I.- The American playwright.

Part One: Meeting Mr Levy.

The morning was crisp. It was late January and it had rained some days ago quite heavily. Now it was agreeably cold. Enough that you’d wear a long coat over a suit quite comfortably, with a scarf that only needed to be tied early in the morning, and now was more an accessory adding to the overall “man in suit” look.

The court case had been short, the parties had agreed it best not to drag this out another year or so and settled an amicable custody arrangement, with a visitation scheme. There were no assets to divide, neither party had a pot, or anything to put in it. So, the entire affair was about who gets the kid. Our client was the down on his luck, alt-right voting father (you have to pay the bills somehow, I say to myself, in order to justify putting up with certain people), who was annoyed at the mother of this poor sweet little six-year-old, for having enough of his worthless excuse of a behind and kicking him to the curb.

Thankfully I was able to use an old lawyer trick to convince him to accept maternal custody and avoid what would have been a year’s worth of phone calls about the mother’s cool new Brazilian boyfriend and how he should not be near their daughter (not that he cares about the daughter or the boyfriend or anything for that matter. He’s just being difficult because she sent him packing). The trick was simple, I informed him of how much this would cost him, and how long it would take. Needless to say; in the absence of money, and with some own client haggling, both lawyers were able to meet in the middle as we always did.

I looked at my watch and, waving a quick thank you to the opposing lawyer, who today behaved as a gentleman, all things considered. I made my excuses with my client, closed my briefcase, and started the walk back to the office. My fear that day was that my client might have been arrested for domestic violence. In our jurisdiction, women specifically are vigorously protected from the slightest insult or even veiled comment from men, which results in almost automatic arrests, and a criminal process absorbing any civil disputes which the mother may have with the father regarding children and family assets.

Thankfully he took my advice and the day before the hearing he stayed with friends, abstained from alcohol, and basically remained as far away from his wife as was humanly possible. I owed my assistant a coffee. Normally, this type of male clients, aided by alcohol or their illegal drug of choice that week, call up the ex and have one hell of a rough the night before the court case, insult or threaten them and then remember my advice as the two rather large and convincing police agents are standing at their door, hoping for someone to resist arrest, while slipping on regulation police gloves and disconnecting their radios.

As I turned on to the main street, I noticed that many of the shops still had their Christmas decorations, and the streets were strewn with lights. It would be March before the shops finally caught on that you can’t sell Father Christmas coats and boots when the weather is getting warmer. The lights would probably stay up, disconnected, until April or May in some parts. It’s not as if they could hurt anyone right? No vandal children would dare try to rip them down and hit each other with them now, would they? There’s no reason to put them away once they’re no longer needed right? That’s preposterous. Next, you’ll be expecting husbands to help with house chores, and wives to go to work. It is much easier for them to be left where they are, since it was so hard to get them up (a ladder requires an engineering degree after all) and if it so happens that they are up in June still, we can call them summer solstice lights.

On my walk, I passed several little cafés and shops, all busting with people who ought to be working. I’ve done the walk many times and the scene is always the same. For instance, I spotted the local medical examiner looking all smiley at eleven o’clock surrounded by faces that should be in the court offices. I even saw the odd judge enjoying a piece of cake. No doubt the waiting room and gaol cell in their building were full to the brim. Then again, if you’d studied five years for a law Degree, spent another 5 years memorizing things which will probably be altered before you finally qualify for the judge exam and are finally shipped off halfway across the country to some backwater town; you’d be about ready to let them wait. Some turned and locked eyes with me, giving a slight nod in recognition as I waved.

I finally turned on to our street. As I was walking towards the office building, I saw the sign for the bakery that occupies the ground floor of the office building, and thought “why not? Give the cat the canary”. Gonzo the owner didn’t even need me to ask for my usual, the coffee was already being made, as my phone started to ring.

“Hello…”

I wasn’t even able to finish my greeting when Cassey’s voice interrupted me. “You’re in the bakery, aren’t you?”.

My assistant was gifted with spectacular hearing, and I am a creature of habit. I answered in my most educated “Hang on I’m still the boss” voice.

“Be happy I’m not in a bar drinking my sorrows away or trying to find sense to life”.

She asked me not to take too long, the to-do list was now three pages long as someone had to make sure we kept the lights on.

“…Oh, and we have a new client who should be arriving in 20 minutes or so. He’s coming in on the bus.”

She gave me a few seconds to grasp what she had said. “What do you mean the bus? hold on, I’m coming up”.

See, there is no public transport system on the island. Yes, there is a train that joins two of the major cities, but it leaves once an hour and takes twice as long as a car ride would. And, to top it all off, you’re left in the middle of nowhere. Yes, there are buses in the summer that go from the airport to the main hotels, but it will take you five hours to do what you could in a car or taxi in one. It is the most prolonged form of torture you could hope to find in the western hemisphere. So, in actual fact, there are no buses. If a client says he’s coming on the bus, you best hold on to your bootstraps because it is going to be a bumpy ride.

I checked the post box as I always do. While holding the coffee in my left hand I was fishing for my keys in my right pocket, simultaneously climbing the staircase that led to our door. Both on the street entrance as well as next to our office door, there was a plaque that read “Charles Francis Solomons, Lawyer”. Having retrieved the keys and finally made it through the door I was in the process of reengaging Cassey when I was greeted to the raised finger. She was on a call from a different client, and naturally, I had to wait. I took this time to put the briefcase down, hang the coat on the rack and make myself at home, you know, seeing as I was supposed to be in charge.

Our office was divided into a reception section with Cassey’s desk facing the waiting area, and on the other side of a windowed partition, my office, complete with all our file cabinets, a meeting table, and my desk. On the far side were the glass fixed windows that you could see from the street, and which gave the entire place a professional look. I had just sat down when Cassey finally finished the call and came in to see me.

“That was the new client, apparently he missed his bus, and it will be at least 2 to 3 hours until he actually gets here”.

I nodded and asked “what do we know about the case? I imagine he has been told there’s a first consultation fee?”

After assuring me that the man had been told, Cassey checked her notes and began the presentation.

“The man’s name is Marlin Levy. He is American, originally from New York, but having worked out of Miami for the last ten years as a playwright and script writer. He is retired and living on his eighteen-metre yacht which is apparently anchored in a marina not too far from here, yet that requires a bus in to come into town. He doesn’t have an address and receives monthly payments from a pension plan, with which he intends to pay us. He is coming in because last summer another boat crossed in front of his yacht, catching and damaging the line keeping him at anchor, which he was forced to sever; the hull also had some damage as eventually the other boat collided into him. He is bringing the claim he lodged with the insurance company but swears they have not yet shown up.”

After giving me all the particulars, she was able to collect from her phone call with Mr Levy, I asked her if there was anything else I might need to know, to which she simply indicated:

“I have a bad feeling about this one boss. He seemed cagey. I think he might be hiding something.”

I asked if we had the details of the insurance claim he had filed, to which I was told no. Apparently Mr Levy was bringing a binder with all necessary documents (I love when clients come with binders).

After opening a file for the new client and preparing the retainer forms for the upcoming meeting, Cassey went back to her regular work. Aside from my assistant she was also a trained accountant, which allowed us to handle tax cases as well as basic legal cases. We made a good team; she kept the office running smoothly and I made sure we had paying clients.

I busied myself with the myriad of other cases that needed my attention, answering mails, returning calls, and preparing court briefs. Honestly, I was rather intrigued. We didn’t used to get that many Americans. The odd one gets lost now and again, but other than that, the only reason you know they exist is because they have elections every four years, an issue which the news feels I ought to know.

The hours slipped by, and the work trundled on. At about four o’clock in the afternoon I was startled by a ring at the doorbell. Realizing it must be the new client, I retrieved my suit jacket from my chair as I heard the door open and Cassey welcome Mr Levy in. Opening the door to my partition and seeing I was already walking towards her, she allowed the client in.

To say it was a shock does not do the situation justice. Melvin Levy was about 70 years old if he was a day. About my height, he sported what I can only describe as a shit-eating grin on a warped and wrinkled face, that could have passed for an imitation rubber mask from one of those Halloween films. He had clearly not seen much sun, and his beady black eyes seemed to squint somewhat. Probably he wore glasses, but I never saw him using them. I noticed his face was partially shaven, as if he had started on one side, and changed his mind halfway through. There was still some shaving foam on one ear, mixed with what I can only presume was composted earwax and God knows what other bodily secretions. The stubble was clearly more than a day old.

He wore a shirt whose colour I would not dare to wager, and on top of that, a green jumper that, at some point in the last five years, had seen a washing machine, but only in passing. The collar disappeared halfway around the neck. I was in the presence of a veritable two-faced and double clad man. One side was shaven, the other wore a shirt. I should have seen the warning signs. The jumper was caked on his left shoulder with some form of residue, which also seemed to be present on his face in places. After noticing this I realized Mr Levy was missing some teeth, or rather still had some teeth left in the fight against tooth decay. He removed his woollen cap. It had also once been a different colour surely. Only then was I able to notice his hair was so oily and gritty that particles were escaping (I doubt fleas could have survived on such rough terrain). The man’s trousers were multicoloured, mottled and ragged. His shoes had once been trainers. His left great toe was poking out of a hole gouged with a nail that could give Tungsten Steel a run for its money. To say the man needed a good scrub was an understatement.

And then there was the smell. It was actually a cacophony of smells. The sort of thing you expect from a prisoner in some war-torn corner of the earth when he’s finally freed after being kept in a cage underground for years. I had to remind myself I was a professional, a lawyer, this man deserved respect. And we had to pay bills. From my days living in a shared apartment with another young man, I remembered my training. I fought back the urge to heave and addressed Mr Levy.

“Mr Melvin Levy, welcome. My name is Mr Charles Francis Solomon, how may I help you, please have a seat.”

I have never received another handshake like that one. I walked away with slime that was not mine, all the while trying not to let my eyes water. I just shook hands with a stinky, slime ridden gargoyle. The man was, to say the least, revolting. (We’ve got to pay the rent I reminded myself).

“Thank you. You speak good English. this is a very nice place here.” I made a mental note to wipe down the meeting table and chair. Mr Levy plopped what I could only describe as a tortured old satchel on my meeting table, and proceeded to extract what I, to this day still believe was reference material used by Tolkien in writing his works. The folder was almost thicker than the man wielding it.

“This is my dossier Mr Solomon. I have everything you need in here” he said smiling and tapping the folder.

“Why is everything this man owns green?” I heard myself say inwardly.

After the usual warnings to Mr Levy that this was a legal office and we were bound to secrecy, I offered him our client retainer form, asking he fill out his personal billing and contact details. I watched as he reached a gnarled hand to one of our pens. I half expected spiders to run down his sleeve. With the formalities seen to I said the same thing I say to all my clients.

“So, tell me, how can we help you today.”

Electrified at the question, Mr Levy rose and began to pace around the office, to my amazement, and the bewilderment of Cassey, who I saw stifling a laugh on the other side of the partition.

“I have a case for you Mr Solomon, one that will make you rich. We’re going to go up against an insurance company. They have a lot of money, and they’ll not want the tricks they play being brought to light”.

Remembering I was actually in the room, and consulting the notes Cassey had taken, as well as my own observations, I tried to bring the conversation back to reality “I was under the impression that you are here about a boat accident Mr Levy.”

The client spun around and getting far too close for comfort all but spat in my face “That’s just the tip of the iceberg.”

The contrast between the suited, educated professional and the… well, gobshite, was enough to push Cassey over the edge. I saw her step into the back area of the office where we keep the closed cases and old files. There’s also a little kitchen and bathroom.

She came back 5 minutes later wiping away tears of laughter.

“Mr Levy, I’m afraid I don’t quite understand, I will need you to confirm that you are here about a boat accident, and I will have to ask you to please sit down.”

He confirmed that he was here about a boat accident, and that he did in fact live on the ship, as well as that he was a retired writer from America. He refused though, to give up his stage and started to walk around my office.

“You see I sailed this yacht here; it’s been all round the world. About five years ago, I sailed her down to Aruba with my third wife. She was the love of my life. She had cancer. We thought it was going to be our las trip together but when we got there, she started getting better and better. Then, she served me with divorce papers. She was taking everything and leaving me for some young Brazilian actor on one of our shows. I wasn’t going to let her take Nautilus, that’s my baby’s name. So, I left, sailed off in to the Atlantic”.

Consulting my notes, I interrupted “Mr Levy, did you not retire some 10 years ago?”

He answered not missing a beat “Yes! And I divorced my second wife to marry this 20 something girl I was having an affair with. I should have known she was all about the money and young buff bodies.”

I’m not allowed to put nutter on the notes I take. But nobody can stop me thinking it. He continued to regale me with sailing stories, punctuated with stories of how he had written scripts and directed plays, and how he should have been an actor, for about an hour. At some point you must stop clients from going off on tangents. Usually when you hear your voice asking you inside your head “I became a lawyer for this?”.

“Mr Levy, I am very sorry, but I cannot help you with any of these things you seem to want to bring up. Unless there is something that falls under the purview of a law firm, such as a dispute involving a boating accident, as you indicated to my assistant; then I am afraid I will have to cut this meeting short and ask you to leave our offices”.

Nothing like a good crack of the old verbal whip to make you feel you’ve accomplished something. Melvin once again stepping too close for comfort answered with “I’m going to make you rich Mr Solomon.” He then took his seat.

I want to believe I groaned inwardly, but to be honest, I don’t remember if it did escape outwardly. The next thing I knew Mr Levy had opened his binder. I half expected dust or slime to run over my table, but in fact it was rather useful. There was all manner of documents pertaining to his yacht, the purchase contract and registration papers, copies of his passport, repair invoices, machinery inspection receipts etc. I started to doubt it was his binder.

He finally settled on a staple of papers that were packed inside a plastic sleeve. When brought them out I realized they had a large stain of some sort (I’m sorry to report I know it was not coffee) splurged all over the page.

Triumphantly Mr Levy began to speak “Late last summer, around the 27th of September, I was sitting in my yacht, anchored outside of the port where I don’t have to pay mooring fees, when this other boat driven by drunk man-teenagers, slides in front of me, tangling my anchorage line in with their turbine. I noticed there was a problem because the yacht lurched forward and downwards. I ran to see what the problem was and was forced to cut the line or be dragged towards them. Then the damage would have been much worse. Their motor cut out of course, and after a shouting match, the wind had picked up. They decided to anchor themselves waiting for the coast guard to show up, which took hours by the way. They were so close, that the wind blew them into me! Causing a collision regardless”. Finally, I thought, something useful from the man.

I asked him for several details about the collision, the damage and cost of repair work. Strangely enough he was able to produce stained invoices and proof of payment to back up his entire story, as well as several photographs of damaged elements on his yacht. Even the portion on the larboard side, where the Sunseeker had nudged into his yacht, had the damage photographed and documented. My notes had now grown several pages, and I asked Mr Levy about the insurance claim filed. This was the moment he had been waiting for.

As if rehearsed, he smiled and with great pomp, ceremony, and certain smells that nobody should ever be allowed to produce, he flicked through his binder arriving precisely on his intended target. This was another plastic sleeve, filled, with several papers, all of which were jockeying for space. Retrieving them, he handed me the new stack. Its fragrance, the stains on the first sheet, and the overall demeanour of Mr Levy led me to believe that this was perhaps the pinnacle of the meeting for him.

A quick glance through the partition glass allowed me to see Cassey caught in a titanic struggle with herself, fighting back the urge to laugh. She would not be laughing much when I asked her to copy all of this.

I examined the documents to the music of Mr Levy summarizing what he considered to be the case, emphasizing the terrible actions of the insurance company, and how they had conspired to cheat him. The fact was that Mr Levy had submitted a damage claim to his insurance company, through their local broker offices as was usual in these cases. There were several e-mails to a Mr James Harris, working for “Poseidon Insurance” who seemed to have answered requesting information regarding the other vessel (which by the way appeared also to be insured by Poseidon), pictures as well as an approximate value of the damaged components.

It all seemed very straightforward. There were some answers from Mr Levy to Mr Harris, some pictures of the exterior of Mr Levy’s yacht and of what I presumed to be the line which was cut, the anchor chain and implement itself seemingly also damaged when Mr Levy raised it to reposition himself and avoid an accident (which happened nonetheless).

From the e-mails I could see that an appointment was proposed by Mr Harris, and eventually accepted by Mr Levy. It had taken place apparently not so long ago. Interrupting Mr Levy’s rehearsed performance, I asked the client, who stumbled and grew quiet “Mr Levy I see that you and Mr Harris agreed an appointment for the engineer to come out to your yacht to appraise the damage. Did this visit ever take place?” If he was stifled before, he now went into his diatribe with so much more gusto.

“They did not come to the yacht! Well they did, but I was not there, and because they’re lazy and corrupt they just took pictures of the wrong side of the boat, and offered me scraps for the damage…” retorted Mr Levy, who then continued in his rehearsed speech while I continued to examine the documents, that of course were not in chronological order (that would have been useful, and it would have cut the client’s stage time down considerably).

“Mr Levy, I am sorry, but did Poseidon make a compensation offer to you based on their visit?”. Had I known the effect of the question, that is, that I was throwing gasoline on a live flame, I would perhaps not have asked.

Mr Levy, standing from the audacity of the question, ripped the papers from my hand with a gargoyle-like claw, and after sifting through them for a split second, slapped them down on the table and proceeded to get so close to me, I could appreciate just how long it had been since had showered.

“This is it! This is the smoking gun! They’re lying and trying to cheat me out of money! It is fraud!”

All I could see was an offer from Poseidon to cover, what their appraiser considered to be the valuation of the damages. Quite honestly, until I had the chance to conduct further investigations of my own, and perhaps have an engineer review the damage with me, I had no idea if the amount was correct or too low, as Mr Levy seemed to believe (I did not know he was an expert). Back on his stage Mr Levy was once again into his practiced speech, prancing around my office.

“Mr Levy, please take a seat or I shall have to ask you to vacate my office.” I said rising to my own feet. Sometimes you need to remind the clients who’s boss. Cassey was now staring into the partition in disbelief and waiting for the hand signal I had instructed her to watch for should the police need to be called. Thankfully Mr Levy calmed himself and finally sat down. This allowed me to take my own seat again. It’s not every day you get to play musical chairs with a client. The music must be in your head of course.

At this point I thought it best to bring the interview to a close with my assessment of the case. Seeing as I am neither a fashion guru, a medical professional or in any way equipped to comment on this man’s choice of clothes or personal hygiene, I decided to keep it within the confines of a strictly professional legal consultation. “Mr Levy, from what I can see here you have been made an offer, which you consider to be far below unacceptable to cover your damages.” I had to be quick to not let him kick off again “This in and of itself does not necessarily constitute fraud”.

He drew breath to protest but I was quicker “What I suggest we do is the following. Firstly, I would like to make copies of this entire file. Since this will take some time, I will have to ask you to leave the binder with us, you will be given a receipt and once the copies are done you will have your documents returned. Secondly, you have indicated that you requested an estimate of some of the damages, we should, in my opinion have a single nautical engineer review the entire ship and produce a comprehensive report listing all damages from the accident. Then I will at least be in a better position to judge whether the insurance offer is or not acceptable from an objective standpoint…”

Again, the breath came but I was quicker. “Thirdly, I think it would be quite important for me and Mr Harris to sit down and see why their appraisal is so low, according to your expectations. There may be damages the appraiser has not considered, or other reasons why the offer is so low. Once we have done all these things, I will be in a better position to advise you on how to proceed. Perhaps there is a fraud case, but perhaps all we have is a civil claim.”

The client listened as if I had poured a pale of cold water over his head. He informed me that he would like to be present at the meeting with Mr Harris (bad idea, very bad idea) to which I simply answered, “As long as we have your contact information Cassey my assistant will keep you informed of where and when this will be.”

If a client gives you a direct instruction that they wish to be present in a meeting, in our jurisdiction, we as lawyers are bound to have them with us, for ethical reasons. It is seldom of any use whatsoever. As a matter of fact, experience teaches us that if you want a meeting to fail, bring your client.

Content with my capitulation and at having shown me he was the boss, I escorted Melvin Levy to our reception area. I signed a receipt for his documents and another for our consultation fee, which of course he paid with a handful of wadded up bills, that I half expected to contain something more than money. Luckily, it was only the cash. After closing the door behind him, I turned around to an overextended Cassey, who finally broke down in joyous tears. I was seriously concerned she was going to relieve herself right then and there.

“I’m sorry, it’s just…” She couldn’t even finish her phrases.

Cutting her short I said “I don’t know why you’re laughing so much. I need you to put that dossier through the copy machine. It must be given back to the client when we next meet.”

She howled in laughter “I’ll disinfect the machine afterwards. Do you want me to burn the chair he was sat in?”

I had to admit it was rather funny, so why resist it. “Sure. And have the cleaning service mop the floor with holy water and ammonia. We may have to call a construction crew in to deal with the curdled marble.”

Part Two: The performance.

Our meeting had stretched out far more than expected, and had only ended I think, because Mr Melvin knew he might miss the last bus, in which case we would be unavailable to assist him in finding accommodation. It was the next morning when I finally sat down to start making headway on his case. The first order of business was a courtesy call to Mr Harris, whose number was on the mails left by the client.

Poseidon was a large company that insured anything from pleasure boats to oil tankers, but their main business on the island was insuring your domestic level Sunday sailboat. The receptionist put me through to James Harris straight away. I had informed the receptionist that I was a lawyer calling on behalf of a client, Mr Melvin Levy. When connected to Mr Harris, he first sought to confirm who my client was.

“Good morning, James Harris, for Poseidon here. I’m told you represent a Mr Levy, Melvin Levy of the Nautilus, is that correct?”

To my own growing chagrin, I confirmed all these points for the bewildered broker, at which point he interrupted me. “With all respect, I think there may be a problem with your client.”

Mr Harris then proceeded to describe the state Melvin Levy was in when they met some weeks prior. From the description offered by the broker it was clear to me that Mr Levy had not addressed his personal hygiene, nor even bothered to change his clothes, in quite some time. Mr Levy had had visited Poseidon in person, to ask why their offer was lower than expected. Mr Harris was concerned that perhaps Mr Levy could be suffering from some form of untreated mental disorder, given his dishevelled state.

The fact was that Poseidon did send an engineer to appraise Mr Levy’s yacht, as was agreed in the e-mails to which I had access. However, on the appointed day, there was nobody to accompany the appraiser from shore to the Nautilus. Since Mr Levy anchored his yacht out of port, this was the only way for the appraiser to access the ship and do his job. All this information was in the appraiser’s report. Mr Levy had conveniently neglected to mention there was any such document, nor had I been furnished with a copy. On hearing this, Mr Harris indicated he would be happy to forward the report to me.

The appraiser was forced to ask the Coast Guard for assistance, and they ferried him out to the Nautilus in their service boat. Once they arrived at Mr Levy’s yacht however, they were unable to come aboard. It appeared as if nobody was there. The appraiser, attempting to do his job despite the circumstances, did however take numerous pictures of the exterior of the craft, showcasing the damage caused by the accident.

From the Coast Guard ship, it was also possible to photograph the deck of the Nautilus. The appraiser observed that Mr Levy had accumulated what seemed to be packaging and all manner of garbage on deck (empty boxes, plastic bags, coiled and bundled pieces of discarded rope, planks of wood and various metal poles). When the Coast Guard announced their presence and intention to board the ship, Mr Levy existed the cabin throwing objects at them, swearing, and threatening them with bodily harm if they did. The Coast Guard decided it best to leave Melvin Levy to his own devices and escorted the poor cowering engineer back to safety. The man needed therapy now.

With the limited information available, the Poseidon had issued their offer for compensation. They would have done the same for any client. The result was that the troglodyte that is Mr Levy was so outraged that he decided to show up in Mr Harris’s office one morning (at first the building security had taken him to be a beggar). His intention was, apparently, to have Poseidon issue a higher offer. He had demanded an explanation, and finally accused the appraiser and Poseidon of being in cahoots to cheat him out of his money. He did not offer a list of damages that the appraiser did not consider, nor an alternate amount he was willing to accept as compensation. He simply wanted his money; nobody knew how much.

In disbelief I continued to take notes. We agreed that my office would request a meeting via e-mail, which Poseidon and Mr Harris were happy to organise in his office. The insurance company would send us as soon as possible, the appraiser’s report with all the photographs as well as all relevant documents on which the compensation offer was based. That way I would be able to walk into the meeting with all the data and facts needed to, hopefully, reach a settlement. When I told Mr Harris that Mr Levy was insisting on being present, he simply said “I will have the cleaning staff warned.”

After ending the call, Cassey came in to stow away some files. “Sorry, I need you to write to Mr Harris from Poseidon, and set up a meeting with him. He’ll probably need to have their lawyer present, so make sure you mention that. Oh, and Mr Levy will also have to be informed. He would like to be present during the meeting. Have you finished with that dossier by any chance?”

She turned to me with a deathly serious expression on her face. “There is something wrong with that man. Some of those pages had things on them.”

I had to ask. “What things?”

She was quick to answer “The kind 12-year-old boys put on pages and leave in files because they think it is funny. Things! The man is a pig!”

“Well, I just spoke to Mr Harris, and it looks like he has that Diogenes syndrome where someone will collect garbage. I think what I will do is this: Explain to Mr Levy that, after the Poseidon meeting, I need to access the Nautilus with our own engineer to conduct a thorough inspection of the yacht, to establish the real extent of damages. If he refuses to allow us on board, I will have to inform him that we are declining to work the case any further, since it is not possible to advise and assist him if I don’t even have access to the ship. If you cannot even inspect the yacht, how is anyone supposed to know if it is damaged? By the way, I need you to find an available engineer. When you speak to Mr Levy to organize the Poseidon meeting, could you also organise a visit to his yacht? Thank you.”

In disbelief Cassey said, “Make sure you go for your tetanus shot before going to see his yacht. I’ll make the arrangements, calls, and mails. Now it’s time for you to see this.”

She dropped the binder on my desk and opened it to one of the offending pages. The moment I met him I thought that Mr Levy was a little strange. Now I thought, much like Mr Harris, that he had some sort of mental problem. Cassey had indeed finished copying all the documents and the binder was ready to be delivered to Mr Levy. She did however point out that some of the pieces of paper had stains on them, that seemed to be biological in nature. It was revolting. Her logic was, if she was forced to see it, then I should also have to deal with it.

I had to keep reminding myself “You’re not a millionaire, people, all people, deserve respect. It’s just a case. We have bills to pay”.

The rest of the day was rather routine and uneventful. Shortly before closing Cassey came into my office to report on the day’s work, after finishing a phone call. “Most things are taken care of, but we have to talk about, you know, the Boat Case. We’ve set a meeting with the Harris team. Their lawyer will be present as well as the engineer who appraised the yacht. Mr Harris made the arrangements with regards their engineer...”

Everything seemed quite mundane, until Cassey told me about her phone call. “I did send a mail to Mr Levy but thought it best to call him as well. I have no idea if this man reads his mail. When he picked up the phone, he seemed to be… in the middle of a certain activity of a highly private nature, breathing heavily. I heard, another person making similar noises...”

Obviously, my face informed Cassey that I had no idea to which private activity se was referring.

“The man was having sex Charlie. and he picked up his phone! I think I heard him climax! I shouldn’t have to hear that!” her face was contorted into a mask, it seemed as if she was going to throw up all over the binder.

My reaction was equally shocked. I started to worry that I would be reacquainted with my lunch. Thankfully I was able to hold down the sandwich. My training served me well. Who said that sharing an apartment in university with other young men didn’t teach you any life skills? Nobody would ever notice some extra vomit on the documents anyway. Surely there was some already on them, judging by the stains. I composed myself and attempted to carry on in a professional voice.

“This is completely unacceptable; I’ll talk to him. I didn’t know he had a girlfriend. He didn’t mention it”. Cassey’s expression seemed to indicate that the only way that man would get anyone near him, of the opposite sex or otherwise, was though a considerable payment. Otherwise, barge poles were far too short to keep this man away. I made a mental note to not hold back when charging this man.

On the day of the meeting, Melvin Levy was supposed to meet me in the centre of the city, at a cafe we always used as a meeting-point for clients. Located on the main square, opposite the train station, was almost more important than the City Council or the Regional Parliament. Called the Diamond Cafe, it was as centric as anyone could hope for and as expensive as you could get. The expression eye-watering was rather apt to describe the feeling one experienced when receiving the bill.

As a lawyer, you use this kind of café with a certain effect in mind. You want clients to see what they’re paying for, lest they should get these ideas of asking you to reduce fees and other such idiocies. I thought it best to meet Mr Levy outside on the terrace where the slight breeze would give me a better chance of stiving off the smells, at least until we entered the meeting with Mr Harris. In preparation for the day, I had a light breakfast.

I parked in the underground and exited on to the square. For some reason the homeless congregate in this square. The trees offer shade in the summer, some shelter in the winter I suppose. To this day I don’t understand why they seem to like it so much. There is also a pigeon infestation that has turned the statue of a mounted knight into little more than a pile of petrified droppings.

I was able to walk right past Mr Levy, who had blended perfectly into the crowd of homeless people. I sat down at one of the lovely marble-top terrace tables and realized that one of the beggars had followed me and was now pulling out a chair. I don’t know who was more surprised, the waiter or myself when I said. “Mr Levy! Hello, please sit down”.

I returned the dossier to the client, after all I had scanned copies in my computer as well as a hard copy in the office. I didn’t need to be walking into this meeting with a stinky brick of a file, marinated and encrusted with various fluids. The waiter was dressed in a cream-white apron, dark suit uniform complete with white shirt, waistcoat, dicky bow, and white gloves. I similarly am always in a suit. The contrast with Melvin could not have been any starker. Were a pig to find himself in a florist’s, he wouldn’t be as out of place as Mr Levy was there. I’m sure Cassey knew how awkward this would be and was now enjoying a wry smile at my expense, in our perfectly ventilated office, where there was no chance of suffering the smells coming off Mr Levy.

We ran through the fine points of the meeting, or rather, I attempted to. Melvin was much more interested in his “They’re fraudsters! I’m going to make you rich.” Speech.

At one point, I considered it was time to address the phone call the client had held with Cassey. I wasn’t particularly looking forward to this conversation, but it had to be done. I bit the bullet and said: “Mr Levy, the other day when my office called you, it seemed that you answered your phone while engaged in, let’s say, certain highly private and personal activities. Perhaps you were also not completely alone.”

I do have regrets in life, like most people. This conversation promised to be highly regrettable. It did not disappoint in any way. If anything, it exceeded my expectations. Melvin proceeded to inform me that the lady who was with him on the phone, was indeed a working girl. I was shocked.

“You see, once you get to my age it’s not as easy as before for a man to convince young ladies to go to bed with him.”

Until I met Mr Levy, I had never seen my own skin crawl. Now it was recoiling in horror. Had it not been attached, I’m sure it would have run away. At this point I was thinking “I didn’t know that men, at your age, had use in bed for young women, unless they were nurses, and the setting was a hospital of sorts” but I restrained myself from lending voice to these words. And vomiting, I restrained myself from vomiting with all that I had.

I did not think Mr Levy could have become more revolting. Naturally I was wrong. His dating habits exceeded the most cringeworthy expectations my imagination was able to conjure. Apparently, after his younger wife left him, Mr Levy worked out that prostitution was the way to go. He took the Nautilus and went from port to port looking for young feminine companionship that charged by the hour. He went into detail about which nationalities he considered gave better quality service, and which were more value for money.

I kept hearing myself say inwardly “This is why I became a lawyer? Really?”

Since his pension scheme was considerably well funded, every month he had money to throw around. Apparently, this shower-shy, shabby American had been quite wealthy before his third wife kicked him to the curb. He had squirreled enough away that he could now look forward to one day expiring in bed with a professional lady paid for her companionship. I could have gone the rest of my existence without knowing this information. The conversation made me feel as if Mr Levy had defecated all over the table. By the look on his face, our waiter shared my opinion.

Catching my watch and begging any deity which would listen to please grant me an out, I informed the client “Mr Levy, if we are to make the meeting we ought to be going soon.” That is perhaps the smoothest exist to an uncomfortable situation I have been able to pull off. Had I known what was coming, faking a heart attack would have been a better idea. It is curious how the human mind works under pressure.

It was at this moment that I noticed Melvin sliding his green dossier into the satchel he was carrying at our previous meeting. He was also toting a leather bag. It was quite heavy by the looks of it, and I started to get a bad feeling about the enthusiasm with which he was skipping away to the meeting, clutching the strap of this mystery bag. No good could come of this, I knew it. But just like witnessing a train collision, there was not much I could do to avoid the debacle to come.

The Poseidon offices were located at a building not far from the main square. In the same building there were three law firms, one Notary Public, one architect’s studio and six more floors of professional and technical offices. All with their respective plaques at the entrance of the building. The door-man eyed Mr Levy up several times, after I reassured him, this was indeed my client, and we were in fact expected, as was shown on his appointment list. Poseidon was on the 5thfloor, which means the lift ride was about 2 minutes at most. It is amazing how much stench can accumulate in a small, enclosed lift cabin, in such a small amount of time. To this day I do not know if Mr Levy broke wind in the lift, but it would not surprise me if he had. I attempted to hold my breath to no avail. I received a concentrated dose of the client’s personal emissions. I had to retire the suit, tie, and shirt I was wearing that day because it was impossible to remove the mark of Levy from them. The shoes didn’t last much longer either.

Mr Harris had been informed of our arrival and greeted me with a warm handshake. Mr Levy was only acknowledged with a courteous smile and a nod. We were brought into a large meeting room with a huge glass window looking out over the rooftops of the city. You could even see the port and the bay from there. The chamber was classically decorated with several full bookshelves. The other people called to the meeting were already waiting and had taken their seats around the table. As we entered, they rose to greet me professionally.

Mr Harris made the introductions “Mr Solomon, this is Mrs Agatha Lethbridge, lawyer for Poseidon in this matter.” We shook hands.

“And this is Mr Victor Buford whose report I forwarded to you.” Again, we shook hands.

Mr Levy simply looked at all present with his characteristic grin, already accusing them of the worst sins of humanity with his eyes. As we all took our seats, there was an audible metallic clunk as Mr Levy took possession of one his chair. We were all now intrigued to know, what the hell was in that bag. We had seen the trailer, now it was time to watch the full film. I was not sure I could stomach what was coming.

Mr Harris opened the meeting after the awkwardness had died down. “Well, I think we know why we are all here, the collision involving the Nautilus.” He proceeded to summarize the facts as we all knew them to be, arriving at the visit made by Mr Buford to the Nautilus, at which point I decided to step in.

“As you have admitted, there was no actual appraisal of the damage. Mr Buford was unable to go aboard, correct?”

My college Mrs Lethbridge was about to retort when Mr Buford personally took the floor “That man threw cans at us, he is lucky we did not press charges and have him arrested!”

It is a sad fact that lawyers have no heart when it comes to these things, because we are paid to advise and defend a position. Not to care about the client or the people involved. Still, soup cans were a bit much. It was clear though that no real appraisal of the yacht had taken place.

Finally squeezing in edgewise Agatha Lethbridge made Poseidon’s stance clear “With all respect we fulfilled our obligation, a date and time was set with Mr Levy, he resisted our appraiser’s attempts to do his job. He’s lucky we even made the offer we did. He can contest the matter in court or request arbitration, but frankly that case will take quite some time, especially because we will make sure the litigation gets stretched out as much as possible. You know how this works Solomon.”

She was interrupted, as we all feared, by Mr Levy emptying the contents of his bag onto the lovely, polished wooden table. It was an anchor, bent quite considerably out of shape, a portion of a chain (or what had been at some point a chain), and a length of rope that could have assisted Columbus in his discovery of the New World. It was a collection of elements that are usually thrown away because they have served their purpose on the ship and need to be replaced. Most people dispose of them, Mr Levy brought them to our meeting.

Standing and taking the stage, he began his clearly rehearsed, performance piece, as my face began to lose all colour and my stomach began to Morris Dance.

“Liars, swindlers, and cheats, all of you! You didn’t even come to my boat, and you want to offer me money to shut me up! This …” he shook the implements that aided his performance “… is the proof that you tried to hide! I will take you down, I will make you pay, billions and billions! You’ll have to go to soup kitchens when I’m done with you!”

At this Mr Levy grabbed the line connected to his chain and warped anchor and proceeded to storm out. The anchor was dragged off the table, hitting the marble floor, and scratching its way behind Melvin, adding to the effect of his exit. I was seriously concerned at how much I was perspiring. I glanced around the rest of the table and confirmed that all those present were equally concerned.

I looked at our host directly. Trying to hide my utter shock, all I could manage was “Thank you for organizing this meeting, Mr Harris. I will be in touch once I have received instructions from my client.”

Mortified hardly scratches the surface of how I feel. By the time I made it out of the meeting room Mr Levy was gone. There was no sign of him in the street. He was nowhere to be found; he had simply absconded. I was tempted to smell the air to determine in which direction he might have gone, but I thought better of it. The anchor apparently went back in the bag, as there were no marks anywhere. When I informed the office Cassey told me this was the most fun, she had had on a case since being hired and begged me not to kick the client. Sadly, we never heard from Mr Levy again. He did not answer e-mails or return our calls.

Several weeks later I saw him crossing the street not far from the city docks. By the time I was close enough to call out to him, he had started to cross the street. If he saw me, he did not recognise me. Mr Levy never contacted the office again, and since it was impossible for us to contact him, much less advise him, we were forced to close his file. His case remained as far as I know unresolved (not that we ever were able to determine if there was, actually a case).

Sometimes I think I can still smell his mixture of odours when crossing the city square. He may be living amongst the mole people now for all I know. I wish I could say he was our strangest client. He does make the top five.