Part1 of two parts
Most psychologists have been involved with the court system if they have been in practice for more than a few years. Some voluntarily become expert witnesses, whereas others get subpoenaed to court when their patients become involved in a legal issue. Unfortunately, a few practitioners are sued for malpractice. Some people may sue someone else, though that scenario is probably rare. Several years ago, I was one of those people. The story is complex, traversing the terrain of family, geography, and culture. The story is dramatic and begins in Boston, Massachusetts, over fifty years ago.
My father, a successful attorney and later judge in Framingham, Massachusetts, formed a real estate partnership with two other Italian American men. Under a trust, they purchased several parcels of land in Southeastern Massachusetts. My father, who died in 1984, was preceded in death by one of the other partners. He had had a falling out with that partner, and the two men weren’t speaking at the time of the first partner’s death. The reason for the dispute is not known to me to this day.
Two-thirds of the land parcels were inherited by my brother, me, and the two sons of the other deceased partner. My cousin, an attorney who had worked with my father, was a trustee of the land. A best man at the wedding of one of the two sons mentioned above, he had a major falling out with the two brothers, and none of them talked. When I moved to California in 1974, I knew about the existence of the land but little else.
In the late 90s, my cousin called me and said there was activity on the land. I said, “How can that be? We own the land!” He said he would find out. Later, I learned that the land had been sold without our consent. My brother and I had received no remuneration. The other partner claimed he didn’t know where I was, though I had documentation of a phone call I had made to him.
To make matters worse, the land had been sold far below market value. The very next day, it was resold for twice the amount. Something was wrong, and we sued when answers and funds weren’t forthcoming.
My cousin took responsibility for finding a lawyer. Immediate action wasn’t his forte, and the process dragged on. On a trip to the East Coast, I interviewed one firm, and the attorneys I talked with were impressive. They told me the other side had a reputation for doing these things, and I could expect a long, protracted legal battle. One of the lawyers was coming to San Diego, and we arranged a meeting. When he canceled out at the last minute weeks later and didn’t promptly return my phone calls, I decided against hiring him. I wasn’t even a contracted client yet and was already frustrated. It was back to the drawing board.
Gerald recommended Ed McLaughlin, a former federal prosecutor now in private practice. I liked Ed right away on the phone. He was straightforward, tough, thoughtful, and believed in our case. I met him for the first time when I flew to Boston to be deposed by the defendants' attorney.
The deposition was anti-climactic. I knew little about the land dealings my father had transacted. Ed told the lawyer, “You had my client fly three thousand miles for this!” At the end of the deposition in the opposing council’s office, the attorney abruptly stood up and walked out the door. This was how he ended such proceedings, and I suppose he had some psychological strategy in mind, but I don’t know what it was. It seemed rude and unnecessary and only stiffened my resolve to move forward. The attorney’s behavior seemed consistent with the arrogance of his clients.
Since I lived in California, my attorney decided to try the case in federal court in Boston. The call to trial came unexpectedly, and after quickly canceling a trip to San Francisco, my wife, Vicki, and I boarded a plane to Boston. We stayed with a friend on the North Shore and established a court routine. After a morning jog through nearby woods, we ate breakfast and drove to the train station in Salem. We rode the train to South Station and walked a mile to the courthouse. My brother took the bus daily from Newport, Rhode Island, where he lived.
The courtroom was impressive. Large and beautifully decorated in colonial décor, it was imposing and conveyed an aura of history and seriousness of purpose. When I arrived, the defendant approached my brother and me and reached out his hand. I let it hang in the air, though my brother did shake it. The defendant said, “Dave, it’s all about your cousin.” I thought that was an interesting statement since I was the one who seemed to be being conned, but I said nothing. The defendant wasn’t pleased I didn’t shake his hand, and he walked away muttering to himself. I was ready to get the whole thing going.
Shortly after that, the federal judge appointed to the case appeared. He was reputed to be brilliant but eccentric. As he stood with both arms in the air telling the jury about their duty, he had as much a spiritual as a judicial presence. It seemed we had returned to the age of Jonathan Edwards and Ralph Waldo Emerson. The judge had two unusual policies. First, he set time limits on both sides. We each had so many hours to present our case and conduct cross-examinations. Secondly, he allowed the jury to send him written questions they wanted to ask witnesses. He would screen the questions and enable relevant ones to be presented.
To be continued
This piece was written about twenty years ago.