When Aaron’s wife left him, after twenty-five married years, he was devastated, of course. Everyone agreed, however, he handled it quite well. He quietly retreated to his office on campus at a Midwestern Ivy League law school where he taught Constitutional Law. There – enthroned upon an ergonomically correct, black calfskin swivel chair, behind an eighteenth century oak refractory table which served as his desk, feet nestled into a thick Tabriz carpet, warmed gently by sunlight streaming through leaded glass windows and glinting off silver framed lithographs depicting historically significant American events — Aaron wrote. He wrote about his divorce experience…and then wrote and wrote some more.
He fell in love with his own writing. It gave him renewed purpose and kept him company in lonely moments. It also helped him place events of his shattered marriage (and by extension life) into perspective – an exercise he supplemented by voraciously reading everything he could find on the topics of marriage, divorce, love, sex and the laws (both natural and legislated) by which these activities are governed. He was, after all, an academician familiar with investigating ideas and supporting his positions with scholarly research and writing.
In fact Aaron had written many fine articles over the course of his academic career that had been published in diverse professional journals — earning him considerable respect among his peers as a First Amendment scholar; although his subjects were too erudite and his writing too pedantic for mass-audience appeal. Aaron’s new found writing exhilarated him because he recognized that, for once, he was outside the ivory tower and down in the street. Rather than ruminating on topics of interest to only a few professors and “hot-dog” students, he was writing about the very guts of life in a way that any John Doe walking down a street could understand and appreciate. He was writing his heart out, so to speak, directly to the people. For a constitutional law scholar who grew rhapsodic over America’s first amendment right of free speech, it seemed an eminently appropriate exercise.
When he wasn’t writing about marriage and divorce, Aaron attended to his normal academic duties, observed his normal disciplines – including his diet (lots of vegetables and fish with red meat no more than twice weekly) customary exercise regimen (a half hour of cardio-vascular daily with modest weight training three times a week). He also spent time with his son Adam, who, although close to his Dad, was a popular kid with plenty of social engagements of his own to keep him occupied. Even though Aaron had one of those nondescript faces that are hard to remember or accurately or pick out in a crowd, he was well groomed, neatly dressed and aging nicely. He could easily have started dating again. But he didn’t, preferring to remain holed up in his office writing and indulging in his one vice (vanilla caramel scented coffee which he brewed carefully from whole beans stored in a maroon and silver canister next to a stainless steel espresso maker he kept in his office).
Naturally, there were divorce-related details to attend to from time to time and he tried to cooperate politely in performing whatever tasks his lawyer (to whom he had been referred by a professor of family law at the university) assigned him. He attempted to deal with this lawyer in a smooth, easy-going manner– one professional to another. After all, they were both lawyers, he reasoned, even if one sweated out his living toiling in real world courtrooms while the other was swaddled within academia’s hallowed halls. It soon became obvious, however, that Aaron’s lawyer did not share this spirit of brotherly camaraderie seeming to treat Aaron like just any other client.
“I realize you are not entirely comfortable with this,” Aaron’s lawyer was fond of saying, “but the court requires it and we really have no choice.” His patronizing attitude offended Aaron. What if the founding fathers had taken that sort of attitude: (“England says ‘taxation without representation’ so that’s the end of it, guys”). Where would America be now? Then there was the whole disagreeable business of required court appearances. If Aaron had wanted to spend his time in the courtroom, he wouldn’t have pursued an academic career now would he? And he resented being paraded about – his inability to maintain a successful marriage as distastefully obvious, he imagined, as leftover food stuck between your teeth after eating. Just one more loser being dragged through various courtrooms by a lawyer who was not above stopping, smiling, and slapping some colleague on the back while inquiring about sports scores or a new grandchild — all while Aaron’s life fell into further disarray.
It was also interesting to observe his, soon to be, ex-wife, Roberta on the occasions of these mandatory court appearances. How was it, he wondered, that Roberta always seemed unperturbed and animated. Always a handsome (if not beautiful) woman, Roberta had lost some weight and seemed to be dressing and applying her make-up extra carefully. She smiled a lot and spoke cheerfully to Aaron as well as to her own lawyer (a loud talking, hard-bitten female who favored wearing bright red suits with chunky oversized black leather accessories and was given to rolling her eyes at many of Aaron’s questions and remarks). Really, Aaron thought, Roberta was in inappropriately high spirits for a middle aged woman who was in the process of demolishing a lifelong relationship.
Roberta’s cheerful demeanor gave Aaron considerable cause for speculation until one day, quite by accident, he discovered the explanation. It seemed Roberta was already involved with another man (had been for some time before leaving him, actually) – a sculptor who worked in, of all improbable mediums, condoms (which he purchased in bulk from various manufacturers and from which he created large bird-like creatures featuring condom feathers which were sprayed with some sort of chemical to preserve them). When Aaron heard this (from the husband of one of Roberta’s old friends who happened to be grabbing a decaf café latté at the shop where Aaron procured his vanilla scented beans) he felt so dizzy and weak he had to return quickly to his office and collapse onto his oxblood, leather couch for a couple of hours after which he wrote non-stop and uncontrollably for several days.
Given Robertas’s behavior, her violation of their marital vows, her… adultery…Aaron was shocked when his lawyer casually mentioned one day that Aaron would probably end up paying her permanent alimony.
“Let me get this straight,” Aaron snapped (abandoning his usual mild one-professional-to-another affect) “she is unfaithful to me, she betrays me and the institution of marriage and I end up paying her not just child support, which, of course, I do not mind because I love my son, but also alimony for the rest of my life?”
“This is a ‘no fault’ state,” his lawyer responded in that gentle, condescending tone of voice that increasingly caused Aaron to have fantasies of strangling the man. “No fault means exactly that…fault does not count in determining division of marital property or the awarding of alimony…which, by the way,” he added in an annoying afterthought, “we call ‘maintenance’ now.” He paused and projected a mild smile in Aaron’s direction. “I could give you the statutory citation that sets out the factors that can be considered by courts in determining whether or not to award maintenance,” he offered in what Aaron felt was long overdue acknowledgement of their shared professional status. “Or I can just tell you that it’s things like duration of the marriage, health of the parties and relative earning capacity. “Marital misconduct,” he added blandly, is not one of the factors.”
Aaron thought then, not for the first time, about changing lawyers. But he realized, annoying personal demeanor aside, this guy was probably no worse than any other. It was the system that was broken. In the end, Aaron complied with his lawyer’s recommendations. Then he returned to his office and began making phone calls in response to a sudden urge to unearth exactly what “marital misconduct” his “less gainfully employed” wife had been up to throughout all their years of marriage. The more he traced back events, the deeper he dug, the uglier the picture that emerged.
It seemed as though Roberta’s recent indiscretion was only the last in a long line of affairs that encompassed virtually the entirety of their years together. Aaron was dumfounded. All those years when he had been busy analyzing, dissecting and regurgitating theories concerning various sacred liberties Americans are fortunate enough to enjoy – foremost in his mind being the First Amendment right to freedom of speech, from which Aaron felt other rights logically flow – his wife Roberta had been enjoying her own liberties. Thinking about it made Arron dizzy and yet he had to admit to himself that he had always spent more time and energy on his work than his wife who he had, truth be told, always taken somewhat for granted. Realizing this, he began to realize, too, that he still loved Roberta and would probably take her back even now if given the chance.
There was, Aaron learned, a certain uniformity in Roberta’s choice of lover. All were men less successful, less affluent and less attractive than Aaron himself. Most were either artists or tradesmen. One, a wispy, prematurely balding flautist, had lived down the hall from them back when Aaron was still in law school. All those nights Aaron had been at the law library studying, Roberta and the flute player had been…. Aaron found out about that affair from his older sister (to whom Roberta had admitted it and who had decided not to mention it until Aaron called her with news of his impending divorce). Then there was the house painter who had lived next door to Aaron and Roberta in their first home. Aaron remembered a man with gravel gray eyes and a gap-toothed smile that screamed “Eastern European peasant heritage.” And yet Roberta had found something appealing enough in him to inspire her to write a series of passionate poems about him which Aaron accidentally unearthed at the bottom of an underwear drawer while boxing up personal effects for removal from the marital residence. More recently there had been that advertising copywriter whose son was a playmate of Aaron’s own son Adam, for God’s sake. This fellow wore thick black framed glasses behind which his small brown eyes darted about in a manner that had always struck Aaron as somewhat feral. He was, it had to be admitted, very solidly built and rumored to be an excellent dancer. But how could Roberta…with the father of their son’s favorite playmate? Aaron found out about the copywriter from another parent at his son’s school who, like his sister, had known about Roberta’s antics but refrained from saying anything before hearing news of the divorce.
Eventually Aaron came to understand that most all of Roberta’s affairs had been openly…one might even say flagrantly…conducted. They were so much a matter of public knowledge that Aaron may well have been the only person not aware of them, until now. “I never said anything to you” person after person explained guiltily “because I didn’t feel it was my place” or “I didn’t want to interfere in your marriage.” Aaron wondered how he could have been so blind.
It was true that Roberta was attractive — although rather too buxom for current styles. Her features were pronounced and she had a slight overbite yet still she carried herself with a sort of sexual grace that Aaron, and apparently plenty of other men, found quite seductive. She lived up to her image. Her lovemaking possessed a wild physically present but mentally reserved quality which Aaron had always found exciting. It inspired him to try harder and harder to reach her which was…exciting. This quality now took on a whole new meaning for him. Apparently Roberta actually was emotionally absent from him all those years. Otherwise how could she possibly have shared herself so openly and consistently with other men with everyone knowing about it except Aaron himself. It was difficult for him to accept. Clearly Roberta was missing some normal human capacity for emotion. That was the only explanation for how she could conspire with an ongoing series of sub-par male companions to cuckold him over the course of a lifetime. Aaron struggled to understand and place events in some sort of context.
He read books on male/female bonding and books on sociopathic personality types. (Was Roberta, in fact, a sociopath? How else could her apparent indifference to him all these years be explained?) He read books on competition between human males (and male animals) for females. He read books on how to save your marriage with the thought that perhaps his own marriage could still be saved. (No one had actually ever asked him if he wanted this divorce. It had been presented to him as a kind of fiat accompli.)
He had tried to talk about this with his lawyer – suggesting that, after all, his marriage had lasted twenty five years and there was a ten year old child involved. Perhaps Roberta might get “some help for her…sexual issues.” His lawyer responded matter-of-factly, saying: “There is no such thing as preventing a divorce nowadays. The most you can hope for is a good financial settlement and a custody arrangement you can live with. Then you’ve got to just move on with your life.”
Aaron filed away this information along with all the rest he was gleaning from his voracious readings. Everything was carefully interwoven into his writings, his ongoing journal of his experiences. The pen was to Aaron as the knitting needle to Madame Defarge or Nero’s fiddle – a sort of reliable constant amid chaos.
So when told, for example, “you can not prevent a divorce,” Aaron diligently researched the history of marriage coming to understand that this was not always, everywhere true. Marriage in other cultures and in our own culture in times past, had been a far more binding institution. It was only recently that marriage had become so devalued that certain religious groups were encouraging their followers to contractually opt out of the present system and enter into an alternate type of marriage (“covenant marriage”) where couples agree to actually remain together for better or worse in sickness and health till parted by death.
How sad, Aaron thought. No one was making the slightest effort to save his marriage…to investigate his relationship with Roberta…or to urge them into marital counseling. Everything was proceeding along as though it were already a done deal. There was a statute that mandated a two year waiting period for divorce. But even that could be waived. Aaron thought of refusing to waive it (maybe Roberta would come to her senses…they could get together and talk it out); but his lawyer only laughed and said: “Seriously, what would you hope to accomplish by that?” And so, without benefit of explanation or attempt at reconciliation, Aaron’s marriage moved on through the divorce process – leaving Aaron with nothing but a lot of unanswered questions and pages upon pages of writing.
One day Aaron saw a TV show that demonstrated how Chinese culture handles a couple’s desire for divorce. In that show, neighbors came in and talked to the troubled couple. Significant group pressure was placed upon them to resolve their differences. Aaron observed that, in China, “fault” does count. Although an effort is made to save face by giving helpful suggestions to both spouses, it is clear that if one spouse is being unfair or unrealistic, that spouse is aggressively pressured to modify their faulty position. Fault is recognized and addressed and people are encouraged to “play fair.” Aaron watched this show with rapt interest. It appeared to him that the Chinese system had many advantages the American system did not. Foremost among them was an apparent, unspoken belief that marriages are worth saving.
While generally somewhat passive in litigating his divorce, there was one area where Aaron was determined to stand his ground. This was in regards to the custody of his son. “I want sole custody of Adam,” he announced to his lawyer flatly at one of their frequent, and expensive, office meetings. “Naturally Roberta can see him whenever she wants,” he added quickly, not wishing to appear unreasonable. When his lawyer opened his mouth to respond, Aaron quickly cut him off: “On this point I am not negotiable,” he stated, attempting to adopt the fixed jaw-line and direct eye-to-eye gaze he had observed being employed by divorce litigators when negotiating their clients’ cases in the courthouse hallways.
That was when Aaron’s lawyer did an amazing thing. Instead of locking eyes with him, as he had expected him to do, Aaron’s lawyer lowered his head and shoulders into a humble, placating posture. He spoke to Aaron in a soft, compassionate voice – never actually making eye-contact with him. “Look” he said. “This is your case. I am only your lawyer. We can fight for whatever you want for as long as you want. Of course,” and here he raised his head ever-so-slightly, “I don’t work for free. So the longer we fight the more it will cost you.” He raised his shoulders still slightly more and continued: “We can hire an expert witness to blast your wife…find reasons to say why she is unfit. Then they will hire their own expert to say you are the one with problems…a work-a-holic, whatever. It’ll be a ‘battle of the experts. Everyone will be interviewed by ‘shrinks’ given ink-blot tests and all. These things can drag on for years.” Here he paused for a long moment and examined his fingernails. “How old is Adam now, ten, eleven?” There was another long pause. “You understand that even if you eventually win, and there is no guarantee you will because courts these days really favor joint custody, by the time you would win Adam will be just about ready to leave home for college. So what will you have won?” Here, he raised his eyes up to glance mildly into Aaron’s own. “It will be a Pyrrhic victory,” he concluded gently enunciating each word and pushing his chair back ever-so-slightly to signal that Aaron’s allotted meeting time with him was almost concluded.
In the end, Aaron, once again, capitulated to an inevitability of outcome and returned to his office to write. He had just lost fifty per cent of his own child – more if you considered that Adam would be spending a majority of his time with Roberta who, apparently, had “the more appropriate space” (the former marital residence, a lovingly renovated brownstone which Roberta would be taking as part of her divorce settlement) while Aaron lived in a cramped, sterile high-rise apartment.
Aaron turned to the literature on the effects of divorce upon children. He incorporated statistics he found (diminished academic performance, increased physical and psychological problems, a higher incidence of drug use and sexual promiscuity and, predictably, an increased likelihood of divorce in their own marriages) into his writings. This was not just about Roberta and himself. It was about Adam, too. Adam was, Aaron realized, an innocent victim. With this realization, Aaron began to look outside himself and his own family — at friends, colleagues and even strangers whose stories he happened to hear about. Everywhere, it seemed, another long-term marriage was exploding – more often than not turning some weary child into an instant commuter between post divorce residences without any real home to call their own. One evening, a newscaster on the six o’clock news even announced that, according to census data, in-tact, married parents are now in a minority and divorced parents are the “new” norm. Where were the guardians of society, Aaron wondered. Why was no one stepping forward to protect the children…the family…the institution of marriage?
Then it hit him – like a light switch suddenly illuminates a pitch black room. Maybe he was the one who was intended to bring this sorry social situation to the attention of the public. Perhaps it was he, Aaron, who must speak out — through his writing — before it was too late. Perhaps his mission was, at its most fulsome, to save and protect the institutions of marriage and family or, at the very least, to provide some moral support and insights for others who, like himself, were involuntary participants in their destruction.
Now Aaron’s writing took on frenzied energy. Realizing his shortcomings as a writer for popular audiences, he enrolled in writer’s workshops where he earnestly completed every assignment before returning to his own rapidly growing body of work. He wrote so continuously that by the time his actual divorce (which spanned over several years) concluded, Aaron possessed a manuscript of approximately five hundred and fifty pages.
Friends who agreed to read his work described it as: “moving,” “desperately needed,” “a testament to shared human experience.” “an epic saga,” “a critical warning alarm,” and, most importantly, “eminently publishable.” Upon hearing these accolades, Aaron decided to investigate how he might go about having the work published. After all, he reasoned, in a complex, industrialized society, simply chatting with one’s neighbors (or even lecturing one’s students) is not the most efficient way to disseminate information. American society is not like a band of jungle primates for whom impending danger is announced simply by making a loud hooting sound. Publishing his manuscript seemed, to Aaron, the most effective way to communicate, to his fellow citizens, his concerns about the future of the American family.
He had, of course, been published before in academic journals. But he knew this would be a somewhat different process. In his writer’s workshops the topic of how to get published had come up often among students and faculty – sometimes in casual conversation and sometimes in courses with titles like: “Which Publisher Is Right For You?” or “How To Entice An Agent To Read Your Work.” There seemed to be no sure fire approach. Many people were said to have spent years trying to get their manuscript read by some literary agent or publisher to no avail. The elements of writing a good query letter were analyzed in torturous detail. “It’s a sort of “catch twenty two,” someone said. “You can only get published if you’re already published.” Aaron was impatient with all this. He had no illusions about himself being a great writer. He was simply a reasonably decent communicator with an important message which needed to be disseminated. If the threat against the American family was to be recognized before it was too late, time was, as they say in contract law, “of the essence.”
Aaron pondered the issue of how to get his manuscript published until one day while perusing book titles at a local bookstore (homework for his “Positioning Your Work In The Marketplace” course) Aaron came across an interesting book which claimed to be: “The Complete Guide To Self Publishing Your Work.” Aaron bought and read this book and decided right then and there that he would self-publish. Really, he wondered how he had not decided on this course of action sooner. Clearly self-publishing was the way of the future. It may have held some stigma in the past. But the whole digital imaging “on-demand” printing revolution was clearly revolutionizing publishing.
Several days later, by a fortunate twist of fate, Aaron happened to be lunching with a divorce and family law professor (a colleague who had recently read his manuscript). “You know Aaron,” the man said thoughtfully “our university will be hosting a huge symposium on divorce and family law next year. You had some interesting thoughts and theories in your manuscript. You might want to think about being a presenter.” He fiddled with his napkin, adding: “Of course your recognized expertise is in Constitutional Law and First Amendment Rights, but if your book were already published…well that could give you some professional credibility in the divorce and family law field.”
Aaron grinned. “I hadn’t really thought about it before…but now that you mention it.” He quickly followed up with the symposium planning committee chairman who told him he would, indeed, be welcome to speak and promote his ideas along with his book at the symposium. The book was, however, he was gently advised, an important part of the package. “We have to justify your being up there on the podium with some of the biggest names in Divorce & Family Law.”
Aaron got quickly down to work. He contacted various presses who worked with self-publishing authors – all of whom seemed, unlike conventional publishers, to have plenty of time to chat with him, read over his manuscript and offer little tidbits of advice. Of course, as a self-publisher, he would be paying them rather than the other way around. But wasn’t his main goal to get his message out and save the American family? True his standard of living had declined some since his divorce. But it wasn’t like he was homeless. Plus the university had actually suggested he bring along copies of his book when he spoke and sell them to interested audience members. Surely he would at least recoup publishing costs. For the first time in a long time, Aaron felt empowered and, almost, happy. Then he made the mistake of talking to Rick.
Riccardo Santino (Rick) was the law-school faculty rock star. Unlike Aaron and many of his colleagues, Rick, who taught tort law, also maintained a lucrative private practice. He was movie star handsome – with huge droopy brown eyes, jet black hair worn in a youthful spiky style and a smile like a coast guard search light. Every law student wanted him for faculty advisor because along with all his other attributes, Rick was a genuinely nice guy. He was the son of an immigrant woman who was rumored to have worked nights as a hotel maid to keep him in private schools from kindergarten through high school (at which time educational grants and academic scholarships took over). It was said he had never even known his father. Here was one man who was living proof that an economically disadvantaged single-parent family could produce a successful child.
After completing his law studies, Riccardo had gone on to represent injury victims in some of the most deadly mass tort cases in recent history. He was so successful that some said insurance companies, upon seeing his firm’s name on a claim file, simply agreed to hand over their policy limits without further dispute. It was also whispered around that Rick occasionally declined to accept such proffered settlement offers preferring to take his client’s case to trial. Even though the most his client would ever collect was the amount the insurance company had already agreed to pay, Riccardo loved to get his name into the papers along with those humongous, though partially uncollectible, verdicts.
When he tried cases, which was often, Rick wore conservative blue suits, blow-dried the spikes out of his hair, donned a pair of non-prescription, wire rim glasses and introduced himself to the jury as “Richard” Santino. Rick knew how to manipulate the system, that much was for sure. He also understood about risk exposure.
When he heard about Aaron’s plans to self-publish, Rick’s first question was: “Who’s your media perils insurance carrier?”
“Insurance…?” Aaron asked, momentarily confused.
“You don’t drive around in an uninsured car or live in a house with no homeowner’s insurance, do you?” Rick asked in a tone of voice that Aaron suddenly realized was annoyingly like that of his divorce lawyer.
“Yes, but I don’t see how…”
“Everything you do has associated risks,” Rick went on cutting him off. “I mean, I really don’t do defamation cases and I’m no IP… intellectual property…guy. But it seems to me those are two big risk areas for anyone creating a book, screenplay or other creative work. There’s insurance for those risks like any others. I believe it’s called ‘media perils’ insurance. You know…like the perils of the media,” he stopped and flashed his searchlight smile.
Aaron thought back to all those writer’s workshops he had attended. This subject had never come up at any of them. He could not recall seeing any writer’s workshop classes offered which covered publishing risks or media perils insurance. Yet what Rick was saying to him made sense. Plus it was common knowledge that Rick was always one step ahead of everyone else.
“Where would I get that kind of insurance?”
“Like I said, I’m a PI lawyer not an IP lawyer,” Rick flashed another beacon smile again at his little joke. “Why not call your insurance agent and ask him?” With that, Rick slapped down more than enough money to cover their entire check plus grossly overtip their server and sprinted off towards the door calling back “Gotta get to class” over his shoulder at Aaron.
Aaron’s insurance agent was as uninformed as Aaron about “media perils” insurance. “I’ll check into it and get back to you,” he offered pleasantly. Sure enough, the next day, Aaron received a faxed application accompanied by transmittal cover note that said: “We don’t offer this kind of insurance so after you complete the application forward it directly to the agency listed on the top of the page.”
The application was interesting. It asked many expected questions such as: “name?” “address?” “desired limits of liability?” But it also asked questions which Aaron found confusing or inapplicable to his situation – for example: “total gross operating sales or revenues from publishing?” The application also requested he attach: “audited financial statements from publishing.” Aaron neatly penned: “N.A.” One question asked for the name of the lawyer “reviewing the work” and requested a “copy of reviewing lawyer’s ‘written opinion’ concerning the content of the work.” That one gave Aaron a moment’s pause. Aaron had honestly admitted that, yes, his work was partially autobiographical and, no, he had not obtained releases from every human being mentioned in his book. (He actually smiled writing that answer down – momentarily picturing himself searching out everyone in Roberta’s stable of ex-lovers to see if they minded him mentioning how they had openly and flagrantly consorted with the mother of his child behind his, and apparently only his, back.)
Clearly there were potential risks in publishing a book. Riccardo Santino had been right about that. Equally clearly, insurance carriers underwriting this media perils coverage were attempting to avoid those risks as much as possible by refusing to insure anything that looked like it might contain some speech that could give rise to a lawsuit. Upon reflection, Aaron felt sure they would see that they had no cause to worry about him. He was a lawyer and he had written his book carefully, responsibly, with deep concern for absolute truth and a nit-picking care in crediting all sources whose ideas or words he had included.
Aaron knew very well that the right to free speech was not without its limitations. He was, after all, a first amendment scholar. Many times he had led his students through various hypotheticals intended to demonstrate why some limitations on free speech are necessary:
“…And so I ask you class…what if some prankster yells ‘fire’ in a crowded theatre when, in fact, there is no fire…and panicked patrons stampede over one another to get out….let’s say some people are injured or even killed? Should we allow that sort of speech in the name of ‘free speech?’…or…how about advertisers…Should advertisers be permitted to make false claims about their products in the name of freedom of speech?”
Aaron knew that free speech is not an absolute right. He knew that under common law defamation principles, one person could sue another who made false statements about them. Likewise, he knew that particular arrangements of words can be copyrighted such that to repeat them without permission from the copyright holder might give rise to a law suit. He was also aware how revealing private facts about “private persons” (persons who are not public figures…politicians or movie stars) can be grounds for an “invasion of privacy” lawsuit even where the fact revealed is in no way false but, rather, completely true. Aaron also knew, better than many, how cases like New York Times Co. v. Sullivan and its progeny have carved significant inroads into common-law defamation law – bolstering our First Amendment American right to free speech.
This is all horn-book law…stuff which most first-year law students know. Aaron, as a First Amendment scholar, was even more keenly versed in these tort-based constraints upon free speech. This knowledge, along with his own personal ethics, had mandated, throughout his writing of his manuscript, that he adhere to the absolute truth…making absolutely no false statements about anyone nor divulging any private fact about private persons nor pirating any ideas or statements from any source which was not diligently credited with permissions being requested where necessary.
Therefore, on the media perils insurance application, when Aaron came to the question asking about “reviewing attorney” Aaron carefully wrote: “Author is an attorney and law professor, teaching in the field of constitutional law and first amendment rights, who has carefully taken into consideration copyright and defamation issues throughout the entire writing of this manuscript.” Then, figuring that was that, he forwarded the application as instructed.
Aaron never thought further about his submitted application again for at least a month (presuming that, like his divorce, the policy was a “done deal”). It was only when he received a call from the Family Law Symposium committee chair inquiring the status of the publishing of his book that he suddenly realized he had still not received either a policy or a premium notice. For the first time, he felt a small twinge in his bowels alerting him that something was not right.
A series of phone calls to the agent who had taken his application shed no light upon the matter. At first his calls were not returned and when he finally did get thru, no information was available. Annoyed, Aaron shopped around, located other agents who represented media perils carriers and submitted several additional applications. Same result. No calls, no explanation, no policy. No policy was forthcoming and no one seemed even willing to discuss the matter. All Aaron’s applications were floating around out there somewhere in the insurance world without explanation. Aaron had hit some sort of invisible wall that no one would admit existed.
The deadline for confirming his speaking spot at the university’s Family Law Symposium – an opportunity which was, it had been made clear to him, dependent upon him having published his book in the family law area – drew closer. Aaron began to feel a little desperate. He thought of simply publishing his book without having a media perils policy in place. But then he heard a little voice inside his head that sounded a lot like either his divorce lawyer, or, more possibly, Riccardo Santino or maybe even some random student overheard by him in the university’s hallways. It said: “Dude!! You can’t be serious.”
The little voice had a point. Litigation is costly. As a lawyer, Aaron knew that even a frivolous lawsuit can wipe-out a person financially. Most self-publishing contracts contain clauses requiring the author to indemnify the publisher for any legal claims that might arise over the book. Having already lost a lot of his financial security thru divorce, Aaron did not want to risk what remained.
He became depressed. He felt as bound and gagged. It seemed impossible to Aaron that he could live through an experience, write truthfully about that experience and be unable to meaningfully relate his story to others without placing his entire life savings at risk. Wasn’t this America…land of free speech?
“No one is stopping you from speaking,” pointed out one of his lawyer friends. “You just have to personally assume the risk for your words.”
“But is that right?” asked Aaron. “Doesn’t it create a chilling effect upon free speech when one is unable to insure their work in a society known for being litigious? Mass media is a prerequisite to effectively airing one’s ideas in our society. To access mass media, one must pass through gates which are controlled by the insurance industry. If one needs mass media tools to effectively address one’s fellow citizens and insurance is a part of accessing the mass media, where does that leave the individual who can’t get past the media perils insurance carriers? Doesn’t the insurance industry then become the de facto controller of free exchange of ideas in much the same way that government bureaucrats control speech and ideas under a tyrannical dictatorship?” Aaron was amazed that no one seemed to realize this problem existed.
The time for speaking at the Family Law Symposium came and went. The planning committee chair was apologetic about not being able to include Aaron on the program — suggesting Aaron let him know when his book was published so they could try to get him a speaking spot the next time they had a similar event…if and when ever that might be.
Aaron grew more depressed. He slept fitfully with troubled dreams. In one, from which he woke with a pounding heart, he was wandering through empty streets wearing a bright yellow sandwich board. “Save The Family” was written in bold black lettering on the front side of the board. On the back, in the same lettering: “Freedom Of Speech.
Eventually, at the urging of friends, Aaron sought counseling for his “depression.” The psychologist, a stern-countenanced individual who tended to glance at his watch frequently during session and never made eye-contact with Aaron, suggested that he might be suffering some residual effects from his divorce. Aaron pointed out how, aside from the abruptness of it all, the divorce had worked out O.K.. He and Roberta were able to communicate in a businesslike manner when necessary and Adam was a popular young man doing well in his high-school honors program.
“No…”Aaron said. “It is more than just my divorce. I am upset that, like my marriage, apparently my life’s work was also deeply flawed and fraudulent in ways I am only now beginning to fully understand. I am feeling as though it all…my life…has all been an illusion.”
Without bothering to inquire what Aaron meant by that, the psychologist simply said: “That’s it for now. Same time next week?”
Aaron returned to his office and sat quietly in the dark considering his life. It seemed to him as though the auto-pilot which had sustained him for so many years was suddenly and irreparably broken. There seemed no way to continue as before. Upon realizing this, Aaron picked up a pen and wrote the last words he would ever write in his plush, secure university office…his resignation “effective immediately.” After dropping it off in the Departmental Secretary’s office, he left – simply walked away and never returned.
Some years later, a man who was eventually identified as Aaron was found slumped over, dead, near a sink in the men’s room the Nightlife Café — a twenty-four hour greasy spoon located in Las Vegas Nevada. It turned out this man, who had been working there for some years as a short order cook, was Aaron. A young police officer, who was in his first week on the job, called to report the death to Aaron’s “family” – Adam and Adam’s mother – who had been wondering for some time where Aaron had gone. When asked for details, the officer could only say:
“It looks like it was a heart problem, Mam. “Seems like it came on suddenly. But it was over quick. There wasn’t any apparent suffering.” He paused. “There was only one thing though that was kind of unusual…. When we found him, he had a magic marker in his hand…the kind they use to check off filled orders in the kitchen. Anyway…it looked like just before he went down he was trying to say something… to write something…on the washroom wall.”