Flinch Factor, The Read Free

a bar once when he pulled out a gavel from under his robe and pounded it on the bar, demanding another Loch Ness Monster, a favorite drink of his that includes equal parts Bailey’s Irish Cream, Jägermeister, and liqueur.
    Crane said, “My client has no problem answering Miss Gold’s questions. The problem is scheduling the deposition. As the Court may know, Mr. Rubenstein is an avid triathlon competitor. Moreover, he uses each triathlon as an opportunity to benefit our community by making a significant charitable pledge tied to his scores at the event. At last summer’s triathlon in San Diego, his scores translated into a contribution to the Arthritis Foundation of fifty thousand dollars. Fifty thousand, Your Honor. This time he’s made the pledge to the Children’s Foundation. Those poor disadvantaged children need my client to stick with his training schedule.”
    â€œTriathlons, eh?” the judge said. “Reminds me of a Jewish joke. Heard it last week from Judge Bernstein. He’s a Jew, so there’s nothing offensive here—or if there is, take it up with him. Anyway, he told me he was heading off to the JCC for a Jewish triathlon. I ask him, ‘What the heck is a Jewish triathlon?’ Know what he said?”
    Rob Crane stared at the judge, his expression neutral. “I do not know, Your Honor.”
    â€œA shvitz, a whirlpool, and a massage.” The judge laughed, shaking his head. “That’s a good one, eh? Yessiree, bob.”
    His smile faded. “Where were we?”
    I said, “We were discussing Mr. Crane’s client’s purported scheduling problems, Your Honor.”
    â€œThere is nothing purported about it,” Crane snapped.
    â€œYour Honor,” I said, “I have been trying to schedule Mr. Rubenstein’s deposition for more than two months. Every date I’ve offered has been rejected because of some alleged scheduling conflict. Two weeks ago I sent Mr. Crane a letter in which I set forth twelve different dates this month and asked him to pick the one most convenient to his client. He had one of his associates send me a reply stating that Mr. Rubenstein was unavailable on all twelve dates and was not available at anytime in the foreseeable future. Here is that correspondence.”
    I handed photocopies to the judge and Crane.
    While the judge studied the letters, I said, “You will note that one of the days I proposed in my letter was the third of this month.”
    â€œLet me see—ah, yes, here it is. The third.”
    â€œAnd that was one of the days that Mr. Rubenstein was supposedly too busy to be deposed.”
    Judge Flinch glanced at the other letter and nodded. “Yep. Too busy.”
    â€œThe third was last Monday. Here is a copy of an article that appeared in the Post-Dispatch four days later on Friday.”
    I handed copies to the judge and Crane.
    â€œAs you can see,” I continued, “it’s a feature story on the growing number of men who go to spas for facials and other treatments. Let me direct the Court’s attention to the seventh paragraph, which I will now read into the record.”
    â€œâ€˜On Monday of this week,’” I read, “’I visited the lavish Stonewater Spa in the upscale Plaza Frontenac shopping mall in the hopes of getting some insights into this trend. Who should I find in the lounge area talking business on his cell phone? None other than high-powered real estate developer Ken Rubenstein, who was treating himself that day to the $250 Man Collection package, which features a pedicure, a manicure, a facial and a 60-minute deep tissue massage.’ End quote.”
    I set my copy of the article down on the podium.
    â€œIn short, Your Honor,” I said, “Mr. Rubenstein couldn’t be deposed last Monday because he was getting his toes moisturized.”
    Judge Flinch leaned back in his chair, smirking at Crane. “Busted,