Preface

You may be tempted to skip this section and jump right to the first chapter. I’d advise against it. Of course, I’d also advise against signing a contract you haven’t read and understood. But, then, I’m a lawyer.

I’m also a realist. The disclaimers at the beginnings of fictional stories are like car alarms, ignored by everyone except the owner and people they annoy.

You’re no doubt familiar with the standard legal mumbo jumbo: “This is a work of fiction. All the names, characters, places, incidents, and dialogues portrayed in it are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.”

Why not just say “Don’t believe anything you read in this story. I made it all up.” ?

In fact, why is it necessary to say anything at all? Isn’t it reasonable to assume that (1) people capable of understanding the disclaimer already appreciate the nature of a fictional work and (2) anyone who can’t comprehend it won’t be reading the story. From that perspective, a disclaimer is either redundant or irrelevant.

So why include one? It’s easy to blame the lawyers. But is the criticism deserved? Have you ever wondered how life in the United States would be different if there were no lawyers?

This is my attempt to explore that alternate reality. (But, don’t forget, it’s a fictional reality. And copyrighted.)

CHAPTER 1

After nine days alone in the backcountry, I was so looking forward to a hot shower, clean clothes, restaurant meals, and some human companionship. But more than anything, I wanted a hot fudge sundae: a mountain of vanilla ice cream rising from a lake of hot fudge into a cloud of whipped cream topped by a cherry and an avalanche of nuts. For the past 30 miles that image had been popping into my head more often than an adolescent male thinks of sex.

I hustled through the trail head parking area to the shoulder of the road and stuck out my thumb. Hitchhiking isn’t as easy as it used to be. Horror stories of serial killers and carjackings, blown all out of proportion by the culture of fear gripping the country, have made drivers skittish about picking up strangers. Considering my disheveled appearance, mud-caked and sweat-stained clothes, and pungent body odor, it’s a wonder it only took 15 minutes to get a ride.

My carriage was a battered, older model pickup truck. I tossed my pack in the bed and hopped into the cab.

“Thanks,” I thanked the driver. He was a big man. And it wasn’t all muscle. His paunch ballooned the gray pocket T-shirt he was wearing and overflowed the waistband of his faded blue jeans. A scraggly beard and high forehead framed a weathered, kindly face.

“Where ya’ headed?”

“Billville.”

“No problem. I’m goin’ right through there.” He pulled back onto the road and accelerated. “You smoke?”

“Yeah.”

He reached into his shirt pocket, pulled out a joint, and offered it to me.

“Uhhh, no thanks. I thought you meant cigarettes.”

“S’okay.” He lit the joint, took a deep drag, and held it.

A short funeral procession going in the opposite direction passed by. “Anyone you know?” I asked.

There was a pause until he exhaled. “Not personally. He was a lawyer in Billville. A bunch of lawyers in the area have been murdered this past week. Some fringe group – calls itself KATL – is taking credit.

“Cattle? As in a bunch of bull?”

He chuckled. “No. It’s spelled K-A-T-L; the letters stand for Kill All The Lawyers. They say the justice system is broke and the only way to fix it is to bring back common sense and individual responsibility. And the best way to do that is to get rid of all the lawyers. It’s not just talk either. So far, a half-dozen or so pockets of violence against lawyers have erupted in various parts of the country. One is centered around here.”

“You’re joking, right?”

“What’s the difference between a lawyer and a terrorist?”

“I don’t know. What?”

“Terrorists have sympathizers.” He guffawed. “Now that’s a joke.”

Unsure of where his sympathies lay or how he would react if he learned I was a lawyer, I tread lightly. “You realize, of course, that if there weren’t any lawyers, you wouldn’t have any lawyer jokes to tell.”

He pondered that for a moment then looked at me and grinned. “I’d tell hiker jokes instead.”

I jumped at the opportunity to change the subject. “Have you heard how Ivy got his trail name? He had to, uh, relieve himself and there was no privy nearby so he went in the woods. Since he didn’t have any toilet paper he grabbed a handful of leaves. Turned out they were poison ivy. He ended up in the hospital.”

“I spent several days in the hospital last year.”

“How come?”

He took another toke before answering. “Auto accident. I got banged up pretty good. The couple in the car I hit died. I was charged with vehicular homicide because my blood alcohol level was 0.17. Homicide! Makes me sound like a criminal. It was a frigging accident! Could have happened to anyone.

“I was supposed to go to court next month. But some nut job shot the judge. Then the prosecutor drowned just a couple days later. Word around town is that it wasn’t an accident. Anyway, my trial’s been postponed. Would’ve been a waste of time and taxpayer money anyway. I’ve learned my lesson. I don’t drink and drive no more.”

“So much for the premise that eliminating lawyers will restore common sense and foster individual responsibility,” I thought. But a man who talks for a living needs to know when to keep his mouth shut.

As we neared town, the dense greenery bordering the road was abruptly replaced by the clutter of civilization. I asked about inexpensive lodging and was chauffeured downtown to the Billville Hotel, an aging, four-story brick building that now catered to transients who thought a weatherproof and rodent free space containing a bed with linens, a chair with a back, and inside plumbing with hot and cold running water were luxury accommodations. I registered then offered my credit card to the desk clerk.

“We don’t accept credit cards.”

“What? The decals on your front door say you do.”

“That was before all the lawyercides. It’s got the credit card companies thinking it’ll be harder to collect from customers who default and that’ll encourage even more defaults. So they’ve stopped guaranteeing payment to merchants for the time being. If I let you charge your room and you don’t pay your credit card bill, we don’t get paid.”

“You don’t have to worry about that. I pay my balance in full each month.”

“Sorry. I can’t take the chance. Cash only.”

I had less cash on me than a tourist heading home after a vacation in Las Vegas. “Is there an ATM nearby?” I asked.

“A block north at the bank. You can’t miss it.”

My room was furnished in early 1900s eclectic, well worn but comfortable, like an old pair of shoes that a man would characterize as “just getting broken in” and a woman would view as trash. It offered the latest in modern amenities available when “high tech” meant electric lights.

After settling in, I took a long shower in the bathroom down the hall and put on my spare set of comparatively clean and not-quite-as-smelly clothes. Laundry was on my to-do list but I was famished so it would have to wait until after dinner. A dab of deodorant or cologne would have been seemly but, like most backpackers, I didn’t carry any. It was unnecessary weight. Besides, fragrances attracted bugs, bears, and other unwanted wildlife. I figured any hikers I met could always breathe through their mouths on the rare occasions they were able to detect my stench above their own.

The desk clerk recommended the Antlers Restaurant which was located several blocks away. As I strolled along, enjoying the pleasant July evening and feeling like a heavy burden had suddenly been lifted off my shoulders, I was struck by the prevalence of antique, art, and other shops catering to tourists. It seemed at odds with the overall tenor of the town. Pedestrian traffic was sparse; the only business that was bustling was a convenience store/gas station at the edge of the commercial district.

When I arrived at the restaurant, I opened the door and stepped into the middle of an argument.

“If you don’t leave now, I’m calling the police.”

“Go ahead. You’re the one who’s breaking the law. Or are your ears so clogged with the pomade oozing off your combover that you haven’t heard of the Civil Rights Act?”

“That’s the trouble with you people. Always blaming your problems on race discrimination. You’re like the boy who cried ‘wolf!’ so often that no one believed him any more.”

“But the last time the boy shouted the warning it was true.”

“So sue me.”

“Excuse me,” I interrupted. “This restaurant is a ‘public accommodation.’ You can’t arbitrarily exclude people who want to eat here.”

The man I had addressed turned his ire on me. “You’ve got a big mouth for a small man. Too bad it’s so full of crap that there’s no room left for my fine cuisine. I think you’ll find the dumpster down the street to be more to your liking.” He returned his attention to his original antagonist. “See? It has nothing to do with you being black. Both of you are dirty and stink. Besides offending my customers, your presence would bring the health department down on me.”

I caught the other man’s eye and gestured toward the door with my head. “C’mon. Let’s go find a restaurant that wants our business.”

Eugene, it turned out, was also a hiker staying at the Billville Hotel. On the trail he was known as Bypass, not because he circumvented difficult portions of the trail, but because a year ago he had undergone triple bypass heart surgery. That health crisis had prompted him to reassess his priorities and precipitated a renewed interest in backpacking. It had since become an essential part of his rehabilitation regimen, initially for the physical conditioning it provided but now for the mental and emotional benefits as well. He was currently hiking a 100 mile section to demonstrate, as much to himself as to his doctor, his newfound health and vitality.

After returning to the hotel together, we parted company. We each had chores that needed doing before getting back on the trail tomorrow. “If you get a chance, swing by my room later tonight,” I invited as we said our goodbyes. “Number 309.”

By the time I had done my laundry, resupplied, repackaged the food I had purchased, cleaned my water filter, written and mailed letters, and updated my journal, it was approaching 10:30 p.m. I was loading my pack so I’d be ready to go at first light when Eugene knocked on my door.

“I can’t stay,” he said. “I just wanted to give you a heads-up about two men I overheard talking to the desk clerk. It appeared they were asking about you. You’re a lawyer, aren’t you?”

Eugene knew it was considered extremely rude to ask another hiker his occupation, so I assumed he had a good reason. “Yeah. How did you know?”

“I’m a psychologist. Look, I got the impression they mean you harm. One said something that sure sounded like ‘KATL.’ Watch yourself, okay?”

That sounded preposterous. Why target me? I hadn’t told anyone I was a lawyer. Besides, I was a nobody, a small town attorney who handled mundane matters and earned a modest income. Eugene had to be mistaken. The word he overheard was probably “hotel.” Most likely, the men were looking for someone else. The only other possibility that made even a little sense was that they were messengers sent to notify me of some emergency or tragedy.

My first inclination was to seek out the men and find out what they wanted. Nevertheless, I hesitated. If they were looking for me, the apparent ease with which I had been located was vaguely disquieting. I was 1,000 miles from home, had not seen another human being while out in the wilderness, and had no itinerary. Even I didn’t know precisely where I would be at the end of each day. Yet they, whoever “they” were, found out within hours of my arrival. How? Was it my ATM withdrawal? The guy who gave me a ride? Someone I encountered in town?

And what if Eugene was right? Sneaking away in the dark seemed like a paranoid overreaction. Still, it was the safer option. Once out of the hotel I could find a pay phone and quickly discover whether anyone I knew was trying to reach me.

I jammed the last few items into my pack, then cracked open the door and peeked through the gap. Two men were walking down the hallway in my direction. I eased the door shut and locked it.

Knock! Knock! I suppressed the urge to ask “Who’s there?” but the effort had a disconcerting effect. A torrent of “knock, knock” jokes coursed through my mind. “Knock, knock.” “Who’s there?” “Police.” “Police who?” “Police unlock the door and let us in.” “Knock, knock.” “Who’s there?” “Ivan.” “Ivan who?” “Ivan to kill you.” “Knock, knock.” “Who’s there?” “Aaron.” “Aaron who?” “Aaron the side of caution.” The absurdity of my thoughts did not escape me. But I still had to stifle a giggle.

Through the door, I heard “Aaron” instruct “Ivan” to “stay here” while he went to get a key. That fueled my apprehension. If all they wanted was to leave a message, they could have done so at the front desk.

There was no good place to hide in the room and, other than the door, the window offered the only way out. I tiptoed over hoping to find a fire escape but was disappointed. At least the window opened. In the movies, the trapped occupant would now escape by climbing to the ground using a rope made of sheets tied together. I imagined the knots coming undone or the sheets ripping from the strain. Could a person who fell three stories under these circumstances hold the sheet manufacturer liable because his injuries resulted from a foreseeable misuse of bed linens? That was probably stretching products liability to the breaking point. But it got me wondering: if there were no lawyers, how many victims with much stronger cases would be left hanging?

The gallows humor took the edge off my anxiety and triggered an idea. I unpacked my bear bag kit – a nylon bag containing 50 feet of 3/16 inch nylon rope and two three-inch carabiners which I used to suspend my food beyond the reach of critters. The rope only had a working load of 90 pounds, just a little over half my body weight, but its breaking strength was presumably three or four times that. The carabiners were more worrisome. They were cheap aluminum spring links without locking gates, similar to the kind marketed as key rings, and embossed with the warning “Not for climbing.” I had no idea of the maximum weight they could handle.

I threaded the rope through the hang loop on my pack and lowered it to the deserted alley below. After retrieving the rope, I cut off approximately 15 feet and tied a “Swiss seat” around my waist and thighs. One carabiner was attached to the front of my improvised rappelling harness, then the second ‘biner was clipped to the first. I extended my hiking poles to a length that exceeded the width of the window opening and knotted one end of the rope around them at their midpoint. Finally, I tied a Munter hitch in the outermost carabiner so I could brake my descent and dropped the tail end of the rope out the window. It almost reached the pavement.

This had to be one of the stupidest things I had ever contemplated doing. I remembered when I was six years old and had jumped off our garage roof using an open umbrella as a parachute. It worked better in the Saturday morning cartoons than in real life. Then, my foolishness had only resulted in a broken ankle. Now, the consequences could be much worse, like ending up in the morgue instead of the hospital worse. There was still time to back out, figuratively speaking, and try talking my way out of this predicament. I was a lawyer after all and that’s what we get paid big bucks to do.

The literal alternative won the battle of the lesser evils. I carefully backed out the window, making sure my hiking poles were securely braced horizontally across the opening, and gradually increased the tension on the rope until they were held in position by my weight.