelsior.
“What do you mean you’re not going to do it?” asks Gus. “You don’t have to do anything. You just show up in a nice— I mean, your suit and sit there. It’s got to be the easiest thing I’ve ever asked you to do.”
“It’s a sham. What are you going to do if I don’t? Are you going to lock up me? With what? Where? I’m tired of this bullshit. That Cromoglodon thing destroys buildings and kills people and you leave him alone. Why? Because he’s powerful. He gets to do whatever he wants because he’s powerful. And I don’t get to do anything I want? It’s not fair. It’s just not fair.”
“It’s not fair,” Gus says, mocking Excelsior. “You sound just like a three-year old girl. Pull it together. Pretend like you’re a man.”
“Screw you and your tough-guy talk. It’s all talk. That’s all it is. What are you going to do tough guy? Who’s gonna stop me? You? Him?”
R. Lee McEllroy swallows uncomfortably. He wishes he were elsewhere.
“Don’t let him scare you. He’s an idiot,” says Gus. McEllroy is not reassured. “Go on. Get out of here. I need a
