Margin Calls: & Other Disasters

By Clayton B. Smith

Take Wall Street and the Supreme Court, throw in a corrupt cop, a loan shark and a hot dog vendor and you've got Margin Calls and Other Disasters.

This story is true, intriguing and maybe even unbelievable at times, but when you finish reading it, any disaster that comes to mind now will be a faint memory.

Did I give any thought to the consequences of suing an attorney for malpractice?

What are the chances of a simple hot dog vendor arguing, let alone ever winning his own case in the Supreme Court?

This story begins when I was a little boy whose father just happened to be a Marine Corp fighter pilot, an ace in the F-4 Phantom. It follows my life through growing up with a learning disorder and on to the French Riviera then on to a short unsuccessful career as a stock day trader.

The FBI investigates a corrupt cop and a loan shark. One testifies at my trial and the other takes the Fifth. I hire an attorney who abandons me and take over my own case.

'Here Lies My Attorney"

• Language: English
• Publisher: iUniverse
• Release date: Jan 23, 2006
• ISBN: 9780595826742

Clayton B. Smith

Clayton Smith had his day in the High Court. The Supreme Court hard his case and......call him for the results 330-477-1179

Book preview

Copyright © 2006 by Clayton B Smith

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ISBN-13: 978-0-595-38304-7 (pbk)

ISBN-13: 978-0-595-82840-1 (cloth)

ISBN-13: 978-0-595-82674-2 (ebk)

ISBN-10: 0-595-38304-1 (pbk)

ISBN-10: 0-595-82840-X (cloth)

ISBN-10: 0-595-82674-1 (ebk)

This book is dictated to my Grandmother Phyllis Smith, who although is only in one chapter, she was with me though every stroke of my pen.

When I told Grandmother this she replied That’s is so kind of you to say, However, I would have rather been in more chapters!!!.

CONTENTS

INTRODUCTION WHAT DID THAT LETTER MEAN TO YOU?

1  DON’T PULL THE RED HANDLE

2  THE OPTOMITRIST

3  QUANTICO

4  I’VE GOT THIS ONE

5  TEMPY

6  SWIMMING LESSONS

7  WHO CAN YOU TRUST?

8  PHYLLIS VIII

9  THE FRENCH RIVIERA

10  GAETA

11  RIVERSIDE MILITARY ACADEMY

12  WORKING FOR MITCH

13  TWO MARINES AT THE DOOR

14  RUNNING AWAY FROM HOME

15  ARLINGTON

16  FROM THE BUN TO THE BAR

17  GRAVITY AND THE STOCK MARKET

18  DECEMBER 18TH NIGHTMARE

19  JOHN NEWTON AND THE COURT HOUSE

20  I’VE GOT A SECRET

21  A MAN NAMED DAVE

22  AFTER THE ARREST

23  THE PIT BULL LITIGATOR

24  THREE LIARS AND A JUDGE

25  PASS THE FEES, PLEASE

26  GRIEVANCES, OFFICIAL AND OTHERWISE

27  MOTION FOR NEW TRIAL

28  SPIRITUAL DISCOVERY

29  MUCH MORE APPEALING

30  DO YOU REALLY WANT TO SUE AN ATTORNEY?

31  DID WE REALLY LOOK AT THE SAME TRANSCRIPTS?

32  THE PIT BULL LITIGATOR: A MAIL BOX, AND A DOG NAMED BUCKY

33  VEXATIOUS LITIGATOR

34  JUDGE HAAS’ OFFICE

35  THE CONEY CART HEARING

36  WHAT’S THE MATTER WITH MOM?

37  THE EXCITEMENT OF THE INDICTMENT

38  THE SUPREME COURT

SUMMATION

INTRODUCTION WHAT DID THAT LETTER MEAN TO YOU?

On a legal journey, take a good attorney. Those words were immortalized in a spoken rap song composed by me to be used in a local election between the head of the Democratic Party and my friend, Jeff Jakmedies.

On November 28, 2005, a Justice of the Supreme Court of Ohio asked me, a pro se litigant, a very direct question, I have a simple question: what did that letter mean to you?

If it were only that simple, I could have, and would have, responded with a very simple answer, and that would have ended a long and torturous legal journey, but then there would not have been any reason for you to read my story.

For over a hundred years, the Supreme Court of Ohio has been located in the State Capital, but on November 28th, the day I had arrived, they had moved it.

I only know of two types of preparation, and the one that starts with an "h" does not apply here. On a cold, windy November morning, Marie and I had awakened early to deliver ourselves to a most unusual surrounding, as neither of us are attorneys, and thus the Supreme Court of Ohio would not be considered familiar grounds. Marie would be more at home in Saks Fifth Avenue, and I, selling hot dogs (although what I sell are properly known as coneys, and, in fact, the best ones in town, I am, nevertheless, just a simple hot dog salesman).

However, I come from a long line of military men, all of whom have written many letters. My father’s father was General Norman Smith, who had eighteen letters in his name. He married Helen Burdick, and had three children, two boys and a girl. My father’s name was Robert Norman, and his brother’s name was Wade Norman, and his sister’s name was Norma. It was wartime, and I just assumed that because of rationing, there was a shortage of names.

Later, after Helen had passed on, the General re-married, taking as his second wife, a young Canadian girl by the name of Phyllis. They had two boys, named Norman, and Keith. The war was over, and names were now every where.

1  

DON’T PULL THE RED HANDLE

Every military base is entered from a main gate. Standing guard was always a sentry, a Marine sentry. His neatly pressed blue trousers were sharply creased, and a bright red stripe ran down the side. Spit-polished black leather shoes mechanically snapped together, causing a loud, proud explosion. His right arm was raised, and his starched white gloved hand angled precisely towards his visor. With a smooth glance, and a similar gesture from my father, his salute, released the sentry’s arm to return to his side, and rest beside his black leather holster.

Daddy, how does that man know you? I asked.

He doesn’t know me. He recognizes the insignia on my bumper, which tells him I am a high ranking officer, and he directs me to come on the base.

Oh, I answered. What would happen if you forgot to put your stickers on your car? I asked inquisitively.

He would stop me and ask for my ID card, my father replied.

Oh. What if you didn’t have your ID card? What then?

I always carry it with me, he said ending the interrogation.

Oh, I answered. If someone like a Russian spy came thru the gate, what would happen?

The sentry would tell him to ‘halt or I’ll shoot’, my father answered.

Would he shoot him, just like that? I asked.

No, he would fire two warning shots in the air, then if he didn’t stop, then he would shoot him, Dad said.

That seems fair, I said.

It seems to work so far, he answered.

As we drove on to the Marine Corp Air Station in Beauford, South Carolina, I rode in the front seat of our car with my father, a proud, handsome Marine Corp Fighter Pilot. It was summer vacation, and I was a young boy filled with curiosity heading into a candy store of opportunity. I was going to spend the entire day delighting my intrigue, and watching the commanding officer of a Marine Corp Fighter Jet Squadron doing what he loved. By the end of the day, I would have first hand knowledge of everything that was part of VMF AW (all weather) 451. My excitement level was elevated, my eyes opened wide, and hands itching to touch everything as we headed in. As we pulled in to the parking lot, there was a large two-tone sign that read, Reserved for the C.O. The military is simply a system of perks and awards, and, as you advance, the perks get bigger.

Good Morning, Skipper! said a young officer.

Good morning, Captain Jones. Everything going okay?

Yes sir, Skipper.

Captain Jones was the duty officer of the day. A fill-in commander, while the real commanding officer was not on station, it was his job to keep everything ready in case of a surprise attack by some deranged, hostile foreign government. From what I could observe, he seemed to be doing a pretty good job, and my father was pleased.

This is my son, Dad said, as he introduced me to the Captain. I reached out and shook his hand, studying it, and counting his fingers until he pulled away.

Nice to know you sir, I replied.

I brought Clay with me today, so give him a good look around, Dad said.

Affirmative, replied Jones. I’ll show him around.

"And Jones, keep him away from anything classified, top secret, and, of course, any explosive devices and ejection seats."

Yes sir, replied the young captain. I understand your orders clearly. Well, what do you want to see first, son?"

I don’t know. How about everything? I answered.

Captain Jones did not realize how serious my father was, when he said to keep him away from anything I could turn on, turn off, assemble, disassemble, take apart or change position to get a better look inside. I have always been curious and interested in the internal workings of almost everything. My curiosity has never been satisfied. I have always carried a pocket screwdriver, both flat head and Phillips, to investigate any assembled device I would encounter during the day.

Parked right out side of the hanger was a jet fighter with the canapé open and a ladder attached to its side, an A-4 U.

How about we start out here, I said.

Have you ever been inside of an A-4 U?

No, I answered, but that’s all going to change now! I thought. Is this thing gassed up and ready to go?

She sure is, he replied.

I climbed up the ladder and into the open plane. This was unreal! There were thousands of switches and buttons all with in reach. But the one thing that caught my eye was the red handle just above my head, with some type of large warning sign.

DANGER ARMED.

"What happens if I……

Don’t touch the ejection lever, the seat will blast out several hundred feet in the air.

Capt. Jones must have thought of the life long mark this would leave in his record if a kid pulled the ejection ring and shot himself out of this plane and landed in a hundred pieces all over the base.

We’ll come back to this later, give me your hand……

It seems my assignment in this life is to find out just what makes things work. I needed to remove covers on machinery that hid the inner souls of a device, the ones marked do not remove had to come off first. After all, a few screws were all that separated me from viewing the moving springs, the live electrical wires, and the grinding wheels that make up life.

As we looked around, we ended up back in the ready room where pilots could monitor the air traffic and listen to the tower, ready to scramble on a minute’s notice. The radio was on and I could hear conversations between the ground and the planes ready to take off and land.

What happens when you call the tower and they don’t answer? I asked.

Well, I don’t know, they always do, Jones said.

What if the guy in the tower needs to go to the bathroom?

He has to hold it until some one else comes in.

Oh, I said happily. It seemed that my questions did not bother Capt. Jones. Was he being nice, or was he afraid that my dad would yell at him if he wasn’t amiable?

That day will always be part of my memories as I played with all the squadron had to offer, and, to top things off, I sat in my father’s chair in the ready room, ate a tuna sandwich from a box lunch and drank Pepsi out of a mug with the name Skipper engraved next to a gold set of wings.

* * *

Summer was over, and it was now time to face the humiliation returning to the one place that June, July, and August had offered refuge from. It was time for school. I had failed to be promoted from the second grade to the third. I asked myself how someone could return to the classroom and face the embarrassment that would surely raise its ugly head. I did not fear the new classmates; they had no idea what had taken place last year. It was my old roommates who were now in the third grade. They would see me back in the second and would make fun of my inability to advance. I would be looked upon as someone without worth, a failure—a big failure. My secret would be revealed to the entire school.

As I approached the bus, my thoughts were on how I could gracefully handle this difficult situation. I had a sinking feeling in my stomach. I wanted summer to continue. This would erase my fears of being ridiculed, and offer escape from the embarrassment that was surely waiting at the end of this bus ride. I sat close to the window in a position with which I would become very familiar. Looking out the window on the way to school offered an opportunity to daydream about changes, changes that would remove me from this point in time. I could be a third grader; I could be the teacher’s pet, I could be at any place in time by simply gazing out this two-foot wide window. I heard the familiar sound of metal pressing against metal as the brakes squealed, announcing that the bus had stopped rolling and was ready to unload the kids in front of the school. The bells were ringing, signaling that the new school day, and thus the new year had begun. I entered the building and returned to the classroom that was familiar to me from last year. I took a seat at my old desk, one that had held my books and papers before. The class looked the same. Above the blackboard was the alphabet containing twenty-six letters that, joined together, made up all the words that confused me. It was pure torment not being able to remember things that had been presented just moments, even hours earlier.

Mrs. Jones was going to be my teacher this year. I didn’t know her, but I assumed that she was well aware of my repeating the grade, and of exactly what had happened in the past. I hoped that she would not think any less of me, and would not call attention to my inabilities, alerting the others in the room that they were in the company of a failure. As she looked around, I could see her stop and take a second glance at my seat. I made eye contact, but my heart was pounding so fast I thought I would pass out. What was she staring at? Was I just overly paranoid, or was something wrong?

Before I could imagine anything else, Mrs. Jones spoke.

I wonder if you might be more comfortable in one of the bigger desks that are in the back of the room. Her voice sounded as if it was a kind one, and that she was truly concerned for my comfort.

Yes, thank you, I replied.

I’ll change them around, she said.

Our first exchange seemed to me a pleasant one. I felt that maybe this fear, this anxiety, was at this time misplaced. Mrs. Jones seemed to like me, and her voice did not indicate that she had formed an opinion of me prematurely.

I moved the desk from the rear of the classroom into place, and returned to my new seat. It was a little more comfortable. Over the summer I had grown a couple of inches and was apparently taller than most of the other children who had started the second grade that day. The teacher introduced herself, and went down the aisles, reading off each student’s name. She announced that it might take her a few days, but that eventually she would remember each and every one of us. I did not want her to remember mine for any other reason than that I would answer some question correctly. In the excitement, the morning soon disappeared.

Mrs. Jones then announced that it was time for everyone to stand, form a line, and walk single file to the lunch room. The second graders stood in line in front of the third graders, and the fourth graders stood behind them. I was feeling pretty good about the progression of this first day at school, when they spotted me. The kids that stood behind us in line were my classmates from last year.

Hey, there he is; look, it’s the kid who failed. It’s Clay Smith. He stayed back with the babies! One started, and then they all started in.

Look, everybody, it’s the stupidest kid in school, its dumb-dumb! Hey dumb-dumb, how stupid are you? This went on for what seemed like forever. I moved forward in line, but the kids did not stop.

Hey, stupid, you like to eat with the babies? they taunted. I kept looking straight ahead. Why don’t they stop this embarrassment and leave me alone? My turn now came to pick up a tray and silverware; all I could think of was not to look back. Surely they would tire of this name calling and ease up on me. I placed the lunch tray on the counter and watched the kitchen ladies fill each individual compartment with food. My heart hurt to be called names by people who did not understand what it felt like to experience mortification. As I stared straight down to hide my shame, a soft hand touched my shoulder. It was Mrs. Jones, who had been alerted to what was taking place, and had come to the cafeteria from the Teachers’ Lounge.

Don’t worry, she said softly. We’ll get through this together. I moved on through the lunch room, but the humiliation had removed any appetite that I had previously had. I looked down at my tray and wished to be anywhere but right there at that time. I could not let anyone see the aching that failure had produced.

2

THE OPTOMITRIST

After several years and a series of the same comments from all my teachers, mother looked for an apparent solution. The problem she thought had to be an optical one.

Military bases all have their own medical facilities and these hospitals have optical departments. Many doctors will accept a six-year contract with the Navy in exchange for a full scholarship. Most Naval doctors were just repaying their debt to the government, and actually wanted to be in private practice therefore, most of them had very little patience.

My mother had made an appointment on a school day, which delighted me. She would pick me up right after recess.

Ready to go?

I sure am!

I was always ready to escape the prison.

At this time, the school we was attending was off-base, and was actually in the civilian community.

We drove out to the base hospital.

What are they going to do to me? I asked They’re going to give you a simple examination. Will it hurt? I’d always had a fear of needles, and got queasy just walking into any medical facility . I even once had root canal performed without Novocain, just to get around the needle.

Mom, I’m sure this is going take the whole day, so afterwards maybe we could grab some lunch; it probably wouldn’t be enough time to go back to school.

Don’t be silly, it’s only going to take about a half hour. Don’t worry. you’ll be able to finish the rest of the day.

Now my wheels were turning: I would somehow have to find a way of prolonging the appointment.

Good Morning, said a corpsman. Who are you here to see?

We have an appointment with Dr. Isler.

The corpsman laughed. Appointment? he exclaimed. This is the military; nobody has ‘appointments.’"

Okay, then, we are here to see Dr. Isler. Is he available? mother ask.

Down the hall, third door on the right.

We walked down the old hallway that had that smell of alcohol and sterilization.

Here it is, Mom.

"No, she said, that’s the third door on the left, he said right."

We opened the entrance and walked in, where there was and un-shaven Navy doctor in a wrinkled examination coat. In his pocket was an odd-shaped tubular flashlight with some kind of scoping device attached. It appeared to be removable, but I would look into that later.

Chart this man, and send him back! barked the disheveled officer.

"Yes, Sir, replied the corpsman, as he turned to me.

Name, rank, unit, reason for being here: small-pox, large-pox, whooping cough, and most recent assignments.

Hold on, I said, I’m just a kid!

The military had only one set of charts, exclusively for its personnel (one size fits all), so these questions had nothing to do with a third grader.

Dr. Isler will see you now.

I walked into his office, which was basically a chair with a piece of equipment that looked similar to binoculars attached to an arm that swiveled. He had a few charts on the wall, and a picture on his desk of what I assumed was either his wife or his favorite dog.

Look forward at the chart and cover your left eye—your other left eye, he said, as he glanced at me.

‘A, E, B, C, L, P, O, T.’

Next line.

‘E, A, B, L, P, T, O, N’.

Next line.’

‘O, C, B, L, D, A, P.’

The doctor made a notation on his clipboard, ‘20–20.’

Now, cover your right eye.

Through the process of elimination, I was able to comply with this command without comment.

Top line.

B,’ ah, ‘C,’ ah, looks like ah an ‘L.’

I hadn’t a clue of what the top line was; it was a total blur. Next, he dimmed the light stand, swung the binoculars over, spinning the wheels; he tried every combination. I was 20–20 on the right side, and somewhere uncharitable on the left.

Okay, what you have here is a lazy eye.

This sounded like the annotations from my teachers when they had referred to my whole person as being lazy, but nobody had ever blamed it on a single organ.

Okay, I’m going to give you this patch, and I want you to wear it over your right eye. You know which one that is, don’t you?

Yes, I replied, the one that can see that your socks don’t match, Sir.

Unaware of, and apparently undaunted about, his poor style sense, the Doctor simply continued, Take the patch and your chart, and report back in six months. If this condition doesn’t improve, I may have to recommend you for a discharge. He had apparently given these same instructions so often, he had evidently forgotten who his patient was this day.

A discharge? I thought. "I wasn’t even fully charged, yet. This examination had only enthusiastic fifteen minutes, and I knew that if I didn’t do something else, there would be no chance of evading school for the rest of the day. Dr. Isler slipped out the back door to go to lunch. I stayed in the chair for another ten minutes, and then looked around the room. He had removed his white examination jacket and thrown it over the back of his chair. Then I had remembered that odd-looking flashlight. I walked over to his desk, and removed the light from his pocket. I unscrewed the bottom, and two batteries fell out.

Huh, I said. Just a couple standard C cell, nothing unusual here.

I then walked in the waiting room, with the black elastic patch in place over my eye.

"What is that?" my mother gasped.

Well, he removed my eyeball, and sent it away for cleaning.

"He did what?"

Yeah, he did it right in the office.

My mother turned white.

I then removed the patch, exposing my eyeball, which she could see was still in place.

The Doctor said I have some kind of lazy eye, and that I need to wear this patch over the good one for six months.

Now, are you telling me the truth?

Yes.

He just happened to have a patch in his office? Yes. I suppose now you’re going to tell me that he fell in the lens grinder and made a spectacle’ of himself!

My mother seemed satisfied, and perhaps understood that Dr. Isler could have specialized in this kind of thing. Now I had managed to consume an extra forty-five minutes, so I suggested to my mother that rather than return to school she buy me lunch at the O Club.

3

QUANTICO

Quantico, Virginia Marine Base is in all probability best known for being the quarters of the Federal Bureau of Investigation’s Training School, and our family was stationed there in the sixties. It was always my belief that my father was not only a warrior, but a man who was blessed with the good fortune to work in a profession that he truly loved, playing with equipment that surpasses any expectation of conceived pleasure. Flying a fighter jet must give one a feeling of being in control of speed and destruction, all at the same time. I watched as he methodically planned a life that included an allegiance to his country, devotion to his family, and love for his wife. Our mother had provided a steady diet of kindness and compassion, sometimes overshadowing the brutality that is part of military life. I just personally always waited for summer vacation.

Summers would find the retired General, his father, directing the athletic programs at Indian Acres Camp

Reviews for Margin Calls

[Clay Smith · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

I love this story. Truly amazing that a single person could go to so much and still be around to tell about it. Enjoy the read.