Bud Sparhawk - The Tompkins battery case

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The Tomkins Battery Case

by Bud Sparhawk

Lawyer Arthur Coggins could tell that the small, middle-aged woman wanted a divorce when she

walked through the door to his office.

"Mrs. Tomkins," he said graciously, waving one hand at the comfortable, overstuffed chair beside his

desk. "Do have a seat." He noted the woman's clothing as she did so; it was adequate, not off the rack,

but not very expensive either. She wore little adornment; small rings and a brooch. He couldn't tell if

they were real or costume jewelry in the dim light. Small streaks of gray ran through her well-kept hair.

Her makeup was subdued, almost negligible. There was a smell of money about her, a fat fee for sure.

"Thank you, Mr. Coggins," she said in a nervous voice, and perched on the edge of the chair with her

two bird-like hands fluttering over her purse, which she held upright in her lap.

Arthur sat back in his chair and made a tent with his fingers. "Would you care for a drink?" he asked,

trying to put her at ease. "Reefers are there near your elbow if you like."

"Oh no, I couldn't drink or smoke!" she whispered, throwing a longing glance at the ivory inlaid roach

box. She drummed her purse with her fingers and licked her lips with quick darting motions of her

pointed tongue.

Arthur realized that she was not going to take the initiative in the conversation. Some clients were like

that, bursting with their problems but afraid to talk to a stranger, him, about them. He snorted; he hated

drawing people out; it smacked of soliciting to his mind. Would be far better to have the British system,

he thought. There the barrister lets his solicitors, the clerks, soften up the clients and draw out the facts

of the case before either one was presented to him, sparing him the drab necessity of thinking about

personal involvement, outside factors, or money.

The woman fidgeted in her chair. Arthur sighed, put on a look of moderate disdain and, in voice loaded

with concern, spoke: "My secretary said you had some sort of problem with your husband?"

"Mr. Tomkins? Oh, yes. George. Well!" A look of concern grew on her face. She cast a glance around

the room, sweeping her eyes over the shelves tightly packed with leather-bound books. Her glance took

in the cut crystal, velvet drapes, aged wood paneling, and the thick Axminster on the floor. She was

impressed, as the room was designed to make her feel.

"Come, come, Mrs. Tomkins. I can't help you if you won't tell me what's troubling you." Arthur

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The Tomkins Battery Case

interjected in his father-confessor tone, guaranteed to bring weeping widows and recalcitrant will-

breakers to heel.

"Oh dear, I don't know where to start," she chirped. Her purse snapped open and she withdrew a small

handkerchief. Arthur noted that it was Bruges lace and added an extra ten percent to his normal fee.

"Why don't you start at the beginning, dear lady," he said. He gave her a small smile, as if pleased that

she should honor him with her story. He glanced at the clock on his desk; with luck he could still meet

Frank for golf in an hour, if the crosstown traffic wasn't too bad and her problem was a small one.

The delicate lace hankie fluttered to her lips and then dropped to her lap. "The beginning? Oh dear, that's

too far back. I mean, you know all about that! Er, are you sure that it's all right to talk here, Mr.

Coggins?"

"Quite sure, dear lady. The only one who might hear us is my secretary, who is the soul of discretion."

he assured her.

"Well, if you think it is all right." She looked questioningly at him. Arthur smiled again and nodded his

head. "My husband is George Tomkins: George Alyoisous Grant Tomkins."

Arthur's pencil tip broke abruptly, the splintered point driving through the paper on which he was

writing into the padded surface of his desk. He stared at her with wide eyes as his mind raced, dredging

up the facts of the case from memory.

G.A.G. Tomkins, 95. Tomkins, Tomkins versus United States. Grundy 95 op cit.

George Tomkins had been a field engineer who, because of his wealthy father, had bribed and

influenced his way to a government job. George had been neither more nor less competent than his co-

workers and would never have become famous if it hadn't been for a fateful accident: one fine day a

poorly designed bridge section had collapsed and crushed poor George's legs to a pulp.

The case resulting from the accident had become a cause celebre because George and his family had

decided that the simple compensation and supportive care called for by his contract were not sufficient

recompense. They had sued the federal government for full restitution.

Old Grundy, a young trial lawyer at the time, had himself worked on both sides of the case in the long

process of trail, retrial, appeals, and rebuttals. Eventually, thanks to the family fortune, Tomkins et al

had won.

"That's when George got his solid state legs," Mrs. Tomkins was saying, her narrative keeping pace with

Coggin's racing mind.

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