Yesterday I took you on a quick tour of a small law firm in 1955, which of course got me thinking back to some of the funnier clients and others I encountered over my many years of exposure to the wonderful world of legal conflict. And I’ve come up with a couple of beauts from the ‘70s I’d like to share with you.

First was a middle-aged lady we’ll call Ms. Smith, who had been involved in a very minor fender-bender. She was stopped at a red light when a vehicle on the cross street, with the green light, turned the corner, misjudged, and ever-so-slightly clipped the left front fender of Ms. Smith’s car. Annoying as hell, but not the end of the world, right? Well, not according to Ms. Smith.

Upon feeling the slight impact of metal upon metal, she immediately went into crisis mode. Never mind the car — we’re talking life-threatening, mind-numbing, permanent physical and emotional impairment here. Every part of her body had just been attacked, from her neck to her ankles. She couldn’t move. She was taken by ambulance to the nearest hospital emergency room, where she was given a thorough examination and found to be . . . completely uninjured. Big surprise. But she didn’t believe the physicians there, and went on a search for an unscrupulous doctor of her own, and finally found one. Then she swore out a vendetta against the driver who had caused her to become a total wreck, and proceeded to file suit for a ridiculous amount of money.

The law firm I was working for at the time represented the insurance companies that provided coverage against various types of liability, including motor vehicle accidents. And the person Ms. Smith sued happened to be insured by one of those companies. When they received notice of the lawsuit, they called our office, and I got the call. When that happens, there is a protocol to be followed: first, interview the insured driver; file certain more-or-less routine documents to protect the client’s interests; and have the claimant — in this case, the lovely Ms. Smith — examined by one or more physicians of our choice. All of which, we did.

The real fun began when I read the Complaint Ms. Smith had filed with the Court. Among her litany of claimed injuries, she had included one that none of us in the office had ever heard before. Apparently — if one were to take her seriously — her nerves were so shattered by this catastrophic collision that she couldn’t work, couldn’t concentrate, couldn’t think, could barely move . . . and was so cold all the time she couldn’t sleep, and had to wrap herself completely in Saran Wrap to stay warm at night. Since she lived alone, how she accomplished this feat on her own remained a mystery.

I will wait now until you stop laughing. Wait . . . wait. Okay now? Let’s continue.

There was a very prominent neurologist in Washington at that time who was also a licensed psychiatrist, though he didn’t actually practice psychiatry — he just found it extremely useful in working with some of his patients. And so we sent Ms. Smith to see him. Ordinarily, we would simply have waited for his written report, but in this case he couldn’t stand it — he just had to call. And what that consummate professional told me sent me into gales of laughter because it was so out of character for him:

“You know me,” he began. “I have never said this about a patient or about anyone. But just between us: this lady is NUTS. There’s no other word for it. She’s just plain nuts.”

Well . . . yeah. I mean, after all, we’re talking Saran Wrap here.

When confronted with our doctor’s report (in which the word “nuts” most assuredly did not appear), Ms. Smith’s attorney came to his senses, reasoned with her as best he could, and the suit was settled out of court for her expenses and a little extra (perhaps enough for a lifetime supply of Saran Wrap). And I don’t believe the “Saran Wrap Cure” ever caught on in either the medical or the legal profession. I don’t know what ultimately became of Ms. Smith, but I do hope she finally managed to get her body temperature properly adjusted.

*. *. *

Fast forward a couple of years. Same law firm, different case . . . this one involving an outhouse and an injured party’s sex life.

We’ll call this one Mr. Jones. He was a construction worker, a large man, employed at the time on an outdoor site somewhere in the Washington, D.C. suburbs. One lovely day, while on the job, he felt the call of nature and walked over to the port-a-potty reserved for the workers. At that very moment, while Mr. Jones was doing what one would expect him to be doing in a port-a-potty, a dump truck driver failed to see the little outhouse in his rear-view mirror and backed right into it, knocking it over on its side — thus rudely interrupting Mr. Jones’ attempt to relieve himself. I can only imagine what he must have thought as he heard the “beep . . . beep . . . beep” of the truck coming closer and closer and realized he was not in a position to make a run for it.

The good news is, the truck did not actually run over the toppled outhouse, and Mr. Jones’ physical injuries consisted mainly of a whole bunch of bruises and — if I recall correctly — a broken arm. Of course, the construction company’s insurer realized that their client was liable for the truck driver’s mistake, and offered to cover Mr. Jones’ financial damages, plus a reasonable payment for his pain, lost wages, and inconvenience. But no . . . that wasn’t enough. Mr. Jones seemed to have taken the class alongside Ms. Smith on “How To Build a Case and Bilk an Insurance Company 101.” So he filed suit.

Well, if you think the Saran Wrap Mummification was amusing, you ain’t heard nothin’ yet. Because Mr. Jones would have us believe that, as a result of being tipped on his side while urinating, his male organ had somehow become rearranged and now was suspended at a most unusual and unattractive angle — and to such a degree that none of his girlfriends would have anything to do with him because he was now so grossly deformed.

I swear, that’s what he said. (Pause for more laughter . . . )

Within the confines of our office and the insurance company, this case became what was known as “too good to be true.” Because we not only got to send the self-described Romeo to a medical specialist of our choosing; we insisted on pictures of the allegedly damaged body part. And when those photos arrived in our office and were passed around to every single person, there was not a dry eye in the house. We all — men and women alike — were screaming with laughter. Even if I could remember any of the comments that were made, which I can’t, I wouldn’t be able to repeat them here. But I did write a poem about the case, which I titled “The Angle of the Dangle,” and delivered it to the insurance adjuster in charge of the claim; and I quickly became famous — or infamous — in the Washington insurance community for some time to come.

I don’t recall the amount of compensation Mr. Jones received for his actual injuries, but I do know that his most outlandish claim had been debunked — there was absolutely nothing wrong with his manhood. And apparently his love life got back on track, because we never heard from him, or any of his girlfriends, again.

*. *. *

Such was the nature of my work experience all those years ago. I loved it, but finally moved on from general practice to join an international law firm in 1979 — a smart move that led to the overseas adventures about which I have already written more than enough. I may never have discovered a cure for cancer, won a Nobel Prize, or prevented a war or other disaster. But, by golly, I have had some laughs along the way.

Just sayin’ . . .

Brendochka
8/21/23