Mary was back in her semi-repaired war room at Rosato amp; Associates, where it had all started, typing furiously online. She had practically run here from the marina and hit the office on fire. She still couldn’t believe it. She had figured it out. She had Saracone. She would bring him to justice. She would set it right. For Amadeo. It was after hours, and the office was empty. The glass window behind her was black and opaque, and the conference room reeked of stale coffee. Mary had already called in reinforcements, but for now the only sound was the clacking of her keyboard.
The website of the United States Patent and Trademark Office came onto her laptop screen, and she clicked to Search Patents, where she was stumped. The search for issued patents by keyword went back only to 1976. The GO hatch would have been patented in 1942 or thereabouts. Damn. Mary had learned enough about patents in law school to know that they were frequently altered and improved, in some cases to extend their life past the permissible term of seventeen years. She moved the mouse and in the box, typed: “Saracone” in “all fields” AND “hatch” in “all fields.” Onto the screen popped:
Results of Search in 1976 to present db for:
Saracone AND hatch: 24 patents.
Hits 1 through 24 out of 24
Bingo! The screen showed twenty-four listings, which set forth the patent number, the title, and a short description of the patent. She skimmed the first four, but none of them seemed to have anything to do with hatches. Still it looked like Saracone had been busy, if it was the same Saracone. Mary clicked the first listing and started reading. It was a patent issued to Giovanni Saracone just last year, for a larger hatch than the one on the boat deck, and one that had the same configuration as the one on the boat deck. And according to the site, the GO hatch was used on bunkers in disaster areas.
She clicked the next patent, also issued to Giovanni Saracone, the year before. It was a patent for the same hatch, now issued to keep light out of certain industrial applications, such as commercial darkrooms. She read on, clicking each one, and in time discovered the myriad applications of the original patent: pressure relief hatches, vehicle sunroofs, telescopic winch drives, whatever that was, and underground shelters. She thought a minute. Saracone didn’t manufacture any of these things – or indeed anything at all – which meant that he had to have sold licenses for all of these doohickeys to others to manufacture.
Mary could barely wrap her mind around it. There had to be hundreds of licenses, each requiring the license holder to pay money to the Saracones for the use of the invention. It was the key she had been looking for. No wonder they were rich as sin. Licenses for these applications – in addition to the marine applications from the earlier patent – would bring in millions and millions of dollars. First to Giovanni Saracone, then to Justin.
For doing absolutely nothing.
Then she made another connection. Saracone hadn’t filed the original patent application on his own; he couldn’t have. Mary was willing to bet that it had been prepared and filed by Joe Giorno. They had been in it together, from the beginning. That was why Giorno made Amadeo the gift of the house on Nutt Street and later went to Missoula to tell him about his wife’s death. Giorno and Saracone were pretending to be his friends, cultivating him for the invention. They were smiling, all the while they buried a knife in his back. Then Amadeo’s son Tony had died, both ordering and funding the lawsuit by his will. Frank Cavuto must have taken over for Giorno, and when Mary started to expand her investigation into Amadeo’s death and close in on the truth, Frank must have panicked, and they’d killed him.
The scope of the scheme took Mary’s breath away. No wonder that Giovanni, stricken with guilt, had sat up on his very deathbed at seeing her, an avenging angel. He had carried that terrible secret his whole life – murdered his friend for his inventiveness, for his creativity, and stolen it to further his own ends. And Justin had to know that his father hadn’t invented a deck hatch, or anything else over the years. What had Justin said, before he hit her?
Mind your own business.
Mary clicked to the oldest patent on the screen, in 1976. At the end, it contained a reference to the original patent and its patent number. She clicked the blue link and held her breath. A patent, with a series number in the two millions, appeared on the screen:
UNITED STATES PATENT OFFICE, it read in the center, and underneath, the title of the patent was Hatch Frame and Hatch Cover, next to the name of the inventor: Giovanni Saracone.
Mary felt her breath catch. She had been right. Saracone had killed Amadeo for his invention, then patented it. She had it in front of her and she still couldn’t believe it. She felt tears come, with anger and with relief. She had been right, which was amazing, because she was never right about anything.
Her gaze fell on the first line under the title:
Application: July27,1942.
Mary blinked. Why did that sound familiar? Then she knew. She searched through the file on the conference table and found the accordion of the documents and notes she’d brought from Missoula. She pulled out the death certificate and double-checked the line:
Date of Death: July 17, 1942.
My God. Saracone had killed Amadeo and only ten days later had told Giorno to file the application for the patent in his name. A patent application was so technical, it would take months to draft, and they probably had to engage a patent lawyer, at least as a consultant. Saracone and Giorno had to have been planning this for a long time, maybe years. Then World War II and the internment intervened, which Saracone exploited to his advantage. He used the camp as the perfect opportunity to get away with murder.
Mary’s eyes blurred with bitterness, then she refocused on the first lines of the patent description: “My invention, which in general, relates to the closures has been devised as a deck hatch…”
His invention? She read the rest with a growing fury. Saracone had stolen the invention, every word, and claimed it for himself. She read to the end and clicked onto the exhibits, which were two technical drawings. They were Amadeo’s circles, with the funny closing on the side. Now she knew it was a special type of closing, so original and practical that it was patentable. And Saracone had exploited the patent and its many applications, from shelters to telescopes. It was ingenious, and evil. And at the bottom right of the second page of the drawings, Mary’s supposition about the lawyering was confirmed by the signature:
Inventor, Giovanni Saracone. By Joseph Giorno, Attorney.
She leaned forward, clicked back to home, and searched under Patent. In a few clicks, the words of the patent statute came onto the screen:
Whoever invents or discovers any new and useful process, machine, manufacture, or composition of matter, or any new and useful improvement thereof, may obtain a patent therefor…
Mary read it again and again, inspired. The law had a force of its own, even a beauty. Its letter was clear, as was its intent. She was finally glad she had become a lawyer, because she knew just what to do next.
Less than an hour later, she was writing like a girl in a fever, surrounded by open law books, photocopied cases, and a stack of tentative exhibits. She had written two pages and only had fifty-six more to go. It would take all night, but she would get it done. Most lawyers would have balked at the task, but not Mary.
“You need a break, Mare,” said a cheery voice from the threshold. It was Judy, grinning in her hot pink sweatshirt, clashing cobalt sweatpants, and red clogs with black fake-ostrich dots, all topped by a Stanford backward-baseball cap. Her ensemble was Cirque du Soleil meets Best-Friend-Forever, and Mary didn’t say a thing, because Judy had dropped everything to come and help her. Also she was carrying a brown bag that smelled like take-out lo mein, chicken curry, cold sesame noodles, and spring rolls.
Mary smiled. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d eaten. “I love you, you know that?”
“About time you realized it, girl,” Judy said, with a crooked grin, and set the bag on the table. “Let’s eat.”
In time, Mary filled Judy in on all the details of her plan, the lawyers got down to work, and the night sky outside the conference room window lightened to streaky gray. The take-out containers littering the table were joined by Styrofoam coffee cups, empty Diet Coke cans, discarded cellophane from two packs of chocolate Tastykakes, a tiny plastic tub of Light ’n Fit strawberry yogurt, and an organic apple, which came pre-bruised, so Mary refused to eat it. By dawn, Judy was getting tired and looked up, red-eyed from the law books.
“You know what we need, Mare?” she asked.
“Fruit with pesticides.”
“No.”
Mary thought of the case. “A miracle?”
“No. Tunes! We need TUUUUUUNES!” Judy yelled, throwing up her arms, because she was beyond punchy. She leapt out of her swivel chair, leaving it spinning, flew out of the conference room, and before Mary could protest, returned with a white Bose CD player from her office and a stack of slippery CDs, which she set on the credenza. “Tunes have arrived!”
Mary peered over her laptop with suspicion. “Got any Sinatra?”
“No way. I have Steven Tyler and Aerosmith! Yeeeesss!” Judy giggled, slipping a black CD into the tray, hitting some buttons, and cranking up the volume. An earsplitting guitar riff blasted the conference room, ten thousand drums thundered, and Judy started dancing around, shaking her tight butt in her loose sweatpants, and clicking off her clogs so she could jump around better. Aerosmith started singing at full volume.
“This doesn’t sound like ‘Night and Day’!” Mary shouted, covering her ears, but Judy segued into dancing like an Egyptian, boogying around the room.
“It’s ‘Dude Looks Like a Lady!’ Come on, get up and shake your booty!”
Mary scoffed, then reconsidered. She needed the exercise and she couldn’t work with all that noise anyway. She pushed back the laptop, got on her feet, kicked off her pumps, and shook her butt as hard as she could in a skirt from Brooks Brothers. And the rock music wasn’t bad at all. He was no Francis Albert, but Steven Tyler rocked!
Later, Mary became aware that Judy had fallen silent and she looked across the table. Judy was buckling her lower lip, eyeing what she’d written on her screen. Under the Stanford cap, her brow knit unhappily. Mary knew it wasn’t just fatigue. “What’s the matter, Jude?” she asked, setting down a warm Diet Coke.
Judy looked up. “I’m worried.”
“About what?”
“About you, about this.” Judy slid off her baseball cap, revealing a flat ring around her shorn blonde hair. She spiked it up with her hand, and Mary knew she was stalling, because she never cared about hat head. Judy cleared her throat. “Listen, let me say right out that I think it’s great that you put all this together, and figured out what that snake and his son did.”
“Thanks.”
“You went all the way to Montana, and I’m not denigrating that. I told you how cool that was.”
“Hold the positive reinforcement. Just give.”
Judy sighed. “But I’m not sure about this new idea of yours. I’m not sure it holds up to a standard cost-benefit analysis. Can I be your sounding board?”
“Of course.”
“Let’s review.” Judy straightened up. “Cost. Bennie will hate this idea.”
“True.”
“Cost. You probably need her permission to do it and you’re not asking.”
“Right.”
“Cost. She could fire you for it.”
“And the bad news?”
Judy smiled, but it faded quickly. “Cost, and worst cost of all, it could be really dangerous. Justin Saracone has a fortune to protect, and the power and means to come at you. Even if Chico’s out of the picture, Justin has the dough to hire somebody else. He’s a killer, Mare. Look at Keisha, she’s still in a coma.”
“I know.” Mary felt her stomach tense. She had called the hospital during the dinner break, and Bill had said Keisha’s prognosis wasn’t good. The longer she stayed under, the worse it got. It made Mary feel guilty, and angry, all over again. “All the more reason to do this.”
“Maybe, but it means it’s definitely dangerous.”
“Okay, it’s a little dangerous.”
“Or a lot.”
“Okay, a lot,” Mary admitted. Even though she felt a tremor of fear, she was determined, but she didn’t tell Judy about Mrs. Nyquist. It would be Mary’s replacement secret, because now she could fly with abandon.
“So, you would agree, there are costs to this idea of yours. Great big downside?”
“Me, dead. That can’t be good.”
Judy couldn’t manage a smile, which showed what a good friend she was. “Now we come to the benefits. I don’t mean to hurt your feelings, Mare, but I think you’re gonna lose.”
Ouch. “You do?”
“Yes. Honestly, it’s a high standard of proof at this stage of the game, and you don’t have much. I’ll buy that you have irreparable harm. The sale of rights to Reinhardt and the change in trademark would render Brandolini’s patent worthless, over time. But you can’t show you’ll win on the merits.”
“Yes, I can.”
“Try it on me, try it right here.” Judy leaned back in the chair and put her Stanford cap back on. “I’ll be the judge. Judge Judy, get it?”
“Calm yourself.”
“And suck up a lot. We judges like that.”
“Please.” Mary stood up and gathered her exhibits. “I’ll keep it short. Basically, I’m asking the court for a temporary restraining order. I want the court to restrain, or stop, Justin Saracone and Saracone Enterprises from selling the rights to the patent and trademark to Reinhardt and ultimately, from getting any more royalties from licenses of the hatch patent or its improvements, because they obtained the original patent by fraud.”
Judy nodded. “So to get a TRO, or a temporary restraining order, you have to show that when this case goes to trial, you have a reasonable chance of success on the merits. In other words, you have to prove that Giovanni Saracone stole the invention.”
Mary tilted her head. “You talkin’ down to me, Your Honor?”
“I’m the judge. It’s my job.”
“Okay. First, I prove that Amadeo Brandolini registered as an enemy alien. Exhibit A.” Mary set down a stamped copy of his alien registration card. “Second, I prove that he was arrested and sent to Fort Missoula. I can’t prove it through me, because I’m not a fact witness, but you can. You saw the FBI memo, too.” Mary set out an affidavit she’d drafted about the FBI memo from the National Archives as Exhibit B. “Third, I prove that Saracone was sent to the same camp, and that they knew each other in the camp.” Mary set out Exhibits C and D, which were copies of the photos she’d gotten from Fort Missoula ’s archives. “I’ll authenticate them by affidavit of the museum director. Are you dazzled yet?”
Judy smiled. “Keep going, counsel.”
“Fourth, I prove that Amadeo died by asphyxiation in the camp, on July 17, 1942.” Mary set down the death certificate as Exhibit E. “Fifth, I prove that Giovanni Saracone was the only other person with him when he was asphyxiated.” Mary set down a piece of paper for Exhibit F. “Pretend this is an affidavit from Mr. Milton, which will be faxed to me tomorrow morning.”
“Better be. Blank paper carries no weight with me.”
“Remember, for these purposes, I don’t have to prove that Saracone murdered Amadeo, which he did. It’s not a murder trial, it’s a civil case of fraud. Capisce?”
“Then why are we in federal court? Fraud is a state court cause of action, counsel.”
“Under the Patent Act, the provision is ‘correction of a named inventor.’ And we’re squarely in dicta in Stark v. Advanced Magnetics. Also there’s ancillary jurisdiction because of the amount in controversy. You want me to get technical, Judge?”
“I’m already bored. Proceed, counsel. You got bigger problems than jurisdiction.”
“Now. Sixth, I prove that Giovanni Saracone, who was with Amadeo in the camp, filed for a patent application roughly ten days after Amadeo was killed.” Mary set down a copy of the patent application for the hatch as Exhibit G. “Seventh, I prove that Amadeo made a number of drawings of a marine hatch, which were given to me by his previous lawyer, Frank Cavuto.” Mary set down another blank piece of paper as Exhibit H. “This will be another affidavit from you, detailing what the drawings look like and that they were stolen from our offices during a break-in.”
Judy cocked an eyebrow. “You gonna question me on the witness stand, counsel?”
“Yes, and you’d better behave. I can’t sign it because lawyers make bad witnesses and they get disbarred besides.” Mary cleared her throat. “Eight, I refer to your affidavit and prove that Amadeo Brandolini’s drawings were identical to those submitted with the patent filed by Giovanni Saracone.” Mary set down a copy of the patent application, as Exhibit I. “Finally, I prove, by a copy of the police report, which we’ll get in the morning, that my office was broken into, which is why I can’t produce those drawings in court.” Mary sat down a piece of paper as Exhibit J. “Finally, I prove that Saracone had a lunch truck and was not a fisherman. Supported by a one-paragraph affidavit to that effect, faxed to me by my new best friend. Mr. Jackmann. That’s all he will say on the subject, and I’m only getting that much because Justin has made more enemies than Satan. The acorn doesn’t fall far.” She looked across the messy table expectantly. “Well?”
Judy had on one of those let-her-down-easy faces. “You still have no proof that Saracone stole the invention from Brandolini, and that is the critical fact. I mean, you can assert all you want, but without the drawings, you don’t even have a prayer.”
No. “The drawings weren’t proof anyway. Amadeo hadn’t signed or dated them, and I couldn’t authenticate them even if he had. I have no other sample of his writing, except the X on his alien registration card. But I can prove the fact that they were stolen, and that fits perfectly.”
“That’s not enough, Mare,” Judy said softly.
“It has to be. I have to make this work. I know I’m right, Jude. I know I can win.”
“You can’t.”
Mary flinched. “I can. At least I have to try.”
“No, you don’t. Not with the stakes this high. You’re too wrapped up in this case, you have been from the beginning. Be logical.” Judy spread her palms. “Why take such a big risk, if you’re only gonna lose?”
“Do you fight only the fights you’re gonna win, Jude?” Mary shot back, then she heard herself, and to her surprise, she sounded like she was actually making sense. It came as a revelation, suddenly lifting her spirits. “I mean, if you know you’re gonna win, it’s not really a fight.”
Judy sat back and broke into a slowly growing smile. “You know, you just said something that was either incredibly dumb or incredibly smart.”
Mary laughed and slipped on her cowboy hat. “We’ll see, lil’ pretty. We’ll see.”