Am I going to be ready to start picking a jury?
Armed and ready.
I’m getting off the Northern State and onto the Meadowbrook when I do decide to tune in to Doctor Radio. Somehow, though, I hit the wrong button and land on a talk show.
And immediately wish I hadn’t.
Before I can switch away from it, I hear the voice ofsomeone who’s clearly the host saying, “Rob Jacobson, can that really be you on our caller line?”
Please don’t be him.
But the next voice I hear does belong to my client.
Shit shit shit. On a stick.
“The man, the legend,” Jacobson says. “Accept no substitutes, Paul.”
“Thanks for reaching out,” the host says. “So what’s on your mind today?”
“Obviouslynothingis on his freaking mind,” I say out loud in the car.
Then I’m pounding my left hand on the horn, causing the car next to me to swerve and nearly sideswipe me.
“Well,” Jacobson says, “we could talk about the homeless crisis in New York City, or if this is finally the year for the Knicks, but I thought you might want to talk about my upcoming trial.”
Behind the wheel, I am shaking my head and still talking to myself.
“I know you can’t hear me, Rob,” I say. “But you really are aragingfucking asshole.”
For the next ten minutes, ten minutes that seem to last longer than both my marriages combined, my client proceeds to do something I specifically ordered him not to do:
Talk about the trial.
Not to the media, not to the members of his family still speaking to him, not to any friends he might have left, not to any of his many girls on the side. Not even to the DoorDash guy bringing him his food in the house he’s been renting a couple of miles from mine in Amagansett, while he’s under house arrest.
Yet here he is, talking to Paul, whoever the hell Paul is.
Proclaiming his innocence. Telling the listening audience that there’s even less of a case against him this time than there was the last time, when in fact the opposite is true. Evensaying “Bring it on” when he references Katherine Welsh, the woman who is trying to put him away for life.
“I am so anxious to get my day in court,” he says, “I wish it were today.”
He pauses, then adds, “What can I tell you, Paul? The witch hunt against me continues. If I didn’t know any better, I’d start to think I was a politician.”
Somehow my client saves the best for last, after reminding the host that he’s once again being defended by the great Jane Smith, whom he calls “The Hamptons Lawyer” and describes as the “undefeated heavyweight champion of the world.”
“And let me make it clear that I’m not really talking about her weight,” he says. I hear him chuckle. But then he’s always cracking himself up, even when under indictment. “If you happen to be listening, Janie,” he says. “Love you, babe.”
Babe.
I’m banging on the horn again then. This time the driver of the car next to me, a guy, turns and gives me the finger.
I give it right back.
He’ll never know it isn’t directed at him, or that when I scream out “Asshole!” this time, that isn’t directed at him, either.
I drive faster.
FOUR
