Chapter 16: Pauline

January 2, 1985
Heritage, California

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 someday.”

“Will I?”

“You will. In fact, someday 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 so that I might issue a court order granting an immediate enforcement of the terms of the contract if the band refuses to make a good faith effort to abide by the contract.”

“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.”

Cranford then looked over at Pauline. “It is also my understanding that council for the defense has filed a motion requesting a preliminary injunction on enforcement of the terms of the contract until such time as a jury trial can be conducted on the basis that the band did, in fact, act in good faith and submit a demo tape of music for acceptance by the plaintiff and the plaintiff is, in fact, being unreasonable in rejection of this effort.”

“That is correct, Your Honor,” Pauline said.

“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 then I have no objection to Judge Cranford remaining in charge of this case. But if it is true, then 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 reemerged 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 reassigned 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 genuinely made a good faith effort to produce acceptable music, he’ll grant our request for a preliminary injunction. If he feels you were deliberately not producing a good faith effort, he’ll land on us like a ton of bricks and give National anything they ask for.”

“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, thus placing them in immediate breach of contract?”

“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 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 primitive 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, redubbing, filtering, and remixing 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—and more than a little impressed that His Honor had picked up on the gist of the lyrics. “It was.”

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

“Yes, Your Honor,” Matt responded. He gave him a shrewd, knowing look. “I mean, we all do those things, don’t we? 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 immediate enforcement of breach of contract terms is denied. Defendant’s petition for a preliminary injunction preventing enforcement of the breach of contract terms is granted.”

Frawley let his game face slip a little. He frowned, his face turning red. “Your Honor, I must respectfully disagree.”

Remington gave him a look that might’ve melted steel. “If you don’t like what they’re giving you, counselor, you’ll just have to wait until trial to resolve it. You will continue to abide by the terms of the contract until such time as a jury decides whether or not a breach has occurred.”