Captain Noonan, the Bearded Holmes of the Sandersonville Police Department, was contemplating his weekend at the beach – with a face mask – and savoring the idea of social distancing from his sons and their girlfriends and their friends and their friends – giving an entirely new connotation to the word gaggle. Ah!, a weekend off with your family and none of them close enough to ask for a loan. All was going well.

But then again it was 10 am.

On Tuesday.

And, as the saying goes, ‘Nothing ruins a perfect Friday like remembering it’s Tuesday.’

He was savoring the moment, fleeting though it was, when Harriet, his administrative assistant and office common sense maven, came into his office fanning her hands in front of her face.  Palms inward.  Noonan gave her a strange look and she said in a deep, mysterious, voice with a faux tone of fear, “They’re everywhere!  They’re everywhere!”  Then she made a three of the fingers of her shaking right hand and pointed at his office phone with her left index finger.  Noonan rolled his eyes and picked up the received.  Before he could say ‘Hello,’ a desperate voice gushed its way out of the phone line into his ear.

“Is this Captain Heinz Noonan, the Bearded Holmes?”

“Better be. I’m payin’ his bills.”

“Well, I, uh, uhm, have a problem that’s well, um, a bit odd.”

“Every call I get is about something that’s odd.  I’ll be surprised if you come up with something I’ve never heard.”

“OK. I’ve got a poltergeist who breaks open security deposit boxes in a locked bank vault.”

“That, I have to say,”  Noonan said as he dug in his desk drawer for a notebook, “is something I have not heard before.”

*  *  *

“OK,” Noonan said after he opened his notebook to a fresh page.  “Let’s start with who you are and where you are calling from.”

“Well, I’m not a cop, er, that is, I’m not in law enforcement.”

“Crime doesn’t care.”

“That makes me feel better.  I’m Frank Sanchez and I’m calling from a little town on the North Coast of California, Coriander.  We’re an ag town as you can probably guess by our name.”

“Fine with me,” Noonan said as he wrote ‘Sanchez’ and ‘Coriander’ in his notebook.  “Tell me about the poltergeist.”

“Well,” Sanchez hemmed and hawed, “I really don’t know how to explain it.  It’s not like we see a shadowy, human-like figure and say, ‘There’s a poltergeist.’ It’s a thick mist that floods into our vault from nowhere and dissipates before the time lock lets us into the vault. Then, when we get inside, we find a safety deposit box open and spilled on the floor of the vault.”

“So there’s no poltergeist, per say, that is, just a mist.”

“I don’t know what else to call it.  Yes, just a thick mist.”

“And safety deposit boxes are mysteriously opened and their contents on the floor.”

“Correct.”

“How many times has this happened?”

“Three. The third one was this morning.  The local police are, well, you know, we are a rural community. And, since nothing has been stolen, there really isn’t anything they can do.”

“Nothing has been stolen?”

“As far as we know.  We, that is, the bank, I’m the manager of the bank, don’t know what is in the safety deposit boxes.  All we know is who owns the box. When the contents of the box scatter on the floor, we call the owner of the box and they do an inventory.  If they say nothing is missing, that’s fine with us.”

“Are the three boxes owned by the same person?”

“Sort of.”

“I hate answers like that.”

“We’re a small town with one large family. Over the years their children married outsiders whose children then married distant relatives of the founding family, so to speak, so three-quarters of the town are related in some way. The three boxes are owned by three members of the Brannan family. But they are three different Brannan descendants.”

“Do they get along?”

“No. That’s an easy answer.”

“What a surprise,” Noonan muttered. “Tell me about the bank.”

“We’re small,” Sanchez said. “Old and small. In fact, we are so old and small we are moving to larger digs. The old bank, the one where the poltergeist appeared, dates back to the California Gold Rush.  We were founded by Sam Brannan, the California Gold Rush’s first millionaire. He bought the land, established the community and then lost it in a divorce.”

“Time doesn’t change some things,” Noonan said wryly. “So the bank is a century old?”

“A century and a half.  The structure, that is.  Over the last 150 years we have added time locks and security cameras.”

“And you are moving into a new bank, correct?”

“Yes, about three blocks away. It’s a slow process and the last task is moving the security deposit boxes. One at time the owners are coming in, closing out their old boxes and then transporting their contents to new boxes in the new bank.”

“How many boxes have been transferred?”

“Oh, 3/4s of them. Around 45.”

“So there are 15 boxes left.  How many of them are owned by members of the Brannan clan.”

“At least ten.  Not all the same Brannan people.”

“Have the Brannans had security deposit boxes for a long time?”

“Since dirt. Over the years the boxes have changed owners, been inherited, disinherited, court ordered frozen, court ordered change of ownership. It’s been a mess. Paperwork wise.”

“The three boxes which were suddenly dumped on the floor, anything usual about the owners?”

“Other than the fact they all hate each other’s guts, not really.  The last one is an older Brannan, who is either at death’s door or deceased as we speak. The first one was an estranged son who upset the old man to no end by marrying a hippy. They have not spoken in years. The other is owned by a nephew of his first marriage. One of those kids who never could get his life in gear, if you know what I mean.  On drugs, off drugs, worked everywhere. For a while. At the lumberyard, the vet clinic, teller here at the bank, salesman at the hardware store, driller for a water well drilling company, grocery store clerk and a bud clipper at the marijuana store.  Dependable when he’s straight. He just might be coming around. Now he owns the only gas station in town.  Does some engine repair on the side and lots of flat tires.”

“How about the estranged son?”

“Stable. Emotionally anyway.  He’s been in and out of town, occupationally speaking. Was a surveyor down the coast for a few years.  He and his wife had three kids so he moved back to his home town and started growing marijuana in one of the old coriander fields.  Doing some experimental stuff with CBD oil.  All legal.”

“The old Brannan.  Was he rich? Owned a lot of property?”

“I know where you’re going. Yes, he was loaded. But he has a will and the will is with a lawyer in town, not in the safety deposit box.”

“You said you didn’t know what was in the security deposit boxes. You just called the owners and they told you nothing was missing. If the older Brannan is terminal, who is looking at the contents of his safety deposit box?”

“Right now, I’m waiting for him to come in.  The cancer has a grip on him and he is moving very slowly. The contents are in storage until he comes in or dies.”

“If he dies, who inherits?”

“Not a clue.  Only his lawyer knows for sure.”

“And he’s not talking.”

“She. That’s correct. She’s not talking.”

“In a small town and no one’s talking. That’s a first.”

“Ethics, I guess.”

“OK,” Noonan said, “I’ve got some questions for you. I’ll want all the answers at the same time. Have a pen?”

“Will a pencil do?”

“As long as it’s got lead.”

“I’m ready.”

“How old is the vault where the security deposit boxes are located, is the bank a standalone building, where are your security cameras located, how near is the next building to the bank, has there been an structural damage to the bank, what time did the mist appear, what time did it dissipate, did anyone smell anything in the vault to indicate the content of the mist, who owns the land where the marijuana is being grown, how many relatives to the old Brannan are there in Coriander who could inherit something, does the old Brannan have any cash in the bank, has that cash been examined lately, how many people work for the new bank, how many of them are from the old bank, how many workers from the old bank have retired in the last year and do you have a dentist in town?”

“Dentist? That’s an odd request.”

“It’s an odd crime.”

“OK. I’ll see what I can do.”

*  *  *

Whenever Noonan was called upon to investigate an impossible crime, he always turned to his two, tried-and-try sources of information: history and the newspapers.  The historic Sam Brannan was easy to find.  He had been a prominent Mormon during the California Gold Rush and made his fortune as a merchant, not a miner. He founded the California Star, the first newspaper in San Francisco, and true to his editorial and entrepreneurial roots, was the first to publicize the California Gold Rush – which, Noonan mused, must have upped his newspaper circulation.

On the flipside of his reputation, he was probably a bigamist, opportunist and defellowed by the Mormon Church.  On his way to California – as a Mormon proselytizer – he was living lavishly on the ship (while his fellow proselytizers eked by in third class) where he met Commodore Stockton.  Stockton, namesake of the California town of the same name, quietly told Brannan of the United States Army’s intent to assault Monterey as part of the Mexican American war.   Brannan then decided to take the city of Yerba Buena – today called San Francisco – but got there a few days too late.  But the Mormons did triple the size of the city.

An enthusiastic Mormon he was very good at collecting tithes but there is little historical evidence those tithes ever made it to Salt Lake City.  He was also an astute entrepreneur. He opened a store in Sutter’s Fort in what is now Sacramento and became the proverbial right man in the right place at the right time with the right products. When gold was discovered in Coloma, he quickly – and quietly – bought up all of the pans, picks and shovels he could find in San Francisco and transported them to Sutter’s Fort. Then he went running down the streets of San Francisco shouting “Gold! Gold on the American River!” Did anyone want picks, pans or shovels? Well, as  matter of fact, he had them at his store in Sutter’s Fort.  On the way to the Sacramento River.  Pans he had picked up for $.20 each sold for $15. He made a fortune. By the middle of the rush, his store in Sutter’s Fort was pulling in  $150,000 a month!  In 1850!

He invested his profits wisely.  And the tithes he had collected – and was still collecting – from the Mormons in California. When a messenger from Brigham Young in Salt Lake City demanded the tithes, Brannan was recorded to have said, “You go back and tell Brigham Young that I’ll give up the Lord’s money when he sends me a receipt signed by the Lord.” Brannan purchased huge tracts of land and brought the first steam locomotive to California. He helped organize and served as President of the San Francisco Committee of Vigilance, the extra-legal organization which took the place of a police force.  And a court of law. And executioner. When California became a state, he was elected to the California State Senate.

Things were going swimmingly for Brannan before 1870. He had real estate holdings in Hawaii, San Francisco and the Napa Valley.  He was wealthy beyond even his wildest dreams. Then things went south.  His wife, Anna Eliza Corwin, who had been  living in Europe, divorced him and demanded he pay half his assets to her.

In cash.

This forced Brannan to liquidate everything he had and it broke him. He became a  brewer and an alcoholic and died penniless in 1889.

Coriander did not have a newspaper but there were several small town papers in the vicinity.  There were a few articles on Coriander, most of them gossip on the goings on with the Brannan clan and all of them about the infighting of the kith, kin, in-laws, out-laws, consanguineals and outliers.  It was also noted that while all Brannans laid claim to being descendants of the San Francisco Sam Brannan, it was snarkily reported there was not a shred of historical evidence the San Francisco Sam Brannan had any children.

Only two articles gave Noonan an inside look at his ‘poltergeist in the vault.’ One gave an overview of the twisted state of real estate, financial and legal affairs of one Horatio Brannan, the aged owner of the bulk of the wealth of Coriander. He was well into his 90s, disliked by everyone who was kith, kin, collateral or consanguineal, and had a reputation of setting kith, kin, collateral, consanguineals and outliers at each other’s throats.  Seems he liked nothing better than digging up dirt and spewing it at family gatherings.  He had all the money in town so everyone had to be nice to be in his will. The column ended by adjusting the adage “if you marry for money you will earn every penny of it” to “if you expect to inherit money from a sociopath you will have to earn every penny of it.”

The other article was of the ongoing structural disasters befalling Coriander. The city had been founded and constructed during the California Gold Rush and when the gold ran out, so did the enthusiasm to upkeep, upgrade or fixup the structures. It took alleged pride on being an historic community but this was simply a cover for not doing any upkeep, upgrade or fixup of the structures.  This might have been acceptable anywhere in the United States except for California where earthquakes were as common as third marriages. Quakes, tremors, and temblors had damaged many of the structures to the point they could not be repaired.  Fortunately for the city, the cannabis industry had discovered the abandoned fields which had previously raised coriander.  Now the cash crop was cannabis.  Cannabis was a labor-intensive industry so, suddenly, there had been a new ‘gold’ rush into the area. Cash was swirling through the local economy and now there was money to build anew. ‘Old Town’ had become ‘New Town.’ Everyone was getting in on the so-called Cannabis Stampede and at the head of the stampede was the construction business.  From bank to boutique and eatery to tavern, it was now new, new, new.

*  *  *

When Frank Sanchez called, Noonan had three more questions.  “A few items crossed my mind after I talked with you.  You should be able to answer without digging around in archives.”

“Shoot,” Sanchez said.

“First, Horatio Brannan, and I assume he’s the old man with all the property…”

“He is.”

“Horatio Brannan is very sick.  Is he at home or in a hospital out of town?”

“He’s in Ukiah, the county seat.  It’s bigger than Coriander, three times as large, but, by your standards pretty small.  About 15,000 people.”

“Is he in a hospital there?”

“I guess so.  He’s getting chemo so I assume he’s in the hospital for treatment. Or maybe in a nearby hotel.  But he’s not in Coriander if that’s your question.”

“Yes, it was. Is he receiving visitors?”

“Captain Noonan…”

“Heinz. Until there’s a crime, it’s Heinz.”

“OK, Heinz.  The guy owns three-quarters of the town and is dying.  Everyone and his brother is visiting him for one last shot for a piece of the pie.”

“One last question. Is Horatio Brannan coherent?”

“No one has said otherwise.  Actually, what people have said he’s still the snake he’s always been.”

Noonan was silent for a moment, then he said. “OK, now to the answers of the questions I gave you.”

“It’s a load,” Sanchez said.  “If you want me to slow down, let me know.”

“Now it’s my turn to say ‘shoot.’”

“Here goes.  The bank, as in the building, was constructed in 1889.  As a bank. The vault, which is massive, was part of the original structure. The security boxes are limited to one wall, the western wall, and they were installed with the vault.  Over the years we have added security devices. By that I mean the vault door is modern as are the utilities and alarms. The bank covers half a block with a gas station on its back. We have security cameras for all angles inside the bank, over the front entrance on the north and the emergency exit on the south.  There are plate glass windows on the east with one outside camera. There is no camera on the west side because the gas station is there.  There has been major structural damage to the bank and the gas station and that’s why both are moving. The bank is going to a full city block. Anticipating your question, specifically conceding the vault, the structural damage has been to the siding of the bank wall, not the vault. The gas station has propped up its sagging roof which supports our roof.  When we both leave, both structures will come down.”

“What’s going to replace the bank and the gas station?”

“A warehouse.”

“OK. Go on.”

“Let’s see.  The mist. There is not an exact time for the mist to appear.  Looking back over the security tapes we figure it started arriving about two or three in the am.  It got thick about four.  It was dense enough we could not see the security deposit boxes erupting from the wall.  The vault venting came on at 7:30, automatically, so the room was back to normal by 9 am when the time lock let us enter the vault.  There was no smell in the vault because the vault pumped in air from outside the bank.”

“No smell of any kind?”

“Just the smell of the city, so to speak. Nothing out of the ordinary.”

“What’s ordinary?”

“Fumes from the highway, smoke from the cannabis industry, some gasoline smells from the gas station. That’s about it.”

“Go on.”

“OK. Marijuana is being grown everywhere so there is not a single answer. Horatio Brannan owns quite a few of the old farms, assuming that was the source of your interest, and the rest are owned by the bank. Us. We hold the paper but the Federal government gave us the money to lend.”

“Anyone in arrears?”

“Growing marijuana in the middle of a Cannabis Stampede?  Nope.”

“Go on.”

“We have about 5,000 plus a few residents.  Depending on what you mean by related, I’d say 1,500 could claim to be Brannan relatives. Some distant but still, with the Brannan name or bloodline. Horatio Brannan has no cash in the bank. What he has is a line of credit which replenishes his checking account when he pays bills.  Actual cash in that account, about $1,500.  The line of credit stays at about $1 million. So there is no cash to examine and he has an accounting firm keep track of his income and expenses. He could squeeze blood from a turnip and goes over his books every day, even in Ukiah.  There will be ten employees at the new bank and all are employed as we speak.  There were only four employees at the old bank. And me. All of us will be at the new bank.  No one has retired from the old bank and we, that is, the four employees have been with the bank for at least 15 years.  Harold Brannan, a relative of Horatio, has been here since the last century.  I think he was born in the bank!”  Sanchez laughed.

Noonan chuckled. “How about the dentist?”

“The dentist.  An odd question. We have three in town. Once again, depends on what you mean by a dentist. If you mean people who clean teeth, about four companies.  There are three firms that will fill your teeth, do root canals, replace crowns or do surgery.”

“Any of the dentists Brannans?”

“All of them, why?”

*  *  *

Heinz Noonan, the legendary ‘Bearded Holmes,’ was enjoying his first cup of coffee on an unbelievably beautiful day.  The day was the embodiment of the Alaskan riddle, ‘What do you call an incredibly beautiful day after two days of whiteouts and driving winds?:  Monday.’

Harriet, his administrative assistant and office common sense guru, came into his office with a framed picture of John Banner, best known as Sergeant Schultz from HOGAN”S HEROES.  “Let me guess,” she snapped as she shook the framed picture as she handed it to him, “Another gift from a lulu call. Was this from that poltergeist who opens security deposit boxes and steals nothing?”

“Could be,” Noonan said nonchalantly. “Who sent it?”

Harriet read the note with the photo.  “A Lucinda Brannan.  Says she was the lawyer for Horatio Brannan, deceased. The note says, and I quote, ‘ I know you cannot accept gratuities for anything of value so here’s a picture for your office. As a lawyer I have to follow the sage advice of Sergeant Hans Schultz, ‘I know nothing, I see nothing, I hear nothing.’”

“Ah,” Noonan said humorously, “the travails of the legal profession.”

Harriet plopped down in the office chair opposite Noonan’s desk.  “A Banner from a Brannan. Very alliterative. Now, what gives? And don’t tell me the poltergeist did it.”

Noonan picked up the framed picture of Banner and flipped it so Harriet could see the man’s face. “John Banner. Been gone a long time. Quite an actor in his time.  Best known as Sergeant Hans Shultz on HOGAN’S HEROES.  But his career lasted three decades in Hollywood.  A character actor but, as in his case, his career outlasted a lot of the big name stars of his day. He was Jewish. Did you know that?” Noonan propped the framed picture of the obese German Stalag Sergeant against some books on his desk.

“No. And I don’t care.  Tell me about Horatio Brannan?”

“A short story, actually.  But it’s best told from the end.”

“OK” she pointed to the portrait.  “I’m at the end of the story.”

“Same sad story.  Man was worth millions.  In property. Along come earthquakes and his buildings become worthless. He still owns the land under the abandoned buildings but it will take years for them to earn any money – if they ever earn any money at all. He’s dying, can’t stand his family members, in-laws and collaterals so he comes up with a way to laugh from the grave.  He’s already got a will but it was written when he had money to give. Now he’s close to broke.  So he comes up with a devious plan to go out with a bang.”

“And that plan is?”

“Three parts, actually.  First, he had to negate the will he’d already written.  But he’s in a hospital in another city and dying.  So he concocted this delicious scheme to screw everyone at the same time. Second, he gets two of his hated relatives to help. Actually, they’re the only ones who come out on top here. He lays out the plan and they say fine, pay us first.  So he does. At least they walked away with something of value.”

“Can’t be buildings. They were all worthless.”

“It wasn’t.  It was land. I checked the land records in Mendocino County. Acreage where coriander used to be grown. Now the cash crop is marijuana.  They got free title to a lot of land. And the deeds were registered in the county seat. Had to be before they agreed to help him.  Can’t trust a man like that.”

“Scamming the scammer,” Harriet snapped. “I love it.”

“Well, it worked.  Here’s how the scheme worked.  Horatio Banner wrote a new will which negated the old will.  The new will puts everything in the same pot, so to speak, and left all of his relatives and in-laws an equal share.”

“I thought you said he was broke.”

“He was. Cash wise. Be he still owned the property. The property wasn’t bringing in any money so there wasn’t any money coming in. He knew that.  He also figured the family and in-laws would spend years fighting among themselves what do with the property. It was Horatio’s last ‘screw you.’”

“Why didn’t he just sign the papers and release them?”

“It was a holographic will, handwritten. Those don’t need a lawyer or a notary. Regardless of what it said, those who benefitted from the original will, the one in his lawyer’s office, would say the holographic will was a fake. There had to be a way to prove the holographic will was authentic.  The way he chose was to put it in his safety deposit box. That way there was an actual dated signature on a sheet of paper in the bank which proved the holographic could not have been a forgery when it appeared after his death.”

“So he needed to get his holographic will into his security deposit box while he was dying in another city.”

“Yup. So he and the two relatives came up with a brilliant scheme. Which worked, by the way. The key to the deception was not to take something out of his security deposit box but put something in.”

“Enter the poltergeist. So how’d they do that?”

“It was actually quite simple. The back wall of the gas station was also the back wall of the vault where the security deposit boxes were located. They simply removed the back wall of the gas station and exposed the back wall of the bank vault.  The wall was in the back of the gas station and falling apart anyway so no one would be the wiser. Then they got some dental drilling tools…”

“Dental drilling tools?”

“Right. Dental drilling tools can go through metal and leave only a very small hole. So they drilled a small hole in the vault. Then they went into the vault, spotted the hole and figured out where to drill to get into the back of three security deposit boxes they needed for the scam.”

“Why didn’t the bank employees spot the hole. They’re not stupid. Even a small hole would be noticeable.”

“Not sure. The vault was being cleared out of the old security deposit boxes. The boxes were being moved to the new bank vault. My guess: no one cared. No one was looking at holes in the wall in a room they were going to abandon in about a week or so. Or the hole was in an obscure place. It doesn’t matter. Everyone with security deposits boxes were going in and out of the vault like a train station.  Our two conspirators spotted the hole, calculated how to get to the back of the three security deposit boxes they needed to drill into. I’m guessing the security deposit boxes are shoulder to shoulder across and top to bottom up and all the same size. That made the measuring easy.”

Harriet kind of/soft of nodded her head. “But that still wouldn’t open the security deposit boxes themselves.  I mean, it would only be a little tiny hole in the back of slot where the security deposit boxes were housed.”

“Correct. Now it gets complicated.  The two conspirators had lock box keys to the three security boxes but not the main pass key. My guess, there was an inside person at the bank.  That person was convinced to leave the three security box doors unlocked. Probably by saying there was ‘something in it’ for him.  Or her.”

“So there were more than just the two involved?”

“I’m betting every Brannan in town was involved.  I’m sure they all thought they were going to get something so they went along with the ruse. Afterall, nothing was illegal.  The dentists ordered the drills, someone at the bank left the doors to the security deposit boxes unlocked. Like I said, I’m sure our two conspirators told them they were in the new will as long as they did one little thing.”

“You think the bank manager knew?”

“Probably the only person in town who didn’t.  He wasn’t related, reported the thefts to the police and then called me. Nope, he didn’t know.  He was just a pawn.”

“Well, how about the mist?”

“A fog machine. You can buy one in a Halloween costume store for under $50. Hook the fog machine to the pneumatic pump in the gas station and turn it on.”

“Pneumatic?”

“You know, the air pressure machine gas stations use to file tires when they repair them.”

“OK.”

“When they were sure they had drilled into the correct security deposit boxes, they increased the size of the drill hole.  I don’t know for sure but I’d say the drill holes were around the edge of the interior so they couldn’t be seen when you looked inside the cave where the security deposit boxes were nested. And I’m sure once the boxes were blasted out, they plugged the holes with black gunk so the hole could not be spotted. If anyone looked inside the security deposit box cave, they would not see anything amiss.  Or, at least, no drill hole.”

“Did they increase the size of the hole to get the smoke in?”

“Had to.  You could not get much smoke in through a hole drilled by a dental driller.  My guess, a hole way up near the ceiling. Where it would not be spotted easily. It probably took a while to get the smoke into the vault.  Maybe a couple of hours, then, poof, you’ve got your mist. Then they unhooked the fog machine and put the pneumatic pump against one of the holes drilled into the back of a security box.  They turned it on, let the pressure build, and out the box came into the poltergeist’s mist. It might have taken an hour for the pressure to build up and the security deposit box just eased out and fell on the floor of the vault and the contents scattered. Then they plugged the drill hole with some black gunk. When the ventilation system kicked in automatically at 7:30, it removed any smell of the fog from the machine.”

Harriet nodded. “Then someone collected the items from the security deposit box and called the owner, right?”

“Yup.  And for the third box, Horatio’s box, the inside person at the bank slipped the holographic will into the bag of items. That automatically gave the holographic will a bonafide date well before the death of Horatio Brannan.”

“And you told the bank president what you just told me?”

“Actually, I didn’t.  I can’t prove any of it and, frankly, no crime has been committed. I just told him that he should enjoy what was going to happen over the next few months as Brannan fought Brannan tooth, nail, fist and claw.”

“That should be fun.”

“That’s what the bank manager said.   He also said, ‘It couldn’t happen to nicer people.’”

Harriet pointed to the frame photograph of Banner on Noonan’s desk.  “What about the lawyer?”

“Probably the only other person in town who wasn’t in the loop.  When word gets around, she’ll get a laugh.”

“A lawyer laugh?  That’s a joke.”

“Well, you know why no one tells lawyer jokes anymore?”

“No.”

“Because lawyers don’t think they are funny and no one else thinks they’re jokes.”