[Ed. Note: This post has been pinned to the top. There are new posts below.]
R I C H A R D ! ! !
Remember the HBO serial “Oz,” about life inside Oswald State Correctional Facility, formerly Oswald State Penitentiary, a fictional level 4 maximum-security state prison? Good times, right?
My old buddy, who was the head of HBO Studios at the time, gave me a promotional post for the series. It’s big. It big, a whopping 68.5″ by 48″, too big to fit into one pic. And would look spectacular in your bathroom, she-shack or SHU cell.
Now that I’ve unearthed this relic, and realize that it should be put to higher and better use than sitting in a corner of my office, I’ve decided to hold the GREAT “OZ” GIVEAWAY!!!
Yay.
Here’s the deal. To win this promotional poster, I’m revisiting the Gerry Spence “You Can Too” contest, same completely arbitrary rules, contest ends Sunday at midnight, unless I decide otherwise. So what do you have to do to win?
Funniest war story EVER!!!
That’s right, the rule against perpetuities war stories is hereby suspended for this contest. Whether courtroom, classroom chambers or copy room, tell us the best you’ve got. Make us laugh, whether with you or at you. Give it your best shot and remember, this is all in good, safe, politically correct fun. I’m going to pin this to the front page over the weekend, so even the slackers get a chance to play.
I am enlisting the aid of GuitarDave and Fubar, even though neither knows it yet nor has agreed to do anything, to help me determine who will win, and reserve the right to ignore them completely if they pick the wrong one.
Now go to it and win this fabulous “OZ” poster!
I’m in…..I always wanted to experience what it’s like to be a judge whose decisions are struck down by a higher court.
Fuck Dave! That was immediately relevant and nearly nice.
Stop being nice.
Sweet of you though.
I hear it.
Give the esteemed one little quarter.
He deserves some, somewhere away from none.
AND, he may just like it that way be design.
Fuck if I know….
But I am certain he is kind-a-softie, not like a soft serve cone, more like a tangerine.
Just saying.
I have a silly habit of being nice to my fans.
“And would look spectacular in your bathroom, she-shack or SHU cell.”
Still prefer Raquel Welch to cover my escape tunnel.
Only war stories I have are our esteemed host telling me to think harder so I’m out.
Really?!
No hand cut leather jacket let alone pressed and cut fringe sewn in from the original material ?
You befuddle me…. (recently very little, could be you are burned out and well fuck you for “pretending”)
Here you are though.
A poster it is then I guess?
Here you go, just like your posts over the last few years… it is worth listening to even if the moment is spread out by design.
Do you have design?
Crap. You are currently in the lead.
I have nothing and started nothing.
Thanks for the ride though. Has been many years Not sure how to express the thanks.
I “isn’t” going nowhere… although you may prefer if I did.
Fuck me if I take pleasure in you deciding wheatear or not you decide to put your liver or kidneys let alone your spleen in play. Most days your mind is enough.
And absolutely not via recent posts or “contest”. Even if you have been slacking…. “per excellence” or whatever a Frenchman would say after cup of coffee when handed a yellow vest.
Go SJ!!!!
I am a company man.
You, Greenfield are nothing but Scott here.
Scoot, stand, or carry on….Posters are nice.
Uh oh. I gotta wake up much earlier to keep up with doings in this here hotel.
Since I’m a junior assistant contest judge I won’t enter. Besides, I’ve got no place to put the prize.
But I’ll state a minimal criterion:
I was a green noob. First visit to misdemeanor arraignment zoo.
Hizonner: Next case.
Clerk: [calls the case]
Fubar: [Steps into well, to podium.] Fubar for defense, Your Honor.
Hizonner: [Briefly recites charge.] So, how do you plead, Mr. Fubar?
Fubar: Uh… Not guilty Your Honor. I Uh… wasn’t there.
Cracked up Hizonner and the guys wearing orange jump suits in the jury box.
Nice rug you have there. Can’t quite make out if the green accents are seven leaves per node.
Child custody case. Dad’s story is the mom is an abusive spouse with a psychotic retired military father, so he packed his shit, got the kid, and went to a battered spouse’s shelter.
Mom says dad is a nutcase who’s tried to commit suicide in the past to keep the family together.
I represent Mom. Find out the two were in couples counseling at a Southern Baptist church. I subpoena the preacher to testify as to the couple’s relationship while they were working out their differences.
Opposing counsel asks the preacher two relatively benign questions on cross. Judge pauses after the preacher’s testimony for a brief recess.
“You son of a bitch,” OC says to me as we head to the attorney’s lounge.
“What?” I ask.
“How the fuck am I supposed to effectively cross examine a Southern Baptist preacher? I don’t believe in Jesus but fuck, I don’t need that shit on my karma or tarnishing my reputation with clients!”
DUI. Client was found asleep at the wheel of her vehicle with the front bumper nicely perforated by the brick corner of a Taco Bell drive-through.
She takes the stand to testify. She’s a software coder who’d pulled two back to back all-nighters to make a company deadline. On submission of the finished product she telephones some girlfriends to celebrate at the Applebee’s across the street from the Taco Bell.
They have dinner and split a bottle or two of wine between the five women. By the time she’s finished her friends have split and she’s realized she’s not really up for the drive.
Bar area’s crowded and she forgot her cell phone, so she can’t really get in touch with a cab. Her apartment’s two blocks away, so she orders a cup of coffee to try and sober up, then gets going.
I see the Judge actually buying this story. I can’t believe it.
Then client tanks her case by saying “In hindsight, pregaming with three Oxys wasn’t a good idea. I guess.”
Me, dumbfounded: “Um, move to strike that statement, your honor?”
Judge: “No, Mr. Seaton. I think your client’s owned that one.”
Recycling this from a Fault Lines post:
Client is charged with beating up his girlfriend in front of her daughter, and he can’t make bail. And he’s not pleading to this BS, and he wants out, RIGHT NOW. But this is only the arraignment, so I tell him we’ll have to set it for a preliminary hearing. He snarls back that he wants it set AS SOON AS POSSIBLE.
I ask the judge to set the prelim 3 days from now. The prosecutor says she can’t secure the witnesses by then.
CLIENT: No, I talked to witnesses. They’re not coming.
ME: Don’t say anything.
CLIENT: No, you don’t understand! I TALKED to them and I told them NOT TO COME!
ME: (panicking) SHUT UP!
That was the only time I’ve ever raised my voice in court. I’m usually a pretty mellow guy, so that caught everyone’s attention. The prosecutor is snickering. The judge is trying not to laugh but is smiling pretty widely. The inmates in the box, though, they lose it. The judge actually has to tell them to stop laughing so we can get on with the docket. When I meet with the guy later at the jail I have to explain why it’s a bad idea to admit to witness tampering in open court.
It’s near Christmas 2008 and I’m at Texas Death Row, making holiday visits to clients. One of my clients has several notable tattoos on his neck, chest and forearms, indicating membership in a well-known, racist prison game that, among other things, has problems with members of my particular religious affiliation. We’ve never discussed that, however, and we actually get along quite well. Additionally, this client has several significant issues that, in another state, would at least get him off death row and at most would get him declared actually innocent, so it’s possible he’s concluded he needs my assistance.
“Kathryn,” the client opens our visit with, “me and the guys are so happy Barack Obama has been elected!”
Glancing at his tats, I say, “I know there’s no television on death row, so are you and the guys aware that Barack Obama identifies as Black?”
All of a sudden the client gets a very hurt look in his eyes and says, in a wounded tone, “You know, Kathryn, just because a certain person might be a member of a certain group, that doesn’t mean that person is a racist.”
Which is how I came to be apologizing in December 2008 for effectively calling my client, the member of a separatist prison gang, a racist.
A sues B and C for antitrust and other cool stuff. Complaint also names a couple of officers of C, with allegations that require them to have separate counsel. I represent one C officer. B moves to disqualify A’s lawyers on the basis that they had done relevant legal work for B in the past. A opposes, Judge denies the motion. B takes it to the 9th Circuit. It reverses and orders Judge to hold an evidentiary hearing.
Judge is far more curmudgeonly than that Kopf fella, and expresses his displeasure as only a federal judge can. He orders the hearing to begin at 5:00 pm on a Friday of a 3 day holiday weekend, and orders counsel for all parties to be present. I have no dog in that hunt, so I figure I’ll just enter my appearance and sit quietly. Best laid plans …
Around 9 pm, senior partner of A’s law firm finally takes the stand. He’s well known to be far more intimidating than SHG. A junior partner in the firm gets the unenviable task of doing his direct. Senior doesn’t like how Junior is questioning him, so he says whatever he wants to say. Terribly bored, terribly tired, and no doubt in a moment of temporary insanity, I stand. “Objection, Your Honor, the witness is leading the attorney.”
The courtroom goes dead silent. Judge glares at me in a way I did not think was possible, I’m certain my life is forfeit. But then, after what seemed like an eternity, Judge says “Mr. Tyre, did you mean to object on the basis that the answers of the witness are not responsive to the questions?” “Yes, Your Honor, that’s exactly what I meant.” “In that case, objection sustained.”
I sat down and had no trouble keeping my yap shut for the rest of the hearing.
I don’t have any legal war stories…I’m an IT guy…any story I tell will probably go over like a 400 page legal brief.
OP day in Knox County. If you were there, you were almost guaranteed court appointed work representing someone who’d filed for an Order of Protection or someone who’d had one taken out on them.
I’d go down there on occasion just because I liked a good fight.
One day, Judge asks me if I’ll help a gentleman out with his OP. Guy’s girlfriend violated an existing one by breaking into his house and leaving pregnancy tests on his nightstand.
I agree to the assignment. Judge then turns to the guy and says the following:
“Mr (x), you will be most pleased with Mr. Seaton’s representation. He is very intelligent and thorough, and zealous in his representation. I must ask that you be patient with him, however, as he is extremely long winded and loves to hear himself talk.”
The entire courtroom fucking loses it. I’m even laughing, mouthing “He’s not wrong” to my new client.
First time I ever got really punked by a judge.
The night before a trial, I was very sick. Shit was coming out of both ends all night (well, OK, technically “shit” was coming out of only one end, but you know what I mean). I’m feeling a little better by 5 a.m., so I decide to go do the trial.
In the usual pre-trial conference in chambers first thing in the morning, I explain to the judge what I have been doing all night and then ask, “May I have permission to run out of the courtroom without asking first, if I need to?”
Judge looks at me sternly and says, “Consider it an order.”
A ways back I was working as PD in Nashville on the misdemeanor jail docket. I get a client charged with indecent exposure. The warrant alleged that my client was receiving fellatio on a bus bench alongside a very busy thoroughfare at 3 PM in the afternoon. About the time children were going home from elementary school.
So I looked up my client and he had been in court more times than I had. He had one prior indecent, which is a big deal because 3 of those and you get put on the sex offender registry in Tennessee. His prior was for pissing in a garbage can at the bus station. Otherwise, his record is standard homeless-kind of crimes, PI, trespassing, assaults from bar fights.
So I meet with my client. He is a 58 year old that has been ridden hard and put up wet. He looked 70 and resembled most of the double barrel alcoholics I have met in my life. The kind of guy who puts Kentucky Tavern on his Cheerios. Anyway, before I can introduce myself, he says “I want 12 days on disorderly conduct.” I am rather taken aback. This seems a rather reasonable resolution. I ask him why? He states that he has a job starting Monday and if he pleads to 12 days he will be released on Sunday and can make his job. Everyone on this docket had a job starting next week. But his jail credit calculations were spot on and he obviously knew about the registry issue. Clearly, he learned some things from his priors.
So I approach the DA. He is a nice guy in his mid-50s who was often very reasonable. I tell him my client’s name and he says “20 days on indecent.” (I guess it is important that 30 days is the max my client can get). I say, “I was thinking more 12 on disorderly.”
He says, “why would I agree to that? Your client’s record is longer than my arm and if he goes in front of the judge, he gets 30 easy.” He then turns to the audience and says “Will everyone from bus 55 please stand up?” Five people stand. He had subpoenaed all the bus pass holders from the bus that pulled up while my client and his lady friend were in flagrante delicto.
“I have witnesses,” he says with a wry smile.
The judge we had that day was one that liked efficiency. We all had orders that if the judge wasn’t on the bench to bring our client’s into the courtroom to talk instead of waiting for booths to open up. So I had my client brought into the courtroom. I tell him the DA’s position. He says “I ain’t pleading to no 20 days. I’ll do 12 only, or I’ll find someone to go my bond.”
So I am stuck between two immovable rocks. I try to get the DA to come to 12 on indecent, no go. See if my client will do 15, not happening. I try to think up something or someway to make the DA connect with my client and get what I want.
With my client still in the courtroom, I approach the DA and say, “I have a deal for you. If you laugh, we get 12 days on disorderly. If you don’t laugh, he’ll do 20 on indecent.”
DA says “Ok.”
Pointing to my client still in the courtroom, I say “look at that ugly son of a bitch over there. What was he supposed to do? Say no to the blowjob? How many times have you said no to a blowjob? It might be the last one he ever gets.”
He did 12 days on disorderly conduct.
So I dont have legal war stories, just war war-stories. But this one kinda involves the law, and is good for a laugh.
My job in Afghanistan was reconnaissance and surveillance. Hang around in bad places, put up a mast with a camera on it, report on Timmy Taliban doing Taliban things. There’s one kink in the hose, though. I’m Canadian, operating in American battlespaces. And I am the only one doing this physically on the ground at night.
So, fighting season comes and some bright, shiny intel guy gets word that Timmy is moving guns at night with donkeys. Let me tell you something. Timmy? He’s not too bright. Also, due to poor nutrition, he doesn’t see too well. So he isn’t doing a damn thing at night that takes him out of his home compound. What he IS at night is lonely. Pashtun culture is a bit odd when it comes to this kind of thing. They have a saying that roughly translates to “a goat is for need, a woman for children, and a boy for pleasure”. Suffice to say in getting to know the area, I learn that night surveillance is no fun and the army doesnt issue brain bleach.
Sadly, bright shiny intel types don’t believe random french-speaking canadians. So every time I see Timmy taking his donkey out for a good time, I get ordered to “keep eyes on”. No amount of begging and pleading changes this.
Enter the wrath of a clever Canuck. I’m in American territory. You guys have all the toys! Did you know that your drones record in super HD? And transmit to a screen the size of a car at HQ in real time? And also transmit to some NSA server farm in Nevada? And the video cant be deleted without some form of congressional oversight? I puzzle until my puzzler is sore, and come to a wonderful, evil grinchy idea. Every time Timmy goes to town on his donkey, I hop on the radio, and in a breathless and excited voice report potential insurgent activity. But alas, I am but a poor Canadian with obsolete equipment. I cannot see! Please, kind American overlords, send your fancy sky cameras.
Two weeks later, I am informed that the Canadian reconnaissance teams are no longer subject to American oversight. And that I, specifically, am not allowed to call for drones anymore.
If we can do “war” war stories, I have one to try and win that sweet sweet poster.
Four or so months into a deployment to Afghanistan, when I was young and dumber, we had to go into an area that didn’t like us looking for something and ended up moving from place to place looking but never finding what we were after. Cut to us sleeping in or under vehicles in towns and villages that didn’t see a lot of coalition got more annoyed the longer we were there. They liked to express their displeasure with occasional indirect fire.
If you have never had one, MRE’s (Meals Ready to Eat) are generally decent, especially when you exhausted and hungry (and have hot sauce). What they don’t tell you on the packaging is if you eat them every day for a week or so you can get super backed up. The technical term is “MRE shits”, these massive insane shits that should not be possible but somehow are.
So we surround this walled local police compound for the night and start pulling nighttime security behind some anti-vehicle trenches (7-9 foot deep by ten foot wide ditches that stop vehicles).
I have been feeling this epic shit come on all day but we were busy so I kept pushing it off. One of my more experienced vehicle mates passed on some hard-won advice and put me on to cutting a hole in the top of the MRE box (empty) and then shitting in it.
I climb down in the hole with my box eager for a poetic shit in this the tormentors remains. I cut my hole, take down my pants, and sit on it ready for the shit of my life and promptly collapse the box and fall on my ass. I guess I should have mentioned I was still wearing my body armor due to the threat.
So back to me: pants around my ankles, half on half off a crumpled box and frustrated as hell. I debate just squatting but the amount of poop I can feel coming worries me that I will be sitting on a mountain of shit so I yell up to one of the guys and get a second box. I dutifully cut my hole and think “fuck it,” and take the armor off.
I sit on the box and after the required pushing to get the MRE shit moving, have the poop of a lifetime. Imagine an ice cream machine that goes for a while and then stops. You think you’re done but then it starts again. Five minutes in, I’m dripping sweat and feel more tired than a day walking mountains and it shows no sign of stopping.
Naturally, that’s when the mortars start. For those that haven’t been to Afghanistan, the mortars usually come in batches and generally aren’t all that arcuate. They want to shoot and then get away before someone sees them. I hear the first one go off and decide to wait for a second before abandoning my post. A few of the guys from outside the trench jump into it and right before the second one goes off, the ice cream machine turns back on probably expedited by the adrenaline. Now I’m committed and stay on the box for the other few mortars as the two others guys laugh their asses off.
Two hard lessons learned.
1. Shit at the first opportunity and don’t wait for the perfect time.
2. Fuck MRE’s.
Last Juvie case I ever took was a son of a bitch. I represented the grandmother of a pillhead who left a morphine pill on the floor of a bathroom her toddler infant swallowed. Grandma was an RN, saw the signs of an opiod overdose, and told the team at the hospital she thought Narcan might help.
For her efforts she got popped with an Environmental Neglect charge, a spot on the Tennessee Vulnerable Persons Registry, and the chance she’d never see her granddaughter again.
We take this to trial and it’s a knock down slugfest. Amazingly, we get an appeal to the Domestic Court, where despite DCS throwing the kitchen sink at my client, the judge acknowledges there’s a familial relationship between Grandma and granddaughter, so we get a remand to Juvie to determine whether the court should allow Grandma the chance to build a relationship with her granddaughter again.
In the interim, we get an administrative hearing in a DCS office over the Vulnerable Persons Registry entry. It was a unicorn verdict. We won. and Grandma got to be a RN agaIn.
This pissed DCS off to where the State’s Attorney tried to file an ethics complaint against me because I allegedly obtained the hearing “against the rule of law.” It was bullshit.
We make it back to Juvi for the remand. We know it’s not going to go my client’s way. I ask my client if she wants to go out screwing with the Magistrate Judge since she’s not going away from this hearing with the W.
Grandma says yes. I write some stuff down on a piece of paper and put it in an envelope which I label “Summation.”
Hearing starts. I ask the judge during opening statements to take the envelope and sit it aside for the trial.
It goes as I expected. We get to summation, and when the judge asks me for mine I ask the Court to read what I put in the envelope.
Judge opens the envelope and with an increasingly red face recites the following:
“This Court is angry this case was remanded by the Domestic Court. Mr. Seaton’s case will fall on deaf ears. This Court will probably sustain 90% of objections against Mr. Seaton, and overrule 90% of objections he raises. In the end, Mr. Seaton will have wasted his time bringing this case to this Court, because his client is guilty in this Court’s eyes.”
Judge looks at me and says “Well, you’re a mindreader, Mr. Seaton. This court finds in favor of the State.”
Client and I both walk out of Division Street smiling.
Traffic Court in Greene County was handled by the Sessions Judge on Wednesdays because the Municipal Judge had an outstanding tee time for at least a decade. I’m going on pseudonyms from this point forward.
Judge C. had a strict method of handling his traffic court day. He lined everyone up and got a plea first, then after recess gave those who pled “Not Guilty” their trials. When you went through that first line, nothing left your mouth in Judge C’s courtroom but “Guilty,” “Not Guilty.” or “No Contest.”
This guy gets to the podium and says “I don’t want to say i’m guilty, but I don’t want to say I’m not guilty, so can I ask for a prayer for judgment?”
Anyone who knew anything about Tennessee law turns heads to the podium in shock. I mutter to a fellow CDL named Jen “Oh sweet Christmas, this man went on the internet and found himself a term he thinks will make him look smart here.”
Jen nods. “This is going to get interesting.”
Judge C. begins ripping into this guy. “Prayer for judgement? What is a prayer for judgement? Sir, I’ve been in the legal profession for thirty years, a judge for fifteen, and I’ve never heard of a prayer for judgment. I want to give you want you want, but if I don’t even know what you’re asking for I can’t give it to you.”
He looks at Mike, one of the PDs. “Mike, you know what a “Prayer for judgment” is?”
Mike shoots back a “No, Your Honor,” and continues his talks with a jail inmate.
Judge C. looks back at the podium. “That was Mike. He’s the smartest guy in this room. He doesn’t even know what a prayer for judgment is. If the smartest guy in the room doesn’t know what a prayer for judgment is how am I supposed to give it to you?”
Guy at the podium is white with fear.
“Fortunately for you,” Judge C. continues, “the officer who gave you this ticket decided to not show up in my courtroom today, so how about I just dismiss this ticket outright?”
Guy at the podium smiles. “That’s great, Your Honor.”
“Excellent. Get out of my courtroom.”
You’ve never seen a defendant run faster than this guy did. Guaranteed.
When he’s left, a colleague named Sandy asked “Your Honor, may I speak?”
Judge C. blinks and says “Mr. Sandy, you have the floor.”
Sandy gets up and says “Your Honor, I can’t claim to be the smartest guy in this room, nor can I claim to be the most versed in our laws, but I had a run in with North Carolina State Troopers a few years ago, and I can safely advise this court a prayer for judgement is North Carolina’s equivalent of our judicial diversion.”
Judge C.: “I stand corrected. Mike, you’re no longer the smartest person in the room. Sandy is.”
All the private CDLs at defense table golf clap until Judge C. gaveled us to quit.
Best Federal Court story I have comes from when I clerked for a lawyer in law school.
Mr. John was a legend in Tennessee. He’d sent Magnavox into bankruptcy in a trial over working conditions at a local plant. He was tough, but fair, and he gave me a shot at earning some money to pay off law school debt when I was still in school.
One day I’m briefing cases when a paralegal comes to me with a sheaf of documents and says “Mr. John needs you at the Federal Building five minutes ago with this.”
I divest myself of anything that would hold me up at the courthouse entrance with the Marshalls, get my ass into the courtroom, and hand one of Mr. John’s assistants the documents.
I pause here to mention Mr. John’s client was a drug dealer who the Feds popped with hundreds of pounds of pot, thousands of pills, and a quantity of meth the size of a thumbnail. He also had an AK-47 wrapped in bedsheets in his attic, a dozen pistols, two shotguns, thousands of rounds, and dynamite in the adjacent barn.
When I get to the courtroom, the AUSA is finishing his summation. The jury is either asleep, bored, or angry this guy is so fucking boring. He’s done within two minutes of my arrival.
Mr. John gets up and asks for exhibit C-16. C-16 is the AK-47. It’s got a zip tie through the chamber and no clip, but still intimidating enough. Mr. John begins his summation by gripping the barrel of the AK and slamming the butt into the floor of the well. This wakes the entire jury up.
“Ladies and gentlemen of the jury,” Mr. John starts, “The government would have you believe this most serious charge in this case, namely “Possession of an automatic weapon in furtherance of a drug crime,” has been proven.” One of his assistants lays a photo of the AK wrapped in bedsheets on the projector every juror gets to see.
“That’s how the government found this weapon. Not in furtherance of a drug crime. Let me show you what possession of an automatic weapon in furtherance of a drug crime looks like.”
Mr. John then proceeds to lie down on the floor of the well, clutching the AK to his morbidly obese frame. “I’m asleep at night when the Mexicans come for my dope.” He then springs up and points the AK at the jury. “BAM! Now I’m ready to protect my stash! That’s possession in furtherance of a drug crime!”
To hammer his point home, Mr. John does this once more for the jury.
The judge excuses everyone for the day after this. When we’re in the elevator, Mr. John asks me “Son, do you know what I just did in that courtroom?”
“Muster a stroke of brilliance?” I respond.
Mr. John laughs. “Hell no. That’s the fucking epitome of “Desperate times call for desperate measures.” Plus I needed a credible witness because none of my partners will believe the shit I just pulled.”
Sure enough, when we get back to the office Mr. John takes me to the office of each partner and has me vouch for his shenanigans.
Last good one I’ve got I can think of comes way back from my 1L summer.
I clerked for a Circuit Judge we’ll call “Judge W.” for this story. He knew me from my teenage years and was rather thrilled I’d chosen law as my profession. As a result, when I had to complete a mandatory externship that summer he wanted me in his office.
One day I’m typing up a memo for him when we get word cops are bringing a guy in for an emergency violation of an OP hearing. The girl who took the OP out on him is coming in to testify regarding the violation.
We get to the courtroom and this young lady is beside herself in tears. She’s sobbing uncontrollably. Judge W. tries to make her comfortable by having a bailiff stand next to her, then two. Then he has the young man’s hands shackled. Then legs shackled. She still won’t stop sobbing.
“She’s terrified of him, Judge, ” says the detective who collared the defendant.
“Well she’s putting on too much of a circus act for me,” Judge W. replies. “Bailiffs, throw her ass in holding while I take lunch. Maybe that will calm her down a bit.”
We head off to lunch, and when we get back, the young lady’s calmed down quite a bit. On questioning her story breaks faster than a porcelain doll. Turns out the young man came into a gas station as she was leaving and her parents convinced her to call the cops.
Judge finds the young man not guilty.
We get back to Judge W’s office and I’m still wondering why he tossed her in a holding cell.
“Why’d you throw her in holding over lunch, Judge?” I ask.
Judge W. thinks hard before responding. He’s not the type to waste words.
“Son, in my courtroom, everyone gets a say. But this ain’t that damn MTV show “The Real World.”
So, Seaton wants to go to back in the office tales, does he? Cool beans.
Back in the days when one could get an ex parte application heard on 4 hours notice, opposing counsel thinks she needs an ex parte order, and needs it that day, else her client will lose a valuable right. So she calls at about 8:45 to give notice of a 1:00 hearing. She doesn’t actually need that order, she was mistaken about a particular fact. But I can’t tell her that. If she gets the order, there would be no prejudice to my client, again because of the true fact.
So I call my client, explain the situation. I suggest that we just let her get the order, without my running up the client’s bill by going to court and opposing. Client’s response: FIGHT. FIGHT EVERYTHING.
Clients pay us for our (hopefully) good advice, but there are times when, as long as it isn’t illegal or unethical, we must do what the client wants. So off I go to court.
The most important thing I learned before I became a lawyer wasn’t in law school, it was in my bar exam preparation course. “If all else fails, the law is what is boldly asserted and plausibly maintained.” I may have put that lesson to use in opposing the ex parte application. Neither the judge nor opposing counsel could figure out what (if anything) was wrong with my argument. So instead of ruling on the spot, the judge took the matter under submission. Almost unheard of.
Opposing counsel realizes that things aren’t going her way. She was so sure that she had every right to the order that she began tearing up a bit when she realized she wasn’t going to get it, at least not on the spot. I go back to the office, a couple of the law clerks ask how it went. I tell them, at which point they erupt spontaneously into a rousing chorus of:
“It’s my ex parte, and I’ll cry if I want to.”
You know I’m a sucker for Lesley Gore.
In college I drove a 1969 Buick Skylark with a big-block 350. It had a few dents. One day I’m driving down the freeway at normal speed, around 90, and I come up behind a blue-gray Porsche Turbo Carrera doing 65. I change lanes to pass him and I notice a distinguished-looking gentleman behind the wheel. He speeds up to prevent me from passing. I floor it, and he does too. We are doing about 110 and I am approaching a semi in the 2nd lane, and the Porsche is right next to me. I have to make a choice, do I slow down, or run him off on to the shoulder? I’m a reckless young man, so of course I run him off on to the shoulder. I drive on and leave the incident behind, and forget about it.
A few months later I am in traffic court. I’ve been there plenty of times before and I know what to expect so I am barely paying attention. The officer shows up so I know that I will probably be convicted. I half-heartedly argue my case and then prepare for my fine. The judge says “Guilty! Your license is suspended for 6 months. Give it to the bailiff now!”
In amazement I look up at the judge, and recognize the distinguished gentleman from the blue-gray Porsche. Turns out he is the main traffic court judge for Sacramento. For years after that, I religiously failed to appear on every traffic ticket, because FTAs were handled by a different judge.
A particularly reactionary and racist judge is holding docket call. Defendants are arraigned before him as lawyers sit in the jury box waiting for appointments. One alleged burglar stands before the bench in an over-sized orange jumpsuit. The judge has a limited understanding of the right to counsel and remembers only the movie made about the plight of Clarence Earl Gideon. Looking down at the man, the judge declares, “You know, if it weren’t for Henry Fonda I would not have to give you a lawyer.”
I get a call from Judge C.’s secretary one day asking if I’ll take an appointment for a particularly troublesome defendant. It’s a theft under $500 case. Client allegedly caught stuffing CDs and panty hose down her bra at the local Dollar Tree.
“You’ll want to check her sheet.” I’m told. So I head to the courthouse and look up her rap sheet. It’s five pages long, all petty criminal offenses.
I try to get in touch with the client and fail repeatedly. She’s got a phone that’s almost always out of minutes. The day of the preliminary hearing I find her on a bench next to the courthouse bitching on her cell phone about how she can’t get in touch with her “goddamn no good court lawyer.”
“Hi,” I say. “I’m your goddamn no good court lawyer. Wanna chat?”
We discuss the case briefly and I head inside. She’s stopped by courthouse security.
The courthouse had a “no cigarettes” policy, which I thought was kind of stupid. So did the client, who tried to stash her pack in the fat rolls of her stomach.
In front of both security cameras facing the entrance to the courthouse.
Miraculously, she makes it into Sessions Court without getting arrested again. We talk the case and she gives me one clear order.
“Bind the case over to the grand jury. Judge C. will never give me a fair hearing.”
“Are you sure you want this?” I ask. “You know if this goes to Judge E. the fines and penalties are far more severe.”
“You heard me.”
So I do as I’m told. Judge C. binds the case over to the grand jury. Reminds client in the process that there’s a rule in place that if she commits any new offenses while out on bond she’ll be locked up until her trial.
We’re leaving the courthouse. I remind the client of the penalties for doing something stupid while out on bond. “Sure, Mr. Lawyer Man. Whatever.” I get as an answer.
Exactly one week later Judge C’s secretary calls me again. “She got picked up again. She’s in lockup.”
I head to the jail and have the client set up in a conference room. She comes in wearing a jumpsuit. New charge is Theft over $1000. Apparently this time she was caught lifting burner phones and tablets from a truck stop.
As soon as we lock eyes the first words out of her mouth are “I should have listened to you.”
Aggravated Assault of a Minor is the charge. Client is one of those guys who thinks he’s smarter than everyone, living with his mother in his late twenties, works at a record store, spends his evenings getting blasted with his buddies doing stupid shit.
On the night in question they allegedly tried to test their marksmanship out on some beer cans lined up on a fence rail. They had a BB gun to use for their target practice. Allegedly client was a terrible shooter, and one of the BBs missed the target entirely, hitting a kid in the arm next door.
I approach the ADAs at the table, hoping to get the charge reduced to something that won’t fuck up Record Store’s life this badly. “He shot a kid,” one ADA says smiling. “This is a slam dunk.”
“People do dumb shit when they’re drunk, and he didn’t even know the kid was next door.”
“Ok, what are you thinking?”
“Disorderly conduct, he does the weekend in jail, completes a 30 day voluntary rehab program and then we’re good.”
ADA#2 is now interested in this banter. He’s a far more affable guy interested in making deals. “It’s not a bad call,” he tells his colleague. “You weren’t exactly the pinnacle of good behavior at the office Christmas party.”
“Shut it,” says ADA#1.
“Let’s make a gentleman’s wager of it,” I say as I reach into my pocket. “Divide nine in half. If I can’t pull enough coins out of my pocket on the first try to reach the right number, we’re having a preliminary hearing today. If I do manage to pull out the exact total of coins, you take my deal.”
“Ok it’s a deal,” says ADA#1. “There’s no way in hell you have four and a half coins in your pocket.”
I open my closed fist and reveal four and a half pennies. Yes, I’d taken a pair of tin snips and sheared a penny in half. Sometimes when I get bored I make stuff.
“That’s what you get for making assumptions.”
My client got his disorderly, did his weekend in jail, and I had a standing hold on whatever new album release I wanted when I went to the record store.
I helped a guy out once who was a local pro wrestling promoter over a situation where some dumbass that hit his car swore the promoter didn’t have any auto insurance. He was extremely grateful to me. So much so that one weekend after my son was born, I get a message from him.
“Jim Cornette’s in town. Want to meet him?”
“Is the Pope Catholic?” Jim Cornette is one of my personal speaking influences and a major hero of mine. Getting a personal invitation to meet Corny was something I wouldn’t get again. I’m told when and where to be.
Barry meets me at this comic book convention in town before the doors open. He and his buddy Warren had been DJing an event called “Temple” the night before, and were buying hangover food at the concession stand.
After they get their food, I find myself in front of a true pro wrestling legend. And he’s every bit who he was on television in real life.
“Well look who the cat dragged in! Hi Barry, Hi Warren! Hey let me ask you a question, Warren,” Cornette says. He leans into Warren’s ear and yells “IS IT BRIGHT ENOUGH IN HERE FOR YA?” Warren flinches and Corny laughs. He sits at his table, stretches back, and says “I used to pull that one on Bobby Eaton when he’d been hitting the suds all night. See, you boys need to learn what clean living’s like. I went to the Waffle House last night for dinner after we did business, turned on the History Channel at my hotel, and was asleep by eight. That’s how I’m so spry for my age.”
Barry, reeling from this, makes the introduction as “my lawyer, Chris.”
I’m starstruck. I get a photo. He signs a tennis racket for me.
“This belongs to your wife, doesn’t it?”
“Yes, Mr. Cornette.”
“Call me Jim. She has no idea why the hell you’ve got it, does she?”
“No, Mr. Cornette, I mean Jim.”
We talk for a bit and Corny invites me to moderate a speaking panel he’s on that afternoon. I politely decline, telling him I’ve got to visit my son in the NICU.
“You’ve got a son? Congratulations! Who do you suspect?”
“Um, no Mr. Cornette, he’s my son.”
Cornette, shaking his head, turns to Barry and says “Barry, he’s never going to make a dime in the business. He could be the greatest lawyer in the world, but if that’s the best retort he’s got to a softball like that your boy’s never going to draw one cent in the wrestling business.”
Corny would be right about that last part.
Guy comes to me with a problem. His wife has a penchant for sucking dick. Just not his dick. The breaking point was when she hit up a truck stop and sucked 37 dicks in one night in one parking lot.
So we file divorce papers. I advise him the best course of action is “irreconcilable differences.” He wants it spelled out on paper their marriage is ending over her pathological desire to suck other guys’ dicks.
Mediation on that case was fun. She’d ask to be excused to the restroom and guy would say “Hey try not to suck any dick on the way back from the shitter!”
Eventually we hammer out the final details, and the judge grants the ID divorce I’d prayed we’d get. Oh how the guy wanted a judge to hear the number of dicks his wife had sucked other than his own. I managed to convince him even on a bright, sunny day no family court jurist would find that a good look.
We’re leaving the courthouse after the judge signs the final decree. I go to cheer the guy up, but he’s surprisingly more chipper than I expected. “It’s good to see you feeling better,” I say.
“I can’t wait to put this chapter of my life behind me. I start a new job tomorrow, and I couldn’t be happier with it.”
“What’s that?”
“I’ll be manually masturbating caged monkeys for artificial insemination. It’s important to have life goals!”
“Goals are good to have” used to be a truism. Now, maybe, not so much.
When I got out of law school, it seemed like everybody around me was a lawyer, so it was hard to distinguish myself when I met some interesting young lady. If I told them I was a lawyer, the reaction would be a yawn and, “Oh, another lawyer. Ho hum.”
So I came up with an idea. I created some business cards that said I was an armadillo breeder with the slogan, “bring a little joy into their lives.” I was suddenly a far more interesting fellow, but I was asked some deeply probing questions about how exactly I managed to accomplish the “joy” part. The can fully appreciate the delicate needs of monkeys.
Big Kevin Smith fan, are we?
Up to this point I had managed to never combine monkeys and happy endings into the same thought. Then along came Skink.
I say nothing.
This was a much tougher choice than i anticipated.
If quantity was a factor, CLS would have it hands down…i get the feeling he really wants the prize…either that or, like the judge who noted his verbosity, he also likes to hear himself write.
If competition was for biggest ah-ha moment, Ms.Kase’s story would have it. Matt’s “consider it an order” got a big knee slap… honorable mention for that one. They were all funny.
PGP gets the “that’ll teach ya” award …{the prize is a big Nelson(from the Simpsons) HA-HA!}
Of the actual war stories, Morgan O.’s was damn funny.
Skink’s “Mrs. BJ” story got a big laugh…but the eww factor lost him some points.
So….(drum-roll please)…..Richard gets the nod. That was one of those tales that, when reviewing the entries, made me chuckle every time i read it.
If Fubar and the Grand Inquisitor..(sounds like a band) don’t overrule my decision, congratulations Richard!
Thank you all.
Fubar mailed in his picks, which he’s still free to amend should he choose.
For the record, I egged Chris on to post as many stories as he liked, as he had a boring weekend and likes to tell stories, so why not? So don’t blame Chris for volume, as that was my fault.
As for Skink’s, it has been investigated by snopes, which has determined that 37 blow jobs is likely an exaggeration and possibly the leading cause of TMJ.
I will now duly deliberate over this very difficult decision. If Dave or Fubar have any additional thoughts, let me know (email, Dave. Email). Thank you all, and thanks to my virtually-robed brethren, Dave and Fubar.
Egging on an party before this here virtual tribunal is exercise of judicial discretion that I can accept under the circumstances.
Email I can do.
So now you tell us you expected thinking too?
I’m tough, Fu. But you’re up to it.
Richard’s story was my pick, too. Congratulations, Richard!