THE MISFIT UNIT: 14) FUN & GAMES
My Saturday Evening Post: A Serial Novel of Intrigue & Lunacy
Next stop after the Hoover Building for Jeff Dalkin is the offices of Bacon, Hump where, over the course of three-and-a-half hours, Bradley Fatwood takes Dalkin through the rudiments of deposition and walks him through a batch of documents from Ding-a-Ling Widgets that plaintiff's attorneys obtained through discovery—exhibits that Worthog and Worthog would refer to in his questioning.
"Main thing," Fatwood says. "Listen to the question carefully and answer it directly in as few words as possible. If you know the answer, tell it truthfully and succinctly. If you don't know the answer, just say I don't know. Don't speculate and don't guess. And don't feel tempted to say anything that you think helps your case. Remember, it's their deposition. You have nothing to gain and everything to lose. Don't talk to anybody else about anything before you're sworn in, during recess." The lawyer pauses. "And look presentable, your deposition is going to be video-taped."
"Why?"
"Attorneys do it so that if you die or disappear before the trial, they can play your sworn deposition to the jury." Fatwood frowns. "The Worthogs will try to rile you. Don't get angry. Stay calm, however much they bait you. Most important, get a good night's sleep.
Next morning, Jeff Dalkin arrives at Bacon, Hump wearing blue jeans, a polo shirt, dirty Nike sneakers and his Hot Dog on a Stick baseball cap.
Bradley Fatwood looks up and scowls. "Everyone else will be wearing a jacket and tie."
"I'm not actually everyone else," says Dalkin. "I'm actually the star of this goddam show. And I'm paying for it, too. So I'll wear whatever the fuck I want. Capito?”
Fatwood flinches. "Remember, it's on video."
"Yep. If I'm gonna look a certain way for posterity, it's this."
"Will you at least take off the hat?"
"If I can chew gum."
"Opposing counsel may object."
"I already object to being here. If they don't actually like the way I am, they shouldn't have invited me." Dalkin pops a block of Bazooka into his mouth. "So what now, chief?"
"They're setting up in the conference room. We don't have to appear until they're ready."
"Who've we got?"
"Both Worthogs, the plaintiff..."
"She's here?"
"It's permitted," says Fatwood. "She's not allowed to ask questions, or say anything, but she may observe the deposition. Counsel for Ding-a-Ling’s owner, Philip Dillman, is also here. Bernie Rosen of Dillywhacker and Ropey.” Fatwood stands. "I'll go see if they're ready.”
Ten minutes later, Fatwood returns and leads Dalkin through a maze of corridors. Entering the large conference room, Dalkin blows a big bubble until it pops.
The Worthogs, father and son, look up at him, astonished.
"I hope you two nose-picks aren't as stupid as you look," Dalkin addresses them. "I want to actually be challenged by somebody smart."
Worthog senior harrumphs and looks away; junior shuffles papers and bounces in his seat.
Dalkin takes his chair at the far end of the long, rectangular conference table, facing Worthog senior. On Dalkin's right, at the head of the table, sits a young female stenographer. Dalkin has a Tourettic urge to holler big tits there and then but manages to restrain himself. Behind Worthog's left shoulder lurches a videographer, manning a camera on a tripod.
Dalkin catches the videographer's eye, twists his head right and left, and winks. "Which one's my good side?"
The videographer chuckles, already sensing this wasn't going to be a normal boring deposition.
Worthog senior—Milton—does not look the picture of health. His complexion is pasty gray and his eyes convey physiological mayhem within. Truth be known, it looked like the grim reaper was beating a cane at elder Worthog’s door.
He scowls at Dalkin while his videographer runs through preliminaries, such as time and date and case identifiers. Then Worthog requests that counsel state their names and whom they represent, beginning with himself. He introduces his son, Watson Worthog, and the plaintiff, Rhoda Rigglesworth, who flashes a wan smile, enjoying this moment of recognition.
Yes, this appears to be Rhoda's Big Day. She'd dressed in her best Talbots business suit and had her hair washed, cut, layered, teased, dyed, highlighted and blow-dried.
In appreciation of Rhoda's appearance, Dalkin lcracks a thunderous cheezer, the odor of which quickly settles upon the opposition.
Amid horrified looks, the flatulent deponent turns to Bradley Fatwood. "Sorry, counselor, I should-a steered clear of that egg salad and beer last night."