Corrupt Practices (25 page)

“Nice of you and your client to drop by,” I say.

“We got caught in traffic.” He scans the room. “You’ve got to be kidding, pal. This is some kind of joke, right?”

Deanna uses this room for storage. Bare concrete floors, naked light bulbs, a single window set high up on the wall that abuts the back alley. If you listen hard, you can hear the voices chattering in the main room. Yesterday, we stacked cartons of coffee and supplies against the walls to create space, pushed a few wooden tables together, and brought in enough chairs to accommodate us. It’s a tight fit.

“You objected to my noticing it at the law school,” I say. “Something about disrespecting your client’s religious beliefs? Well, The Barrista Coffee House West Hollywood is completely nonsectarian.” I point to the carafes on a side table. “And I assure you, the coffee here will be by far the best you’ve ever had at a deposition.”

Weir says to Lovely, “So this is what you trashed your future for?”

She doesn’t answer, just stares at him with a hard expression. I’m about to snap back when Frantz gestures for Weir to keep quiet. So I let it go. Over the next eight hours we’ll have plenty of skirmishes.

Frantz drapes his coat over the back of his chair and sits down. Because of the cramped quarters, Weir has trouble getting into his chair.

“Need some assistance, Nick?” I say.

He scowls at me. Frantz actually seems amused. All this time, McCarthy has remained stone-faced, staring at the video camera behind me.

I nod toward Janine. “When you’re ready.”

She administers the oath to McCarthy, who won’t
swear
to tell the truth because false oaths violate his religious beliefs. So he
affirms
that he’ll tell the truth. Janine leaves out the words “so help you God.” Good enough, so long as he’s testifying under penalty of perjury.

A deposition and an actual court trial have a lot in common. You question a deposition witness just as you would if you were cross-examining a witness at trial. But there’s a big difference—at a deposition, there’s no judge present to keep your opposing counsel in line. So a guy like Frantz can make repeated objections and just generally try to make your life miserable.

I inhale deeply and savor the aroma of coffee, which doesn’t quite mask the smell of McCarthy’s perfume. I haven’t taken a deposition since Harmon Cherry died two years ago. In the six weeks before the law firm dissolved, I didn’t have one scheduled, and after that I haven’t practiced law. So I don’t know whether I’ll get stage fright like I do in a courtroom. I’ve felt confident all morning, but now there’s a flutter below my diaphragm, and a thin layer of moisture covers my palms. If I can’t handle a deposition, I’ll be worthless as a lawyer.

I ask McCarthy to state his full name for the record. Although it’s the simplest of questions, my ability to utter the words means that I can function, at least for now. Not that I’m home free. When I follow up with a flurry of questions about his past experience as a witness, I speak so fast that for the first time since we’ve known each other, Janine asks me to slow down. A lot of lawyers talk too quickly under stress, but I’m a trained actor, so not me—until now. My hands start trembling and won’t stop. I pray that my adversaries don’t notice.

McCarthy testifies that he’s had his deposition taken between forty and sixty times, mostly in copyright infringement and libel lawsuits against people—McCarthy calls them “apostates”—who have revealed the Assembly’s secrets or spread injurious falsehoods. He summarizes his education and work history. He had an undistinguished academic career—two years of community college, a BA in communications at a second-rate state university, followed by a job in promotion at an FM rock and roll radio station in the Midwest and then a gig as a disk jockey. When he volunteers that he abused alcohol and drugs and cheated on his ex-wife, I know what’s coming—a canned speech about how Bradley Kelly’s autobiography literally saved his life. After his religious epiphany, he joined the Assembly. Since then, everything in life has been wondrous. He left his job as a popular radio personality to come to California and found the Technology Communications Organization in 1995. He’s served as its chief executive officer and president ever since.

“What does the TCO do?” I ask.

“We provide public relations, community outreach, and reputation protection and enhancement for our clients. We also provide crisis management and litigation support.”

“Doesn’t your company provide damage control and propaganda services for the Church of the Sanctified Assembly?”

“Objection,” Frantz says. “Argumentative. Also insulting.”

“But you have to answer, Mr. McCarthy,” I say. Because there’s no judge present, McCarthy must answer even objectionable questions, so long as I don’t try to invade his privacy or impinge upon the attorney-client privilege.

“We don’t do propaganda or damage control,” McCarthy says.

“Well, you used the phrase ‘reputation enhancement’. Isn’t that just another name for propaganda?”

“No.”

“The Assembly is your only client, isn’t it?”

“We have other clients.”

“All affiliated with the Assembly?”

“Could be. We’re a tight-knit community. We take care of each other, unlike most people in today’s world.”

“But the Assembly is by far your largest client?”

“Just like it was your law firm’s largest client when you were practicing at Macklin & Cherry, counsel.”

Frantz and Weir both grin. I glance at Lovely, who’s frantically writing notes on her legal pad. It’s unnecessary, because Janine can give us a rough digital copy of the transcript at the break. But the note-taking gives Lovely an excuse not to look at Frantz and Weir.

“Let’s explore that answer,” I say. “You were the Assembly’s point person dealing with Macklin & Cherry, weren’t you?”

“I guess you could say that.”

“Who at the Assembly did you report to?”

“Objection,” Frantz says. “The question violates his First Amendment freedom of religion. You know full well that my client considers that information sacred and confidential. On top of that, I object because the question is irrelevant to your so-called breach of contract claim. I instruct him not to answer.”

“Highly relevant,” I say. “I’m entitled to know the names of the decision-makers who stiffed my client. This is to give you notice that I intend to bring a motion to compel your client to identify the people in charge.”

“Good luck to you on that,” Frantz says.

Although the law is on my side, history isn’t. So far, only one judge in the country has had the courage to order the Assembly to identify its leaders, whom the Assembly calls “elders.” She died three weeks later, falling from a ledge during a weekend hike in the hills behind her home. There were no witnesses and no signs of foul play. The deceased judge’s successor rescinded the order a week after he inherited the case.

For the next forty minutes, I question McCarthy about his relationship with Rich Baxter, going back to when they first met at Macklin & Cherry. McCarthy never volunteers information and takes his time before answering so Frantz has time to object. He shuts his eyes and ponders every question. He’s elusive without seeming evasive—in other words, a formidable witness.

We take a short break, during which Lovely and I caucus at an isolated table in the main room. Deanna comes over and asks about the deposition.

“I hate to admit it, but McCarthy’s good,” I say. “Smarter than I thought. Perceptive.”

“Of course he is,” she says. “I trained him.”

Lovely perks up. “Really?”

“I defended him in ten, twelve depositions. Before I worked with him, he was a shitty witness.”

“Have you two talked about this?” Lovely says excitedly. “About his weaknesses and—”

“We can’t ask Deanna questions like that.”

“You’re right,” Lovely says. “I’m sorry. Privileged information.”

“Not really,” Deanna says. “Parker’s a tight-ass. I never represented McCarthy individually, I represented the Assembly. I don’t owe Chris anything.”

“It’s not worth the risk,” I say. “The Assembly will try to use it against us if they find out. Besides, there’s nothing that you can tell me about that guy that I don’t know already.”

Deanna points to a large stack of papers on the table in front of Lovely. “What you got there?” I suspect she already knows. She was reading upside down.

“A bunch of documents I got off the Internet,” Lovely says. “Disgruntled ex-Assembly members and critics speculating about the identity of the Assembly elders. McCarthy won’t answer questions, but maybe if we get lucky, his demeanor will give it away, or—”

“I wouldn’t waste your time,” Deanna says.

“Why would we be wasting our time?” Lovely says. “I know it’s not likely, but—”

“Because McCarthy’s guys planted those names,” Deanna says. “A diversion to keep the identity of the Assembly’s leaders secret.”

“You know this how?” I ask, though I should put an end to this discussion.

“A few years back, Manny and I got bored. We’d done all this legal work for the Assembly, and the highest-ranking person we’d met was Chris McCarthy. Most people who care about this shit actually believe he’s the head of the Church, including a lot of people in the media. We checked some of our law firm files, and it was clear that McCarthy was reporting to someone. Anyway, we started doing some research. The names are bogus.”

“How could you know that?” Lovely says.

“We had a paralegal try to run down the names of the critics. None of them are real.”

“No more,” I say, trying to keep my voice low.

“All I’m saying is that the Assembly protects the identities of its leaders. What did Bradley Kelly call it, the Commitment of Purity of the Sanctified? He was the charismatic leader, divine, so his name was publicized everywhere. But the names of the other top members are secret. Manny—you know how he gets—started showing me this stuff on how to identify members of the mafia and on structures of sleepers cells and even on game theory to figure out the structure of terrorist networks.”

“That’s how you guys spent your time when you were supposedly representing the Assembly?” I say. “I hope you didn’t bill for it.”

Her lips turn up slightly, and she unconsciously fingers one of the four titanium rings that pass through her right eyebrow, twisting her flesh so grotesquely that I cringe. “Then Rich found out what we were doing and freaked. He threatened to go to Harmon if we didn’t stop. But you might as well forget about that Internet stuff. The face of the Assembly consists of McCarthy and the celebrity devotees, of course—they’re the best proselytizers—and the pastors who interact with members. The Assembly elders could be anyone. Manny and I even speculated that Harmon was an elder.”

“You can’t be serious.”

She bugs out her eyes and says in a cartoon-creepy voice, “Who knows? Maybe I’m one of them. Deanna the Elder of Universe Lesbia.”

“We’ve got to get back inside,” I say, not in the mood for jokes. “Stop sharing information. Frantz will jump at any excuse to bring a disqualification motion.”

Ignoring me, she tilts her head toward the table where Frantz and the others are sitting and says to Lovely, “How’re you doing with those guys?”

Lovely shrugs. Deanna gives her some consoling pats on the shoulder.

“Hey, Parker,” Deanna says. “I think I’ll pop into the depo and say hi to McCarthy for old time’s sake.”

Her devilish smile immediately dissolves my irritation. “Why not?” I say. “Maybe the tattoos and the piercings will freak him out so much that he’ll answer some of my questions.”

“Fuck you, too,” she says.

We go back to the conference room. Deanna greets Janine, who finds it hard to believe that this tattooed Goth girl is the same woman who used to litigate complex business cases at Macklin & Cherry.

Frantz, Weir, and McCarthy return thirty seconds later. Deanna waves at McCarthy and says, “Waz up, Chris?”

He studies her for a long moment with no hint of recognition. Then the mist clears. “Deanna? Deanna Poulos from Harmon’s firm?” His shades obscure his eyes, but I imagine that they’re filled with disgust.

She introduces herself to Frantz and Weir. “I worked with Chris when I was a lawyer representing the Assembly. But now I own this place. Your host for the day.”

“That’s fascinating, Ms. Poulos,” Frantz says dismissively. “Now, shall we get going so Mr. McCarthy can get out of here?”

“You and I fought quite a few battles together, didn’t we Chris?” Deanna says. “The Hathaway/TruthScour.com case was my all-time favorite. We definitely made some law on that one.”

McCarthy grins and says to Frantz, “We stopped this apostate Montel Hathaway and a company called TruthScour from posting the Assembly’s confidential teachings on the Internet. Deanna here found a theory to hold TruthScour liable. Before that, no one thought you could win against a service provider. She was superb.”

“You’re embarrassing me, Chris,” Deanna says, grinning.

“Let’s get started,” I say. “Back on the record.”

Frantz holds up his hand “Before you start asking questions, counsel, there’s an ethical issue that we need to discuss. Nick?”