Killer Smile

The plaintiff in Schimmel v. Eisen, Marc Schimmel, was represented by Joe Baker himself, who sat across the glistening conference table; a forty-year-old lawyer in a slick gray suit, bright yellow Hermes tie, and brownish handlebar mustache waxed at both ends. Mary liked mustaches, but wax was for tables, and any man affecting an eighteenth-century look in the second millennium had Something Seriously Wrong. She liked better his down-to-earth court stenographer, a compact man named Jim who wore a flowered cotton tie and an earnest expression. The stenographer had positioned himself, as was typical, at the head of the table, with his gray steno machine off to the side.

Mary snuggled shoulder-to-padded-shoulder with Jeff Eisen, who wore an open-collar white shirt with a tan wool suit that reeked of cigarettes. He was smoking again thanks to Mary, having puffed two Winstons outside the building before the deposition. She had guiltily declined to join him, telling him she was back on the patch, but his relapse made her feel like Mary Magdalene on Nicotrol. Eisen had eventually settled down and the proceedings had been a day-long question-and-answer session – until this minute, when the plaintiff, Marc Schimmel, suddenly opened the door and entered the conference room.

Eisen’s moussed head swiveled to Mary. “You told me he wasn’t gonna be here. He’s not allowed in here!”

Mary quieted Eisen with a touch and addressed Baker. “Joe, I thought you said your client wouldn’t be attending Mr. Eisen’s deposition today.”

Baker went palms up, nonplussed. “I didn’t know he -”

“I decided to come in the end,” Schimmel interrupted, rounding the polished conference table and taking a seat beside his lawyer. He was a solidly built man of medium height, with layered brown hair. He blinked too frequently from blue-tinted contacts and sported a leathery tan from expensed jaunts to the Caribbean. He glared at Eisen from across the table, his fake-blue eyes bright against his dark skin. “I have a right to be here. I’m the plaintiff.”

“It’s my deposition,” Eisen said.

“It’s my lawsuit,” Schimmel shot back, and Mary half rose.

“That’s enough of that, Mr. Schimmel,” she said, from the squat that trial lawyers learned early. It was the I’m-almost-outta-here squat used for profanity breakouts, fisticuffs, or when the coffeepot was empty. The only reason Mary’s thighs were reasonably toned was because of this specialized maneuver, which required a law degree to perform. “You’re a party, so you have the right to be present, but you don’t have the right to abuse my client. Once more and I end this deposition.”

“Yeah, kiss my ass, Marc,” Eisen added.

“Wait just one minute!” Baker shouted, squatting to I’m-almost-outta-here.

“Your client started it,” Mary said, and it took the ensuing five minutes to send everybody to their figurative corners and settle down.

Baker continued his questioning: “Now, Mr. Eisen, beginning in January of this year, how many recliners did plaintiff, Mr. Schimmel, order for E amp; S Furnishings?”

“I don’t remember,” Eisen answered, simmering. The court reporter tapped silently away on the black keys of the steno machine, and Mary thanked God transcripts didn’t record the bubbling of testosterone.

“You may consult Exhibit 62 to refresh your reflection,” Baker said. On cue, Mary flipped through the stack in front of her and showed Eisen Exhibit 62, which was an order sheet. Baker cleared his throat. “Now, how many recliners did plaintiff order in January?”

“Depends on what kinda recliners you’re talking about.” Eisen pushed the sheet away like cold leftovers. “You’re question isn’t specific enough.”

Good boy. Mary had instructed him not to answer general questions, though she had no illusion that Eisen was following her instructions. He was just making trouble, and she liked that in a client.

“What kind of recliners do you sell at E amp; S Furnishings?” Baker asked.

“We sell Broughley Lady Executive recliners, Power Glide recliners, Merrie Olde England recliners, Long-Leg recliners, Massage Me recliners, Big Boy recliners, and the top of the line, the Comfort Regent Recliner.” Eisen rattled them off without the exhibit.

“So, why don’t you break it down by recliner and tell me how many of each were ordered in January of last year? Again, you may consult the exhibit.”

“I don’t need the exhibit, I know our inventory.” Eisen folded his arms. “In January, last year, Marc ordered three each of the Lady Executive, the Power Glide, the Merrie Olde England, the Long-Leg, the Big Boy, and the Comfort Regent. And he ordered eighteen of the Massage Me because his girlfriend loved to screw him on it.”

“Jeff, please,” Mary said, but her client was too angry to hear.

“Screw you!” Schimmel yelled back, going bright red under his tan. “I ordered eighteen because they flew out of the store for Christmas. They dissolve tension, reduce pain, and revitalize the entire body! You don’t know the product line, Jeff! You never did!”

“Marc, please!” Baker said, but his client was too angry to hear, too.

“Who do you think you’re kiddin,’ Schim?” Eisen leaned over the table, with Mary hanging on to his arm like a baby monkey. “This is me, your old partner, your old roommate! Remember freshman year? Speakman sucks, remember? You gonna lie to my face?”

“The Massage Me has the Lovin’ Touch System!” Schimmel leaned over, too, and the former partners were screaming nose to nose. At the head of the table, the court reporter tapped his keys, recording everything but the noses. Schimmel had launched into recliner frenzy. “The Lovin’ Touch is a genuine innovation in recliner comfort! It has remote-controlled accuracy! It gives a lifelike, professional massage, right at home!”

“Gimme a break!” Eisen roared. “You charged our company for your girlfriend’s vibrator!”

“Jeff, please stop!” Mary shouted, and just then the melee was interrupted by the ringing of a cell phone. Silence dropped like a bomb, and they all froze in place, then the men’s hands flew instantly to their belt holsters. But Mary recognized it. It was her phone. She dove under the table for her purse, as fighting resumed.

“Then how come they sold, Jeff?” Schimmel screamed. “Every single one of the Massage Mes sold! All of ’em! The proof’s in the pudding!”

“That was January! But what about February? Ten sold! And March? Seven!”

Mary found her phone and flipped it open. Shouts flew overhead.

“It’s not my fault the economy went in the toilet!”

“Gentlemen, please!” It was Baker. “Stop this right now! This isn’t serving anybody!”

“In April, Marc, we’re down to one lousy sale! One lousy unit!”

Oh my God. Underneath the table, Mary had a text message. The blue display on her cell read:

meet me at 5. 18th amp; Walnut. keisha.

“I told you, it’s the economy, stupid! Everybody took a hit in April! There was a war on! Don’t ya read the papers?”

“Then why’d you keep ordering the Massage Mes? They weren’t goin’ anywhere, we couldn’t give ’em away! But you got two times, three times, the normal order! Don’t lie to me, Marc, I know why! So your girlfriend could double her quota and win the trip to Tortola!”

“Where do you get your information? She hates Tortola!”

Under the table, Mary had to read the message again to believe she was really seeing it. Keisha wanted to meet with her. Why? It had to be about the Saracones. She checked the display for a little electric envelope but there wasn’t one. No voicemail message. She couldn’t hear over the yelling anyway.

“You should be ashamed of yourself! Your wife and kids never even saw Tortola! You send ’ em to Ventnor , if they’re lucky! You don’t even go down with ’em, like Jake! Not even on the weekends!”

“You spend the weekend with my mother-in-law! I wish that on you, just once! See how you like it, Mr. Perfect Marriage! And what about that secretary, at the auto tag place?”