RUDIMENTS, pt. 1,210
('well golly gee, I was just standing there')
At once I too dreamed of the
Gods, but it only wound up
costing me money. I tried to
walk straight, but found a
corruption at every step. It
was about a year or so after
the 'train wreck' - I was of
most recovered, and back at
it, when the adults around me,
undertaking the usual lawsuit
stuff, began visits to a lawyer
in Newark - my uncle, who
worked on Wall Street, had
an 'in' with some lawyer, and
he was selected. (I never did
find out what an 'in' with a
lawyer meant - though I hope
that, if I ever turn to murder, I
find one then too). Apparently
the thinking was that I was
to be my own star witness
in a short and quick trial,
showing all the hardships,
fear, pain, and tribulations that
an 8-year in these situations
was forced to live through and
be eternally scarred by. It was
all bunko. Physically I was fine
enough - yet, had they delved
into the psychic scarring and the
mental hardship the trial could
easily have taken two years trying
to then recast or walk through my
priceless psychic travails.
No money could fix that.
-
As a 9 or 10 year old, then, that
was how I was first exposed
to the endless wonders of
Newark, NJ. Still mostly white,
it was a business and law kingdom
for the rest of the state. Trenton
may have been the legislative
capitol, but that really meant
nothing except that the (out)laws
gathered there too (except they
were, mostly, elected - 'by the
people, for the people, and just
like the people'). Those weekly
treks along Broad Street kept me,
as a new youngster, in awe of the
avenue, the tall buildings, the
bright lights, etc. (This was when
Newark was still somewhat of an
entertainment and jazz-club mecca
of its own, there at the corners of
Broad and Market - the theaters, the
marquees, all those names of the
now-legendary jazz guys. Even the
arch-criminal Dutch Schultz died
there, gunned down as he ate, at the
Palace Chophouse, the building
still there through the 1970's).
-
This lawyer's name was Solomon
Wolfman. really. There were no
Wolf Man jokes that I ever heard,
and it was mostly pronounced
more as 'Wolfmin,' quickly, sort
of letting one glide over the 'man'
part of it. He was a short, chubby,
cigar-chomping and very pressed
white guy, Jewish as all get out,
in that 'lawyerly' way of being
able parse and split hairs over the
many layers of Talmudic meaning
for things like 'train-speed,' snow,'
'unguarded crossing,' etc. Back
and forth. They could probably
have argued all day over that crud
in a courtroom. Here's the nasty
secret - these legal bums had
it all figured out. I was endlessly
rehearsed, my lines and answers
practiced, and everything was
done so as to make me out as
pathetic as possible because of
this 'accident.' The Reading
Railroad (people in the passing,
lit, train windows 'reading?), was
based in Reading, PA, and was
a barely surviving freight-remnant
of the oldest of the robber-baron
travesty that scraped across America
from the 1880's on, mostly destroying
after changing the finer, and more
eccentric aspects of what once was
charming 'American' rural life and
which, by 1959, was relegated to
calendars and Currier and Ives
paintings and prints on countless
'nostalgia' themed parlor walls.
Wolfman didn't care a snot about
much of anything but garnering a
large settlement (failure). After
all that rehearsing and prep-work,
the day of the trial he didn't even
show! He'd sent, instead, some
lawyer-in-training first-case
tenderfoot to plead this miserable,
lowly, personal injury plebian
case. I was completely thrown off
track, couldn't relate at all to this
new guy, and was - probably -
a disaster on the stand, though no
one ever mentioned it. As it all
went, after a few days of trial, the
verdict was in favor of the (by
then 'bankrupt') Reading Railroad,
negligence went my way, and, as
an 'innocent bystander?' I was
awarded $1,900 - which was
entrusted to my father until I
turned 21. So much for 'their'
ideas of fame, glory, and riches.
-
No matter to me. What it did
bring me was a grand glimpse
into some of the intrigue and
chicanery that goes on behind
the scenes in these supposedly
high-toned reliquaries of sham
and misrepresentation. Solly
Wolfman. Soiled Wildman.
Sliced Wornham. Whatever.
Probably once finding out
the railroad being sued was
bankrupt, the flame went out
of that candle, for sure.
-
Having an 'in' was a funny deal
no matter. I have a cousin, a
wonderful lady, who was a
Bayonne Police Dispatch
person for a while. I can
imagine the same sort of
thing going on with that.
'You robbed what? No
matter, I have a cousin
over at headquarters, an
in; we can work it out.' it
seems to me either the law
is or is not. The vagaries and
foibles of strategy ought to
have little, nay, nothing to do
with that. Yet, the performance
factor of the legal profession ends
up carrying the day - lawyers
gain renown by their tact or
skillful questioning, forceful
procedural or character attacks,
etc. It's all very disconcerting,
as are - at heart - rehearsed
lines and potted answers to
leading questions.
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