Sir Stanley of Rosenblatt, Esq. does battle against doctors (""free-enterprise hypocrites""), insurance companies (""cynical bastards""), establishment law firms, and Miami-Dade County, winning six-figure consolation prizes for ""the little people""--victims who suffer and relatives who grieve. Here he relives his greatest moments in civil court (""where the action really is""): those cagey cross-examinations, those heartrending summations, those clever, gutsy pre-trial deals. Along the way there's a lot of hospital horror--blood, pus, and turning blue--for the gore-seekers and immense hunks of under-edited, over-annotated (""my voice was dripping with venom and sarcasm"") transcripts for the author's mother. But the repetitious, vinegar-and-sugar spiel that drives juries wild makes rotten storytelling. Whether the enemy is poisonous prescriptions, fatal overdoses of anesthesia, a wayward, child-crushing garbage truck, trigger-happy police, or a dangerously positioned diving board, Rosenblatt's still arguing his cases. Even when he stumbles on ready-made human drama--like the ironic malpractice-death of his best friend, investigator Jerry Burke--the glib crassness plows on: ""Even in death, Jerry Burke was outstanding. The settlement was a record. . . ."" Add Rosenblatt's stonewalling on the subject of those huge contingent fees and his inclusion of one case (the Baby Lenore adoption wrangle) that's out of this league--and, well, there oughta be a law; literary malpractice, maybe.