IN THE GENERAL COURT OF JUSTICE
SUPERIOR COURT DIVISION 64-CVS-497 |
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THE WATERS CORPORATION,
Plaintiff, vs. JONATHAN CHEVAL and CHEVAL ENTERPRISES, INC., Defendants. |
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This matter was heard before the Court on June 9, 1964 upon Defendants’ Motion for Summary Judgment. Having considered the arguments of both sides, the Court makes the following Findings of Fact:
1. This action arises from alleged trademark infringement and theft of intellectual property by Defendants. It is specifically alleged that the individual Defendant Jonathan Cheval (“Cheval”) misappropriated, subverted, infringed, or otherwise stole certain intellectual property belonging to Plaintiff, on behalf of the corporate Defendant Cheval Enterprises, Inc. (“CE”).
2. Plaintiff has failed to identify with specificity the intellectual property alleged to have been stolen, alleging only that the property taken was “valuable.”
3. Neither Plaintiff nor CE has any registered trademarks.
4. Even viewed in the light most favorable to Plaintiff, the evidence fails, as a matter of law, to establish a right to recovery against either Defendant.
WHEREFORE IT IS HEREBY ORDERED, ADJUDGED, AND DECREED that Defendants’ Motion for Summary Judgment is GRANTED. Plaintiff’s Complaint is DISMISSED WITH PREJUDICE.
This the 16th day of June, 1964.
Signed: Robert L. Vorhees, Superior Court Judge Presiding.
Officer Drebbin was trying to maintain a cool professionalism. Officer Whiting had no such pretense. “I always knew these long underwear types were perverts,” he noted for the room’s benefit. “Look at this stuff, fer crissakes.” In his gloved hands he held a pair of crotchless pink panties and a leather mask with no eyeholes.
Dick Grayson had had all he could take. He grabbed the evidence from Whiting, ready to pop. “Whiting! You are out of here! Out!” Whiting started to give him lip, but Dick would have none of it. “OUT!!!” he nearly screamed. Whiting wanted to crack wise, looked around to his fellow officers for support. Instead he saw only their cruel stares, pitying the poor fool who’d taken the joke too far.
Tossing his hands in the air, he started for the door of Jonathan Cheval’s apartment. “Geez…” he muttered, “everyone’s so damn uptight around here.”
Once he was gone, Dick returned his attention to Officer Drebbin. It had been nearly twenty-five minutes since Dick had arrived at the apartment, sometime after the uniforms. He was only now beginning to get a feel for the unexpected items discovered in the home of Jonathan Cheval, the murdered former super-criminal once known as the Monocle. “Where was all this stuff?” he asked Drebbin, holding out the paraphernalia he’d collected from Whiting.
“In the closet, sir,” asked the eager Drebbin. “We were just doing a routine search when we came upon it. It was all just hanging up in the closet, like it was his regular clothes or something. Except the underwear. That was in his chest of drawers, with the rest of his…you know, man’s underwear.”
“He didn’t conceal this stuff very well, did he?”
“No sir, but I guess not very many people came in here but him. I mean, who’s going to be tossing the apartment of a seventy-five year old man, even if he was some kind of costume once?”
Dick nodded. Drebbin made sense, of course. Not everyone, even those with secrets, were as paranoid as he’d been taught to be. On the other hand, while Drebbin’s logic made sense, Cheval was now dead. Meaning someone had enough interest in him to kill him. Dick placed the erotica on the bed, motioning to a uniform to bag it as evidence. “Now where’s this matchbook?” he asked Drebbin.
Drebbin spun, as if he was derelict in failing to anticipate the question and already have the matchbook on him. Stepping quickly from the room, he returned less than five seconds later and handed Dick a black matchbook.
Dick looked the book over. It bore the insignia of ‘Naughty or Nice’, sometimes referred to as NON. NON was infamous in Bludhaven as one of the most hardcore sex clubs in town. Despite its thriving underworld, Bludhaven’s porn and S&M trades had never really taken off. There were a few, select establishments that catered to those interested. NON was known as the worst of the worst.
And seventy-five year old, frail Jonathan Cheval had apparently been a patron.
BLUDHAVEN COURIER – ITEM
The Courier has learned that a claim has been filed against certain life insurance policies issued to Roland Desmond, also known as Blockbuster. Although the claimant has not yet been identified, sources within Ersatz Insurance Company have confirmed the filing of a claim. Sources indicate that Desmond, whose current whereabouts are unknown, purchased a policy of insurance on his life several years ago, naming his mother as a beneficiary. Mrs. Desmond passed away late last year, meaning the proceeds of the policy would pass to Desmond’s contingent beneficiaries. It is unknown who the contingent beneficiaries are, if Desmond even identified them, or whether the claimant is in fact one of the contingent beneficiaries.
Roland Desmond’s fate is unknown after a bomb blast originating in his room at Crosswhite Memorial, killing over two hundred people. Recent weeks have seen growing speculation as to whether Desmond, whose body was not located after the blast, was killed or spirited away. There is no word on whether Ersatz Insurance Company will pay the claim, or deny it on the grounds that no proof of death has been provided.
“So I heard about the engagement. Congratulations.”
Dick was a little taken aback, but quickly recovered his composure as he selected his club. “Thanks. Babs said you mentioned it to her. How’d you find out? We haven’t really-”
Bruce Wayne silenced Dick with a wave of his hand. Dressed in a polo shirt and khakis, Bruce looked as if he belonged on the golf course. He and Dick had played the front seven, and Dick held a slight lead. Having a lead over Bruce was always frustrating, because Dick never knew if Bruce was losing intentionally. “Ah, that. Alfred told me. He didn’t mean to betray your trust; he was just excited.”
Dick smiled a little inside, imaging Alfred bursting to tell the news. All the secrets he’d kept faithfully over the years, and this one slips out. “Heh. Well, we were going to tell you anyway, of course, so it’s no big deal. Just wanted to tell you on our own time.”
“No problem,” said Bruce as he strode to the tee on the eighth hole. He took an awkward swing, hooking the ball somewhat to the right. “Drat,” he said as the ball caromed off-course. Drat?
“Kidding aside, Bruce, I did want to talk to you about the engagement. I mean, I hope it’s okay with you and all…”
“Dick, it’s not like you need my permission to get married.”
“I know. But it is likely to mean some changes in the way we…uh…operate.”
Bruce seemed to consider this for a moment and Dick wondered if it was the first time he’d thought of it. No way. “Maybe,” he finally responded. “If it does, we’ll deal with it. It’ll work out.”
Dick took his swing, hooking his ball almost as bad as Bruce did. He looked at Bruce, genuinely relieved. “I’m glad you feel that way. I was worried you’d resent the changes it may mean for you, in terms of access to Oracle.”
Bruce grinned his playboy grin, then looked down at the ground for a moment, suddenly appearing uncomfortable. “I’ve really made you guys think I’m an ogre over the years, haven’t I?”
“Pardon?”
“Dick.. I know I’m wrapped up in my…well…job most of the time, but even I’m not totally single-minded.” He stopped and looked up at Dick. “I’m happy for you both. Really. Whatever has to be done to accommodate your changes, we’ll do it. I’ll do it. I’ll be happy to.”
Typical Bruce, Dick thought. Just when you think you know what to expect, he does a one eighty. Now it was Dick’s turn to look at his feet. “Thanks, Bruce. I appreciate it.”
“So...” Bruce continued as they headed for the green (or at least the area where their balls lay), “how are things in Bludhaven?”
“Well,” Dick started, now pushed into the other topic he’d wanted to discuss, “Things are changing in that department too, no pun intended. I’ve been promoted to Detective, and I’m working even longer hours than before.”
“I heard about that, too. Sounds like a good step up. And,” Bruce added, “it makes it a lot less likely you’ll ever need to discharge your gun.”
Dick nodded. “There is that.” The issue of carrying a firearm had been sensitive for him from the beginning. He’d tried to tell himself that ninety-five percent of cops never fire their weapon, and that he could skirt the issue. But Bruce was right – it was always lurking and it was a lot less likely to be a problem as a plainclothes detective than as a uniformed officer. “What I’ve found, though, is that being a cop is taking a lot of time away from Nightwing. To really do my job properly, I’ve got to work pretty long and irregular hours. I’ve found a lot less time for rooftop crawling.”
“Are you considering hanging up the mask and boots?”
“No, nothing that drastic. Just…changing the way I use Nightwing. You’ve told me Nightwing is an extension of Dick Grayson. Well, if Dick Grayson is a cop, then Nightwing can be an extension of a cop. Help with the things Dick Grayson the cop can’t do.”
Bruce stopped, suddenly serious. “You know, it was never my intention for you to become Nightwing.”
“Huh?”
“The Robin identity. All the trappings that went with it. Aside from the obvious motive – revenge on Tony Zucco – the whole point was to give you an outlet for your anger, the type of release I never had as a child. While I was growing up, my anger and heartbreak festered. Some amateur psychiatrists – i.e. Alfred – would say that’s why I’ve been so single-minded as an adult. The idea was that if you got that release, you’d be better adjusted when you were grown, and you wouldn’t need to be Robin, or Nightwing, or anyone else. Just Dick Grayson.”
“But I don’t need to be Nightwing. I like to be Nightwing.”
“I know. And that’s fine. You do good work. But remember – Nightwing serves Dick Grayson, not the other way around. As long as you remember that, you’ll be fine.”
Jonathan Cheval’s funeral was sparsely attended. Edith Mays had called as many acquaintances as she could find, but they were few and far between. Aside from his friendship with Edith, and his apparently sordid nightlife, Cheval had been, for the most part, a loner during his time in Bludhaven.
There’s an old legend that cops investigating a homicide always attend the victim’s funeral. The theory is that the killer often returns to the ‘scene of the crime’, so to speak, and betrays his presence. By attending the funeral, the police sometimes get a clue as to the identity of the killer.
Mostly that’s just a legend. It’s true that lots of killers attend their victims’ funerals, but that’s only because many killings are committed to someone close to the victim. Someone who would naturally be at the funeral, and whose identity the police usually already know. The exception would be the demented serial killer, who could sometimes be drawn to the scene as part of some insane line of thinking. Despite what you’d think from TV and the movies, however, serial killers are quite rare, particularly random serial killings.
Truth is, the police usually attend the funeral out of respect for the victim, with whom they sometimes come to identify or sympathize during the course of an investigation. Sometimes they attend to be seen, to show family, friends, and well-wishers that they are doing all they can to bring the killer to justice.
Dick supposed it was a mixture of the last two motives that brought him to Cheval’s funeral. The media hadn’t jumped on Cheval’s murder with much zeal; it was still focused on the Crosswhite bombing, and on chasing down false Blockbuster ‘sightings’. Desmond was beginning to rival Elvis; Dick imagined they must be hanging out together sipping Icee’s in a K-Mart in Tuscaloosa. Still, Dick felt it appropriate to pay his respects.
Edith had come, of course. She’d brought a gentleman along with her, and Dick recognized him from photographs in Edith’s home. They exchanged pleasantries, and she introduced him as her friend Roger.
The big surprise attendee was Dale Gunn, who Dick had never met but recognized from the papers and by reputation. Gunn was the CEO of Heywood Enterprises, and was in town to broker a deal with the Mayor that could lead to Heywood opening a plant in the Haven. This would be huge news for the city, and Mayor Marlowe had been rolling out the red carpet all week. What she didn’t know, but Dick did, was that Gunn had also, for a brief time, been the handyman slash assistant of the Justice League, when it was headquartered in Detroit. Curious – another superhero connection. As far as Dick knew, the Detroit JLA had never clashed with the Monocle, so it seemed unlikely there would be a connection between Gunn and Cheval. Yet here was Gunn, among the few who attended Cheval’s funeral. Why?
The other mystery guest was a tall, older man wearing a long trenchcoat and dark sunglasses. He stood apart from the other mourners, and didn’t engage anyone in conversation. Edith identified him as Xavier Cordonbleu, a longtime friend of Cheval’s from France. She’d managed to get word to him of Cheval’s death, and he’d insisted on coming over, even on short notice. Edith said Cheval had never mentioned Cordonbleu. Dick still didn’t really trust Edith; he’d felt she was holding something back previously, and he just had a bad feeling about her in general. However, she was his best source of information at the moment and he was loath to look a gift horse in the mouth.
Cordonbleu began to depart as soon as the service ended. Dick wanted to talk to Dale Gunn, but realized he’d only manage one interview this day, and he knew where to find Gunn later. So he started off after Cordonbleu, trying to get his attention before he reached his rented Audi. “Mr. Cordonbleu. Do you have a moment?”
Cordonbleu turned to face him just as he reached the car. As he turned, Dick was afraid the Frenchman wouldn’t speak English. Dick’s French had lapsed years ago. Luckily, Cordonbleu spoke the language. “May I help you, sir?”
Dick flashed his badge. “Sir, I’m a detective with the Bludhaven Police Department. I’m investigating Mr. Cheval’s death, and I wonder if I could have a few moments of your time.”
“Well, all right, but whatever for?”
“I understand you came all the way from France. You must have known Mr. Cheval pretty well.”
“I did. He was a dear friend. We lost touch, the last twenty years or so, but we remained friends.”
Dick was flooded, unbidden, with all sorts of vile images. He wondered what sort of relationship Cordonbleu must have had with Cheval, wondered if a search of Cordonbleu’s home would reveal the same kinky paraphernalia contained in Cheval’s. The BPD had not revealed those details to anyone yet, and Dick didn’t feel the time was right, now, either. As politely as he could, he continued the interview. “We’ve had a hard time, frankly, finding out much about him.”
“You are, ah, aware of his costumed past?”
“Yes. But only in the forties and then decades later. We’re interested in what he was up to in the meantime.”
“Ah.” Cordonbleu smiled conspiratorially. “You think learning of Jon’s past will lead you to his killer, yes?”
“Maybe.”
“Then you are to be disappointed, I am afraid. You see, young man, the reason you know so little of Jon’s criminal history is that there was very little to know. By 1946, he had left his life as the Monocle behind. He was incarcerated for a time. Once he was released, in 1948, he retired to France and embarked on a quite successful career as a legitimate businessman. That is when I met him, in 1953, and I can assure you, he did not dress in that absurd costume the entire time we knew each other. He left France in the 1980’s, presumably to resume his career as the Monocle. From what I am told, that led to his imprisonment, again, and basically ended his career.”
“How do you know those dates, if it was before you met him?”
“Young man, Jon’s conviction and incarceration are matters of public record.” In fact, Dick had already researched the dates, but he was surprised to learn Cordonbleu had as well. “He told me of his release in 1948. And we shared a home for some time, a chateau he was renting. The rental documents dated back to 1948.”
“Couldn’t he have been operating as the Monocle between 1948 and 1953?”
Cordonbleu considered the question. “Well, he was not arrested during that time, or his lease would have been terminated. One could argue, I suppose, that he was simply never captured, but that seems unlikely to me. I mean, let’s face it – as a costumed supervillain, he was never that effective.”
Point, Dick thought. Changing tacts, he continued. “Fair enough. So he was a businessman? What sort of business did he have?”
“He ran a corporation. Actually it was located in Colorado, but he ran things from home. Cheval Enterprises, I believe. It started as a laser-optics manufacturer, but ultimately became a holding company. Very successful, I might add.”
Laser optics. So Cheval had tried to cash in on his criminal tools. “Why the change?” Dick asked.
“I am not sure,” answered Cordonbleu. “I believe there were research and development problems, or something to that effect. There was something about some litigation. Mostly it was as his career as a villain – he just wasn’t very good at it. But he had a keen eye for business, and he made his company into quite a success.”
“Where are the assets now?” thought Dick, thinking of Cheval’s flimsy apartment.
“He gifted many of them to me, years ago, when he dissolved the corporation and left France. I’m sure he had assets hidden in various places, but I couldn’t begin to tell you where.”
I, JONATHAN CHEVAL, being of sound mind and body, hereby bequeath all my worldly possessions, in the event of my death, to my dear friend Xavier Cordonbleu of France.
Any prior wills executed by me are hereby revoked. This document is intended as my complete Will & Testament.
This the 30th day of January, 1992.
Witnessed by Herbert Walker and Mark Reaby, January 30, 1992.
The time had come to let Nightwing serve Dick Grayson, he thought as his line snaked over the city’s streets. He felt the wind in his face as he leapt between buildings, heading for an area that was seedy even by Bludhaven standards.
Obviously the S&M materials found in Cheval’s apartment were significant. If Cheval was patronizing the NON, he was associating with some seedy characters and engaging in some questionable activities. Could give someone a motive to commit murder.
Trouble was, there no was point in entering the NON as Detective Grayson. A cop would get no information from anyone in the NON, and would probably get severely injured for his trouble. He thought briefly of using an alias, a Bludhaven-style version of ‘Matches’ Malone, but knew an outsider would have no credibility. He was going to have to be sneaky and, if necessary, violent, and that was Nightwing territory.
The parking lot and area around the NON was poorly lit. The parking lot was filled with cars, and it occurred to Nightwing anyone who copied down license numbers in the parking lot would have a blackmail goldmine, assuming they lived to tell about it.
Using his best sneaky skills, Nightwing slipped in through one of the few windows. The inside was loud, a booming cacophony of sounds. Dance music blared through huge speakers, as C&C Music Factory urged everyone to sweat. Cages dotted the landscape, filled with groups of two or more people doing…things best left to the imagination. Others were engaged in all sorts of activities – some traditional, some not so much – in full view of everyone. Nightwing was amazed to think the frail old man on the park bench could have been a patron of this place.
Suddenly, and much to Nightwing’s chagrin, a fight broke out between two patrons. As sure as he was that this was not an uncommon occurrence, he resisted the urge to jump in, to break up the melee. Leather-and-lace clad people of both sexes – some more ambiguous than others – raced toward the fight, some to participate, some to observe. Nightwing slinked into the shadows just as a burst of water flooded the room. People fell to the floor in a throng, sprayed by a jet-like burst of water.
The hoses! They were spraying the fighters with water hoses! Nightwing marveled at the inhumanity, at the demeaning existence the patrons were living.
Oh well, he thought. Maybe he could use the distraction to his advantage, sneak back into the offices, try to find a clue.
As he turned, hands snaked from the darkness, grabbing him by the shoulder and spinning him. Nightwing quickly regained his balance, spun, and threw a kick in the direction of his mysterious attacker. Then a second person was upon them, then a third. Nightwing tried to punch his way out of the pile, but quickly realized he was outnumbered. Flailing desperately for his grapnel, he tried to shoot for the ceiling, get above the melee. Hands pulled at his feet, too much weight on him to elevate. One of his arms carried the grapnel, the other was lost to him. A punch landed across his face, then another. Nightwing staggered, felt the room start to go black. Water sprayed into his bloodied face, blinding him as he fell.
It was then that a shot rang out, and the screaming began in earnest.
To Be Continued...
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