Climbing the Rock

Chapter 15B: Crossing The Line

Jake, Matt, and Bill all received multiple phone calls over the next two days. They received them from Doolittle, from Crow, from Shaver, even from William Casting, CEO of National Records — the big guy himself. These phone calls were all in the same vein — demands to submit recordable music by the deadline, threats of what would happen if they didn't, promises that National would not cave on this issue no matter what, that they would sacrifice the millions they stood to make even if they did renegotiate the Intemperance contract just to avoid setting a precedent other bands might try to take advantage of in the future. In addition to the phone calls, they began to get the same speeches from Darren and Coop, both of whom had been told by Doolittle and Crow that they had been used to hatch an insidious plot against the record company that was providing them with food, shelter, and, most importantly, heroin.

"Dudes, that was like totally uncool of you to make us submit that crappy music," said Coop to Jake and Matt.

"Yeah, dudes," agreed Darren. "We're not like pawns on a chessboard and shit. I thought we were friends!"

Through all this Bill, Jake, and Matt stood firm in their convictions and refused to even acknowledge that there was a plot in progress. They made no demands of National Records and made no admissions of deliberately sabotaging their music to Darren or Coop. To do so would have destroyed the legal basis of their "good faith" argument. The demands, when they came, would have to come from a mouth other than theirs and even then would have to be circumspect.

National, however, certainly had no problems making demands. On Thursday afternoon Manny once again handed the phone to Jake.

"Who is it this time?" Jake asked. "Doolittle, Crow, Shaver, or Casting?"

"It's Mr. Casting," Manny whispered, obviously in awe of having talked to the head of one of the largest record companies in the world.

Jake nodded and took the phone. He lit a cigarette and took a few puffs and then finally put it to his ear. "Wassup, Cassie?" Jake asked him.

"That's Mr. Casting to you, Kingsley," Casting said icily. "What are you doing at home?"

"Well," said Jake, "right now I'm enjoying a cigarette. After that I'm going to go into my bedroom and check out the new issue of Hustler and probably jack off. What are you doing?"

"Why aren't you in the warehouse producing new music for us?" Casting asked.

"Why would we do that?" Jake asked. "We submitted new material to you, you rejected it, and you don't want to wait three or four months for us to come up with something else. There's no reason for us to be in the warehouse."

"Oh, but there is," Casting said. "I'm told you had six songs in progress before you decided to pull this little stunt of yours."

"We're not pulling any stunts," Jake replied, "but your spies do have their facts correct about the six songs. We were working on them but we decided they sucked ass and abandoned them."

"I'm told by two of your bandmates that they didn't 'suck ass', as you put it. In fact, I'm told they were quite good."

"As I said before, sucking ass is in the eye of the beholder. Darren and Coop are so strung out on that heroin you assholes are pushing off on them that they wouldn't know a good song if it reached out and took their syringes away from them."

"Nevertheless," Casting said, "I want you in that warehouse rehearsing those six tunes. We're going to record them."

"Oh we are, are we?" Jake asked.

"Yes," Casting said. "Since you're refusing to submit acceptable material to us for your next album, we're going to have you record all of the rejects you previously submitted — with the exception of that anti-bible piece — and those six songs. That will give us ten for the album."

"Sorry," Jake said. "We rejected those six songs. We're not going to do them."

"I'm ordering you to do them," Casting said. "You have material available to you and we have the right to order you to record it."

"That would be true if we had ever recorded those six songs and submitted them to you and your boys on an audio cassette. We did not do that, however, so those songs do not yet belong to you."

"You rehearsed them in our warehouse," Casting said. "We know you composed them and that they're viable. That makes them our property."

"Really?" asked Jake. "Do you have a lyric sheet on them?"

"No," said Casting. "But that doesn't matter."

"Do you have a written composition of the basic melody?"

"No, but that doesn't matter either."

"Okay then," Jake said. "Here's the most important question. Have we ever recorded those tunes in any form?"

"You know you haven't."

"Then, according to my legal source — you might want to check with yours to confirm this — those tunes do not belong to you, they still belong to us — the songwriters. They only become your property when we actually record them and submit them to you or one of your representatives. We have not done that, so we still retain the rights to those songs. And as the songwriters of un-submitted pieces, we still retain the absolute right to do with our compositions as we please. And what we please is to not record them or to offer them to any entity. We've rejected them."

"Jake, I'm ordering you to record those songs!" Casting yelled.

"And I'm ordering you to rip your cock off and shove it up your ass," Jake replied. He then shook his head. "Jesus, I've been hanging out with Matt too much."

His conciliatory statement did not mollify Casting much. He was infuriated. "All right," he said, sounding like he was speaking through gritted teeth. "You want to play hardball? We'll play hardball. We're done screwing around with you. As of this moment, your weekly allowance is cut off, your limousine service is cut off, your nightclub privileges are cut off, everything is cut off! Do you hear me?"

"I hear you," Jake said mildly. He hung up the phone.

When Casting said "everything", he literally meant everything. The phone rang again less than a minute after Jake hung up and Manny answered the kitchen extension, but he did not tell Jake to pick up. Instead, about ten minutes later, Jake heard him shuffling around, making lots of noise. He went into the kitchen and found him taking food out of the refrigerator and putting it in boxes.

"What you doing, Manny?" Jake asked him.

Manny was in quite the state. "I'm taking all of the food out of the house," he responded.

"Why would you do something like that?" Jake asked.

"Mr. Casting ordered me to," he said. "He apparently means to starve you into submission." He shook his head fretfully. "Oh this is just such a mess. I'm sorry, Jake. Why don't you just do what they want?"

"For the same reason you don't go out and score yourself some pussy," Jake told him.

"Huh?" Manny asked.

"Because I'm just not into it," Jake clarified. "You know what I mean?"

Manny didn't know what he meant. He picked up a jar of mayonnaise and put it in the box.

"Oh, and Manny," Jake said.

"Yes?"

"Put all that shit back right now."

Manny shook his head. "Jake, I have to take everything out of here. Mr. Casting ordered me to. All the food, all the liquor, all the cigarettes, all the stuff in the safe — the drugs and that envelope full of money you have in there."

Jake didn't ask how Manny knew what was in the safe. He had the combination to it and it was undoubtedly part of his daily duties to snoop through it and report on its contents. Knowing that this was coming (although not suspecting that National would actually try to remove the food from the building) Jake had saved most of his allowance over the past few weeks. The envelope that Manny was referring to contained almost three thousand dollars in cash.

"You're taking none of that," Jake told him. "None, do you hear me? Especially not the contents of the safe."

"Jake, I've been ordered to," Manny insisted. "Everything in this condo came from National and now they want it back."

"Too bad," Jake said. "They can't have it."

"I'm taking it, Jake," Manny said nervously. "National is my boss, not you."

"But I'm the one who will throw your faggoty ass off the fucking balcony if you put so much as one more condiment container in that box."

"Jake," Manny said, his nervousness increasing but his determination steadfast, "I'll call the cops if I have to."

Jake smiled. He was not a legal expert by any means but, having grown up in a household headed by an ACLU lawyer, he did possess a bit more than the layman's knowledge of the laws regarding personal privacy, search and seizure, and landlord/tenant disputes. "Why don't you do that, Manny? Let's get them over here so we can hash this thing out in a proper manner."

Manny looked at him as if this were some kind of a trick. "I will, Jake," he said. "I'm not kidding. I have my orders and I intend to follow them."

"And I intend to solidly kick your ass and possibly throw you off the balcony if you try to remove one more thing from this condo. So instead of resorting to physical violence, how about we get a legal opinion? Call them."

Manny sighed. "All right," he said. "I guess you're forcing me. But don't say I didn't warn you."

"I would never say that, Manny."

Manny walked across the kitchen and picked up the phone extension. While he was dialing, Jake went quickly into the office and opened the safe. He left the envelope full of money where it was but took out the bags of marijuana, the cocaine kit, and all of the pill bottles. He carried this into his bedroom and put it in a shoebox in his closet. When he returned to the kitchen Manny was still on the phone, his conversation indicating he had just made contact with the police dispatcher. Jake suspected he had not called the police outright but had called Casting first to clear it with him.

"They on their way?" Jake asked, lighting a cigarette.

"Yes," he replied. "I'm sorry it had to come to this, Jake. It would be so much easier if you would just do what they told you."

"Uh huh," Jake replied. He went back in the living room and sat down to wait.

It took less than fifteen minutes before there was a knock on the door. Manny answered it and two uniformed LAPD officers came in, their mannerisms and expressions telling Jake they were somewhat less than thrilled to be here.

"What seems to be the problem?" asked the lead cop, whose name was Officer Yamata.

Manny told his side of the story and then Jake told his. The cops listened carefully and then asked a few questions about who the condo was actually leased to. Jake produced the paperwork from his desk and showed it to them.

"So it's leased by National Records and they pay the rent," Yamata said after skimming the documents, "but Mr. Kingsley here is listed as the tenant in occupancy of the residence."

"Yep," said Jake.

"And nowhere in here does it mention your name," Yamata said, looking over at Manny.

"That's true," Manny said, "but I'm an employee of National Records and I'm authorized by them to oversee everything that takes place in this condo. In effect, I'm Jake's immediate supervisor."

"It doesn't say anything about that in the lease," Yamata said. "You need to leave his stuff alone. You can't remove anything from this residence except for the contents of your own bedroom."

"But everything in here is National Records property!" Manny insisted.

"But it's in Mr. Kingsley's residence," Yamata returned. "If National Records wants anything in here back, they'll have to go to court and get a judge to say they can have it back."

"Hey," said Jake, as something occurred to him. "Since it's my residence and all, can I kick his ass out of here? He is here against my will after all."

Yamata shook his head. "In that case the landlord/tenant laws work in his favor. He has established residency here so if you want to kick him out, you'll have to go through the eviction process. That can take as much as six months."

"Oh well," Jake said. "It was a thought." And then something else occurred to him. "On that same note, doesn't that mean that National can't just kick me out of here either? If they want me out they'll have to go through the same eviction process?"

"That's correct," said Yamata's partner, a cute bleach blonde female cop named Rogan.

"Very interesting," Jake said thoughtfully.

"All right," said Manny, "I was really hoping it wouldn't come to this, but I'm left with no choice."

"What are you talking about?" Yamata asked.

Manny took a deep breath. "Mr. Kingsley has drugs in this condo," he said. "In the safe. He has cocaine, marijuana, illegally acquired prescription drugs, and a large amount of cash."

Neither Yamata nor Rogan reacted strongly to this information. Neither did Jake, for that matter.

"Is that true, Mr. Kingsley?" Yamata asked.

"There is a couple thousand in cash in there," Jake said, "but its not drug money. I'm a rich rock star, remember?"

"I'm telling you, there are drugs in there," Manny said. "I'll open the safe for you." He started to walk in that direction.

"Mr. Kingsley," Rogan said, "do you want him to open your safe? He really doesn't have the right to access it under this lease."

"Is that so?" Jake asked.

"That's so," she said.

"If I say no and he tries it anyway, will you shoot him?"

Rogan smiled. "If necessary," she said.

"Then no, I don't want him to open the safe."

The two cops went after Manny and caught him just as he was starting to spin the dial.

"What the hell are you doing?" Manny asked. "He has drugs in here! I'm trying to show them to you."

"That is Mr. Kingsley's safe," Yamata said. "He has told us he doesn't want you opening it."

"But there are drugs in there!" Manny yelled. "Don't you care about that?"

"Not really," Rogan said. "And even if we did, you are not authorized to open that safe. So if you did, and there were drugs in there, we wouldn't be able to use that as evidence against Mr. Kingsley because he didn't authorize you to open the safe for us. It would be an illegal search and seizure."

"That's insane!" Manny said.

"That's the American justice system," Rogan said.

"Why does he have access to your safe?" Yamata asked Jake.

"National Records sticking their nose in where it doesn't belong," Jake said. "They provided the safe for me and he's here to spy on me. You know how it is."

"Why don't you just change the combination so he doesn't know it?" Yamata asked.

"Can I do that?"

"Well, I'm not sure if you're talking legally or physically," said Yamata, "but the answer to both questions is yes. It's your safe in your residence. You can do whatever you want with it."

"Do you guys know how to do it?" Jake asked.

They looked at each other and shrugged. "I'm sure we could figure it out," Rogan said. "You'd have to open it for us first though so we could see the mechanism."

"Right," said Yamata. "And if you did have anything illegal in there and we saw it after you voluntarily opened it for us... well... then we'd be forced to act on that."

"I see," Jake said as if contemplating. He looked over at Manny. "Manny, go ahead and open that thing up."

Manny had already figured out that Jake had moved anything incriminating. "Open it yourself," he said, stepping away.

Jake shrugged and opened the safe. As soon as it swung open and Manny saw that the drugs were indeed gone, he said, "The drugs are probably in his room somewhere now."

"Very nice," said Yamata as he stepped up to look at the mechanism of the safe.

"If you looked, I'm sure you'd find them," Manny hissed.

"We have no probable cause to search through Mr. Kingsley's bedroom," Rogan said. "The only way we could look in there is if Mr. Kingsley granted us voluntary consent for a search."

"Do you guys really want to search my room?" Jake asked.

"Not really," said Rogan.

"Okay then. I guess I won't give you consent then."

Manny stormed towards the door. Before he made it there, Rogan stopped him. "Oh, by the way," she said. "If you were to go into Mr. Kingsley's bedroom yourself and come out with drugs in your hand, not only would you be subject to a trespassing charge, but we would probably conclude that any drugs found were actually yours and that you were trying to frame him." She smiled. "Keep that in mind."

Manny's neck was now bright red. He walked out of the office and disappeared.

"So this is what being a rock star is like, huh?" asked Rogan, her blue eyes shining at Jake.

"Not quite what you expected, huh?" he asked her.

"Not at all," she said. "And by the way..." She blushed a little. "I love your music."

"Thank you," he said.

It took them less than five minutes to figure out how to change the combination on the safe. Jake learned the procedure and then followed it, changing it to something Manny would never guess.

"Anything else we can help you with?" Rogan asked when they were done.

"Yeah," Jake said, looking at her. "You ever date a musician?"

She shook her head. "I never have."

"I never dated a cop either. Maybe we should do a couple of firsts?"

She was blushing quite strongly now, her confident demeanor driven underground. "I wouldn't be opposed to that," she said.

Before she left she handed him a business card with her name and current assignment printed on it. Below that, in a neat, feminine hand, she had printed her home telephone number.

Jake managed to call both Matt and Bill in time to prevent their respective manservants from removing all property from their condos. In the case of Bill, another call to the police was required to physically enforce the prevention. In the case of Matt, a threat to perform an emergency tracheotomy on the manservant with a butter knife and then fornicate with the resulting hole was enough. Jake also called Coop but Coop wasn't home, he was at Darren's. When Jake called Darren's, he got Cedric, who was undoubtedly already in the process of removing everything. Cedric informed him that both Darren and Coop were "indisposed" at the moment — which meant they were flying high on their latest shots of heroin. No matter how much Jake threatened and yelled, Cedric refused to put either of them on the phone.

"It is against the law for you to remove anything from their condo, Cedric," Jake warned. "You better leave their shit alone."

"I'll keep that in mind, Mr. Kingsley," Cedric replied in his cultured, pompous tone. He then hung up. And, of course, he removed everything he had been told to remove — all the groceries, all the booze, and all the drugs, up to and including their beloved China White.

It was only twelve hours later when Jake received the first phone call. It was from Darren and he was angry — murderously angry — that Jake's actions had resulted in the loss of "all my shit". He threatened to come over and kick Jake's ass if he didn't agree to settle this dispute with the record company immediately and convince Bill and Matt to do the same.

"We're not having a dispute with the record company, Darren," Jake told him, keeping with the plan of admitting nothing. "They didn't like our tunes and now they're playing games with us."

There were a few more threats and then Darren hung up. A few minutes later, Coop called threatening to kick Jake's ass as well.

Twelve hours after that, neither one of them were in any kind of shape to kick anyone's ass. For the next three days both of them went through the hell of heroin withdrawal. Their bodies ached and trembled and shook and sweated. They suffered explosive diarrhea. They vomited up everything they attempted to put in their stomachs — which wasn't much since they had no appetites whatsoever, nor did they have much food available in their condos. On the fourth day these physical symptoms began to subside a bit but the mental symptoms — depression, suicidal thoughts, self-pity, anger, shame — were only just beginning. The phone calls began again, both of them calling Jake, Matt, and Bill in turn. They would beg pitifully for their fellow band members to end this thing and then angrily threaten when they were told there was nothing to end. The three core members did what they could. They used some of their squirreled away money to buy basic groceries for Darren and Coop so at least they wouldn't starve to death. They instructed them to call the cops if either of their manservants attempted to remove or sabotage these groceries. But as for getting their heroin and their pot and their booze and their limousines back, they simply told them to hang in there until National was done having their little fit. This did not make Darren or Coop feel better.

Christmas day came. The entire band spent it together at Jake's condo. They ate a roast turkey dinner that Jake had bought and prepared himself (Manny was forbidden by the record company to lift a finger to do any cleaning or cooking or other chores — he spent the majority of each day in his room). They sipped from glasses of white wine and drank liquor from the still reasonably stocked bar. Coop and Darren didn't eat much and both were more than a little whiny but they kept to their manners for the most part. It wasn't the greatest Christmas Jake had ever spent, but it wasn't the worst either.

The next day was a Wednesday and throughout the Los Angeles region, business as usual resumed. At 9:00 AM sharp, there was a knock on Jake's door. This was unusual in and of itself since the doormen downstairs were supposed to be controlling access to the residential floors and calling him when unexpected visitors showed up. Jake was unshaven, slightly hung over, and wearing a pair of tattered sweat pants and no shirt. His long hair was ragged and unkempt. He walked across the living room and opened the door, finding a neatly dressed man of about thirty standing outside.

"Can I help you?" Jake asked him.

"Are you Jake Kingsley?" the man asked.

"I am."

The man dropped an envelope at his feet. "You've been served, my friend. Have a nice day."

"But..." Jake started, but the man had already turned and walked away.

Jake reached down and picked up the envelope. He opened it and found an official paper notifying him that he had been subpoenaed to appear before the Honorable Joseph Cranford on January 3, 1985 in regards to a breach of contract charge filed by National Records Corporation.

He called each of the other band members, finding that they had all been served as well, pretty much at exactly the same instant he had. He then placed a phone call to an office building in Heritage and asked to speak to Pauline Kingsley. He was put on hold and forced to listen to the Muzak version of Elton John's Daniel for the next three minutes. Finally his sister came on the line and he explained what had just happened. She had him read the entire subpoena to her.

"Just what I thought they would do," she said. "They're going to try to get this judge to declare you in breach of contract and order you to produce acceptable music. Failure to do so will result in a contempt of court violation."

"So this is where the good faith effort saves our asses, right?" Jake asked.

"Yes," she said, "assuming this judge deems the music you submitted as a good faith effort. If he feels that you were deliberately making sub-standard music then good faith goes out the window."

"And how likely is that?"

She sighed into her phone. "Of all the potential judges to hear this case, Joseph Cranford is the worst."

"He is?"

"Yes," she said. "He's only forty-five. The youngest superior court judge in the Los Angeles area. If there's anyone who can even remotely appreciate rock music, he's the one. This is kind of worrisome."

"How worrisome?"

She didn't answer this question. "It's also kind of suspicious," she said instead.

"What do you mean?"

"Of all the superior court judges in the Los Angeles district, how did he — the only one I was truly worried about — just happen to get picked for this? This seems like more than a coincidence."

"You think National had some pull in what judge was picked?" Jake asked. "I thought that was impossible."

"Nothing's impossible when you have enough money," Pauline told him. "This is America after all. Look, let me dig into this thing a little. I'll get back to you as soon as I can."

"How worried should we be about this?" Jake wanted to know.

Silence, stretching out for almost ten seconds. Finally, "I'll get back to you, Jake."

It was the following Monday before she got back to him, December 31, the last business day of 1984. She called at 10:30 in the morning and Jake knew from the tone of her voice in her initial greeting that she did not have good news to share.

"What's wrong?" he asked her.

"Judge Cranford is wrong," she told him. "It's even worse than I thought."

"What do you mean?"

"I've had our investigations department looking into Cranford for me over the last few days."

"You were investigating a superior court judge?" he asked. "Jesus, Pauline. Can't you get into trouble for that?"

"We do it all the time," she said. "That's what our investigations department is for. They research judges and jury members and opposing lawyers and opposing clients. There's nothing illegal about it — well, not usually anyway — most of what they gather is all public record stuff. All law firms do it."

"Okay," he said, feeling a little better — a little — now that he knew she hadn't been wiretapping or bugging a judge. "So what did you find out?"

"Well, I think I solved the mystery of how he just happened to be picked for this particular case. He volunteered for it."

"Volunteered? Can he do that?"

"Not in general," she said. "But he offered to take it from Judge Stinson, who had been assigned to it originally. No explanation was given or asked for."

"Okay," said Jake. "So what does that mean?"

"It didn't mean anything until our guys dug a little deeper. But when they did, they found out that Joseph Cranford went to law school with a man named Eric Frowley."

That name sounded familiar to Jake, though he couldn't quite place it at first. Pauline quickly gave him the clue that brought it home, however.

"Eric Frowley is lead counsel for National Records," she said.

"Holy shit," Jake said, suddenly remembering. He was one of the lawyers they'd met with during their last major dispute — the one over choreography of the concerts. It was upon his desk that Matt had rolled a joint and Jake had critiqued it's engineering.

"They were fraternity brothers in Phi Delta Phi," Pauline told him. "They used to do circle jerks and date-rape freshmen girls together. And now he's the judge in charge of your case."

"Isn't that illegal?" Jake asked. "I mean, shouldn't he remove himself from the case because he knows this lawyer?"

"No," Pauline said. "A judge does not have to recuse himself merely because he's an acquaintance of one of the lawyers in the case. He only has to do that if he has some sort of business interest in the case or if there is some evidence of impartiality. And in this case, we don't even have any evidence that these two are still acquaintances. For all we know, they haven't talked to each other since law school."

"But doesn't the fact that he personally asked to take this case mean anything?" Jake asked.

"Well, it does to you and me," she said. "Common sense says that its quite obvious they know each other and that this is a set-up, but as far as legalities go, no, it doesn't mean anything."

"So what do we do?"

A long pause. Finally, "I don't know."

This was perhaps the most distressing thing Jake had ever heard her say. "You don't know?"

"Look," she said, "I'll fly down and I'll be there with you when its time to go to court. I'll do my best and my best is pretty damn good, but..."

"But?"

"But I think that maybe they outmaneuvered us," she said. "I'm sorry."

Jake sighed. "Yeah. Me too."

Jake was not really in the mood for a New Year's Eve party that night but nevertheless he put on his partying clothes at 8:30 PM, put $400 of his rapidly dwindling supply of cash in his wallet, and went down to the parking garage to retrieve his Corvette. He had promised Kelly Rogan — the LAPD officer who had come to his house the night National had cut them off — that he would take her to the annual Flamingo Club New Year's Gala and he was a man who prided himself on keeping his promises.

He already knew that the relationship with Kelly wasn't working and wasn't working on many different levels — political, personal, and even sexual. She, like most cops, was a staunch, ultra-conservative right-winger and he was a screaming liberal left-wing musician. He did illegal drugs and she arrested people who did illegal drugs. He believed that all private citizens should be banned from owning firearms and she believed that every law abiding citizen should be allowed to own their own assault weapon if they wished. He believed that religious teachings had no place in public schools and she believed that the worst mistake this country had ever made was removing prayer from public schools. He believed the government stuck their long nose far too far into the business of its citizens and she believed they didn't stick it in nearly far enough. Their conversations were usually nothing more than arguments over political issues politely disguised as friendly debates. Their second date, in fact, had consisted mostly of a lengthy discussion about his arrest in New York City on possession of cocaine charges.

"I'm glad you got off, you know, because I like you," she told them as they'd sipped drinks at a Flamingo Club table, "but that technicality you got off on is a perfect example of what's wrong with our system."

"Technicality?" Jake asked, raising his eyebrows. "They completely fabricated their probable cause writ. They had no legal reason to raid our hotel room so they made up a bunch of crap to get a judge to allow them to."

"Yes," she agreed. "They did step a bit over the line, but you did have eight grams of cocaine in your possession, didn't you?"

"That's not the point," he said. "They had no reason to enter our private area and look for it. They invaded our privacy."

"But you were doing something wrong and they caught you at it. Just because their reasons for gaining entry to your hotel room were a little questionable doesn't mean that the evidence of your wrongdoing should be thrown out."

"Actually, it does mean that," said Jake. "I have a reasonable expectation of privacy in my hotel room. How was what we were doing in there hurting anyone?"

"You were using drugs," she said. "That hurts everyone."

This was typical of their conversations. Jake never accused her of being wrong, and she never accused him of being wrong, but they were simply at different ends of the spectrum, unable to even hope to see eye to eye on most issues.

This concern in and of itself would not have been sufficient to make Jake begin to despise her as much as he was starting to despise her if that had been the only problem. He did, after all, enjoy a good debate of his political views with those who could debate intelligently and well — as Kelly sometimes could. The true reason he viewed his entire involvement with her as a big mistake was her attitude towards him. She was not dating him because he was Jake Kingsley, the man, someone she liked to intelligently debate with. She was dating him because he was Jake Kingsley, the famous musician, and she wanted to be with him on that basis alone, regardless of his differing opinions. She knew as well as he by their second date that they were incompatible as a couple but still she continued to pursue him because she wanted to be seen with him, to have the newspapers and the tabloids print stories about them, because she thought he was a rich and famous person and she wanted to be associated with him despite the perceived character flaws she felt he had. She was, in fact, exactly the sort of woman he had always tried to stay away from.

She made little effort to conceal what she was all about. She had no desire to spend time with him alone, on picnics, at the movies, or taking walks on the beach. Such things were not public enough for her. What she wanted was to be taken to the Flamingo Club or one of the other clubs frequented by the stars. She wanted exposure. She wanted to be seen in the company of Jake Kingsley and photographed in the company of Jake Kingsley and to be catered to by Jake Kingsley.

"How come nobody is taking pictures of us?" she'd asked less than thirty minutes into their first date, as they'd taken to the dance floor of The Flamingo for the first time.

"They're not all that interested in me anymore," Jake explained with a shrug. "Ever since Mindy Snow and I broke up the photographers have hardly given me a second look."

"That's awful," she said, genuinely appalled.

"Not really," Jake answered honestly. "I kind of prefer the privacy."

This was a concept Kelly had been completely unable to grasp. Why wouldn't one want one's picture constantly appearing on nationally syndicated publications?

She fucked him after that first date, mostly because she seemed to think she was obligated to. And an obligation was exactly how she'd treated it. They went back to Jake's place after the Flamingo closed, she kissed him for a few minutes, and then mechanically removed her clothing and put herself upon his bed. Jake considered himself to be a much better than average lover. He had had lots of practice at the art during his lifetime and had always made the pleasure of his partner (or partners) his main consideration. But Kelly simply laid in place during the entire event, groaning mechanically when it seemed expected of her, and moving in a manner that seemed designed to get things over with as quickly as possible. He had licked and sucked at her vagina for the better part of twenty minutes but had been unable to draw anything other than a few obviously fake orgasms from her. He had pounded into her body using his best strokes, utilizing every bit of knowledge he'd gained and all this managed was a few more faked orgasms. Finally, when it seemed like she was actually going to go to sleep from boredom, he'd given up and let himself go. Very rare was the sexual episode where he felt he would have had a better time simply masturbating while looking at her body, but this was one of those times.

She fucked him after every other date they shared in pretty much the same manner, although it seemed her impatience with the act grew with each encounter. During their last encounter — after rutting against her for better than twenty minutes and enduring six fake orgasms — he'd simply given up. He stopped mid-thrust, pulled out of her, ripped off his condom and thrown it across the room, and started jacking off over her heaving breasts.

"What the fuck are you doing?" she yelled, disgusted.

He didn't answer, he simply sprayed his semen all over her, an act that infuriated her and made her rush to the shower to cleanse herself. She'd stormed out without saying a word and Jake had thought he'd seen the last of her but she'd called him later that evening, acting as if nothing had happened, and had asked if they were still going to the Flamingo for the New Year's Eve party. He said he would. After all, he'd promised.

He pulled his Corvette into a visitor spot in front of her West Hollywood complex now, carefully locking up and making his way to her upstairs apartment. She answered the door to his knock and greeted him politely, giving him a brief, emotionless kiss on the lips and inviting him inside.

"You look very nice tonight," he told her. And she did. She was wearing a strapless royal blue dress that clung to her curvy body in a most appetizing way and showed off a little more cleavage than was exactly fashionable.

"Thanks," she said, flashing a phony smile. "Do you think there will be photographers there tonight? I mean, with it being New Year's Eve and all?"

"Probably," he said, and there would. Of course, they probably wouldn't be all that interested in Jake Kingsley or the cute cop he was with. Jake was below the radar at the moment and would continue to be as such until something newsworthy happened with him.

"I certainly hope so," she huffed. "I've told all my friends I'm going to be there tonight with you so there'd better be some pictures of it in the entertainment magazines next week."

"Anything is possible," he said, suppressing a sigh, wishing that the evening were already over.

"Be sure to give me a big kiss at the stroke of midnight," she said. "Maybe they'll take a picture of that."

"Maybe they will."

She went to the television set and picked up her matching royal blue purse. As she hefted it onto her shoulder something seemed to occur to her. "Oh yeah," she said, opening it. "I got that information you asked me for. The stuff on that Hadley bitch."

Jake's interest perked up immediately. "You do?"

That "Hadley bitch" she was referring to was Angelina Hadley, or, Angie, as he had known her. Though he had not spoken to her or heard from her in any way since that day he'd climbed on the bus for the Descent Into Nothing tour, she had never quite left his mind. She had been someone he had loved, someone he had enjoyed being with, someone he had abandoned without explanation, and he had always felt guilty about that, had never been able to put her memory to rest. When he started dating Kelly it had occurred to him that she was a potentially valuable source of information about Angie's current whereabouts. Kelly was, after all, a Los Angeles police officer and had access to computerized information that mere citizens — even famous ones — could never hope to see. So, on their third date, during one of the more sedate portions of the evening (which had been right after they'd finished fucking) Jake had asked Kelly if she could look Angie up in that system and learn what there was to learn about her.

"Who is she?" Kelly asked, as she lay naked on his bed, smoking a cigarette and sipping from a bottle of beer.

"Just someone I used to hang out with," he replied. "I haven't seen her in a while and I'm just curious what's she's doing."

Kelly shrugged. "Sure. Why not? What's her name, date of birth, and last known address?"

He'd given it to her and had mostly forgotten the request until now, figuring that Kelly had just been jerking him off when she'd said she would do it. But apparently she hadn't been.

"Yeah," Kelly said. "She's a real skank-o-rama, ain't she? You didn't used to fuck her or anything, did you?"

"Skank-o-rama?" Jake asked. "What does that mean?"

"It means she's a whore," Kelly said. "And a druggie too. She's been busted three times for prostitution and twice for possession of rock cocaine, all in the last six months."

Jake swallowed, feeling almost sick to his stomach. "Are you sure you have the right Angelina Hadley?" he asked slowly.

"It's her all right," she said. "Brown and brown, one-twenty, DOB of whatever it was you gave me, previous address that matches what you gave me. They had that restaurant you were telling me about listed in the system but she ain't working there anymore, hasn't in more than a year. She was living in some shithole motel up until about a month ago but now she's living in the county jail. Her last bust bought her a hundred and twenty days in the slam."

Jake felt like someone had punched him in the stomach. He was worried for a moment that he might actually vomit. "My god," he whispered.

"What's the big deal?" Kelly asked. "I mean, you knew she was a skank, right?"

Jake shook his head, numb, still trying to process this.

"So, are we going, or what?" Kelly said. "I want to get there early enough to watch everyone else come in."

"No," Jake said. "I need to go home."

Kelly looked at him like he was joking. "Are you serious?"

"I'm serious," he said. "Goodbye, Kelly."

He walked out the door and went back to his car, barely hearing her screams and curses from behind him.

Heritage, California

January 2, 1985

It was well past 9:00 PM and Pauline was sitting behind her desk on the sixteenth floor of the Markley Building. The ultra-modern, thirty-two story building was the tallest, most exclusive high rise in Heritage. Situated directly adjacent to the Sacramento River, its westward facing offices featured spectacular views of the waterfront. Pauline didn't have one of these offices. In fact, she had no view at all. Her office featured no windows and was less than two hundred square feet, but at least she had an office now. Eight months ago, after four years of ninety-hour weeks, the firm had rewarded her dedication by replacing her cubicle with four stationary walls and a door. She had her own paralegal now too, and a secretary she only had to share with three other lawyers.

She was tired and out of sorts. She was also depressed because she knew there was at least two more hours of work to do on the contract draft she was assigned before her boss would be mollified enough to not hold it against her that she was taking tomorrow off. That meant she would be in bed by midnight at the earliest and would have to get up at 5:30 in order to make her 7:20 flight to Los Angeles where she would represent her brother and his band before Judge Cranford at one o'clock.

And more than likely lose, a part of her brain insisted upon reminding her. You're busting your ass for nothing.

She sighed, taking a sip out of her eleventh cup of coffee of the day. That was too depressing of a thought to contemplate very deeply but she could hardly help herself. She had no experience with music contracts and would be going up against seasoned music industry lawyers defending the very livelihood of their clients. And if that wasn't bad enough, the judge who would be ruling in the matter was at best a crony of the lead counsel for the other side, at worst, owned lock, stock, and barrel by the other side.

The more she allowed this to command her attention, the less of the work she was actually being paid for was getting done and the longer she would have until bedtime which translated into less sleep before she would be facing her foes. But she was nothing if not dedicated to her work, even if it was work she was doing for free, and her determination remained strong. She would go in there tomorrow and do her very best and who knew? Maybe it wasn't really as bad as she thought. Maybe Cranford wasn't corrupt and didn't know the difference between good music and crappy music. Anything was possible, wasn't it?

A knock on the side of her office door pulled her from these thoughts. The door, as usual, was open and standing there, his suit jacket missing, his tie loosened and hanging free, was Steve Marshall, head of Standforth and Breckman's investigations department. Steve was forty-five years old and had worked as a Heritage County sheriff's deputy and an investigator for the Heritage County District Attorney's office before being lured into private practice six years before. He was clean-cut, always well groomed, very good at what he did, and had the major hots for Pauline. He was also very married — with kids and all — a factor that did not preclude Pauline from shamelessly flirting with him but did preclude the relationship from going any further. This was Pauline's decision, of course, not Steve's.

"Hey, beautiful," he haled. "Mind if I come in?"

"Sure," she said. "I'm not making much progress here anyway. What are you still doing here?" Unlike most of the junior lawyers, who could be found at their desks at any hour of any day or night, Steve was usually a strict nine to fiver.

"I was waiting for the office to empty enough so we could sneak up to Breckman's office and have a steamy sexual encounter on his desk."

She smiled. "I like the way you think. Why don't you run on up and get started without me? I'll be up in no time."

"Ahhh, the way you reject me," he said, taking a few steps into her office. "You'll be sorry some day."

"Will I?"

"You will. In fact, some day just might be today when I tell you why I really stayed late."

"Oh?"

"I've been doing some follow-up work on that little matter you had me check into for your brother. The Judge Cranford thing."

She was surprised. "You stayed four extra hours to follow up on something for me?" she asked.

He shrugged. "My actual workday today was taken up with actual firm business — strange but true — and I hate to leave loose strings dangling on anything, even if I was doing it under the table. That whole work ethic thing."

"And you want to get into my pants," she said, not unkindly.

"Well... yeah, there is that too." He grinned widely. "And what I discovered tonight in my sneaky, underhanded way just might get me there."

"What did you discover?" she asked, intrigued, catching a little of his enthusiasm.

He told her. She didn't let him into her pants — especially since she was wearing a dress — but she did give him a huge kiss right on his mouth.

The hearing convened fifteen minutes late in a mostly empty courtroom. Judge Cranford, a handsome man with neatly styled salt and pepper hair, resplendent in his black robe, sat on his elevated podium and declared the proceedings in progress. A court reporter sat before her machine just in front of him. A Los Angeles sheriff's deputy, serving as bailiff, stood in the corner. At the defendant's table sat Jake, Matt, and Bill, all of whom were decked out in their best suits. Pauline sat between Jake and Bill, dressed in a conservative business dress, her dark hair tied tightly into a bun. At the plaintiff's table sat four power-suited lawyers, Eric Frowley chief among them. No one who actually worked for National Records was present.

"It is my understanding," said Judge Cranford, "that National Records has filed suit against the musical band Intemperance charging breach of contract. Is that correct, counsel?"

"Yes, Your Honor," Frowley replied.

"And furthermore," His Honor continued, "since this lawsuit will take some time to work its way through the system and since National Records believes that Intemperance is engaging in a blatant and deliberate work slowdown in violation of their contract, you have requested this hearing that I might issue a court order demanding the band cease and desist in this illegal action and engage in a good faith effort to produce acceptable music."

"That is correct, Your Honor," Frowley agreed. "We will show that the band is currently and deliberately in flagrant violation of the contract and did not act in good faith, as required of them, when they produced and submitted a demo tape of music to National Records."

"Okay," Cranford said. "Good enough." He looked at the defendant's table. "Welcome to my courtroom, gentlemen. I trust you won't find it inappropriate if I tell you I have enjoyed the music you have recorded so far and I sincerely hope I can help alleviate this dispute so you can continue to produce such fine music in the future."

"Thank you, Your Honor," Jake said, "but there really is no dispute to mediate."

Cranford frowned a little but said nothing. He looked at Pauline. "Ms. Kingsley, let me take this opportunity to welcome you to Los Angeles. It's always nice to see fresh, young faces in my courtroom."

"Thank you, Your Honor," she replied.

"Any opening remarks before we get started?"

"Yes, Your Honor," Pauline said. "I'm afraid I must respectfully request that you recuse yourself from this case on grounds of conflict of interest."

There was some minor uproar from the plaintiff's table at her words but Cranford himself merely blinked. "Conflict of interest?" he asked. "That is a fairly serious accusation, Ms. Kingsley. Perhaps you would explain yourself?"

"Most certainly," she said. "I have information that you have financial interests in National Records Corporation, specifically that you own more than one thousand shares of National Records stock."

Again, Cranford did little more than blink. "And where," he enquired, "might you have acquired information such as that?"

"My source prefers to remain anonymous," Pauline told him. "In fact, he will refuse to testify to this knowledge."

"This is ridiculous," said Frowley. "She's an amateur trying to make demands based on unverifiable hearsay."

"That's correct," Pauline said. "I cannot produce a single document at this moment to verify my accusation. But we're not talking about the admissibility of evidence here, are we? I am simply stating a concern that has been brought to my attention. If this concern is groundless than I have no objection to Judge Cranford remaining in charge of this case. But if it is true, than I would ask, quite correctly, that His Honor recuse himself as required under the law."

Cranford smiled and, with a straight face, said, "As far as I know, I own no shares of National Records stock and have no financial interests in National Records."

Jake saw Matt tense up, knew he was about to scream out, "You fucking lying piece of shit!" or something equally contemptible. He put his hand on Matt's wrist, giving it a firm squeeze. Matt remained silent.

"Okay then," Pauline said politely. "I'll withdraw my request."

"I'll consider it withdrawn," Cranford said.

"However," she added, "considering the gravity of the decisions likely to result from this case — both in this hearing and in the long term — and, since I do have information, albeit unverified, that you might possibly own shares of National Records stock, I will find it necessary to request a formal investigation into this issue by the judicial review board."

"Oh you will, will you?" he asked.

"Yes, Your Honor," she said. "I will. And I'm sure I don't have to explain to you that if you did, in fact, own shares of National Records stock and if you did not recuse yourself from this case based on that, you would be in blatant violation of section 170.3 of the California Code of Civil Procedure and subject to severe sanction by the board, up to and including removal from the bench."

Cranford actually paled as she made this statement. Frowley and his fellow mouthpieces did the same. Jake simply looked at his sister in awe, seeing her as he had never seen her before. Sure, he knew she was a lawyer, had suspected she was a good one, had taken more than his share of legal advice from her, but this was the first time he had ever seen her act like a lawyer. She had just crammed it home to a judge — a fucking superior court judge! — in his own courtroom and she had done it in a way that would not leave her open for charges of contempt or misconduct or unprofessionalism.

"Well now," Cranford said slowly, "I would certainly hate to have my name dropped on the judicial review board, and, since I have stockbrokers and accountants who handle most of my investment money for me, I suppose it is theoretically possible I might have unknowingly acquired a few shares of National Records stock at some point. In the interests of fair and impartial proceedings I will call a brief recess and make an inquiry with my accountant just to make sure."

He pounded his gavel and retreated to his chambers. Over at the plaintiff's table a furious whispered discussion was taking place. At the defendant's table Matt was grinning and being restrained from shouting insults at Frowley and his boys by Jake's hand on his arm. Pauline — who already knew she'd won this round — was keeping her game face firmly in place. Bill wrote something on one of her legal pads. He ripped it off and passed it to her. It read, I've never been so aroused in my life. Will you mate with me? She took the pen from his hand and scrolled back, Ask me again when we're both rich.

Five minutes went by and Judge Cranford re-emerged from his chambers. He sat back at the bench and banged his gavel, officially ending the recess and prompting the court recorder to resume transcription.

"Well now," he said, "I would certainly like to thank Ms. Kingsley for bringing this matter to my attention. I spoke with my accountant and it turns out that I do, in fact, own a number of shares of National Records stock. I guess this will teach me to keep a little closer eye on my investments. In any case, since I do have a so-called 'business interest' with one of the principals in this case I must, under the law, recuse myself from it. The case will be re-assigned and the attorneys of record will be notified of the new judge and the new time and place of the hearing." He pounded his gavel and left the courtroom.

Eric Frowley and his cohorts showed no expression as they gathered their papers and notebooks, placed them in their briefcases, and filed out of the courtroom.

Jake, Pauline, Bill, and Matt gathered their own materials and followed them out. Once in the hallway Matt yelled after the retreating group. "Hey, Frowley!"

Frowley turned and looked at them. His companions did the same.

"In your face, ass breath!" Matt yelled, triumphantly squeezing his crotch. "In your fuckin' face!"

Frowley's face darkened but he said nothing. He turned and walked out the door, disappearing.

The Honorable Anthony Remington was chosen to take over the case of National Records vs. Intemperance. A new hearing was scheduled for January 11, the following Friday.

"Is he good or bad?" Jake asked Pauline when she called him the Monday following Cranford's recusal to tell him the news.

"He's better than Cranford so there's a victory right there, but he's not as good as Allanstand would have been. Allanstand is seventy-eight years old and grew up in an era where Edison's original phonograph was still all the rage."

"How old is Remington?"

"Sixty-two," she said. "Born in 1923, grew up in Redding, California solidly upper middle class. Graduated high school with honors and went to UCLA until Pearl Harbor, at which point he enlisted in the marines. He fought with distinction at Iwo Jima and Okinawa. After the war he returned to UCLA and finished his undergraduate degree and then went to Stanford School of Law. He served ten years with the LA County District Attorney's office and five in private practice before being appointed to the bench by Governor Ronald Reagan. He is very conservative and is considered a stickler for courtroom propriety and discipline. He has handed down more contempt of court rulings than any other judge in the region, including Allanstand, who has been on the bench for thirty plus years. That means we need to keep Matt's mouth stapled firmly shut."

"Stapled shut. Got it. What about propensities toward the record company?"

"He's never handled a music industry suit before," she replied. "At least not that we've been able to uncover. As far as his leanings go, however, his rulings tend to fall back on strict letter of the law. So, in short, if he feels that you were deliberately producing sub-standard music, he'll grant National's request for a back to work order and he'll come down hard on you if you refuse or if you produce more of the same. However, if he feels you really did make a good faith effort, chances are he'll deny that request and tell National to wait until the trial."

"So that's kind of good, right?" Jake asked.

"I suppose," she said. "At least it's fair and that's about all we can ask at this point."

The hearing convened exactly on time. Judge Remington was a tough looking man, the epitome of the fighting marine he had once been. His face was stern, his eyes unforgiving. As Jake rose in honor of His Honor, he thought he'd never seen a man who looked less thrilled to be facing a bunch of longhaired, ass-crack sniffing rock and roll musicians.

"You may be seated," Remington grunted once he was settled into his own chair.

They sat, their grouping the same as the previous hearing — Jake, Matt, Bill, and Pauline at one table, Frowley and his entourage at the other. Remington did not greet anyone or welcome anyone to his courtroom. He did not engage in any banter, friendly or unfriendly. He simply read his summary of the case and the purpose of this emergency hearing and asked Frowley if the information was correct.

"Yes, Your Honor," Frowley replied.

"So you are alleging," Remington said, "that these... musicians here, who are under contract to provide you with new material for the next contractual period, have deliberately submitted sub-standard material with the intention it would be rejected?"

"That is correct, Your Honor."

Remington nodded, made a brief note on a pad before him, and took a sip from his water glass. He looked at Pauline. "Ms... Kingsley, is it?"

"Yes, Your Honor."

"Are you related to the Mr. Kingsley who is listed as one of the principals in the case?"

"Yes, Your Honor. He is my brother."

Remington frowned in disapproval at this. "I see you are at least a member of the Bar," he said. "Are you the least bit familiar with the subject of entertainment contract law?"

"Not entertainment contract law as such," she said. "But I do specialize in corporate contract law."

Remington yawned, seemingly tired of this subject. "All right then, I guess you'll have to do. Let's get to the meat of this little spat. Are your clients deliberately making sub-standard music?"

"My clients emphatically deny this, Your Honor. They worked long and hard and under constant pressure by National Records executives in order to compose this new material, record it in base form, and submit it to National Records by the deadline imposed upon them. The work on the tape they submitted represents their very best musical efforts. They are shocked and dismayed that National believes it is not a good faith effort."

"Uh huh," Remington grunted. "So your clients are not deliberately making sub-standard music then?"

"No, Your Honor, they are not."

"That is all I asked. Next time I ask a yes or no question, spare me the long-winded explanation and just answer yes or no."

Pauline flushed a little. "Yes, Your Honor."

Remington looked back at the plaintiff's table. "Mr. Frowley, what is it that makes your clients believe the music the defendants submitted is not a good faith effort?"

"Your Honor, it is quite obvious if you listen to it. There are songs full of unacceptable profanity, songs about defecation and mucous removal from the nostrils. There is even a song about picking out a can of soup in a grocery store."

"What is wrong with a song about picking out a can of soup?" His Honor enquired.

"It is a marked deviation from the sort of material the fans of Intemperance have come to expect."

"Uh huh," Remington grunted again, making a few more notes. He sighed. "Well, as much as I was hoping to avoid this, I guess we'll have to take a listen. I trust you brought a copy with you?"

"Yes, Your Honor," Frowley said. "I have a copy of the demo tape the defendants submitted and copies of the lyric sheets. So that you may compare the recently submitted material with their previous material, I have also brought cassette tapes of the first two Intemperance albums."

"Your Honor, if I may?" said Pauline.

"Yes, Ms. Kingsley. What is it?"

"The cassette tapes that Mr. Frowley is offering for use as a comparison with the efforts my clients have recently submitted — they are commercial audio cassettes made from the master recordings produced in the National Records studio. In other words, they are the high-quality tapes the fans purchase."

"Yes, that is my understanding," Remington said. "What about them?"

"If it please the court, I have brought copies of the original demo tapes my clients submitted to National Records for those first two albums. It is my belief that these tapes would be a better comparison to the current tape since both were produced using the same primative equipment."

"I fail to see why the recording method would make a difference, counselor."

"The difference, Your Honor, is that the commercial tapes were produced with all the resources of the National Records studio equipment and technicians over a period of months. They were subjected to mixing, re-dubbing, filtering, and re-mixing of each individual instrument and vocalization. It is only natural that this will sound much better than a demo tape created in a matter of days on a small mixing board."

Jake thought this was an ironclad argument. His Honor, however, did not seem impressed by it. In fact, he seemed insulted.

"Are you suggesting," he asked, "that I would allow myself to be swayed in judgment by a few fancy flourishes thrown in by studio technicians?"

"No, Your Honor," Pauline replied. "Not at all. I was merely suggesting that comparing a commercial quality album release and a crude demo tape is like comparing apples to oranges. To compare a demo tape with a demo tape is comparing apples to apples."

"And I disagree," Remington said. "I am a great lover of music, Ms. Kingsley, and I hardly think I would be swayed by the type of recording technique used to present that music to me. You can keep your demo tapes in your briefcase."

Jake saw Matt tense up, saw his mouth open to shout something out. He quickly and circumspectly elbowed him in the side, keeping his mouth stapled shut.

"Yes, Your Honor," Pauline said professionally.

"Okay," said Remington. "Let's get this over with." He turned toward the uniformed sheriff's deputy. "Tim, let's hear the new demo tape first."

Tim collected the tape from one of Frowley's associates and carried it over to a small stereo cassette player on the witness stand. He popped it in and turned it on. All that came out for a moment was hissing. Then came the intro to Fuck The Establishment.

Jesus, thought Jake as the instrumental intro kicked into high gear. This isn't a copy of the demo, it's a copy of a copy of a copy of a copy — at least. It sounded horrible indeed, much worse than they'd originally intended, the obvious victim of multi-generational recording. Remington listened to the first two minutes of the song, long enough to hear the word "fuck" twenty-four times. He then made a throat-cutting gesture at Tim. The stop button was pushed.

"Which one of you wrote that song?" Remington asked, his eyes glaring at the musicians.

"I did, Your Honor," Jake replied.

"And you are? Identify yourself for the record."

"Jake Kingsley, Your Honor. Lead singer for Intemperance."

"You consider this to be an honest effort at producing music, Mr. Kingsley?" he asked. "And I might remind you that you have been sworn and are under oath."

"Yes, Your Honor," Jake said with a perfectly straight face. "I consider Fuck The Establishment to be one of my best efforts."

The glare continued. "You will refrain from using profanity of any kind in my courtroom, Mr. Kingsley," he said. "If you do it again, I will cite you for contempt of court and throw you in the county jail for thirty days where you can cuss all you want."

Jake blanched. This did not seem to be going well at all. "My apologies, Your Honor, but that is the title of the song."

"I hardly think that 'song' is the proper word for that ranting, obscenity-laced composition. That was quite possibly the most horrible effort at music I have ever heard."

Jake said nothing further. It seemed safer. Presently, Remington ordered the next song played. He listened to this one until the last verse before making the throat-cutting gesture again.

"At least it wasn't profane," he said. "Although calling it music is still quite a stretch. Next."

Tim played The Switch. Frowley took a moment to explain that the band had chosen to switch instruments for this particular piece.

"Really?" Remington asked, looking like he was going to vomit. "How could you tell?"

They went through the rest, one by one, with His Honor listening for an average of ninety seconds each time before making a sarcastic comment and ordering up the next. When the demo tape was finally over he looked at Jake, his eyes probing.

"That was grotesque," he said. "Absolutely and completely grotesque. You really consider this abortion of pseudo-musical composition, this symphony of all that is horrible and loathsome, to be your best musical effort?"

"Yes, Your Honor, we do," Jake replied.

Remington shook his head in disgust. "That noise is not fit to play to pigs during mating season."

Jake wasn't sure how to reply. Eventually he simply said, "I disagree, Your Honor."

"Uh huh," Remington said. "Let's hear your previous works now. Tim, get the cassettes please."

Tim got them. Jake saw, without surprise, that they were pristine copies of Descent Into Nothing and The Thrill Of Doing Business, both still in their factory wrappers.

"Does it matter which one goes first?" Remington asked.

"No, Your Honor," Frowley replied. "I think you'll find any song on either of these cassettes to be a stark contrast to the atrocities you just heard."

"Uh huh," Remington said. "Let's do the first album first. Tim, go ahead and play it."

Tim put Descent Into Nothing in and pushed play. The rich, melodic sound of Intemperance's first hit poured out into the courtroom in all its glory. Remington listened to it all the way through and then listened to the next song. He cut that one off thirty seconds in and then listened to Who Needs Love? all the way through. He then motioned Tim to stop the tape.

"Put in the next album," Remington told him.

The Thrill Of Doing Business was soon blaring through the speakers. Remington listened to about three quarters of the title cut and then ordered a halt.

"Who wrote that one?" he demanded.

"I did, dude... uh... I mean, Your Honor," Matt said. "Something wrong with it?"

Remington's glare was almost murderous this time. "And you are?"

"Matthew Tisdale. Lead guitarist for Intemperance."

"I see," Remington said. "And was that song about buying illegal drugs and consorting with prostitutes?"

"Yes, Your Honor," Matt said proudly. "It was."

"And you consider that an acceptable topic in which to compose musical lyrics about and distribute in a mass media format?"

"Yes, Your Honor," Matt responded. He shrugged. "I mean, we all do those things, don't we? I mean, we might not talk about them, but, you know, it's a part of everyday life in America."

Remington actually turned red in the face this time. "I am a married man, Mr. Tisdale and a Christian man as well. If you make any more suggestions in this courtroom that I engage in a lack of fidelity or illicit drug use you'll find yourself rotting in a jail cell for the next two months. Is that clear?"

"Uh... sure," Matt said.

"Uh... sure what?" Remington spat.

"Uh... sure, Your Honor?" Matt squeaked.

Remington's eyes continued to drill into Matt's for a few more seconds. Finally he turned back to the plaintiff's table. "Mr. Frowley," he said, "is it true that these two albums we have just listened to have sold over two million copies apiece?"

"Yes, Your Honor," Frowley said. "Descent Into Nothing is actually approaching three million now."

Remington shook his head. "That's the best argument for censorship I've ever heard in my life. I hear no appreciable difference between this demo tape the so-called band has submitted and the previously released selections. They are all appalling garbage and when this great country of ours finally collapses to rubble like the Roman Empire, every one of you standing before me today will be partially responsible. Music? This is garbage! All of it! I find no evidence the band Intemperance has failed to make a good faith effort to produce new material. Plaintiff's motion for a court order demanding re-submission is denied. If you don't like what they're giving you, you'll just have to wait until trial to resolve it."

Frowley let his game face slip a little. He frowned, his face turning red. "Your Honor, I must respectfully disagree."

"That's what makes our country great, counselor," Remington said. "You have the right to disagree with me. It doesn't change my decision, but you have the right. Now, is there anything else?"

"Yes, Your Honor," Pauline said. "There is one other thing."

Remington sighed. "Will I have to listen to any more of that noise?"

"No, Your Honor," she said. "It has to do with provisions of the contract that National Records is not abiding by."

"What provisions are those?"

"You'll note in section six, subsection eight through twelve, that National is required to provide necessary food, clothing, housing, and transportation to each member of Intemperance if they are not receiving sufficient funding from royalty payments to make such acquisitions themselves."

Remington flipped to that section in his copy of the contract and read it over for a few moments. "Yes," he finally said. "It says National will provide housing analogous with public perception, all necessary food, all necessary clothing, and all necessary transportation costs in a manner befitting successful musicians. Are they not doing this?"

"They are not, Your Honor. National Records has cut off the band members from their groceries, clothing allowances, and limousine service since this dispute began. This is a blatant violation of the contract and I would ask at this time that you order National Records to immediately reinstate these allowances in the manner in which they were previously distributed."

"Objection, Your Honor," Frowley nearly shouted. "This was a hearing to determine good-faith effort, not food and clothing allotments."

"Overruled," Remington said. "This is a hearing to determine whether or not there is sufficient evidence of a contract breach and whether or not a court order should be issued to help resolve such a breach. If I don't rule on this now, Ms. Kingsley will be right back in here tomorrow filing for another emergency hearing and I'll have to waste more valuable time of the court system and myself scheduling for it and listening to it. Let's just get it over with now."

"But, Your Honor..." Frowley started.

"There are no 'buts' in my courtroom, counselor. My word is final. It's one of the perks of this job, you see. Now tell me, did National Records cut off the food, clothing, and transportation allowances they are contractually required to provide to the members of Intemperance?"

"Your Honor," Frowley said, "the members of Intemperance are in breach of contract. Under the circumstances..."

"Whether the members of Intemperance are in breach or not is for a jury to decide," Remington cut in. "I believe I have already ruled on that. Now I will ask you one more time, counselor, and if you do not give me a simple yes or no answer I will charge you with contempt of court. Did National Records cut off the contractually required food, clothing and transportation allowances for the members of Intemperance?"

Frowley sighed. "Yes, Your Honor. They did."

"That wasn't so hard now, was it?" Remington asked. "I'm ordering National Records to reinstate these allowances immediately, by the end of business hours today, at the levels they were previously set at." He glared at Frowley. "And don't try to play games with me on this. Games do not amuse me. Not in the least."

"It will be done, Your Honor," Frowley said through gritted teeth.

"I have utmost confidence in you," Remington said. "Now then, is there anything else?"

There was nothing else.

"Okay then," Remington said. "This hearing is adjourned. And I will ask both parties in this dispute to please come to a settlement before this comes to trial. It is my sincere wish to see none of you in my courtroom ever again." He banged his gavel and left the courtroom. Once in his chambers he put on a Gershwin album from his collection and spent the next twenty minutes cleansing his auditory canals of that rock and roll trash they had been contaminated with.

Meanwhile, out in the hallway, Matt made a point to call out to Frowley again.

"Round two to the band, bitch!" Matt yelled at him, showing both middle fingers. "To the fuckin' band!"