Chapter 15

The Trial2*

As the trial began, Winterbotham and I agreed to alternate driving into Los Angeles each day. This would give us an hour each way to dissect the day’s proceedings. He had no set strategy; he planned to refute their lies with the truth. He couldn’t understand how their case could prevail once we introduced the Anatomical Gift Act. That sounded wonderful, and it would likely end the argument. I felt confident, mostly.

* This chapter, which deals with the cryonics trial of 1981, is a reconstruction from my memory of the proceedings and is not offered as verbatim testimony.

That first day we arrived at the courthouse on a crisp April morning, it was a circus. Cameramen and reporters shouted questions such as, “How many millions did you rip off, Mr. Nelson?” “Did you ever really freeze anyone?”

Holding my head high, I ignored them and strolled up the concrete steps. I had seen comparable dramas with other defendants play out on television, including my stepfather, Big John. The courtroom loomed before me. I always had needed to be in control, and it was scary to realize I had ceded my fate to the judge, jury, and my lawyer.

“All rise.” The bailiff’s voice commanded silence, and everyone was settled.

The jury box was on the extreme left of the courtroom, opposite a bank of windows and an evidence table that spanned the length of the courtroom. Klockgether, our attorneys, and I sat on the right side of the aisle, farthest from the jury. From the statue of Blind Justice to the imposing mahogany throne for the judge, everything seemed so grand and imperious. Judge Shelby was big too; the zipper on his black robe was battling with his roly-poly belly. With his girth and white beard, I hoped he’d begin court by saying “Ho, ho, ho” and offer to bring me a “not guilty” verdict for Christmas. When the court session began, the jury selection was a tug-of-war between the plaintiffs and us. They wanted older, conservative people; we wanted the fresh-faced young folks and no grumps.

My first surprise was Thomas Nothern, newly installed cocounsel to the plaintiff, and I realized my case had just become a lot harder. I had envisioned the slimy, devious Worthington repulsing the jury. In contrast, Nothern was so charming he seemed destined for a courtroom. He was a slight man with a severely deformed left leg, so he walked with crutches. He was good-looking and soft-spoken, and with his light Southern drawl, he appeared a kind and friendly gentleman.

As Nothern approached the jury box for his opening statement, he introduced Worthington, the Harrington brothers, and their witnesses. Nothern then explained to the jury how his clients had been duped and defrauded out of thirty-five thousand dollars. He told them that I had come to Des Moines, Iowa, and froze their mother, shipped her to California, put her in temporary dry-ice storage, and then stole their ten thousand dollars, which they said was their mother’s entire bequest.

The Harringtons claimed that I promised to provide their mom with a new twenty-thousand-dollar MVE capsule and that I would pay for the liquid nitrogen until their mother could be brought back to life. No matter how long it took! Although they acknowledged they had given only ten thousand dollars to CSC, they wanted an additional fifteen thousand dollars, which they had supposedly spent for her memorial service two years after she had died.

Also, they wanted another ten thousand dollars because their father, who had never been frozen, had been disinterred a year after his death and shipped to Chatsworth to reside with their mother. They claimed I had told them that the CSC had plenty of funds and didn’t need any help paying for liquid nitrogen or maintenance. My attorney had his nose in his yellow legal pad, scribbling down notes. It worried me, though, that his hand trembled as his pen flew across the page. He had told me he was confident about our chances, and now he was acting nervous.

When Nothern spoke, he captivated people in an almost magical way. I couldn’t help but like him; even more important, I couldn’t help but believe him.

“This was a fraud,” Nothern intoned, his palms resting on the railing of the jury box, “perpetrated on the country and the world. Bob Nelson was the ‘General,’ the leader who deceived people in their grief, when they were ready to grasp at any straw to save or bring back a loved one from death. Yes, ladies and gentlemen, it was all just a scam, designed to rip people off for their money during the most tragic and vulnerable moment of their life.”

I wanted to scream. If that was true, why was the CSC vault full of people who paid nothing to get frozen? Nothern’s opening statement was powerful, and he made it so damn believable. I battled my feelings of sympathy for him as he struggled to return to the plaintiff’s table on his crutches.

It was now Winterbotham’s turn to address the jury. My attorney began by asking them to use plain common sense. “Does it seem even remotely possible that my client, Mr. Nelson, would say, ‘Give CSC ten thousand dollars and we will give you a state-of-the-art MVE capsule that cannot be purchased anywhere in the world for less than twenty thousand dollars’? Does it make sense that CSC, an experimental research society that exists solely on donations, would also perform a complete perfusion and cryogenic freezing on the plaintiffs’ mother in Iowa? That CSC would pay all the plane fares round-trip for my client and Joseph Klockgether? Then they would ship the plaintiffs’ mother to California and place her in temporary storage for maybe two years, after which they would put her into a capsule and my client would pay the monthly replacement cost of liquid nitrogen to her capsule forever?”

Winterbotham stopped to gauge his effectiveness. “The plaintiffs’ argument is silly, and it is easy to show that CSC never agreed to any such nonsense. Both brothers signed the contract that shows the substance of the real agreement made that day. CSC has always expressed in its publications and television and radio appearances that the cost of a complete cryonic suspension was ten thousand dollars plus adequate funds invested to create an endowment for liquid nitrogen replacement, which ranges from ten thousand to fifty thousand dollars. Overall, twenty thousand to sixty thousand dollars is an estimated cost for the complete service, including permanent storage and maintenance.

“There is not one itsy-bitsy piece of evidence to support the plaintiffs’ claim regarding their deal with CSC. We have documentation signed by both Harrington brothers regarding their true donation to CSC. You will see that CSC did everything possible to continue Mrs. Harrington’s suspension despite their lack of funds. This whole tragedy was an experiment, the capsule failure was an accident, and my client was no longer able to preserve her body.

“No one was at fault. There was absolutely no intent to cheat or defraud. All the money donated to CSC was used to bring about the desired results of both Mr. Nelson and Mrs. Harrington’s sons. CSC is a nonprofit medical research foundation. I repeat, every suspension and all money received is a donation.”

Winterbotham paused, his voice becoming softer and more reflective. “We live in an amazing age, full of medical miracles and possibilities. Everything attempted by Mr. Nelson was grounded in the possibilities proposed by top scientists, including the founder of cryonics, Professor Robert Ettinger, and using procedures developed by esteemed medical doctors. This was no snake oil salesman like the plaintiffs would wish you to believe. Nevertheless, cryonics is a long shot. There are no guarantees, and that is why donations are necessary to use these new procedures. The concept of relatives suing for every loved one not revived is truly insane.”

My attorney went on to explain that we did not even have a permanent storage facility at that time, though we did expect to begin constructing one within two to three years.

“I certainly understand their love for their mother, but once Mrs. Harrington was in a capsule, all CSC could promise was their best efforts to keep her there. The Harringtons’ responsibility included donating one hundred to three hundred dollars monthly to help with the liquid nitrogen charges. They never did that.

“CSC kept their promise: They froze her, they shipped her to California, and they kept her in dry ice for over two years. They got her into a capsule, and they maintained that capsule for over a year. CSC did what they said they would do.” He stopped and pointed at the plaintiffs. “They did not.”

That ended Winterbotham’s presentation, which I thought had sufficiently neutralized Nothern’s lies.

At that point the judge ordered a recess and invited the attorneys into his private chambers. After about forty-five minutes, they returned and resumed court. Winterbotham was red with anger and white-knuckled his briefcase. Something was very wrong, and I was suddenly frightened. What the hell could have happened in there? When I asked him in a nervous whisper, he mouthed, “Later,” and swatted me away. I recoiled in shock, and he started laughing. After laughing and pointing at my stunned expression, he put his head in his hands, lowered his face to the table, and fell asleep!

As the jury was filing in and everyone else—spectators, clerks, deputies—was coming to attention, my slumbering attorney began snoring! It took a few minutes before everyone realized what was happening. I could hear Dennis Harrington sniggering, and I began to vigorously shake Winterbotham and yell at him to wake up. Klockgether’s attorney, Mr. Freedman, whispered through clenched teeth, “Bob, get him up; this is making a terrible impression on the jury.”

No shit.

I stole a quick look at the jury; they were stifling giggles. The judge banged his gavel and ordered the bailiffs to remove the jury. He then ordered them to wake up Winterbotham.

Good luck, I thought. I couldn’t do it.

After fifteen minutes of cold water compresses to his face and being dragged to his feet, he finally began to respond. At first he was angry, almost combative, and was flailing his arms and yelling at everyone to leave him alone.

Thirty minutes elapsed before he could compose himself enough to properly explain what had just happened.

Judge Shelby took Winterbotham back into his chambers, alone this time. After thirty minutes my attorney came out looking pale and exhausted. He asked me to drive his car home.

For a long time on the freeway, I gripped the steering wheel, not speaking, awash with so many questions and concerns. Then I asked him one of the more benign questions: “What happened the first time you went into the judge’s chambers with the other attorneys?”

He lifted his head and mumbled. His words were slurred, so I asked him to repeat them. This time he shouted, “The judge will not allow the AGA into evidence!”

My mind exploded with the ramifications, and I nearly veered our car into the other lane as I tried to absorb this death knell. The Anatomical Gift Act had been our security blanket for the past fifteen years. Without it, we never would have frozen anyone. We were now naked and exposed, without the legal protection we had operated under for years. I couldn’t comprehend on what basis the AGA would not be allowed into evidence. It was a legal document, a contract, that the plaintiffs had agreed to and signed, and I had acted in good faith for all those years under the terms of the AGA. For me it made as much sense as a judge summarily and baselessly throwing out someone’s marriage license or property deed.

“What,” I finally said, flabbergasted, “are you nuts? That cannot be! That will kill our whole case.” I had been thinking that the judge was leaning toward Nothern, and that had just confirmed it for me.

“I know,” he said, rubbing his temples, I guessed to stay awake. “I’ll have to figure out the basis for why he’s barring the AGA, but it doesn’t matter. I know I can beat this case without it. They have nothing but an unbelievable lie with no supporting evidence. Don’t worry. I can do it. Besides, we’d win an appeal if we needed it.”

A guarantee of a new trial offered little comfort—I could barely stomach this trial, let alone the prospect of a second one. I was in so much shock over the devastating bombshell, I never asked about his falling asleep. And unlike my lawyer, I’m sure, I couldn’t sleep that night. I just paced my empty and lonely apartment for hours.

The next morning my lawyer looked refreshed and clear-eyed, and he smelled like clean linen and a pricey cologne I hadn’t been able to buy for years. I didn’t want to risk the positive mood of the day, so I didn’t mention his bizarre behavior in court. I did comment on Nothern’s skill, and he agreed, adding, “But we have the truth on our side.”

He said he had spent half the previous evening checking the law books and consulting with other attorneys. He had checked our articles of incorporation, and, yes, we were authorized to carry out low-temperature research. The judge had decided incorrectly and had undercut our entire defense.

The Offense

We arrived at court when the jurors were settling in. Nothern struggled to his crutches and began, greeting the jury with a sincere smile. With that slow Southern lilt, he called his first witness, Mr. Troy Flower. He was an effeminate and seemingly nice young fellow, but I sat there paranoid and mostly confused about what he would say.

He testified that he had been a friend of the Harringtons for many years and was present when the brothers researched cryonics. They had contacted CSC, received information on the procedures, and were very excited about the hope it gave them to preserve their mother. They had purchased Professor Ettinger’s book, The Prospect of Immortality, and my book, We Froze the First Man. He claimed he was present when the Harrington brothers made the business deal for their mother’s suspension, and that it wasn’t a donation.

“Mr. Nelson claimed he could bring Mrs. Harrington back to life just as soon as they could cure her cancer,” Flower said. “He swore that ten thousand dollars was the total cost, and that’s all there was to it.” That was the end of Nothern’s questioning.

It was now Winterbotham’s turn to cross-examine Mr. Flower. He first asked, “How many times have you met Mr. Nelson?” Flower squirmed a bit, admitting he had never actually met me.

“Well, then,” Winterbotham asked, “you never did actually hear Mr. Nelson speak to the Harrington brothers with your own two ears, did you?”

“Well, they told me exactly what Mr. Nelson promised and—”

“Hold on, Mr. Flower, this testimony is hearsay. You, of your own knowledge, know absolutely nothing about these discussions, do you, sir? And more important, your attorneys know that and had no business putting you on the stand other than to try and corrupt the integrity of these proceedings.”

Flower looked blank, clueless as to how to answer.

“No further questions, sir.”

Winterbotham later explained to me that Flower was just a ploy to set the stage for their first real witness, Terry Harrington. His entrance appeared as grand as a Broadway show. He flounced to the witness stand wearing a purple velvet cape that swung over the wooden divider and a silky, clinging shirt and purple pants. His hair was long and flowing. The jury loved it; they had been expecting a boring trial, not theater.

He had truly loved his mother, of that I was certain. Nothern took Terry step by step through the first moment he heard about cryonics to the reading of Ettinger and my books to the moment they placed the first call to CSC. Terry said he reached an answering service and left a message.

“Mr. Nelson called back in about twenty minutes. I explained that my mother was close to death; I guessed about two to four weeks. Mr. Nelson explained the procedures and the expense. He said ten thousand dollars would cover everything. He never mentioned a donation. If I wanted to proceed with my mother’s suspension, we needed to make preparations and find a cooperating mortuary.”

Hearing his testimony, I sighed. There was just enough truth mixed in with the lies and distortion to make his version seem plausible.

“He suggested he could come to Des Moines and complete the necessary arrangements. Mr. Nelson then came to Iowa and stayed about four days so that we could sign the paperwork and make all the preparations for my mother’s freezing.”

Nothern leaned on the jury box for support. He was angled so that when Terry spoke, the jury could see Terry’s emotions play out on his expressive face. “You say you signed all the paperwork. Could you tell me exactly what you signed, and do you have any copies of what you signed?”

“I have no idea what I signed. I was so distraught I could not think clearly. And Mr. Nelson never gave me copies of what I signed. He promised he would send me copies, but he never did.”

I scribbled a question on Winterbotham’s yellow pad and poked it at his face, hoping he could decipher my shorthand.

“So you believed that once your mother arrived in California, your responsibility was over until the day your mother came walking back into your life even better than when she left?”

Terry pulled out a purple handkerchief and dabbed his eyes. “That is exactly correct, sir.”

“Your witness, Mr. Winterbotham.”

Winterbotham took a few minutes before he began his cross-­examination. I think he wanted to raise the tension a little more. Finally he began. “Mr. Harrington, when Mr. Nelson arrived in Iowa, where did he stay?”

“At my home.”

“So you had a leisurely amount of time to discuss matters and to talk. I mean, you were not under any kind of time restraint, is that correct?”

Terry nodded. “That’s right.”

“So in your discussions with Mr. Nelson, are you telling us that the question of donations never came up? You’re telling this jury that this was just like any other purchase, maybe like buying a car or a boat, nothing unusual, just an ordinary business deal. Right?”

“It was not really anything unusual.”

Winterbotham feigned exaggerated surprise for the jury’s benefit. “Your mother is dying and you want to freeze her. By your own testimony, you were feeling so very distraught, and now you’re saying it wasn’t anything unusual?”

“Objection, counsel is badgering the witness.”

Winterbotham spun toward Nothern. “I’d like to hear him answer the question.”

“Sustained,” said the judge, which ended the debate.

Winterbotham groaned and stuck out his lower lip. “Mr. Harrington, since you claim this was just an ordinary purchase of a service, would it be fair to refer to this transaction as a service agreement?”

Terry flounced his hair. “I think that would be fair.”

“Then as you would receive in any ordinary purchase of a service agreement, would you show me a copy of that service agreement that you and your brother signed?”

“We never got a copy of that agreement. I already said that. Mr. Nelson promised to send me a copy of that agreement but never did.”

I rolled my eyes at his response. Of course I had sent it.

“Would you then explain to me, Mr. Harrington, why I have here in my hand documents signed by you and your brother donating your mother’s body and ten thousand dollars to the Cryonics Society of California?”

“I have no idea what I signed. I was so confused and distraught, I have no idea what those documents might have said. I am, however, positive that I would never donate my mother’s body to anyone.” Terry leaned forward and spoke louder. “Don’t you understand? She’s my mother!”

“I remind you, Mr. Harrington, you are under oath here today.”

The plaintiffs’ lawyer jumped up. “Objection!”

“Sustained,” said the judge.

Winterbotham continued. “Up until the time of the accident at the CSC facility, would you agree that the service offered by CSC was adequate? Would you agree Mr. Nelson made every effort to comply with your wishes? Didn’t the CSC make it possible for your family and friends from Iowa to see your mother in a memorial service after being frozen in dry ice for almost two years?”

“They did the best they could, I suppose.”

“After the accident at Chatsworth, did Mr. Nelson come and see you at the airport in Des Moines?”

“Yes.”

“Were you alone?”

“No, I was with my wife.”

“Where did you meet Mr. Nelson?”

“We met at the gate and then went to a restaurant at the airport.”

“Did Mr. Nelson tell you about the capsule failure at the CSC facility?”

“He may have mentioned it.”

“Well, Mr. Harrington, I would think that you would remember something of this importance; either he did or he didn’t mention it. I mean it wasn’t as if he was just flying in by jumbo jet and decided to stop for a cup of coffee. It was obviously a very serious matter for him to go through the personal expense and effort to fly to Des Moines to talk to you face to face. I mean, if it wasn’t very important, he could have just telephoned you, correct?”

“Well, yes, he did say there was a problem at the facility, something about the capsule failing for a few days. But I told him to just start it up again and keep on going. I have enormous faith in the future of science.”

“Mr. Harrington, have you ever read any cryonics promotional material?”

“Yes. Mr. Nelson sent a packet to me prior to his arrival in Iowa.”

“Did you read the material he sent you?”

“Yes, I looked at it briefly. I had already decided to freeze my mother, so I didn’t feel the need to read every word.”

“How about your brother? Wasn’t he interested enough to read this unique material, to understand the arrangements surrounding this life-saving experiment for your mother? Are you sure, Mr. Harrington, that your self-serving loss of memory is not connected to your effort to extract a large financial settlement out of this lawsuit?”

“Objection! Your Honor, counsel is extremely argumentative,” said Nothern.

“Sustained.”

Winterbotham scowled. Worse still, the judge and jury saw it.

“So, Mr. Harrington, do I understand you correctly that even in the face of knowing all the other cryonics suspended patients in California are acknowledged medical donors, that all the frozen patients throughout the country are medical donors, and that no cryonics organization anywhere in the world will accept a patient for cryonic suspension unless through donation, you still claim you never heard about the medical donor requirement in order to be a candidate for becoming a cryonic suspension patient?”

“That’s right; no one ever mentioned that.”

I was thrilled and had to sit on my hands so that I wouldn’t show my giddiness. Go on, hang yourselves. All the documentation was on our side.

“I have no more questions, Your Honor.”

The next witness was Dennis Harrington. Dennis was muscular; he owned and taught at a karate school. He was a soft-spoken man who had also loved his mother.

Dennis stuck to the script and parroted everything his brother Terry had said. He added that he had wondered how CSC would be capable of bringing his mother back to life; it sounded very expensive. “Mr. Nelson said that with any luck, we should have her back in a few years.”

Winterbotham raised his eyebrows and inched forward, poised for attack. “That’s odd. Wasn’t it stated earlier that Mr. Nelson promised to pay for the liquid nitrogen for a thousand years? So which is it—a few years or a thousand years?”

Dennis looked to his brother and, not receiving any help, merely shrugged.

“Mr. Harrington, why did you and your brother have your father removed from his grave in Iowa?”

“Mr. Nelson said it might even be possible to bring him back too.”

“Yes, but your father had been dead for two years, autopsied, and embalmed.”

“Mr. Nelson said there might be a few cells alive, and if we could find a couple we might be able to clone them.”

I coughed to stifle a laugh. That assertion was so absurd, I couldn’t comprehend how anyone could possibly believe it. I looked at the jury and saw them enraptured by his testimony. Sickening dread washed over me when I realized they believed him. This was not a good omen.

“Was your father frozen after he was delivered to the CSC storage vault?”

“No, he was not.”

“Did they look for any alive cells?”

“No, they didn’t.”

“How much did it cost to transfer your father to your mother’s cemetery?”

“It was three thousand dollars.”

“And whom was the money paid to?”

“I don’t know.”

“Well, Mr. Harrington, I have a record here that shows that Terry and you paid three thousand dollars for mortuary services, which covered the removal from the ground in Iowa and the flight to California. There was no other purpose than to keep both of your parents at the same burial site.”

Nothern stood up. “Is there a question forthcoming?”

Winterbotham turned and glared at him but continued. “Do you expect this jury to believe that Mr. Nelson actually suggested that science could revive your father after he’d been autopsied? And more important, Mr. Harrington, do you think anyone here today believes that even you could believe such nonsense could ever be possible?”

Dennis pointed a finger at me. “He made me believe it.”

“Mr. Harrington, were you aware that Mr. Nelson gave a lecture to a group of doctors at the Iowa Memorial Hospital? The title of the talk was ‘Death and the Dying Patient’ and was arranged by your brother. He discussed how cryonics stalls the dying process after today’s doctors have declared the patient legally dead. Then the CSC brings the patient far into the future for help not yet possible by today’s medical science.”

“I don’t remember that talk exactly.”

“You don’t remember that cryonics was explained to those doctors exactly as Mr. Nelson explained it to you—as an all-volunteer, medical-donation enterprise whose idea was slowly spreading all across the country?”

“No, sir, I don’t remember that.”

“Did you know that Mr. Nelson has been on countless radio and television shows? He’s explained that suspended animation is not guaranteed in any way to be successful. If someone is buried or cremated, only then can we be certain of their future.”

Dennis responded with a blank stare.

“No more questions.”

As Dennis exited the witness stand, I watched him intently, wondering how he could expect anyone to believe such lies.

All of a sudden I heard a pssst. I looked over to see Winterbotham’s head down on the table. He was asleep again, snoring and now drooling! I was mortified. Joseph Klockgether shook Winterbotham’s lapels, and I gave him sharp jabs with my elbows. The jury was laughing their collective ass off at him and, consequently, at me. The judge stared in disbelief and then banged the gavel for the bailiffs to remove the jury.

I couldn’t believe my rotten luck. I could tell that Worthington was thinking the same thing—he couldn’t believe his luck. Worthington, the Worm, grinned like a Cheshire cat and acted like he’d just won the lottery.

For five minutes the two bailiffs tried waking Winterbotham. Spectators were laughing, and the reporters were scribbling in their notepads. I sat there confounded, wondering what kept happening to my attorney. The judge looked pissed and ordered the bailiffs, “Wake him, clean him up, and drag him, if necessary, into my chambers.”

The bailiffs were big men and looked strong, but Winterbotham was over six feet tall and more than two hundred pounds of dead weight. As the bailiffs lugged him to the restroom, his arms slung over their shoulders, he roused out of unconsciousness and struggled against their firm grip. He yelled and gnashed his teeth like a rabid dog. None of his grunts sounded intelligible though, and I just had to breathe fast.

The judge banged his gavel, attempting to restore some amount of order. Most of the gallery quieted, but he still had to speak over Winterbotham’s growling. “When Mr. Winterbotham is able, will the attorneys come to my chambers? Mr. Nelson, will you come also?”

I was shocked, and so was Mr. Freedman, Klockgether’s attorney. He told me in all his years practicing law, he had never heard of a defendant being asked to join the attorneys in chambers. “Bob, you should get rid of him. He is making a laughingstock out of you. Tell the judge you want to become your own attorney.”

Thirty minutes later, Winterbotham returned to the courtroom. The bailiff opened the judge’s door and ushered us in. After we were seated around an imposing oak table, the judge began. “Mr. Winterbotham, yesterday I gave you twenty-four hours to get your medication adjusted so that you could function in this trial, and you fell asleep right in the middle of a sentence.”

“Yes, sir; I knew I’d need more for the trial, but I guess the doctor hasn’t gotten the dosage right yet, Your Honor.”

“Well, I’m going to give you one more chance to get it right, Mr. Winterbotham. If you don’t, you’re going to be found in contempt of court and will be sentenced to jail. This is your very last chance, do you understand me?”

My attorney nodded, drool stains still on his shirt. “Yes, sir, I do.”

I jumped in and asked, “Wait a minute, what’s going on here? What kind of medicine is he taking?”

The judge swung his head to me, and his eyes grew wide. He took a deep breath and said, “Are you telling me you don’t know that Mr. Winterbotham is manic-depressive and takes lithium?” I could only shake my head. He turned to my attorney. “Mr. Winterbotham, you don’t have a signed release from Mr. Nelson allowing you to represent him in your present condition?”

There was no response.

“Oh, boy,” said the judge. After what seemed like an eternity, the judge looked at Nothern and said, “Let’s get brutally honest here. What you and your clients are after is money, and unless I’m wrong, Mr. Nelson has none.”

“That’s right, Your Honor,” I answered. “I had to sell my car just to pay Mr. Winterbotham to represent me.”

The judge reminded the plaintiffs’ attorneys that I had a guaranteed appeal because of Winterbotham’s failure to obtain a written release to represent me while using lithium. I also had an equally good shot at a new trial because of the judge’s denial to allow the Anatomical Gift Act to be introduced.

Well, this is an unexpected development, I thought. I was surprised at his candor and had assumed judges tried to avoid their decisions being overruled, since it might make them look bad. Obviously, with this judge, I was wrong.

“Now I would suggest that you gentlemen let Mr. Nelson out of this action and continue one against Mr. Klockgether, who has the malpractice insurance and the money you’re after. Otherwise, even if you win against Mr. Nelson, you can’t collect until after his appeal is heard and there is a new trial. Believe me, gentlemen, he will be granted a new trial.”

Nothern and Worthington exchanged conflicted glances and asked the judge if they could have fifteen minutes in private. My one indulgence was enjoying the look of panic smear across Worthington’s face as they left the room.

Those next fifteen minutes sitting in the judge’s chambers felt like hundreds of years. It felt so long, I wouldn’t have been surprised if reanimation had become possible during that interval. I couldn’t look at Winterbotham or the judge. I just fidgeted, swallowed up by my deep leather chair. When the attorneys returned, they informed the judge they did not want to release me from the lawsuit. I learned later they felt they needed me, the General, to win their case. These guys were great chess players, and they had some brilliant moves planned.

I saw my opening and said, “Your Honor, I would like to make a motion here.” I had never made a motion in my life. Before the judge could reply, I continued, “I would like to make a motion to fire my attorney and represent myself, on the grounds that he keeps falling asleep.”

The judge looked at me with a barely concealed grin. “I’m sorry, Mr. Nelson. I cannot allow that, but if he falls asleep one more time . . . well, we will see what happens then. That’s all for today.”

The ride home was a nightmare from hell. Winterbotham looked like a pale, unblinking zombie from a horror movie, and I felt like one of his captured victims. I think he was so addlepated that it didn’t register with him that I had asked the judge for permission to fire him. We didn’t speak a word, and when we arrived at his house, I jumped out of the car without a good-bye and jogged to my vehicle.

That night I tried to sleep, but my eyes remained wide open as I wondered how much crazier this trial could get. I had never before been in a sinking vortex where things kept spinning faster and faster out of control. I could not comprehend that my attorney, who had gotten my last nickel, was mentally ill and taking lithium, which causes people to fall sleep. People on this medication should not be representing clients in court.

This manic-depressive was representing me, fighting for my honor, my reputation, and my financial future. Yes, he was fighting for my fucking life.

And he was nuts.

On the other side of the courtroom aisle, there was Mr. Nothern, who was so smooth and beguiling that he could convince my mother to side with the plaintiffs. And even more unbelievable, I liked him.

The next morning I had simmered down. I resigned myself to just riding this nutso trial to its conclusion and then deciding how to proceed with my life. Winterbotham always looked great in the morning but deteriorated as the court session went on. He thought I would take the stand that day. We arrived at 8:45 a.m., and court began at 9:00 a.m.

The next witness for the plaintiffs was Marie Brown, Louis Nisco’s daughter, who wanted her own piece of the malpractice pie. Years earlier she had called CSC and begged me to move her father’s capsule to our Chatsworth facility so that Ed Hope wouldn’t kick his body into the street. She essentially testified that I had agreed to pick up her father’s capsule and replace the liquid nitrogen for free, forever! That was all Marie offered the court.

Her statements were another pinprick to my soul, an additional betrayal of my decade of service and sacrifice.

Winterbotham asked why anyone would go through all the work and enormous expense of picking up that capsule, moving it to California, storing it, and replacing liquid nitrogen for perhaps centuries. “All of that free of charge,” he said. “Did that make any sense to you, Ms. Brown?”

She shrugged. “I just thought they wanted to do that.”

“You just thought they wanted to accept this responsibility forever for free; that is your testimony before this court today?”

“Yes, sir.”

“How much money did you give Mr. Nelson?”

No answer.

“It was zero. How much did he pay on your behalf?”

“Fifteen hundred dollars,” she replied after an interminable pause.

“He was doing you a favor. He rescued your father.” He pointed his finger at her. “You washed your hands of your father’s care, and Mr. Nelson stepped up. Isn’t that what really happened?”

No answer.

“Please answer the question.”

She said softly, “He deceived me.”

I tried handing Winterbotham her handwritten note that she had sent me after I took charge of her father’s capsule. I glanced through the flowery cursive she had sent me then as I listened to her testimony; the startling disconnect wounded me yet again.

 

Mr. Nelson,

This letter is about my father’s care and continued suspension. I am simply unable to find the money to help keep his suspension going. At this point in time, I am donating the capsule and my father to the Cryonics Society of California, and whatever happens will be in your hands. I am unable to donate any money whatsoever. At this point in time, I find it necessary to walk away from this responsibility. I wish you good luck and thank you with all my heart for your amazing work in the field of cryonic suspension.

 

Best wishes,

Marie Brown

 

I willed Winterbotham to keep pushing her for the truth, but he didn’t. He spun on his heel, stomped back to our table, and sat down.

With that, the plaintiffs rested their case.

The Defense

Winterbotham called me as his first witness for the defense. As I stood with my hand on the Bible being sworn in, I looked across the courtroom and noticed he was laughing. A few minutes earlier he had been glowering, as though he might kill someone.

He sat at the conference table, swinging his legs and giggling like a schoolkid. The judge waited for several minutes before asking if he was ready to proceed with questioning me. Winterbotham snapped to and stood up, but he was still laughing, presumably at me. Oh, God, I thought. What am I doing here? Am I the laughingstock of this entire courtroom?

I was upset. I had hoped my testimony could salvage my case and convince the jury I hadn’t deceived anyone. Instead, the focus was entirely on my attorney and his mood swings.

His first question was: “Mr. Nelson, what do you do for a living?”

“I’m an electronics technician, and I own my own business, which gave me the opportunity to function at CSC as president.”

“Mr. Nelson, are you a scientist, an inventor, or a doctor?”

“No, I am not, sir.”

“Then how were you qualified to run a cryonics society and freeze people?” His question had a harsh, sarcastic edge.

I could not believe what the son-of-a-bitch was doing to me! He was treating me like a hostile witness! Well, I had to go on—hoping it would get better.

I said, “It’s a matter of faith, Mr. Winterbotham. If you believe—no, strike that—if I believe in something, I give it 100 percent of my support. I felt like this was my calling. Does that make any sense?”

“Certainly it does.” Winterbotham looked at the jury. “Certainly it does. Would you explain to this jury how you became involved in cryonics?”

I answered that I attended one of the first meetings about low-­temperature biology as it applies to human beings. After CSC was formed and I was elected president, I enlisted professionals to help discover reliable methods of human suspended animation.

“Tell us, Mr. Nelson, how much money did you or CSC receive for freezing the first man, Dr. James Bedford?”

“We never received a single penny or a thank-you. As a matter of fact, CSC paid for all the chemicals, the dry ice, and a specially constructed storage container. We also paid for transportation, ten days’ storage, and the delivery of Dr. Bedford’s body to his son, Norman.”

“Who was the next person frozen by CSC?”

“That was Marie Sweet. She was a valued and active member of CSC.”

“When did Marie Sweet get suspended?”

“August 27, 1967.”

“How much money did CSC receive for Ms. Sweet’s suspension?”

“We received three hundred dollars; that was all the money the family had to their name. She and her husband, Russ Van Norden, lived on Social Security. Professor Ettinger also donated one hundred dollars for Marie.”

“Tell us, Mr. Nelson, about the next cryonics freezing.”

“That was Ms. Helen Kline. Helen was the first person I ever spoke to about human suspended animation.”

“When was Ms. Kline suspended?”

“On May 14, 1968.”

“How much money did the CSC receive for Ms. Kline’s suspension?”

“We received one hundred dollars one month before she passed away. I knew Ms. Kline was penniless.”

“Well, Mr. Nelson, it doesn’t appear that this scam, as Mr. Nothern calls it, is producing any big money! I mean, the first three suspensions brought in a grand total of five hundred dollars.”

Winterbotham looked at the jury as though he didn’t understand, hoping they would question the seeming contradiction.

“Tell us about the next freezing.”

“That was Mr. Russell Stanley. Russ was the Cryonics Society historian. He had collected every written word about cryonics from across the country and talked to every person who even thought about cryonics.”

“When was Mr. Stanley suspended?”

“That was on September 6, 1968.”

“And how much money did the Society receive for Mr. Stanley’s suspension?”

“CSC received a ten-thousand-dollar donation from the Stanley estate.”

“What did CSC do with that money?”

“Over the next three years, we paid out in excess of ten thousand dollars for replacement of dry ice for the temporary storage of Marie Sweet, Helen Kline, and Russ Stanley.”

“Tell us about the next suspension.”

“That was Ms. Mildred Harrington.”

“Was there anything unusual about the Harrington suspension?”

“Nothing other than that she lived in Des Moines, Iowa, and her sons didn’t have enough money for perpetual care. CSC agreed to do the complete suspension, including placement in a capsule, at which time the brothers agreed to make a monthly donation of one hundred to three hundred dollars. This was not mandatory, but the commitment was part of our agreement.”

“What did CSC do with the money it received from the Harringtons? Was it a donation or a private business deal between you and Terry Harrington on the side?”

“No, it was just like every other suspension. I couldn’t proceed otherwise. We had many expenses with Mrs. Harrington—creating the dry ice container, furnishing it with dry ice, making the vault safe to store a dry ice box down in it, placing Mrs. Harrington in a capsule when we were fortunate enough to receive it, replenishing the liquid nitrogen.”

“Will you examine these documents, Mr. Nelson, and tell me if these are the papers you and the Harrington brothers signed, donating the body of Mrs. Harrington and the ten thousand dollars to CSC?”

“Yes, those are the exact documents we signed in Des Moines.”

I watched the faces of each juror. Don’t they understand? This was a basic contract. We had the same protection afforded to medical students dissecting people in their gross anatomy class.

“Who was the next cryonics patient, Mr. Nelson?”

“Genevieve de la Poterie. She was a seven-year-old child from Canada. She was dying from a Wilms tumor on her kidney. Her parents had no money, and I just fell in love with this sweet little girl. At that time I had a daughter just two years older than this beautiful angel.”

“How much did CSC receive from that suspension?”

“Not a penny. In fact, I donated one thousand dollars of my own money for her suspension.”

Winterbotham paused, hoping that testimony would be remembered in the jury room.

“Well, Mr. Nelson, something is missing here. Where is the scam part, the part where you con everyone out of their fortunes? So far it looks like you’re the one being conned. You’re the one receiving tons of work, responsibility, and debt along with horrible accusations that you’re stealing unbelievable sums of these people’s money.”

As Winterbotham said that, he slammed his book down on the defense table. Then he screamed, “Where is the money, Mr. Nelson? Where are you hiding it?”

Judge Shelby pounded his gavel, several people in the gallery woke up, and I didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. It was bizarre, but I think he made his point. A little nutty maybe, but well done!

“So, Mr. Nelson, you’ve got all these people frozen in different locations. Who’s paying for all these expenses—pumps, liquid nitrogen, dry ice, traveling every day to the vault and then to Buena Park and the temporary storage facility? Capsules breaking down, meetings, fly here, fly there. Who is paying for all this activity, Mr. Nelson? Who’s paying all these bills?”

All his questions made me defensive and I stammered, “I did the best I could for as long as possible.”

“Mr. Nelson, tell us about the day you returned to the Chatsworth vault to find the pump not running and the capsules hot, sitting in a hundred-degree-plus sun. Who was in the capsule at that time?”

“Mildred Harrington, Steven Mandell, and Genevieve de la Poterie. I was quite worried about the capsule and its patients. I had made arrangements with the cemetery’s groundskeeper to call the Gilmore cryogenic company if there was any problem.” I stopped for a minute; it was tough recounting that horrible day.

“When I drove up to the capsule, I could see that the pump was off with no vapor discharging from the valve. It took me a long time to muster the courage to touch the exhaust. Finally I got up enough nerve to check; the pipe was hot, and I mean burning hot. I gasped and fell to my knees and cried. I had failed them, all of them.” I stopped to take a breath. “I failed them.”

“Your witness,” Winterbotham said.

It was now Nothern’s turn to twist the knife. I actually looked forward to it. After all, if I was the horrible person that he claimed, it should be simple for this sharp attorney to chew me up. I was ready for him.

“Mr. Nelson, how are you today, sir?”

“I’ve had better days.”

“Well, sir, you’re holding up very well. This must be a great strain for you.”

He caught me off guard with his concern. He was playacting for the jury or had something quite sinister waiting for me.

“Mr. Nelson, I understand that after Mrs. Harrington had been frozen for over a year, you and Mr. Klockgether allowed Terry and Dennis Harrington to have a viewing for the family and friends of their mother.”

“I believe ten or so guests came to California for that event, and, might I add, they were profoundly comforted by it.”

“Was that to your knowledge, Mr. Nelson, the first time in history that a person who had been deceased for over a year had been viewed publicly?”

“With the exception of the Russian leader Lenin and Disney’s Sleeping Beauty,” I checked the jury to make sure they got my joke, “I believe it was.”

“And, Mr. Nelson, if I understand you correctly, you claim the Harrington brothers had promised to make monthly donations to help with their mother’s liquid nitrogen costs, is that true?”

“Yes, that is true.”

Nothern leaned over the witness box. I could see the glint in his eye and half-hidden smile. Despite his impeccable manners, he enjoyed the hunt as much as Worthington. “I believe the preparations for the memorial were quite elaborate. It involved fabricating a new cryogenic system that sprayed liquid nitrogen to keep the body cooled enough for two hours.”

“Yes; Mr. Klockgether worked hard to make the service as perfect as possible.”

“How did Mrs. Harrington look, Mr. Nelson?”

“Her sons had taken a great deal of effort to prepare her; they spent hours getting her ready. Several times I had to shut the casket to allow it to cool down again.”

Nothern got a twinkle in his eye, and I braced myself for his punch line.

“Well, Mr. Nelson, if you claim the Harrington brothers promised to make donations each month and never made even one, why would you go through all this trouble and expense on their behalf? And why would you not even mention this failed promise?”

I easily countered his coup de grâce. “It was not a problem since, at that time, she was in temporary storage. The donations were not scheduled to begin until Mrs. Harrington was placed into a capsule. Also, we charged the Harringtons an additional five thousand dollars for the memorial services, which they paid in advance. It was an exceptional event, and they got more than their money’s worth.”

Nothern had tried to sandbag me, but even with my easy deflection, he managed to look unscathed. He asked me next if I thought there could have been some simple misunderstanding about Mrs. Harrington being donated to CSC. “I mean, you were asking them to not only give away ten thousand dollars, but you asked for their mother as well.”

I glanced over to Winterbotham for his silent direction, but he wasn’t listening. Instead he was drinking glass after glass of water.

“We made the same presentation to everyone across the country who wanted our help for a cryonic suspension. It is the only legal structure that will provide some degree of protection against these types of lawsuits.”

“Thank you; that is all.”

Winterbotham then called his next witness, Marcelon Johnson, who had been the treasurer of CSC and had become my good fairy when she took over as president when I had to resign. Winterbotham asked about her duties as the CSC treasurer. She explained she kept track of membership dues and planned speaking engagements.

“We were an all-volunteer society. We knew our president, Bob Nelson, was honest, hardworking, and a true believer in the science of cryonics.” She stopped and flashed me a gorgeous smile. “The cryonics time machine can bring us to a future generation who can save our precious gift of life.”

Nothern on cross-examination asked only two questions of Ms. Johnson: first, whether she was aware if I ever used my own money to pay for cryonics expenses. She said, “Yes, we have all done that.”

The next question concerned what she knew about the financing of the long-term storage vault at Chatsworth and how many people remained in that vault.

She answered, “I have no idea. That was something Mr. Nelson handled exclusively. He did not want others involved because of its highly experimental nature.”

With that, Nothern had no further questions.

The next witness was the great Marshall Neel. Marshall was deeply involved in every aspect of the cryonics movement, and I still saw him often.

“Mr. Neel, what was your involvement in the Cryonics Society of California?”

“I was a business advisor for the program. I am now a teacher and public relations director for the Long Beach Water Company. I have long lent my expertise to benevolent organizations that I support in my private life.”

“Is cryonics an organization you support with your whole heart?”

“Yes, I can say yes to that.”

“What do you think of Mr. Nelson’s contribution to CSC over these past years?”

“I think Mr. Nelson gave CSC all he’s got and more. That dedication and drive is what landed him in this courtroom today. There comes a time when you have to let go of a burden if you want to survive.” Marshall’s words rolled out like silk. “Mr. Nelson would not let go.”

“How much money were you paid by CSC?”

“Nothing. Nor was any other member.”

“Do you intend to be frozen yourself, Mr. Neel?”

“That, sir, is my personal business, and I respectfully decline to answer that question.”

“What was your contribution to CSC?”

“I was simply available whenever an opinion on a particular action was needed. I often gave talks for membership promotion.”

“What was your official position?” Winterbotham asked, and then he started laughing. Marshall looked surprised, while Joseph and I exchanged questioning glances. My esteemed attorney kept tittering as he walked back to the defense table and sat down. No one wanted to laugh with him, and the awkward moment stretched out interminably as the moments clicked by. Finally I elbowed him in his gut.

“Right,” Winterbotham said as he hopped out of his chair with so much energy, his feet came off the floor. He took a big gulp of water from his glass and bounded back to the witness.

“Mr. Neel, tell me about Cryonic Interment, the for-profit corporation started, I believe, by you and Mr. Nelson? What was its purpose?”

Marshall sat tall in the witness chair. “CI was a legal structure to assist CSC in purchasing equipment and offering cryonic services.”

“Whatever became of Cryonic Interment?”

“Nothing. CSC never got far in obtaining patients who could afford to have their bodies cryonically suspended. All but two of CSC’s patients could not afford the procedure.”

“So did CI conduct any business at all?”

“No, there was never a single transaction whatsoever by CI. There’s not much use having a for-profit corporation when there aren’t any profits.”

“What role did you play in CSC’s decision whether to freeze a patient?”

“I never offered advice. This was Mr. Nelson’s decision alone. No one else wanted any responsibility for the frozen remains of people who did not arrange adequate financing for their suspension.”

“Were you in any way consulted about the Mildred Harrington cryonic suspension?”

“No, I was never asked about any cryonic suspension.”

“No more questions.”

Winterbotham’s next witness was the great lady herself, Stella Gramer. She glided to the stand, statuesque and proud, with a crown of beautiful red hair and dressed in one of her many impeccably tailored suits. Although Stella was in her mid-eighties, she had a regal finesse and mental prowess that proved ageless.

I was honored to call her a great friend. Worthington had spent months trying to draw her into this lawsuit. He had subpoenaed her, deposed her, had private investigators spy on her, and attempted every possible dirty trick but never came close to entangling her in his shameful lawsuit.

Winterbotham introduced her by summarizing her illustrious career. She had been the youngest female attorney to pass the bar in California and had won the first huge judgment against the railroad for using illegal workers. She was a multimillionaire who had lived next door to Marilyn Monroe and was saddened by the apparent suicide of such a sweet woman.

He asked about our relationship. She said we had met at Holmby Park in Beverly Hills some twenty years before. She was watching her two young grandchildren play on the monkey bars, and I was walking my German shepherd puppy. The grandchildren and the puppy bonded instantly, as did we.

Winterbotham asked Stella about the cryonics program. She replied, “Beyond having an interest in the science, I didn’t have a role. Mr. Nelson was kind enough to present me with The Prospect of Immortality by Professor Robert Ettinger. It was a wonderful book; I could see the absolute logic in it and for some time even considered it for myself.”

“Have you then changed your mind about cryonic suspension?”

“I would say not for others, but I fear I am too set in my thinking to change. When I see the results of people fighting to get money and saying anything to get it, I would rather not subject my grandchildren to such a traumatic ordeal. They are what I live for today, and I think cryonics will be the wave of the future.”

“Were you the official attorney for the CSC?”

“No. I mean, I never got paid or anything like that. Mr. Nelson is a very dear friend, and occasionally he asked me for an opinion or help in filling out a complicated legal form. Whatever I could do to help Mr. Nelson was my pleasure. But I never served in any official capacity.”

I smiled at her as she perched on the edge of the witness stand. Hearing her take my part was one of the few bright spots in the trial; this ordeal certainly showed me who my real friends were.

“Did you help the Cryonics Society obtain its nonprofit status in California?”

“Yes, I did.”

“I have no more questions, Ms. Gramer. I thank you for appearing here today on behalf of my client, and it’s truly a pleasure to meet you.”

Winterbotham was acting well, and I got to hear nice compliments from my friends. This was feeling like a good day—so far.

Now it was Nothern’s turn, but sadly for me, he was too smart to try tackling her. She could easily parry any attack, and the plaintiffs did not want to risk their case by allowing her to make the defense look better. Nothern did, however, have a few questions.

He asked first if she had been the mysterious provider of the beautiful office suite in Westwood that was donated to CSC for three years. She responded, “Yes, I suppose I was.”

Nothern shook his head. “Ms. Gramer, I can’t for the life of me understand how you got yourself mixed up with such a crazy scam as freezing dead bodies.”

She looked like she needed to educate him. “Well, Mr. Nothern, it is quite obvious that you have not read Professor Ettinger’s book. I suggest you do. I think you’ll have a very different opinion of cryonics once you have properly prepared for this case.”

As she exited the witness stand, I wanted to blow her a kiss. I was feeling confident as the judge adjourned for lunch. There was a bottleneck of people at the exit, so I stopped off at the water fountain until the crowd cleared.

Two women, well dressed and in their thirties, sat on a nearby bench. Since getting divorced, I had started dating again, but I was a little too shy to approach them. I still felt inexperienced, since Elaine had been my first girlfriend and we had married as teenagers. Besides, a trial for my life was not an appropriate time to start flirting. They looked intelligent, though, and might see the logic of cryonics. I edged closer, trying to catch their eyes with a smile so that I could introduce myself.

I overheard the short-haired blond say to her friend, “I knew this cryonics stuff was nothing but a scam. Those poor families. He was just setting himself up as a new Messiah.”

Her friend leaned in and countered, “It’s worse than that. I heard he murdered people just so he could freeze them. He belongs in jail.”

Messiah? Murderer? Jail? I bit my lip, stunned, and drew back. I could see someone believing I was negligent or a zealot, but how could anyone possibly accept such lies? Did the jury think that too? I started breathing fast as I glimpsed how effectively Worthington had sunk his fangs into my legacy. He was willing to destroy me by distorting this case far beyond a simple contract dispute. These women were strangers, completely unrelated to the trial, and yet they were convinced I was a criminal.

The women heard my loud exhale and turned toward me. I was seething. The blond’s eyes grew wide; she quickly motioned to her friend and they skedaddled toward the cops in the lobby.

I collapsed on one of the hallway benches, completely dejected, and I sat there unmoving for the entire lunch break. My friend of twenty years, Sandra Stanley, was slated as the next witness and noticed me as she walked through the crowd. I couldn’t explain, and I didn’t need to; she wrapped her arms around my shoulders, gave me a quick hug, and led me into the courtroom.

Awhile back, Sandra had told me that when she was forty she wanted to study law. I told her she was nuts and that she would never make it. “Pick another profession,” I had advised. Weeks earlier, Sandra had passed the bar exam on her first attempt, with the third-highest score of any applicant that year. Thankfully she never held my abysmal advice against me. Sandra had been a very strong supporter of cryonics since its inception. She was a fantastic writer and responded to thousands of inquiries to the CSC, published the cryonics newsletter, and cowrote my first book, We Froze the First Man.

Winterbotham guided Sandra through all the years she volunteered for the Cryonics Society. He then asked her to explain what the organization meant for her.

She replied, “We were participating in an epochal moment in which Professor Robert Ettinger had proclaimed to the world that the era of human death on Earth was about to come to an end.”

He then asked her to comment on my character. She placed a hand over her heart and said, “Bob Nelson is one of the most sincere human beings I have ever had the pleasure to know in my life.”

I gave her a half-smile, trying to forget the women in the hallway and instead focus on her words. She knew me and knew the truth.

“Thank you, Ms. Stanley. No more questions.”

Nothern began his cross-examination. “Ms. Stanley, as a very close friend to Mr. Nelson and a trusted member of the CSC, did you know what was going on at the storage vault in Chatsworth?”

Sandra glowered and wagged her finger at Nothern. I had to grin—I’d wanted to do that a dozen times. “I don’t know what you mean by ‘going on.’ That cemetery vault is where the cryonics patients were interred.”

“What I am asking you, Ms. Stanley, is did you know exactly which persons were frozen and which ones were not and why?”

“At different times, I believe I did, but that constantly changed as equipment failed and patients were moved. Mr. Nelson did not want others involved in that quagmire.” Sandra was speaking fast; she had an agenda for her testimony and a lot she wanted to say. “His life’s goal was to save those patients; he considered them historically vital pioneers of the cryonics movement. If he had known he would be blamed if he failed, I think he would have done it anyway.”

“Well, Ms. Stanley, how do you explain the loss of the Harrington brothers’ mother and the ten thousand dollars they gave to Mr. Nelson?”

“The money was paid to the Cryonics Society of California as a donation supporting low-temperature biology and not to Mr. Nelson personally. It was certainly not a business deal, as you are trying to suggest.”

“So what do you suggest, Ms. Stanley? Should we just accept this loss and let Mr. Nelson perpetuate this same scam on countless people across the country?”

“Mr. Nelson never scammed anybody.” A strand of her long brown hair fell in her face, and she reached up to push it back. I could tell from her twitching hand that she needed a cigarette. “And he has resigned from CSC. Yes, there will undoubtedly be more losses in the future. However, you don’t stop great scientific effort because someone didn’t make it. Look at the first heart transplants. Look at the space program: They had losses, but no one gave up because of those failures. They took their losses, learned their lessons, and kept trying until they succeeded.”

Nothern moved to align with the jury box. “It is clear, Ms. Stanley, that you have little compassion for these two young men’s suffering and their enormous loss. You are a true believer in this body-freezing craze, which has absolutely no support from the medical or scientific communities whatsoever.”

I elbowed Winterbotham and he sprang to his feet. “Objection . . . I mean, counsel should be asking questions, not making speeches.”

Before the judge could sustain, Nothern said, “I have no more questions.”

Sandra shook her finger at him again. “Mr. Nothern, scientists began the cryonics movement, and they are leading us into a brave, new world—”

“I said no more questions. You’re excused.”

Sandra blew her hair from her face, obviously frustrated and disappointed.

I looked at my attorney, hoping he would ask Sandra more questions on redirect examination. It didn’t help our case having Nothern’s statements ringing in the jury’s ears. As Sandra rose to exit the witness stand, I knew that was a lost cause. Winterbotham had resumed his habit of resting his chin in his palm and staring off at Lady Justice.

Our next witness was Joseph Mendoza. Joe was the groundskeeper at the Chatsworth cemetery and had helped me with the vault. As he was sworn in, Joe was nervous and couldn’t keep his voice from shaking and his hands from trembling; I felt bad that I needed him to testify.

Winterbotham began by yelling at him. I groaned. Of all our witnesses, Joe needed kid-glove handling. Yet Winterbotham continued, almost screaming. “What was your responsibility to the Cryonics Society?”

It seemed Winterbotham thought that by shouting at him, Joe would understand him better. The problem was that Joe knew my name but was unfamiliar with the term “Cryonics Society.” He looked green, so I signaled Winterbotham back to our table; the judge ordered a half-hour recess.

I was thankful for that the break. “Mr. Winterbotham,” I whispered, “Joe is our witness; you shouldn’t be shouting at him. The man is already scared to death just being here.” I spent most of the recess trying to counsel my attorney about the best way to handle Joe. When court resumed, the questioning went much smoother. He asked Joe how long he had known me and if I was a good guy. These questions settled Joe a bit before he launched into describing the painful capsule failure to the jury.

When Joe finished his recounting of that sad day, he said, “I’m sorry for Mr. Bob; he’s a very nice man.”

“Mr. Mendoza, did you see Mr. Nelson at the cemetery very often?”

“I see Mr. Bob every day; sometime he come he stay all day. He work very hard to take care of everything.”

“Your witness, Mr. Nothern.”

Joe stiffened his shoulders, preparing himself for cross-examination.

“Mr. Mendoza, did Mr. Nelson tell you what was inside those capsules?”

“Well, he not tell me exactly, but I know what inside. We all know it’s frozen people.”

“Did you realize when you did nothing after the pump stopped that the people inside were lost forever?”

“I don’t know; those people are dead. They can’t die again.”

“Was Mr. Nelson attentive to the capsules and the storage vault?”

“He came every day, bringing the smoking ice. He pump the water out of the vault; he blow the fan inside down there. He work very hard every day.”

“Did you see other people trying to find out what is going on inside that vault?”

“People from the TV station came with a big camera. They break the lock and open the vault. We call police. I didn’t like them for that.”

“I have no more questions, sir.”

Our final witness was a character to behold. Frank Farrell had been indispensable to me for years and a genius at resolving the never-ending problems at the vault.

Ever since we met, Frank absolutely would not conform to any kind of dress code. Regardless of the occasion, he wore outfits like green pants with a purple-and-pink shirt. Once I noticed he had on one red sock and one yellow sock.

Just for fun, I commented on it. He replied, “I know. I have another pair exactly like them at home.”

I had pleaded with him to wear a suit to court. I explained that his entire credibility would depend on his appearance. As Frank walked to the witness stand, my face broke from apprehension into a big grin. I beamed with pride to see him dressed properly. His blue tie matched his blue suit, but it was tied so that it hung backwards. The whole ensemble looked as though he had just taken it out of the washing machine and wrung it out by hand, but it was a suit.

Winterbotham first asked Frank to tell the jury about his background and experience in the business world. Despite his appearance, Frank was quite a qualified engineer with an impressive education.

Winterbotham asked him about his connection to me. “I’m a fan of Bob Nelson and his effort to revive the people who were in cryonic suspension. He brought that vault into existence, and I know someday he’ll be recognized for his great contribution to the world.”

“Did Mr. Nelson pay you for your work?”

“Yes, he did.”

Winterbotham transformed; he yelled at Frank. “How did he pay you, with CSC money or his own check?”

Frank’s eyes got wide, but he maintained his calm. “Nope; I don’t accept checks because I don’t have a bank account. He always paid me in good ol’ cash on the barrel.”

Winterbotham shouted again. “Were you ever in that vault?”

“Hell, yes, about a thousand times or better. Whenever it was time to replace the dry ice on different patients, I was the one that helped him. I pumped water out of the facility at least once a week, and I helped him move bodies.”

“What was your role?”

Frank paused because he’d just answered that, and Winterbotham shouted even louder than before. “I’m asking you a question! Don’t you understand? What did you do?”

Frank drew back, surprised at the ferocity. This was just too crazy. I stood up and motioned Winterbotham back to the table. “What are you doing?” I whispered to him. “He’s our witness.”

That seemed to work. Winterbotham switched back to normal and spoke calmly to Frank. “So you’ve actually seen these frozen human beings?”

“I sure have, and Mr. Nelson took care of them as if they were his own family.”

“May I ask you, Mr. Farrell, what does a frozen person look like after years of being frozen?”

“Compared to what? I mean, they certainly don’t look alive, but they look like they could be revived if we only knew how to revive them. I guess that’s what the CSC is all about. I don’t know anyone else in the world who could’ve done the job that Mr. Nelson has done, and done it with hardly any money. I have a great respect for him and his effort. That’s why I have always been there for him, and that’s why I’m here for him today.”

“Is there anything you can think of that Mr. Nelson could have done to prevent this tragedy at the cemetery?”

Frank fidgeted and tugged at his tie, uncomfortable in his court duds. “Sure, in hindsight I could think of a lot of things; you could do that about almost anything. Bob was running this operation by the seat of his pants. Always hoping someone would come along and provide some help in the form of money. Hell, he had a beautiful thirty-man capsule sitting up on that hill in Chatsworth manufactured by real cryogenic fabricators. That unit cost one hundred thousand dollars retail and sat on those grounds for three years. All he needed was the money to purchase a bigger vault and then get that capsule up and running. CSC would have been solvent for many years if they had not frozen a dozen people for free. We worked our butts off and gave it everything we had. We did a job we can be proud of.”

“I thank you, Mr. Farrell. I have no more questions.”

As Nothern made his way to the witness box on his crutches, he asked, “While Mr. Nelson was back East for two weeks, why did he not leave you in charge of checking those capsules every day, as he had typically done?”

“I guess you’d have to ask him that, but I venture to guess that since I live in Santa Monica and have no automobile, it would be a real chore and expense for me to go back and forth to the cemetery every day. It was about fifty miles and a drive through Topanga Canyon. Mr. Nelson always picked me up, and that was one hell of a trek. I wouldn’t want to do it solo.”

“Were you, Mr. Farrell, aware that the first capsule placed in the vault had failed and was no longer being filled with liquid nitrogen?”

“I was.”

“What did Mr. Nelson say about that?”

“As I understood it, Mr. Nelson had been filling that capsule for a year or two. The capsule became less and less efficient, until it was just impossible to find the money to continue filling it. These Cryo-Care units were just not holding up like they needed to. It was a learning curve. We were just hanging in there until we could get that big beauty of a capsule up and running. Had that happened, none of us would be here today.”

“Did you know when the second capsule containing the seven-year-old child and my clients’ mother failed?”

“Yep, but I never heard from Bob after that loss. I think he just reached his breaking point and gave up. Then you guys came running after him for money. I guess that was the last straw.”

“Thank you, Mr. Farrell.”

That was the end of testimony.

In Summation

Nothern gave his closing argument first. He made even more of a performance than usual of getting himself up on his crutches and moving over to the front of the jury box.

Before he began, he first made eye contact with each jury member. “Good morning, ladies and gentlemen; it’s a pleasure to see your bright and smiling faces this morning. I’m sure each of you is pleased to see the end of this case so that you can return to your family and your regular daily activities. I promise I will not keep you very long, and I sincerely thank you for being such an attentive group. Well, my friends, what we have here is a TV repairman posing as a great scientist. He was able to scam Terry and Dennis Harrington out of their entire inheritance left to them by their beloved mother.

“There is nothing else you can call what Mr. Nelson did to these two brothers that had just lost their mother, their most precious treasure, to cancer. Mr. Nelson descends on bereft, grief-stricken families and promises to take away their pain and loss.”

He paused—wanting that little tidbit to sink in. I saw a few jurors exchange glances and raise their eyebrows. “This miracle group’s leader set himself up as the General and claimed he could save the Harrington brothers’ mother from death. Yes, the General had the power to bring back the dead! Now the only other person I know who could bring people back from the dead was Jesus Christ, and he doesn’t look anything like Jesus Christ to me. Does he to you?”

Nothern raised his voice, and from his tone, he reminded me of one of those TV preachers. He pointed his forefinger at me, accusing me, smiting me. I could feel the stares from the jury. “As a matter of fact, he was better than Jesus Christ. He could bring everyone back from the dead—all he needed was your money.”

Nothern stopped to let that little gem, the cornerstone statement of his entire case, sink into the jury’s psyches. My blood went cold. I finally glimpsed their strategy—how every question, every fabrication, had built up to this deduction.

“Mr. Nelson not only promised he could bring Mrs. Harrington back from death, he said he could make her young again. Yes, can you imagine that he was going to make Mrs. Harrington twenty-one again?

“So they gave the General their last penny, all their trust, and their precious mother to care for until, the General promised, he would bring her back alive as a twenty-one-year-old beauty. He promised he could do all that for ten thousand dollars. The problem is, my friends, this is the biggest bunch of nonsense I ever heard in my life.”

No, I thought, this is the biggest bunch of nonsense ever.

“I mean it. I could never even imagine that anyone would stoop so low as to fabricate such a preposterous pile of crap and then dupe grief-stricken survivors into buying it. The General was starting a new kind of religion, with himself as the leader and with the power to decree who shall live and who shall die. Just let your money do the talking. What do you think, ladies and gentlemen, do you think the General was, as Sandra Stanley put it, sincere?” Nothern slowly shook his head, answering his own question.

“So, my friends, what do we do here today? Do we give the General a pat on the back and say, ‘Good job, General; go get some more poor fools’ money’? Do we encourage this kind of treatment of our fellow Americans across the country? Because that’s where these folks will take this insanity; they have even started cryonics societies in England, France, and several Latin American countries.”

I heard a clatter of whispering behind me, but Judge Shelby didn’t raise his gavel.

“This is your opportunity to send a message to these swindlers, these cold-blooded liars. I beg you, my friends. Don’t send them back into the world with your blessing, but rather send them back into the streets with a sound thrashing they will never forget.” He paused and flashed a smile. “I thank you for your kind consideration.”

What an incredible crock of deceptive garbage. I felt nauseated. Nothern had given a brilliant summation—a stunning delivery by a man possessing an uncanny ability to almost caress the jury in his arms. This was a master attorney, and I knew I had just had my ass kicked.

What he said was nowhere close to the truth, but I conceded that he won the battle. I remembered the women’s conversation I had overheard in the hallway and knew we were going to lose—and were going to lose big. I looked at Joseph Klockgether to check his reaction, which was pretty much the same as it had been through the trial. He looked at me with a slight smile on his face and shrugged.

It was now Winterbotham’s turn to address the jury. I gave him a sideways glance, checking his mood and hoping his lithium was working.

He also warmly greeted the jury, thanking them for their kind attention. He said he hoped they would look at more than the excellent lawyering of Mr. Nothern’s presentation, because this was not about calling me “the General,” it was about facts.

“And the facts stack up fully on my client’s side,” he said. “The first point is that Mr. Harrington called Mr. Nelson. The most important issue of this entire case is whether this was a donation of the body and money to the CSC or a cloak-and-dagger clandestine business deal between Mr. Nelson and the Harrington brothers. If you find it was a donation, then of course you must find for the defendants, and that’s why the plaintiffs have worked so hard to obscure that legal foundation by calling it a business deal. You swore an oath, and your responsibility requires that you confirm a legal judgment, not pass judgment on Mr. Nelson’s beliefs.

“On the Harrington side we have their word, no evidence. On Mr. Nelson’s side we have his word and documents signed by both the Harrington brothers. We also have the history of the CSC and CSNY, as well as CS Michigan’s policy of refusing to accept a cryonic suspension without the body being donated to the society research program. With every freezing performed in the United States, there has never been a cryonic suspension without a donation of the body—including, I might add, this one.”

I looked at the jury, hoping that Winterbotham was undoing some of Nothern’s damage, but their faces were inscrutable. “It would be insane to do otherwise—you could be sued for it. We then examine the years of service donated by Mr. Nelson without salary or payment of any sort. He is a true believer, and it is not unusual to find true believers who spend their entire life fighting for their cause.

“You have seen where Mr. Nelson froze a number of friends and strangers at his own expense and took personal responsibility for their freezing for as long as he possibly could. We have seen where Mr. Nelson has given countless radio and television interviews, as well as lectures at colleges, hospitals, and national conferences.

“Mr. Nelson, along with the scientists and doctors he assembled, froze the world’s first human being, Dr. James Bedford, on January 12, 1967. He wrote a book about cryonics and the freezing of Dr. Bedford. He built the world’s first long-term storage vault on cemetery grounds, and he maintained several suspended cryonics patients by himself for years.

“What more can you ask of him? Was he sincere? You’re damn right he was sincere. He gave this work his entire life and lost his wife and family because of his devout faith in cryonics.”

Winterbotham paused and leaned against the jury box. He stopped for so long, I worried he had fallen asleep again. “He accepts the responsibility for the accidental failure and the loss of Mrs. Harrington, Genevieve de la Poterie, and Steven Mandell. Have you noticed that no one else is suing over the other patients lost in that same capsule, not Pauline Mandell or the de la Poterie family? They know Mr. Nelson gave it a 100 percent effort. And the biggest evidence of Mr. Nelson’s character is his response to the capsule failure. He could have just hid it and not told anyone. Who would have known? He could have filled the capsule up with liquid nitrogen and pretended as if nothing had happened.

“That’s what Mr. de la Poterie and Terry Harrington suggested. Just fill it up again and carry on as though it never happened. Mr. Nelson flew, at his own expense, to look Mr. de la Poterie and Mr. Harrington in the eye and explain the loss of the capsule. He then flew to Michigan and told the father of the cryonics movement, Professor Robert Ettinger, that there had been a failure at the cryonics facility.

“Without a doubt some mistakes were made, but, ladies and gentlemen, when you look at the enormity of Mr. Nelson’s challenge, how could there not be setbacks? Mr. Nelson went to Iowa at Mr. Harrington’s request and made the arrangements for placing Mrs. Harrington in suspension. He had the brothers sign all the proper legal forms for a donation, and here they are.”

Winterbotham pointed at Terry Harrington, who immediately looked wide-eyed and innocent. “They claim they don’t remember what they signed. It was enormously difficult to complete a suspension in Iowa; Mr. Nelson made that happen. And Mr. Nelson did not get the ten thousand dollars personally. That money was a donation to the CSC. Just look at the Harringtons’ tax returns and I guarantee they show that both brothers took that ten thousand dollars as a tax deduction.

“The CSC kept Mrs. Harrington in temporary storage for two and a half years and then made it possible for the Harrington brothers to conduct a service and a two-hour viewing. This is no General, my friends; this is no man masquerading as Jesus Christ. This is a man who became caught up in something so big, it was like a tornado, and it threw him and his frozen friends through a storm.

“I think we must recognize that Bob Nelson picked up the cryo-ball and ran a long way with it. In some ways he made a touchdown, and in other ways he didn’t. But one thing he never did was to make a secret deal outside of the cryonics circle with Terry and Dennis Harrington. That is why the ten-thousand-dollar check was sent to CSC offices and deposited into the CSC bank account. That money was used for dry ice replacement over the next thirty months.

“The total cost of the dry ice replacement over that time span was exactly $10,800, not counting the labor and the transport of one hundred miles per week. If you calculate that, it comes to twelve thousand miles of Mr. Nelson driving to faithfully replace that dry ice without ever missing once. Does that sound like a con man?

“I ask you to please be fair with Mr. Nelson. While you may not like the idea of frozen bodies and trying to bring people back from the dead, the ultimate truth is this: Was this transaction a donation, or was it a scam? I thank you sincerely for your honest consideration.”

It was 11:30 a.m. when the judge dismissed the jury for lunch and ordered them back the next day for deliberations. Winterbotham and I arrived at about noon the following day and waited around. I kept asking him what he thought the jury would do, based on his experience and their expressions and demeanor. He shrugged and said it could go either way. At 3:00 p.m. the light went on in the courtroom, indicating that the jurors had reached a verdict. The verdict would be announced at 3:30.

I felt sick about Joseph Klockgether. He always had good intentions, but I feared that Nothern’s angle of pitting Joseph and me as competition to God was going to be a tough hurdle to overcome. At 3:30 we were all standing at attention, facing the jury. The courtroom was packed with spectators and news media. My heart was racing, and I had to keep my hand on my knee to keep it from shaking. The court clerk asked in a loud, booming voice, “Ladies and gentlemen, have you reached a verdict?”

The forelady answered, “Yes we have.”

“Would you please read the verdict?”

The forelady read loudly into a microphone. “On the matter of intentional infliction of emotional distress, we find as to the defendant Joseph Klockgether for the plaintiffs, Terry and Dennis Harrington, and order the defendant to pay damages in the amount of . . .”

With those words, it seemed like the building began to shake violently, accompanied by the roar of an enormous ocean tsunami. In my head I screamed, No, no! You can’t do this to this innocent wonderful man. Joe Klockgether only gave his help freely to those who asked for it. How could you not see this truth?

A surge of rage and hurt rushed through my body like I had never felt before. I tuned out hearing the amount of the damages against Joseph Klockgether. I knew the same fate was about to fall on me, but I didn’t care about myself. All I had was enough money for gas to get home!

I said as loud as I could, “You have no idea the mistake you have just made.”

The forelady ignored me and continued rattling on with the judgment against Joseph. I was devastated for him. I stood up, walked past the jury, and stomped out of the courtroom. I was not giving them the pleasure of witnessing my reaction as they delivered the verdict against me.

My unexpected maneuver allowed me to avoid the ten news cameramen who were waiting to learn the verdict; they were caught completely unprepared for my sudden departure. I just rushed past them and their bewildered looks. I was almost out of the courthouse before they realized I was their story. They hollered, “Mr. Nelson, where are you-u-u-u . . .” as the Hall of Justice doors slammed shut behind me.

I had driven a friend’s car to court that day since I didn’t want to be with Winterbotham in case the verdict went against me. About halfway home I heard on the radio that Klockgether and I had been found at fault.

Four hundred thousand dollars . . . each.

I slammed the off button on the radio, slammed the car door when I reached my apartment, and then slammed my bedroom door, those words reverberating inside my thick skull for hours.

I could feel the compassion, cultivated by my cryonics goals, draining from my body. My lifelong dream had resulted in catastrophe. I locked myself in my room for two days, needing to recover from getting my head smashed with a sledgehammer. Judgment day will endure forever as an excruciating memory—even if I am suspended and revived centuries in the future.

I now owed those vultures almost half a million dollars. I needed a new attorney, and it would cost twelve thousand dollars to obtain a copy of the transcript so that I could file an appeal. I vowed that day that I would never again discuss cryonics with anyone, beyond what might still be necessary to finish up this legal mess. I would forever turn off that cryonics switch in my head and once again make my children, who had for so many years seen so little of me, my focus for the rest of my life.