My dad, who passed away from Parkinson’s in 2004, was a Los Angeles-area trial lawyer of sufficient note to have received a brief write-up in Newsweek during the early 70s for persuading a jury to award some $50 million in damages, $15 million of which were punitive, over a large clothing corporation’s theft of his client’s patented method for holding up ladies’ hosiery. Alas, after an appeals court ruled it excessive, neither my dad nor his client (who had lived out of his car and on borrowed money, much of it from his attorney, in order to survive during the 14 or so years the case was being litigated) ever realized more than a tiny fraction of that $50 million. Nevertheless, the very fact that a jury had called for $15 million in punitive damages, an unheard amount at the time, at the very least demonstrated that my father was pretty damn good in a courtroom.
Dad had an outgoing, charismatic personality that enabled him to win juries to his side in an argument. He also had a knack for remembering names and a habit of commenting favorably on people’s appearance which won him lots of favors from courthouse clerks and other personnel. The youngest of three boys, he had that ability to charm that many a family’s youngest child cultivates and exploits from infancy.
From an early age it was obvious that I, a squarely middle child, had inherited none of these traits. Despite that, he always pushed me towards a legal career, and my insistence on becoming a journalist (a profession he disdained) was just one of a myriad of ways I disappointed him over the years.
It wasn’t really that I didn’t care to spend my life writing legal briefs (though I can’t imagine a more tedious existence), nor was it the fact that I had no desire to put in the years of study required to obtain a law degree and pass the bar. Rather, my late sixties era, slightly radical self had issues with what I believed a lawyer had to be in order to be successful – calculating, manipulative, a bit shifty. Dad’s stories about courtroom tricks – like the defense attorney who inserted a wire into his cigar in order to focus jurors' attention on an ever-lengthening ash rather than a witness’ testimony – didn’t help. Not only did these stories offend my naively altruistic sensibilities, but they helped persuade me that I could never be a successful attorney. I’m much better now (thank you, Dale Carnegie), but at the time, I couldn’t manipulate my way out of a paper bag, let alone win friends and influence people, skillsets essential for a successful trial lawyer.
Thus, the closest I’ve ever come to practicing law is providing my attorney with written testimony about whatever legal situation I happened to be in at the time and having him say, “Great. We’ll just go with this.”
Skipping ahead to the spring of 2020, my wife and I are driving down Periwinkle Way, making our way off Sanibel Island, along Florida’s Gulf Coast, when I spot a brightly tropical-colored but otherwise nondescript looking bookstore. As we’re both almost finished with the books we brought with us for this two-week vacation, we decide to pull in.
By all means, if you enjoy a good mystery and ever find yourself on Sanibel, stop into Gene’s Books. You will be overwhelmed by what’s certainly one of the most extensive selections of mystery novels and anthologies on the planet. You’ll find an entire wall devoted to Agatha Christie, shelf after shelf of British mysteries and volume after volume of American mysteries along with regional mysteries from Florida, the Caribbean, Africa and just about anywhere else you can name, books you’ll never find on Amazon or at Barnes & Noble, and all at discount prices.
It’s my habit, once I find an author I like, to buy and read everything he or she has ever written. That’s why I’ve stayed away from Ann Cleves (the author of Shetland and Vera, two of my wife’s and my favorite British crime series) and P.D. James (acknowledged as one of the all-time great writers of mystery fiction). I’m trying to keep my impulse to buy books under control, at least until I’ve caught up a bit, and there’s little doubt that one Cleves or James purchase, in the end, turn into dozens and dozens of books, if not their entire oeuvre.
I was on the verge of getting out of Gene’s Books unscathed when John Mortimer’s The First Rumpole Omnibus caught my eye. It was a thick, new but shelf-worn paperback (the second and third omnibuses [shouldn’t that be omnibi?] were far more pristine) and, despite my fetish for mint condition books, it looked intriguing enough for me to examine it more closely.
On the back cover, the The New York Times blurb read, “… worthy of comparison to P.G. Wodehouse.” The Boston Globe raved, “Mortimer has created one of the legendary fictional detectives … a barrister [who’s] as much Sherlock Holmes or Hercule Poirot.”
Okay, sold. It takes very little for me to rationalize buying a book, so I did. I’ve been wanting to read Wodehouse, I’ve read and loved all the Poirot and Sherlock Holmes stories, and if Rumpole, according to the Globe, manages to combine those guys with lawyering, how could I resist? Besides, I’d need something for the plane, and this sounded promising, both in the short term and later, when I could conceivably convince my sure-to-be reluctant wife (she doesn't appreciate British humor the way I do) to binge watch the BBC series Rumple of the Bailey. Then there was the fact that Gene’s was offering it at $9.98, a full $12.02 off the publisher’s price. Rationalization accomplished. My sincere intention to walk away empty handed thwarted.
Omnibus no. 1 includes two short story collections (Rumpole of the Bailey and The Trials of Rumpole) and the short novel Rumpole’s Return. Each of the short stories is about a half-hour read and, while episodic in nature, flows one into the other like chapters in a novel. As the stories progress, and you become increasingly familiar with the rascally, rumpled Rumpole, you’ll find yourself wishing you could sit down with him and enjoy a cigar and a glass of Pomeroy’s Plonk while listening to him recite Wordsworth or bitch about She Who Must Be Obeyed, aka Hilda, the disapproving wife.
These are not whodunits. Though many of the stories have surprising and clever plot twists, the real mystery to be solved is how Rumpole, a criminal defense lawyer, is going to get his often guilty clients off while still maintaining the legal profession’s ethics (pretty much the only ethics he really cares about). Things don’t always work out: Rumpole sometimes screws up; he’s not always able to sell his clients on his preferred approach to arguing their case; he sometimes loses cases he would have won had he been less stubbornly principled. He can be caustic, condescending, lazy, bumbling, unsanitary, a lousy father and a worse husband, but he’s also wise, unpretentious, moral, witty and clever. It wouldn’t be beyond him to thread a wire through the middle of his cigar.
More “Faulty Towers” than Monty Python, more “House” than “Law and Order,” Rumpole manages to evoke out-loud laughter (even on airplanes). At the same time, though, it raises serious questions of law and morality and, for the curious, helps readers understand what makes trial lawyers tick. I understand my dad a bit better after reading it, and that's all the rationalization I need to purchase Omnibuses (Omnibi?) nos. 2 & 3.