Confessions of a Litigation God (Paperback)

Chapter 1

“Objection, Your Honor. Mr. Connover is badgering the witness!”

I lean back a little further in my chair and look casually over my shoulder at my opposing counsel. Simon P. Leftwich, Esquire is a douche. He’s been practicing law for about ten years, about the same amount of time that I have, but he thinks by wearing a bow tie with his cheap suit and black, tortoiseshell glasses that he looks more sophisticated and experienced.

I’ve wiped the floor with him on three prior occasions and yet, he still wants to tangle with me.

His face is mottled red as he looks to Judge Farber for a ruling, but I just don’t get what the problem is. All I did was question the bias of his expert medical witness.

It went a little something like this.

“So, Dr. Drumley, your opinion in this matter is that the defendant, Dr. Carrolton, did not commit malpractice in this case?”

Dr. Drumley sat up straight in the witness chair, puffing his chest out a little. His snowy-white hair sparkled under the harsh, fluorescent lights of the courtroom and his wire-frame glasses reflected a glare from said lights, making it hard for me to see his eyes.

No matter. I knew they’d reflect a false sense of security at this point.

“That is my absolute opinion,” he said confidently.

“That she operated within the standard of care?”

“That’s right,” he said, lifting his chin up in defiance.

I leaned back in my chair, casually propping one leg over the other. Drumming my pen on the table, I asked, “Even though our experts—that would be Dr. Franklin from Duke University, Dr. Parikh from Johns Hopkins, and Dr. Jacobs from Cedars Sinai—all disagree with you?”

His chin sagged a little, his voice not so self-assured. “Yes. I disagree with them. I’ve read the medical records—”

“Yes… so have they, Dr. Drumley. But more importantly, have you read the deposition of Dr. Carrolton?”

“No.”

“Did you read the medical journals that Dr. Parikh testified about that support our case?”

The bottom of his chin hit his chest. “No, but—”

“Did you even bother to talk to these doctors… consider their opinions?”

“No,” he admitted, his voice strained. “But that’s not—”

“Dr. Drumley,” I talked right over him. “You operate a private practice in Syracuse, correct?”

“Yes.”

“And at one time, Dr. Carrolton actually practiced medicine with you?”

“Yes.”

“You were business partners?”

“Yes.”

“Friends?”

“Yes.”

“Still friends to this day?”

“Yes,” he said in a whisper.

“And Dr. Carrolton is actually paying you for your testimony here today?”

Dr. Drumley’s face went a lovely shade of fire-engine red. I think my ex-wife had a nail polish that same color. I hated it on her, but I liked the color on him. “Yes, but as an expert witness, I’m allowed to get paid for my time,” he said testily.

I shuffled some papers around, acting a bit disorganized, but I knew exactly what I was doing. I grabbed a paper and perused it. It was not what I was looking for, and I think it was actually a document from another case I read during a break, but it made a good prop.

I held the document up and waved it around in the air, the jurors’ eyes all pinned to me. “In fact, she’s paid you five thousand dollars so far for your ‘opinion’ in this case?” And yes, I made little air quotes when I said the word “opinion” and laced my voice with the appropriate amount of subtle sarcasm.

Dr. Drumley nodded his head, his lips in a flat line.

“I’m sorry, Doctor… you need to give a verbal answer for the court reporter.”

“Yes,” he said, so very quietly. While I knew the jury heard him, I wanted them to hear him again.

“Five thousand dollars?”

“Yes,” he growled, getting extremely pissed off at me.

Which was fucking perfect!

I whistled through my teeth and shook my head in bemusement. “That’s a lot of cashola.”

“Not really,” he said arrogantly, trying to pick himself up with some false confidence.

I grabbed another document from the table. “May I approach the witness, Your Honor?”

I didn’t wait for the Judge to say ‘yes’, because I knew he would, so I got up and stalked confidently up to Dr. Drumley, handing him the document.

“I’m handing you what’s been marked as Plaintiff’s Exhibit 32, Dr. Drumley. Can you identify that for me?”

I looked over at the jury and every one of them was leaning forward in their chairs. But I knew they’d be doing that. This was too juicy not to.

“That’s a copy of my tax returns from last year.”

“And how much cashola did you make last year?” I asked with a smirk.

Dr. Drumley glared at me briefly before looking down at the document. He took a moment to search for the correct field and said hesitantly, “$620,313.”

“Wow,” I said as I leaned my elbow up against the witness box, looking down at the tax return he held. I noted his hands were slightly shaking. “And of that $620,313, how much of that did you earn by testifying on behalf of other doctors like your good friend Dr. Carrolton?”

He swallowed hard, his eyes roving over the return. The number wasn’t there, and he probably knew it wasn’t there either, but I had him so flustered he was searching vainly for it. I knew he was starting to hit overload with me, so I decided to help him along.

“Actually,” I said, turning from him and walking back to the counsel table. I picked up another document and spun back on him. “This is Plaintiff’s Exhibit 33. What is this?”

He took the paper from my hand and peered at it, his face now a lovely green tinge. “It’s my profit and loss statement from last year.”

“And that document has all of your income broken down into tidy little categories, doesn’t it?”

He swallowed hard again. “Yes.”

“And isn’t there a category on there you have labeled ‘Expert Witness Fees’?” And yes, I used air quotes again around the words “Expert Witness Fees”.

“Yes,” he muttered.

“So, let me ask again… how much of your total income from last year did you earn by testifying on behalf of other doctors?”

His eyes scanned the page. He knew where the number was, but he didn’t answer right away. I could see the wheels spinning in his head while he frantically tried to come up with a way to spin this in his favor.

But there was no way, so he said quietly, “$73,422.”

I was quiet for a moment, gently taking the documents back from Dr. Drumley. I let that number sink in… let the jury calculate it in their head.

I turned away and walked back to my table thoughtfully, considering his answer. “A little over $73,000 for testifying?”

“Those are legitimate expert witness fees,” Dr. Drumley threw out at me.

“Legitimate?” I asked with a slight sneer to my voice, but I sat back down at my table casually. “Tell me, Doctor… out of all of those ‘legitimate fees’, how many of those times did you ever testify for the person who was injured or killed due to a doctor’s negligence?”

He didn’t answer me because he knew the answer was damning. I decided to help him out again… out of the goodness of my heart, of course.

“How about zero, Dr. Drumley? Zero times you testified for the plaintiff.”

He nodded his embarrassed assent and I merely pointed to the court reporter, who was taking down the testimony word for word and couldn’t memorialize non-verbal answers. He flushed hot and whispered, “That’s correct.”

“Wow,” I said in surprised disbelief but, in truth, I had practiced that bewildered look on my face in the mirror this morning as I shaved and mentally went through my cross-examination. “Just wow.”

Dr. Drumley’s eyes narrowed at me, because yeah… I was sarcastically making fun of his bias.

“Some would say, Dr. Drumley, you’re kind of like a jukebox doctor.”

“Excuse me?” he asked, confused and potentially offended, but he didn’t really understand what I was saying.

“Yeah… a jukebox doctor. Put a quarter in you… or rather, $5,000, and you’ll play whatever song the defendant chooses.”

I waited for it… only took a second, and Simon P. Leftwich, Esquire was exploding out of his chair. “Objection!”

I heard a few snickers from the jury and responded with a satisfied smirk pointed at the doctor. He looked like he wanted to murder me.

“I’m going to sustain that objection,” Judge Farber says, his voice only slightly chastising to me. He’s seen me do this type of thing to a witness plenty of times, and he knows I’ll keep doing it. “I’m going to instruct the jury to disregard that last comment by Mr. Connover.”

I shrug my shoulders, as if I don’t care. And I don’t. No way is the jury going to disregard that, no matter what the judge tells them. I guarantee you they’ll be laughing over the term ‘jukebox doctor’ during deliberations.

***

I am riding on a super fucking high right now. After the good Dr. Drumley got off the witness stand, the judge gave us a fifteen-minute recess. I wasn’t surprised when at the ten-minute mark, Leftwich approached me with a settlement offer. I knew it was coming… after I shredded their main expert witness.

But, the offer was missing a zero on the end, so I politely declined and told the judge at the fifteen-minute mark we were ready to resume the case. Leftwich then asked the judge for an extended recess so he could talk further with his insurance carrier to determine further settlement possibilities.

The rest of the afternoon turned into a major negotiation, with the judge only all too happy to let the jury sit in seclusion while this went on. If we settled the case, Judge Farber could schedule a tee time for the following morning so he wanted us talking numbers.

It eventually settled… with the appropriate amount of zeroes, at 4:15 PM.

I was back at the office by five PM, accepting high fives from various colleagues.

Back to my apartment by 5:30 PM where I showered, but didn’t bother to shave my late-afternoon stubble. I’ve had more than one woman tell me she liked the way it felt between her legs.

As I stare in the mirror, rubbing my fingers over the scruff on my face, I try to see myself for who I really am. The Matthew Connover staring back at me, with his dark hair and whiskey-colored eyes, was a fucking litigation god today in the courtroom. I get off on that stuff so much, I’m surprised I didn’t bust a load in my pants by the time I finished with Dr. Drumley.

But the man staring back at me right now is also a fucking god in the bedroom, and that’s not ego talking. That’s just plain truth—derived from the last few years of constantly fucking a wide variety of women and hearing their repetitive and satisfied cries of pleasure when I get them off.

I run my fingers through my hair, give myself a wink in the mirror, and by seven PM, I’m meeting Number 366, my One Night Only “date” for the evening. I’m ready to fuck my brains out to complete what had turned out to be a really, really fantastic day.

God, I love the One Night Only service. It’s a secret and exclusive club that provides guilt-free sex with certifiably clean and sexy partners, no strings attached and best of all... it’s “one-night only”, because one night is the max amount of time I want to be in a relationship. You can only get in with a personal referral from an existing member, an exhaustive interview process, and a comprehensive health screening you have to keep up to date on a monthly basis, which is done by ONO’s own medical staff.

I chose Number 366, or Marie as she asked to be called, because her profile said she was new to the area but that she wasn’t interested in the song and dance of a pretend date. She wanted to get right to the fucking, and I expect that’s going to make her a very popular woman with the men of ONO.

It’s certainly already made her popular with me.

As I enter the lobby of the hotel she picked, I get an email from her on my phone instructing me to go to the front desk. I don’t even have to open my mouth to say anything as the clerk seems to recognize me and says, “Good evening, Mr. Black. I’ve got a package for you.”

Yes, Mr. Black. One of the reasons I pay such an exorbitant amount of money to ONO is for the anonymity it provides.

I have to say, I’m very impressed with Marie. She’s planning this out quite nicely. I take a large, brown envelope that is clearly stuffed with something and open it up. I pull out the contents, which looks like two purple silk scarves, a handwritten note, and a room key. My lips curl up in a sensual grin, and I head toward the elevator as I read the note.

I’m in Room 2013. The scarves are yours to do with as you please. Anything goes.

When I reach the room, I slide the keycard in the slot and slowly open it up, immediately seeing the curtains drawn back from the window and the next building over awash with lights of those Manhattanites still working. Both table lamps are on, bathing the room in a nice glow.

In the center of the bed is Marie, and she clearly doesn’t care if anyone from the other building over can see her. I don’t care either, for that matter, as I can be a bit of an exhibitionist when I want.

She’s completely naked with huge, hard nippled tits, fiery red hair that fans out on the pillow, and a completely waxed pussy, which makes me slightly disappointed because now I wonder if she’s a real redhead. She has a hungry-as-fuck look on her face, and I am instantly, painfully hard.

I don’t say a word, and neither does she. I love these ONO dates where conversation is not required. I didn’t figure Marie to be a talker since she wasn’t interested in dinner or drinks, so I immediately take the scarves and tie her hands to the headboard. She moans her approval, her eyes following me as I move to the end of the bed and stare down at her.

Fuck, this is the life.

Stuff dreams are made of.

I wouldn’t want it any other way.

I casually strip in front of her while her gaze eats me up. She has a satisfied smile on her face when I drop my pants and my erection springs free. I take myself in my right hand and start a slow stroke while I watch her watching me. When her tongue peeks out and takes a swipe at her bottom lip, I decide to give her something to remember me by.

Let me be the first to tell you, I give good fucking head. You won’t find another man with better oral skills. I can make a woman come extremely fast with my tongue, and I love doing it. I love the taste, the sensations, the way a woman goes fucking crazy with a man’s face between her legs. I spend time getting her off, and then I get myself off while availing myself to her beautiful body.

Win/win.

See?

I crawl my way in between Marie’s legs, spread her silky, smooth flesh, and my horniness factor increases as she grunts in rhythm with my tongue strokes. She moans, groans, and finally starts panting, bucking her hips hard against me, and frankly, throwing me off my game a bit. I put my hands on her stomach and pin her down, then I focus and give it to her fast. She breaks apart so easily, and I’m grinning like the Cheshire Cat as I work my way up her body.

Giving her a few kisses, nips, and licks across her stomach and breasts, I manage to hook both of my elbows behind the backs of her knees as I move my way north. It raises her hips off the bed and gives me the perfect angle to sink into her. She’s wet and ready, but who wouldn’t be after what I just did to her?

With an easy push of my hips, her body eagerly accepts my cock. She mewls like a starving kitten when I start thrusting inside of her.

I take my time. She’s tied up, not going anywhere, and she’s flush off a fantastic orgasm. She knows how good I can make her feel, so she’s along for the ride. I alternate fast, slow, hard, soft… you name it—I give it to her. I mean, it’s basic missionary position, but the way I have her legs and hips raised, I know I’m hitting her at her deepest point, and her increased moaning confirms it.

We haven’t even kissed yet, and I wonder if she wants to. I could take it or leave it, frankly. Too intimate sometimes, which gives me the heebie-jeebies, but I’ll do it if the woman wants it. Let’s face it… I’ll do practically anything a woman wants me to.

As I continue to fuck her, Marie stares out the window at the building across the way, with a glazed and rapturous look on her face. She’s wondering if we’re being watched, not that anyone could see a lot of detail without some binoculars or a telescope, but I suppose it’s possible.

I look down at her… scarves binding her hands, my arms pinning her legs in place, at my mercy while I pound away inside of her body

Fuck, that’s hot, and I can feel my orgasm start to bubble.

Then it boils.

Then it fucking erupts.

I place my face in the pillow that’s supporting Marie’s head, lost in a haze of lust and bliss, shouting hoarsely into it as I spurt into her.

As soon as the last shudder works its way from my spine out through my dick, I pull out of her and roll to the side. That was a workout, and I’m breathing heavily. So is she, not because she did anything, but because her heart rate is through the roof.

Glancing over at her, I ask, “Did you come a second time?” I had gotten so overwhelmed in lust that I didn’t even think to wait for her.

She nods her head, eyes still glazed but with a satisfied smile on her face.

I turn and look back at the ceiling. “Good. That’s good.”

My breathing finally calms and I roll off the bed, untying one of Marie’s hands. I walk back around, stopping at the end to pick up my clothes. Marie just watches me, her chest and those glorious tits I all but ignored still heaving.

When I put on my t-shirt and zip up my jeans, because I dressed über casual tonight, I finally untie her other hand. She rolls onto her side, tucking her hand under her face, and watches me put on my socks and shoes.

When I’m done, I walk back over to her and lean down, placing a light kiss on her forehead. She sighs and closes her eyes, never saying a word to me. I turn for the door, already looking forward to drinking a beer and watching Sports Center when I get home.

Marie hadn’t said a word during that entire fuck session.

It makes me smile because it’s just the way I like it.

I tell myself that over and over again, as I walk out of the hotel.

It was just the way I like it.

Just the way I like it.

I keep repeating it, ignoring the gnawing emptiness at the center of my chest… the painful squeeze of some unrealized longing. I choose to believe I may be having a heart attack rather than think the unthinkable… that maybe something is truly missing.

Ridiculous really.

Yup… fuck ‘em and leave ‘em. That’s the stuff that dreams are made of.

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