Law And More

The IP Law Partner, The Psychic, The Public Nuisance Class-Action Lawsuit, and The Cleanser

Short Short Fiction by Jane Genova

"Something odd is happening in this building."

That's all that Seth Rosen could think to say.

Again, the sex, the affection, the everything had been unsatisfactory with his lover, another IP lawyer Walter Clark.

Clark feigned interest. But did it in a lawyerly way so Rosen knew this conversation wouldn't reset the mood to where it had been 15 months ago. That's when he had met Clark at a New York state bar meeting.

"In what way 'odd?'" That was Clark. He was in as much shut-down as Rosen.

Both were in dry IP. Unlike lawyers in foodborne illnesses like those at Marler Clark or a class action discrimination one on the defense side at Paul Weiss they never had to master the art of human touchpoints. Not in practicing law. So, why the hell even bother with anything personal, that's what they thought. 

Surprisingly, in the first months of their relationship there had been moments of connection. Now, just walls constructed with gray matter. Law students couldn't have been more cartoonish in how conversations were constructed.

"That's it. I don't know. I feel it." 

Rosen might have been feeling it right then.

"It first happened when I was getting the mail in the lobby."

 Since first coming to Manhattan as an associate in the New York branch of a Silicon Valley firm, Rosen had lived in a 18-story uncharming coop on E. 79th. Family inheritance paid for the first-floor two-bedroom apartment. The only one who knew why he never lived above the first floor had been his first male lover Arthur Vega, a criminal defense lawyer. "There is that overwhelming compulsion to jump."

Clark, a fan of horror writer Stephen King, perked up. Encouraged, Rosen let loose, as much as a tight-ass like himself could.

"That woman who lives two doors over. She was getting her mail out of her mailbox. No, we didn't look at each other. But an electric current. I swear. It came from her. It started in my arm and went down my leg."

Clark hugged Rosen. This was getting good.

"It wasn't a Stephen King novel. It was some other story. A lawyer becomes inhabited by spirit of a dead man who wants revenge for his murder. No, the lawyer hadn't defended the killer who got off. It was crazier than that. The lawyer had turned down the defense case. He was a jerk so the spirit figured that particular lawyer wouldn't have gotten the guy off."

Rosen turned white. The feeling was in the room.

"So how did the story end?"

Clark knew he had to lie.

"A cleanser got rid of the spirit." Actually the lawyer committed suicide.

A super pragmatist Rosen was elated that this oddness had bought a second life to their relationship.

The elation had a short shelf life.

Two days later, he opened his apartment door. Outside that same women from the mailbox had tarot cards laid out. She was transfixed.

Professionally trained to be cautious, Rosen firmly but civilly asked her, "Is there something you would like?'

Her eyes rolled back in her head. She gathered her cards up. She put them in a cute multi-colored bag. Without looking back she went into her own apartment.

"There's nothing we can do." That's what the head of the coop board told Rosen. After all, there had been no witnesses. Also, a few others in the building had observed that Rosen had seemed too wound tight. Could Rosen be having a psychotic episode.

The feeling had taken over his entire body. It wasn't local and it wasn't going on and off any more. 

"Don't you feel it?" Rosen demanded of Clark. Oh, Clark felt it. In fact, they no longer used the master bedroom. The force field was too strong there.

"Sue her." 

Gratitude flowed over Rosen. Clark was spot-on.

And there was evidence. Rosen had invested mega money into a security system. It had picked up the woman standing outside his door, chanting. She sprinkled some kind of wet substance on the carpet outside. She took the tarot cards out of her bag, shuffled them, picked three, and chanted some more. Then back in the bag. About 14 times she had done that, including four times in just one night. 

"First I have to do, well, a little pre-discovery." Cheered up, Rosen even joked around. He planned to find out more about her. The private investigator he hired he had used before on a case. The moniker he went by was Call Me Thorough. 

Well, her name, it turned out. was Ireland O'Hara. That is, her legal name. Her professional one was Arial of the Angles. Annually her reported income from providing tarot readings for entertainment purposes was about $320,000. That probably didn't include hefty tips. No criminal record. But rumors of criminal mischief. Just rumors. She lived alone. Never had been married. Had no children. The coop had no record of pets.

Rosen interviewed firms specializing in public nuisance. They included Motley Rice. What he came up with was a solo practice in Salem, MA. That lawyer Shorty Cabrese had had experience with paranormal cases. He made his brand suing a con  psychic. 

"I want injunctive relief from that public nuisance. Ms. O'Hara has trespassed onto my soul. She must get out. Then there are damages. Of course, I am under psychiatric care."

Cabrese arranged with a Manhattan lawyer to file the complaint in New York City Supreme Court.

But, before that, Call Me Thorough had found out that O'Hara had psychically stalked others. They had considered taking some kind of action but feared she would jinx them. Rosen's legal team nudged them into joining the lawsuit. O'Hara owned property in Westchester in New York and Fairfield County in Connecticut. She was worth suing.

Certification came easily.

A jury of their peers came down hard on the psychic. Shame on her, she was misusing her gift.

But, ha-ha, try to enforce the injunction. The legal system lacks a paranormal squad. 

"She is out of the building. But the feeling ..." Rosen had lost 30 pounds. Clark was hanging in but was becoming frayed himself. He had lost most of his hair. Was Ariel also targeting him? 

"Call me Shorty."  Rosen and Clark had rented a car and had driven to his office in Salem.

Cabrese wanted to unload those two. He got his fee. And he knew these two tight-assed lawyers were sitting ducks for mischief-making spirits. He hadn't been living in Salem without knowing plenty about what goes on in the other dimension. The default was there. O'Hara had probably left the "case" open for others to penetrate the boundaries of lawyers who assumed they were closed systems.

"Okay, Shorty. What should we do now? We are considering reporting you to the MA bar.  Injunctive relief, our ass."

Alpha Rosen had been broken enough to talk in the "we" frame.

"Yeah, injunctive relief, my ass."

Clark held onto his alpha. No "we."

But Clark's bravado wouldn't last. 

Scared, Shorty directed the two to a Cleanser on Essex Street in Salem. He hated inflicting the two arrogant guys from Manhattan on anyone. 

The Cleanser who called herself "Adjaxx" (she used two "xs" so not to violate copyright) did her hocus-pocus. Rosen had to rub his left knee with olive oil every three hours. And garlic on the right one, at the same time. That meant setting the alarm during the night.

Clark had to pluck a hair from his head every week and meditate on it for 49 minutes daily. You bet, set the alarm to get the timing just right. Too long or too little and the spell on him wouldn't have been removed. 

That worked. Within six months the spirits backed off. At least the ones who have been chasing after the two.

After such a major trauma, the relationship fell apart. Clark blamed Rosen for inviting the spirits in. With his lack of humanity he was spiritbait, right. Rosen resented that Clark seemed to enjoy the encounter with the paranormal a bit too much. He had a hunch Clark was penning a novel about their unwelcome encounter with the spirit world.

O'Hara had to sell some real estate to pay up the verdict and legal costs. She planned to circle back to Rosen, Clark, et al. 

Shorty retired from law and shifted to cleansing. He talked Ajaxx into a partnership. She had billed Rosen and Clark thousands of dollars for not much heavy lifting. Yeah, the only expenses for her were for olive oil, garlic, and a plucking tweezer. 

Darkness fell on the coop. There had been three suicides, all from the 14th floor. The New York Post had a ball with the headline: "Jinxed on Wealthy on UES Manhattan." Again, Rosen was scared. However, he had no idea what he was in for.

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The Chairman - Sudden Fiction By Jane Genova

"Jonathan, your good looks can ruin your career."

Jonathan watched the words coming out of that mouth. They were dark-colored, wrapped tightly together. 

His eyes drifted up to his uncle's eyes. The left one had a slight twitch. During the summer interning at that law firm, he would bear witness to the twitch becoming more pronounced. 

He knew he had to reply. This was his first day on the job. It paid better than what any of his friends were doing for the summer.

"Okay." 

Not the right response.

That gave the uncle license to go into massive detail about how fragile careers are. He provided examples of good-looking men from his law class who wound up on downward trajectories. All because they depended too much on their appearance. Not enough on ingratiating themselves. Also, they took a walk on the wild side with women. 

Jonathan nodded with what he hoped was enough gravitas. At least coming from a 14-year-old. Then the talk in the conference room was over.

The family laughed about his uncle. Over-driven. Over-bearing. Over-chatty.

  Jonathan's father, also named Jonathan, would love this latest anecodote about his brother. Such a high price paid for success was the father's mantra. Yes, keep the family posted on the progress of The Twitch, dad said. He wanted the son to follow him into the insurance business. He could take over the State Farm franchise in Stamford, Connecticut. Relatively nine-to-five. Time for hobbies. 

As usual in life, this story has profound irony.

Once he was in college Jonathan ran with the mandate to ingratiate. 

By Yale Law School he had fine-tuned that to the point that the really brilliant classmates shared with him what he needed to understand. 

From the get-go his career took off. 

At age 49, he was chairman of a major law firm. Before the top dogs in the career-advice industry had all that terminology for connectors, he was the best in that version of the networking game. Even those with more power than his wanted his companionship, even love. For that they gave him what he wanted.

Then what should have been an aura media article unleashed The Horror.

The former Ph.D. psychologist turned journalist described in detail Jonathan's Dale Carnegie tactics for winning friends and influencing people.

She devoted three paragraphs to this cute anecdote. His uncle, also a prominent lawyer, gave him a Dale Carnegie course as a high school graduation gift. Oh, Jonathan was crushed. He had been expecting help with the funds to buy a car. Isn't that what every handome 18-year-old male wants for picking up and driving around the babes! Yeah, Jonathan had had that side to him. 

There were several more paragraphs capturing how he gave his "target markets" the exact facial expression and body language, on-demand, for every "selling opportunity." She had shadowed him for two days.

Former classmates from law school felt foolish. Yeah, they had been manipulated. No, he was not the sharpest tool in the shed. But look at where he was now. 

That wouldn't be for long. There was universal revulsion about having been played. 

Hiring a top public relations for damage control made things worse. His op-eds the media folks placed elicted ridicule. His new enemies also had the public relations resources to assassinate his supposed thought leadership.

The wait was on for him to jump from the 34th floor of that Manattan trophy building. For years they mused, "That bastard should have taken the swan dive. He owed us."

Intel has it Jonathan is in China coaching those heading for U.S. ivy league universities how to make friends and influence people. 

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The Do-Over - Pro Se Contract Law

Sudden Fiction by Jane Genova

I need a good lawyer for this one. After all, it's a matter of contract law.

That's what I thought to myself.

But the next thought was: Where the hell would I find a good lawyer in this civilization-and-its-discontents town.

Unlike the large midwest town I had relocated from 21 days ago, this patch of doublewides, tarp shelters and a single apartment-rental complex didn't have lawyers falling over each other on a main street. 

The only law office I had spotted had a rundown facade and what looked like DIY signage. 

That moment of clarity kicked in. Sure, I would represent myself. Pro se wasn't just for family-court matters. But, come to think of it, this was a family matter, wasn't it.

I dressed in a navy blue suit, dark heels, and just enough jewelry to appear prosperous. I went over the strategy. No, I would not ask for the $280 payment I made for the veterinarian to help my four-legged son Special pass over. The argument would be emotional: I needed Special for about five more days. There would be no contention that I wasn't mentally competent when I put my John Hancock on the agreement to terminate the life. All I would request was a do-over. Bring back Special.

Most lawyers lack social skills. Not me. I had been a graduate assistant in two Dale Carnegie introductory seminars. Begin hard conversations in a friendly manner is a Carnegie System fundamental.

That I did.

The veterinarian, I could sense, was relieved I let the money part out of it. 

"I can contact Wanda in Nogales, Mexico. Only 15 minutes from here. But you will have to pay her."

I agreed.

I asked if I could wait.

Several hours later Wanda showed up. I pushed a wad of bills in her hand.

In about seven minutes she came out of the examining room with Special. He wagged his tail. The time away had done him good.

Special and I did have almost five days together. In a store several towns over I found the duck jerky treats that had been his favorite.  

Then, in Special's eyes I could read that he had had enough. I knew what I would find the next morning. That's how do-overs usually work. I buried Special in the desert. The pain wasn't all that bad. Timing is everything.

In the next six months I was able to finish my book. I returned to a full-service city. 

Jane Genova (janegenova374@gmail.com) co-wrote career guide, still in print, "The Critical First Years of Your Professional Life." Her first novel was "The Fat Guy From Greenwich." Her commentary has been widely published, ranging from The Wall Street Journal to Odwyerpr.com.

 

The Jersey City Rat - Short Short Fiction by Jane Genova

She grew up hard.

Her family owned a duplex near Journal Square in Jersey City, New Jersey. So the hard didn't come from extreme poverty.

They got the monthly rent for the upstairs apartment.

Her mother had sometimes under the table income from a political boss.

The father went to work but little from the paycheck made it home, which was common in Jersey City in the 1960s. At the parish church, she and her grandmother prayed that the father would stop drinking. 

The head of the parish Father Joe - he was convinced going by his first name broke down barriers with wary immigrants - was impressed by her piety. At her confirmation he told her to take the name Mary. He gave her a framed art rending of the Virgin Mary.

She went by the name Mary for the rest of her life, which wasn't to be a long one.

Father Joe pulled strings. Mary was admitted on full scholarship, with a stipend for uniforms and lunches, to St. Dominic's Academy. He gave the principal one order: Smooth down the rough spots.

Within two months of her first year matriculating at St. Dominic's, Mary learned to listen with complete attention to all speakers and smiled with the calmness of the Virgin Mary. She stopped the profanity. She picked up fast on the accent reduction training which the nuns provided on records. 

But at the end Father Joe and the nuns were disappointed. Instead of going to St. Elizabeth's College in New Jersey Mary hopped the PATH to Manhattan. She found a job as an assistant to the managing partner of a law firm. Soon enough she was The Assistant. Members of the firm had to devise a whole new mode of stealth operations to elude her monitoring - and snitching.

Paul the managing partner - like Father Joe he preferred to go by his first name to break down barriers - sized Mary up as lusting for power.

So he concocted ways she would have the illusion of that.

He listened to her rat reports. He shook his head and indicated, "I will look into that. Thank you, Mary."

He asked her input on hiring and promoting. Then he did the opposite of what she recommended. She never commented on that.

He had her travel to client sites to manage all the clerical tasks associated with litigation. He was embarrassed that she would send out postcards from those cities. But he was too smart to clue her in that she was low-rent.

He didn't want to have her leave in a huff. After all, even rats have a sense of self.

Paul had reasons to keep her content. The Assistant was loyal. Worked 16 hours a day six days a week. Took the compensation she was assigned without negotiating. And was sufficiently hated internally not to be doing any real damage, or was Paul's assumption of no-harm-done naive, at least for a successful lawyer?

Paul's midsize firm, like most law firms, was up or out.

On the first warm day of spring he informed a third-year associate that the Yale JD was no longer on the partner track. Oh, sure, he could stay working at the firm until he found something else. His work, in fact, was very good, not just partner quality. 

It was that phrase "not just partner quality" which was the tipping point. Or, that's what the defense's psychiatrist put in the report. The plea was temporary insanity.

It was the time before metal detectors in Manhattan office buildings. No trouble bringing in a gun. 

For two hours the associate watched his target, that is, the woman he assumed ruined his career with tattle-tales. 

Then he directed the gun at her mouth. 

Father Joe and the nuns from St. Dominic's orchestrated a grandiose funeral mass.

There was no wake because the casket couldn't be left open.

Mary's father arrived at the mass carrying a cross down the church aisle, like Jesus Christ.

Weeping, he proclaimed in front of the altar that if he hadn't been a drunk, Mary wouldn't have "left home" to work in Manhattan.

She would have stayed in Jersey City and rented the apartment upstairs. That's what good girls do and Mary was a good girl. He declared he hadn't had a drop since her death.

Her mother felt like someone for the first time in her life. She looked forward to receiving the proceeds from her daughter's insurance policy through her employer. She could buy two more houses.

Meanwhile she went to the best shop on Journal Square and purchased a lovely spring dress for the mass and burial. After the coffin was in the ground, Father Joe announced there would be an informal dinner back at the parish. Booze was served and Mary's father got drunk and vomited all over his wife's new dress. 

Paul didn't attend any of the rituals. He feared his relief at having her gone would show. Pain in the ass, he would tell his wife. Even before she was murdered he vowed never to hire anyone who wasn't from a refined family. Those postcards, he always visualized her filling them out in her nun-acquired handwriting every morning before work in the pricey hotel room. Growing up hard himself, he cringed at any sign of lower-class behavior.

Annually, there is a mass at St. Dominic's to honor the private school's most famous graduate.

She had died in a trophy building in Manhattan.

Since the murderer was a Yale JD the story went worldwide.

Applications so soared to St. Dominic's that its acceptance rate vied that of Yale Law School.

Father Joe was appointed a bishop. Given his easy manner with people he kept rising in the hierarchy of the Roman Catholic Church.

 

Strange Legality: Ghostwriting College Term Papers Okay Because Process Classified as "Transaction"

Morally wrong. That's about all.

So, the FBI probably will not organize stings for ghostwriters who research and put together those growing number of college and graduate/professional school term papers for students who pay up the big bucks. That's because that process is classified as a paid transaction. So, it is perfectly legal. Wealthy insiders always knew that.

Now, the world finds that out through the Daily Mail article on former ghostwriter Jaimie Leigh. In addition to doing term papers she positioned and packaged the kinds of content which helped her clients not only get into college but on boards of directors. 

The reality of the ghostwriting world is much larger than enhancing academic and career credentials. But most of it is totally legit, that is, in the legal sense.

Essentially the game is: Pay some talent to look good. Instead of makeup and hairstyling, ghostwriters use research skills, analysis, strategic planning of content, and word mastery.

That's the source of myriad best-selling books, those opinion-editorials in The Wall Street Journal, erudite white papers produced by brandname management consulting firms, speeches, scripting for videos, blogs, social media, podcast talking points, and even fiction. 

Will the morality ever matter? Likely, not in America. That is, not until its current brand of capitalism grafts on other values.

Need affordable help strategically planning and putting together content? That ranges from blog posts and e-books to planning/scripting podcasts and creating traditional speeches. Complimentary consultation on how to generate influence and sell without paying high rates, janegenova374@gmail.com. 

 

Theft of Services

Sudden Fiction - By Jane Genova

October 2011.

That's when it started.

In the snail mail had arrived a letter-size sheet of paper. Scrawled across it was the handwritten note: I like to watch you sleep. Folded into the note was a tea bag of Cozy Time Chamomile. 

"It's that handyman. The one Cindy and Bart said I could trust." That's what Fat Maureen - the name everyone in Green Valley, Arizona, called her behind her back - thought to herself.

Two Pima County squad cars came. They knew they had to placate the financially comfortable home owners in the Green and Oro Valleys retirement communities. 

"I get hives, when upset." They just stared at her. She was still wearing sleeveless. It had been an usually warm fall season. There were no hives on her arms.

She read their faces. "There will be hives."

They gave her a look of empathy and then explained what the procedures would be on their part and what precautions she should take.

She had the contacts to keep this out of the media. She was able to sell her house, even though there had been two suicides in Green Valley, just that summer. 

She moved back to within 100 miles of the last location in which she had been happy. It was a small U.S. town on the border of Canada. Retired, she couldn't afford to buy back into what she recalled as Happy Days.

Like in many small towns relationships in that border town had hardened into human fortresses. Maybe the members behind those moats with alligators and the drawbridge pulled down were nice to their families. But they were mean to everyone else. They called her, to her face, "Fat Pat." They knew that she knew that they knew her name was not Pat. 

In October 2012, a replica of the original snail mail arrived at her house. Law enforcement barely listened. But one female officer recommended a dermatologist for hives, in the event they broke out.

In November 2012, neighbors reported an odor from Fat Pat's house. They assumed it was food she had left rotting. But, instead, there she was, in her bed, stabbed 121 times. Everyone laughed. They had no fear for themselves. This was personal. 

"Did the body have hives?" was what a few asked. 

The murder of Fat Pat remains a cold case to the police. Because of the bizarre back story - the female cop reported about the hives - it made global news. The tabloids printed version of this kind of headline, "Some kind soul scratched her itch." Everywhere she had lived in her career there were fierce statements like, "Why the hell didn't this happen sooner."

In the Ohio Valley, a dermatologist who had treated Maureen for hives in 1972 felt deep satisfaction about murdering her. Only then was his insomnia lifted.

Back then, she had refused to pay his bill and somehow wasn't harmed by what that did to her credit report. Annually, he had checked her credit. He also had been authentically puzzled how she could sleep after this "theft of services." Over the years he had peeked into her windows. 

 

Observed Casting Spells

Sudden Fiction - By Jane Genova

It was skillful.

Gradually Rebecca removed each bottle of wine from the table.

She had been socialized to be a conventional woman. It was 1970. Feminism hadn't yet hardened females into being The Professional Woman. 

So, Rebecca assumed that she had no other way to get her drunken doctoral classmates in the Psychology at the University of Michigan to leave. 

By time they noticed there was no more wine to pour they had sobered up just enough to interpret the signal. As well they should. After all they were future therapists.

Rebecca wanted them gone so that she could tear apart guest Janice with David. She had parachuted into David's life because she knew he didn't have the strength to disagree with her. 

"Janice will never get anywhere. Not with that mouth. And too much push, for a woman."

David had no choice but to agree.

And in the next few years after the members of that circle received their doctoral degrees from the U of M, he kept agreeing. He had to. Rebecca was his wife, then the mother of his two children. 

"Maybe academia isn't for me." To his surprise that's what Rebecca confided. He didn't know that she knew she was stuck. Never did she seem to resent that he was golden, a full professor at an Ivy League. And that she had been shifted into administration at a state university.

Then even the general media, not just those academic announcements, featured Janice's research on alcoholism with a tribe in the Arizona desert. 

David feared Rebecca would cut his throat as he slept. A classmate from the old U of M days told him to move out, get an order of protection, and mandate their adult children not to return home. He also was advised to warn Janice. 

Some from that Psychology Class of 1973 have done research on spells. That's how much David's murder impacted them. The more imaginative speculated Rebecca had secretly studied witchcraft. But that never came up in the trial. However, two reporters covering it used terms like "voodoo" in their articles.

Others, the more scientific types, shrugged it all off to some kind of genetic mutation. One son keeps getting arrested for domestic violence.

Janice is now investigating alcoholism in villages in Eastern Europe. She is convinced Rebecca had cast a spell on David, the first year of their doctoral studies. "I enjoyed observing how he lost his sense of self." That's what she told the prosecution during discovery but wasn't called as a witness. 

It has been in prison that Rebecca scaled. Like diet-doctor killer Jean Harris she became nationally famous for helping inmates get their GED, then college degrees. Her fear is that she will receive a presidential pardon. 

 

Mass Shooters - FBI Might Study Their Minds

The difference between serial killers and mass shooters is this: Serial killers conduct the carnage in multiple events. And, in pop culture, the elite FBI team of TV fictional program "Criminal Minds" flies in to find that miscreant. 

Mass shooters like Adam Lanza in Newtown, Connecticut inflict the horror in one setting at one time.

For years, the FBI has been investigating the minds of serial killers. That's how the "Criminal Minds" BAU comes up with those profiles. 

Now, reports Zusha Elinson in The Wall Street Journal, there might be the same kind of digging into the minds of mass shooters.

And one wonders if the availability of guns in society has made the phenomenon of a mass shooting everyday in America.

What part does the heavy media coverage play? That makes it all too easy for the attention-craving to pile up more than their 15 minutes of fame.

Is it the stress of life in the 21st century what makes so human beings snap? 

Should quality mental health be more available at no cost?

And/or would it prevent mass shootings if rage management becomes part of the public school curriculum?

So many writers such as myself daydream about being able to develop relationships with convicted mass shooters, gaining access to what's inside. It's not so much to prevent future crimes as to try to understand this type of human being. After all, even though they have committed a horrific crime, they are human beings. We writers might be able to connect the dots in ways criminal experts and degreed psychologists cannot.

It might be a good idea for the FBI to put us writers on their research team. Here is my recent book, free to download, on the monsters of mind which take over unemployed older professionals. Could disappointment about success trigger, no pun intended, aberrant behavior? I already might be onto something.

I made those discoveries since I have been coaching seasoned professionals whose careers become stuck. The issue is: Why is it that the majority of disappointed professionals, here in American where extreme success is the unofficial religion, don't lash out as mass shooters? My hunch is that they continue to have hope of a comeback. Mass shooters have been unable to hold onto hope. 

Attention is the currency of the 21^st century. Jane Genova helps you get it for products, services, points of view, causes, branding, careers after-50, and college admission. Free consultation janegenova374@gmail.com

 

"The Fat Guy on Gold Coast of Connecticut" - Sudden Fiction by Jane Genova

Short Short Story - By Jane Genova

"A mean bully. Vindictive. But, not a killer."

That's how Horst Merkel's former administrative assistant sized up the man she had worked for 27 months.

She was Maria Carlucci. Who was questioning her was FBI agent Harry Houdini. That was his nickname. His birth one was John Smith IV.

 The latest murder victim on the Gold Coast of Connecticut had been a Superior Court Judge-Rebecca Blackstone.

One of Merkel's management-consulting clients had lost a case in front of her. Because of that development, the client stiffed Merkel's firm. 

The Blackstone killing and the three other murders all had the same MO. Knife wounds to head and the torso, followed after death by beheading.

Yes, a serial killer was on the loose.

"I quit not because Merkel scared me. Or even got to me. I would have put up with all that for the money. But he was cheap."

Houdini's magic came from his ability to pick up on what others couldn't. Consequently, he could help a community escape fear. The people of Greenwich, Darien, and Westport had passed from angst to hysteria.

"That's what I'm interested in. How cheap?"

Houdini milked that detail.

"He had me go to the Italian bakery in the Little Italy section of Bridgeport. The cannoli pie with excess almonds was $4.34 less there than around here. Then he blew up that I took too long."

Merkel was Roger Ailes/Chris Christie fat. In a region of lean fit professionals, that was his F__You signature. 

"He is an angry guy?"

Carlucci was silent.

Then came the "Yes and no. A lot of us who had once worked for him concluded the rage was theatrical, staged for intent. He was totally strategic, like Donald Trump."

With Merkel, Houdini was less direct.

What he wanted was for the guy to just talk too much. The guilty tend to do that. They try too hard to position and package themselves as being helpful.

"'Criminal Minds' has certainly given the FBI an amazing brand."

The Fat Guy chuckled. The guilty want to create bonds with law enforcement. It's a game. The guilty's downfall is their assumption they have the upper hand in the game.

When it came to discussing the first victim, Merkel's left eye twitched, just a bit. She had been the travel agent-Candy Waterfall-who hadn't worked hard enough to dig up the best deal for his business trip to China. Or, that's what others Houdini had interrogated claimed.

Perhaps struggling for street cred, Merkel did observe, "Candy had disappointed my firm. We were sorry to not to able to use her services again. As you know, travel agents have become dinos."

Within 185 minutes, Houdini had connected the dots.

His superiors agreed that they could legally issue a search warrant. 

It was a carpet knife. It was under the passenger floor pad in the Merkel's maintenance man's truck. 

Houdini got yet another promotion.

Carlucci was shook that she had the guy all wrong.

The Gold Coast of CT communally agreed that they knew it all the time: The Fat Guy had never fit in. That's what mattered in Greenwich, Darien, and Westport.

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"Increasingly Irrelevant" - Short Short Fiction By Jane Genova

SUDDEN FICTION - By Jane Genova

Creepy.

That's what Peter Cohen thought to himself.

There were cameras focused on him. And he was being relatively well paid to be the human camera in that home improvement store.

Had he still been employed as an associate in a mid-sized law firm, his mind might have still been in the business of conjuring up big words to sort through reality.

Redundant.

That's the term which he would have thought seven months ago when he assumed he was doing well.

After all, the store was paying him to reduce shrinkage. It didn't seem to make solid business sense to also invest in an elaborate artificial intelligence monitoring system. 

But, he had been wrong before, hadn't he. What he assumed about his value to the law firm was 100 percent wrong.

So, maybe, he was wrong in this current assessment of the retailer's decision-making. With fewer folks buying houses, there would be fewer purchasing the DIY tools, the lawn sprinklers, and then powder room vanities. So, no, the store couldn't afford additional shrinkage.

Perhaps the elaborate monitoring system did make sense. However, for him, the jury was still out.

The jury came in with a verdict on his day off.

I'm the one who doesn't make solid business sense.

That's what he thought to himself. He would be made irrelevant by the artificial intelligence. Currently, he was just a back-up while any blind spots in the monitoring were being re-coded.

Again, what he had assumed had been in error.

A fresh career path in loss prevention for someone with legal credentials had seemed so smart.

No, he wasn't ashamed to be seen on the floor of the store, in his uniform.

He had been proud of his lack of ego.

Just as in the old days, or as his grandfather had described, he had been willing to start from the bottom. 

His next try at a career he went about with less certitude and optimism.  Since the compensation was a lot higher, he still harbored a hunch he was cunning about navigating a work world in which work was disappearing.

Every late afternoon, he explained to high school juniors how the makers of the SAT "think." He figured he was indeed doing well. His supervisor had given him an extra session on Saturday mornings.

This is solid.

That's what he told a former law student buddy who was, as the cliche goes, between jobs. 

Do you want me to try to get you in?

That's what he asked. He knew and his friend knew he was showing off. 

The buddy had decided to get certification in teaching English as a Second Language. He had seen all those help-wanted about free housing and decent compensation for those kinds of jobs in China. Meanwhile, he was editing scholarly papers by Chinese linguists for publication in American journals. 

The buddy never alluded back to that offer when Peter found out he hadn't been selected to be an online instructor. 

What was needed online to engage students was very different from what cut it in-person.

That's what they told him. If he wanted, he could keep the Saturday in-person course.

Obviously, online was where the game was going.

Peter signed up for training in instruction-delivery. Part of the package was content strategy. He learned how to plan out the short modules, sprinkle in animation, and create engrossing quizzes.

Eventually he was promoted to Content Director of an online instruction firm specializing in environmental. His department won awards.

Abovethelaw interviewed him about his successful career transition. The editor at Entrepreneur demanded that when the firm was profiled, Peter would do a podcast. The firm scaled. The menu included courses in law for businesspeople and how to handle your own custody battle.

The stock price kept increasing after the IPO. Peter cashed out. 

Entrepreneur asked him why.

It's work that is increasingly irrelevant.

That's what he went on the record as saying. He had regained his sense of self enough to pontificate. 

Human beings can be relevant without work.

That's how he wrapped up the interview.

His network is monitoring the situation. Will Peter really be able to go on with his life without work? They are approaching that as a question. Surprisingly, they don't have the answer all lined up. It is possible that work is becoming increasingly irrelevant. 

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