CBN.com – A virulent
biological weapon is hiding in a bank vault in Chicago, a notorious
Russian gang is fighting to obtain it . . . and a legal technicality
may hand it over to them without question. It’s up to one
man to dig deep into his reservoir of legal knowledge and personal
courage to prevent such a tragedy in this Grisham-like legal thriller.
Read an excerpt below.
The New Client
This doesn’t look promising, Ben Corbin thought as he eyed
the potential new client sitting in his lobby. The short, wiry
man looked like he was about seventy, and the suit he wore was
at least twenty years old. A thick shock of unruly gray hair crowned
his overly large head, and the man’s thin hands, spotted
with age, clutched a dilapidated and overstuffed briefcase in
his lap.
Ben didn’t need more clients, he needed more paying clients.
In the six months since he’d opened his own law practice,
he hadn’t had any trouble keeping busy. The world, he had
discovered, was full of people who wanted to hire a lawyer, but
only a fraction of those people had both the desire and the ability
to pay their legal bills in a timely fashion. That hadn’t
been a problem at Beale & Ripley, the thousand-lawyer firm
where Ben had spent the first seven years of his career. Every
morning he’d gone up to his office on fortieth floor, worked
hard for ten or twelve hours a day, and cashed a fat paycheck
twice a month.
Ben was a litigator and a good one. At five feet, ten inches
he was a little short to be the imposing courtroom lawyer, but
his strong jaw, good looks, and muscular build helped make up
for that. He had also worked hard at developing a relaxed, confident
demeanor that made him very effective in front of a jury. All
but five of his cases had been resolved before trial, but he’d
won all five of those—including one that the lead partner
had called “a dead bang loser,” given to Ben solely
for experience.
Ben had enjoyed his work at Beale & Ripley, but it wasn’t
very fulfilling. Most of his clients were big corporations that
used his services simply as leverage to advance their business
strategies. Even his big courtroom victories had little real meaning.
“My job is to redistribute wealth,” he often joked,
“from the rich to the rich.”
So when the time had come to make a run for partner, Ben had
faced a hard decision: Would he now spend even more hours in the
office, trying to build his book of business? Or would he give
up the security and comfort of a big firm for the challenge and
uncertainty of own practice? Ben and his wife, Noelle, had spent
a lot of long nights trying to answer those questions. Noelle
was an accountant working for a bank headquartered in Chicago,
and for the last couple of years she’d also been chafing
to get out on her own. She and Ben planned to start trying for
children in two years (when she turned thirty-two), and she wanted
to run a part-time practice from home once the kids came. In the
meantime, spending all her time reconciling telecom expenses for
a Fortune 100 company left her feeling slack and uninspired.
Ben and Noelle eventually decided that they’d rent offices
together. Noelle would work part time, doing accounting and office
managing for Ben’s law practice, and spend the rest of her
time consulting for her former employer and soliciting other clients
to build her practice.
The Law Offices of Benjamin Corbin had opened six months ago
last week, and the past half year had been a mixed bag. Ben had
won two trials but had been paid for only one of them. Noelle
was doing a good job running the practice and had picked up a
couple of small-business clients. But she wasn’t getting
as much consulting work as she had hoped, and their expenses were,
of course, higher than they had projected. Not a lot, but enough
to make their finances uncomfortably tight.
Ben knew he was probably too busy to take the old man’s
case, even if he could and would pay. In fact, Ben knew he really
should be preparing for a court hearing he had in less than an
hour. The hearing wasn’t particularly important, but the
case was. Ben represented a small company called Circuit Dynamics
whose trade secret software had been stolen—or so Ben hoped
to prove—by several car-part manufacturers. If Ben won,
the damages would be at least $50 million, and Ben would get 10
percent of that under a partial contingent fee agreement he had
with his client.
He glanced at his watch. The old man had been referred by Cathy
Pugo, one of Ben’s more reliable clients, so he at least
had to talk to him. He swallowed his doubts and strode across
the lobby, a smile on his face and his hand reaching out. “Hello,
I’m Ben Corbin,” he said, shaking the man’s
hand warmly.
“Mikhail Ivanovsky,” the man said with a sharp nod.
“Pleased to meet you, Mr. Corbin.”
“Likewise,” replied Ben. “Please come with
me.” He led his guest into the firm’s conference room.
It was small, but the table and chairs were beautifully finished
solid oak. Ben also took pride in the paintings on the walls,
both originals, though they’d come from the Starving Artists
gallery south of the Loop. “Can I get you anything to drink?”
“Tea with sugar,” said Ivanovsky in clear but thickly
accented English.
Ben picked up the phone and dialed. “Susan, could you bring
in tea and sugar for Mr. Ivanovsky? Thanks.” He stole a
glance at his watch again as he sat down at the table. ”I
have twenty minutes before I need to leave for court. What can
I do for you, Mr. Ivanovsky?”
The old man reached down into his battered briefcase and pulled
out a stack of papers. “I need you to get some things that
are in a safe deposit box. The things in the box I bought, but
they will not give them to me,” he explained.
“Who won’t give them to you?” asked Ben.
“The bank which this box is in. American Union Bank.”
He riffled through the sheaf of papers and handed several to Ben.
“Box number 4613 in the LaSalle Street American Union Bank
building.”
Ben glanced at the papers. They consisted of a map of downtown
Chicago with the location of the bank marked by a red X, some
handwritten Russian notes, and a letter from the bank refusing
Mr. “Ivansky” access to the box. “They say their
records show that the box belongs to a man named Nikolai Zinoviev,”
Ben observed.
“This lies!” Ivanovsky insisted hotly, pointing to
the letter. “This Zinoviev, he sold it to me for $5,000
last week.”
Ben noticed that Ivanovsky hadn’t handed him a contract
for the sale of the box. “Did he sign any papers showing
that he sold it to you?”
Ivanovsky hesitated. “Not yet.”
“Have you asked him to?”
“Yes.”
“What did he say?”
“He said he would sign papers from the bank to show that
this box is mine, but then he did not do it. Now he will not sign.
I think he discovered someone who will pay more.”
“I see,” said Ben. Now they were getting somewhere.
“Were there any witnesses to the conversation in which Mr.
Zinoviev agreed to sell it to you?”
“No, we were alone.”
“Did you actually give him the money?”
“Yes, yes,” said Ivanovsky, shuffling through his
papers, happy to be able to prove something again. “Here
is the receipts, here is the bank statement showing my account
before, and here is another statement showing my account is much
lower now.”
Ben’s secretary, Susan, came in with a mug of tea and a
sugar bowl for Ivanovsky. He thanked her and dumped four heaping
spoonfuls of sugar into his mug. Ben’s teeth hurt as he
watched his guest drink. “By the way, what’s in the
box?” Ben asked.
“Jewelries.”
“What kind of jewelry?”
Ivanovsky put down his mug. “Okay, here is what happened.
I was at St. Vladimir Church two Sundays ago and I talked to this
man, and he told me about a man who died in 1985 and maybe he
put some jewelries in this box at American Union Bank on LaSalle
Street. This man who died, his brother lives in Chicago now, so
I telephoned the brother and asked if it is true. This brother
is Nikolai Zinoviev, who is called Nicki.
“I said to Nicki Zinoviev, ‘A man told me that when
your brother died, maybe he left jewelries in a safe deposit box
at a bank. I maybe would like to buy these jewelries.’ He
knew nothing of this box and was very surprised. He said, ‘You
are a very lucky man, Ivanovsky, because I must pay some money
to a man today and my bank is closed so I cannot get my money.
Because of this, I will sell whatever things are in this box to
you for $5,000, but you must pay in the next two hours.’
“American Union Bank is also closed, but I think maybe
these jewelries are very valuable, so I take this risk and say
yes. I gave him five thousand dollars, and he said we will go
to the bank the next day and fill out necessary forms and show
the bank papers so we can take the things in the box. But now
he says no.”
Ivanovsky’s monologue seemed oddly pre-planned to Ben,
and he had a vague feeling that there was more going on here than
this man was telling him. But did Ben really need to get to the
bottom everything? Or, more accurately, did he need to do it now?
Not really, he decided. After all, he hadn’t even taken
the case, and he probably wouldn’t. He decided to let it
slide, at least for the time being. He glanced at his watch again;
he had eight minutes. “Okay, I think I have a basic grasp
of what your case is about,” he said. “The real problem
I see is money. This isn’t a very large dispute, and litigation
is expensive. No matter who you hire, you’ll almost certainly
spend more than five thousand dollars on lawyers. Are you really
sure you want to file suit over this?”
Ivanovsky didn’t hesitate. “Yes.”
Ben shrugged. “O-kaaay,” he said. “And you
don’t just want your money back. You want the jewelry, right?”
“Yes.”
“Well, that will mean not just filing a complaint, but
also moving for an immediate temporary restraining order, or TRO,
to keep Mr. . . .,” he checked his notes, “Mr. Zinoviev
and the bank from giving it to someone else. TROs only last ten
days, so whether you win or lose the TRO motion, you’ll
need to file a motion for a preliminary injunction that will prevent
them from doing anything with whatever is in the box. The trial
on the preliminary injunction may come within ten days, but what
usually happens is that the parties agree to extend the TRO—if
it’s granted—and hold the preliminary injunction trial
a little later. That way they can do some discovery before jumping
straight into a trial. Still, the trial will probably come within
a month, which is about two years sooner than in a regular case.
“My old boss used to describe this type of case as ‘litigating
with your hair on fire,’ and that’s what it feels
like. You’ll be constantly running from the moment you start
until the end of the trial. You’ll also be spending lots
of money, because your lawyer will be working for you pretty much
full time for the whole month.” Ben did some quick calculations
in his head. “It would probably cost you at least $20,000
to get through the preliminary injunction trial. The case won’t
end then, but the work and the bills will probably drop off.”
Ivanovsky went a little pale. “I . . . I do not have so
much,” he mumbled, searching through his bag. “I have
only $5,000 with me.” He pulled out a stack of traveler’s
checks and, with a downcast look on his face, showed them to Ben.
“I have some money saved, and I can get the rest from my
pension and from selling some things, but not right away. But
next week I will pay. Is this okay?”
Ben was slightly stunned and felt a little sorry for the old
man. He was clearly burning through his retirement nest egg to
get whatever was in that box. “Uh . . . yeah, sure. I would
only need five thousand up front. Just bring me a bank statement
showing me that the rest is there.”
Ivanovsky started to countersign the checks. “No, no. Wait,”
Ben said quickly. “I’m not sure I can take your case.
Remember how I said you’ll need a lawyer who can work on
this full time for a month? I’ve already got a busy month
ahead of me. I wouldn’t want to take your case and then
not have the time to represent you as well as you deserve.”
“But you must!” Ivanovsky said with sudden fierceness.
“This is a very, very important case. When I told Mrs. Pugo
I needed a very good lawyer, she said, ‘Call Ben Corbin,
here is his number. He is a good lawyer, Mikhail, the best that
you can afford.’ So you must take this case.” He paused.
“I need you.”
Ben knew he was running late without looking at his watch. “I
have to leave for a hearing now— I apologize for running
out so quickly—but I’ll take a close look at my calendar,
and I’ll call you tonight to let you know whether I can
take the case.” Ben was already thinking about the Circuit
Dynamics case by the time he closed the door behind Ivanovsky.
Excerpted from Dead
Man's Rule
by Rick Acker, Copyright © 2005, published by Kregel
Publications. Used by permission. Unauthorized duplication prohibited.
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