This is a true story. One of the reasons for my emphasizing preparation for trial, over and over again, is to ensure a chartered course, which, by its very nature, seeks and reveals unexpected developments, in an attempt to obviate surprise. A trial, however, is an adventure, which, by its own definition, embraces that which cannot be anticipated. All of which is a stuffy and pompous way of advising a trial attorney to be ready for anything.
Two young men, in their early twenties, were charged with the murder of an acquaintance, stemming from a botched drug deal. The defendants had arranged to meet the victim at the center of their home town in Massachusetts, and drive to Maine to consummate a newly set up cocaine sale. The deceased met them, as planned, left his car parked innocuously on the street, and all three drove north, in a vehicle owned by one of the defendants. They drove to a pre-arranged location where the "buy" was to take place. In actuality, however, this transaction was a sham, successfully used to lure the victim out of state. The associate was shot dead, and his body was left in the grass, off the road. The defendants drove back to Massachusetts and went about their routine activities, their revenge having been taken.
Three days later, the deceased's body was discovered and an investigation was commenced.
At the same time, the local police had taken note of the unattended parked car, ascertained the name of its owner, who, of course, could not be found. They decided to have the car towed until further information was received. As the front of the vehicle was uplifted, a paper dropped from the driver's visor. It was a note, later determined to have been written by the deceased. It was dated the day of the murder. It was simple and to the point: "In case of no return, please question (the names of both defendants)." A signpost from fate. Incrimination not to be denied. The bi-state investigations quickly merged and the defendants were arrested and charged. The venue of the trial was the locus of the killing.
It was a typically beautiful Maine town. The courthouse was a landmarked, former church, with its original architectural decor fully intact. It was winter and, with snow everywhere, the magnificence of the setting was totally inconsistent with the alleged details of this imported homicide. I represented one defendant; a prominent Boston attorney, ten years my senior, the other. I shall call him "Teddy". I had arranged for a Maine lawyer to be local counsel, and he successfully moved for our admittance, pro hac vice. Turned out, Teddy had been the Judge's classmate at law school and they greeted each other quite warmly. Never a negative factor for defense attorneys. All counsel met with the judge, the day prior to trial.
The trial had engendered considerable publicity among the locals. Not an everyday occurrence in these parts, for sure. Add two high powered, big city lawyers, and gossip seeds of a spectacle are planted. This was to be a big deal.
The Judge explained that he was scheduled to take a long awaited vacation in eight days. Nothing would deter this from going forward as planned. Nothing.
Accordingly, the trial would proceed on an eight a.m. to eight p.m. schedule. As flattered as he was to have been assigned this case, His Honor was, mentally, Hawaii bound. Hey, good for him. This positive looking forward, coupled with his law school reunion with Teddy, was transmitting good vibes.
He ruled that the note, found in the car of the victim, would come into evidence, our objections going to weight rather than admissibility.
This was not the first time that I had worked with local counsel, "Wayne". We were of the same ilk: no pseudo bullshit, loving everything attending a courtroom battle, and always ready for a good laugh and a good drink. It was a delight to work with him. We had bonded.
The hectic long hours of the trial, as ordained by His Honor, soon began to take its toll on Teddy. He was older and his stamina began to deplete. Slowly, but consistently, at first obvious to only the trained eye. But, he was a veteran of these wars, and had been around the block often enough so as to be able to pace himself, accordingly.
For six days of marching double time, we worked our asses off. We fought like hell. The case was close as we were making the turn into the home stretch. I was focusing on the climax of any trial. The part I loved the most. It would always exhilarate me. The high of all the highs. The culmination of hard work--the payoff--where you didn't have to worry about a nonsensical objection from your adversary--where it was just you and your captive audience, both in the jury box and amongst the spectators. You were at center stage--the spotlight was yours alone. All that had been pent-up was now about to be called out. Your emotional peak was at hand. Each trial had its own, to be indelibly branded by this particular phenomenon. THE CLOSING ARGUMENT.
The Judge did his housekeeping thing and scheduled arguments for the following morning. A long, hard night lay ahead. The adrenalin just kept pumping.
The spectators had been steadily growing in number. Local lawyers were now regular attendees. Both parents of each defendant were daily observers. The trial had become a cause celebre.
The courtroom was packed as the Judge nodded at me to begin.
I was prepared and, thus, at my best.
As I finished, Teddy got the call.
As we arrived at court, that morning, Wayne and I had both noticed that extreme fatigue was now readily apparent in Teddy's appearance and demeanor. Man, that cat was done in. He was calling on his reserve tank which, by now, had its pointer on "E". We were close observers as Teddy began.
It soon became obvious that he was failing fast. He began to ramble, repeating the same points in a manner difficult to follow. And, he kept going on and on and on. Look, Wayne and I were bushed, to be sure, but adrenalin was kicking in nicely. Not so with Teddy. He was in a downward spiral and out of control. Something had to be done. Wayne and I looked at each other.We nodded. We were in sync. We began motioning to Teddy to "cut", to bring it to a close, using our index fingers in a slashing gesture across our necks. He finally noticed us, began to gather his papers together, and stepped closer to the jury. His voice ratcheted up in volume. He was summonsing his last gasps.
"And, so, ladies and gentlemen of the jury, it is now time for you to deliberate and decide the true facts in this case. And, when you get into the jury room and review all of the evidence, you will be compelled, you will be mandated, it shall be your duty, you shall have no choice, but to find these young men GUILTY AS CHARGED."
I shit you not.
Several things happened at once. A complete silence permeated the courtroom. This was followed by a tortured gasp. The outraged parents of the defendants attempted to leap over the church rails and lunge at Teddy, with an unmistakeable intent to kill. The Judge, Teddy's ole buddy, grabbed his robe and wrapped it over as much of his face as he could, in a most feeble attempt to hide/muffle his maniacal laughter. Teddy just remained standing in front of the lobotomized jury, with his hands at his sides and his chin tucked firmly into his chest, obviously suffering the effects of the I Fu---d Up In Front Of The Jury syndrome.
As for me and Wayne, we looked at each other with, at first, a blank stare of horror, which, despite our best efforts to the contrary, began, inexorably, to dissolve into the precursor of hysteria.
And then came Teddy's lunge for redemption.
Looking at the Judge, the Patron Saint of Apology intoned,"Sorry, Your Honor, Freudian slip!"
That did it. The Judge, forsaking his Zoro disguise, emitted what sounded like "whoaghhh!!!!", bolted from his chair, gargled "recess", and disappeared.
Me and Wayne, again, in complete sync, dashed out of the courtroom and ran up the stairs to the church steeple, fell to the floor and just kept rolling on our backs, finally surrendering to unrestrained laughter.
I know we weren't being kind to Teddy, but our own fatigue made us all the more vulnerable to the mirth of the moment overcoming everything else.
Quasimoto was not needed to ring any bells; you could hear our bellows all over town.
The Jury was obviously persuaded by the eloquence of Teddy's closing. They were most obedient.
Both defendants were found guilty. Wayne and I rushed Teddy back to the motel, threw our luggage into the car and got the hell outta theya.
I indulged my week of depression, for a loss is still a loss. I vainly held out hope for appellate success, but that was a no-go. I did not rely upon Teddy's mishap to get back on track. I licked my wounds and eventually moved on.
What I did do was not spread this around as an inside joke. That would, in no way, have a favorable reflection on Teddy's reputation.
Nor on mine.
You can never be certain as to what a trial may bring.
Being a criminal defense attorney has, at least, one thing in common with life.
You never stop learning. Never.
Sunday, May 29, 2011
Saturday, May 28, 2011
ANY ROOM FOR COMPASSION ON THE BENCH?
Is "compassionate judge" an oxymoron? Does it connote a sinner or a savior? Is it something you are born with, or do you develop it, as your own experiences in life stake their claim? Does it make you an "activist judge"? And, by the way, that term has become a prostitute for argument; if someone disagrees with your ruling, that's what you are; if your words meet with approval, you are a strict constructionist, a true American, who's not gonna change a word that appears in the constitution. As if the framers, way back then, could envision today's society. Did Thomas Jefferson own an iphone or a droid? Does the right to bear arms include homemade plague? Was Samuel Adams a member of the Tea Party? Would the founding fathers have frequented Supercuts? (wouldn't have done them any harm).
Is compassion, in a judge, frowned upon, or even condemned by the "majority", whatever the hell that means? If media attitude is an accurate reflector, then the answer is a resounding "yes." In the eyes of too many, a compassionate judge is a criminal coddler.
"If he committed the crime, he's gotta do the time!"
Not so fast, ma man. Too broad a brush for me.
EVERY case is different when it comes time to decide an appropriate sentence.
Statutes have no provisions for compassion. Juries are specifically instructed to disregard it when deliberating. It won't make it through the first door of any penal institution.
For a judge to exercise compassion takes COURAGE. But, if a case, in all of its parameters, calls for it, then it should be utilized. If what is done is fair, then it is just.
And, no camouflaging it. The reasoning of the Court should be made a matter of record, for all to see. "I did what I thought was right, and here's why."
With regard to those most skeptical of my opinion, hypothetically, should they, or a family member, be convicted or plead guilty to a crime, will not their foremost prayer be that the Judge be compassionate?
For clarity purposes, it is not my contention that this is appropriate in every case, but when it is, a Judge should not be afraid to do what he/she believes justice requires, the inclusion of compassion, notwithstanding. If heat comes, take it. Comes with the job.
Is compassion, in a judge, frowned upon, or even condemned by the "majority", whatever the hell that means? If media attitude is an accurate reflector, then the answer is a resounding "yes." In the eyes of too many, a compassionate judge is a criminal coddler.
"If he committed the crime, he's gotta do the time!"
Not so fast, ma man. Too broad a brush for me.
EVERY case is different when it comes time to decide an appropriate sentence.
Statutes have no provisions for compassion. Juries are specifically instructed to disregard it when deliberating. It won't make it through the first door of any penal institution.
For a judge to exercise compassion takes COURAGE. But, if a case, in all of its parameters, calls for it, then it should be utilized. If what is done is fair, then it is just.
And, no camouflaging it. The reasoning of the Court should be made a matter of record, for all to see. "I did what I thought was right, and here's why."
With regard to those most skeptical of my opinion, hypothetically, should they, or a family member, be convicted or plead guilty to a crime, will not their foremost prayer be that the Judge be compassionate?
For clarity purposes, it is not my contention that this is appropriate in every case, but when it is, a Judge should not be afraid to do what he/she believes justice requires, the inclusion of compassion, notwithstanding. If heat comes, take it. Comes with the job.
Thursday, May 26, 2011
HOW CAN YOU DEFEND SOMEONE YOU KNOW IS GUILTY?
I hate posts that begin with a disclaimer.
I begin with a disclaimer.
My answer to the question at hand is my personal opinion that was most instrumental in deciding that my only interest in the practice of law was to defend those formally accused of crime. A trial of that sort was the fight of which I wanted to be part. And, yes, a criminal trial, its allegiance to due process and professional courtesy, notwithstanding, is a street fight. The opposing attorneys go after each other with the gloves off. The envelope is pushed to the max. The intense pressure takes over your life from the beginning of preparation to the jury's verdict. Your loved ones must be very patient with your overriding and passionate goal: to win the case. Your ego flies the plane and wants the ultimate reward of a "W", for only that will make the intensity and pressure of the trial understandable, even admirable, and even congratulatory, for the "winning" attorney gets the ultimate prize, to wit, the "juice" of victory. His is the center spotlight. He has thoroughly prepared for this ma-no a ma-no confrontation and a not guilty verdict is the ceremonial crown on his head.
And, what of the client? Shouldn't he/she be the sole beneficiary of an acquittal and not second in line to the attorney?
The answer is "no" because a win for the attorney reaps the same benefit for the client.
So, for a criminal defense attorney to unashamedly say, "I won it for me", the client is just as much the beneficiary.
The stock and most expected answer to this Post's question is, "Everyone is entitled to a fair trial, regardless of the nature of the crime charged. The constitution mandates this." This is technically correct.
In actuality, if the lawyer has that personal proclivity to be able to ignore the assumed guilt of the client, and, yet, be irresistibility drawn to the thrill of professional combat, ready to give his 100% effort, with no holdback, he's in it for the juice of winning, with the client reaping the ultimate and glorious consequence of victory. The constitution plays little or no part in this. That's the way it is, folks.
From the very first meeting with your client, you have a fairly reliable gut feeling as to whether or not, he has, in fact committed the crime(s) with which he is charged. He doesn't have to admit his guilt. Very, very, few do. For to do so requires your admonition that you cannot and will not call him to the stand for the purpose of maintaining his innocence. For, he would be committing perjury and you could face an indictment for subornation of perjury.
However, the client's protestations of innocence, notwithstanding, you may be convinced, after getting your arms around the case, of his criminal culpability. Most attorneys, under such circumstances, are unable to give their 100% in a defense effort. I can readily understand this, and respect their feelings.
They should not, therefor, engage in criminal defense work, but , rather, move on to other areas of the law where this consciousness of moral challenge is decidedly less present, if at all.
"A criminal trial shall produce the truth!"
Nice in theory, and, by coincidence, might be correct.
In the world of practicality, however, a criminal trial demonstrates which, of the opposing counsel, is the more effective persuader.
That is the art of excellence in a criminal trial.
AMEN.
I begin with a disclaimer.
My answer to the question at hand is my personal opinion that was most instrumental in deciding that my only interest in the practice of law was to defend those formally accused of crime. A trial of that sort was the fight of which I wanted to be part. And, yes, a criminal trial, its allegiance to due process and professional courtesy, notwithstanding, is a street fight. The opposing attorneys go after each other with the gloves off. The envelope is pushed to the max. The intense pressure takes over your life from the beginning of preparation to the jury's verdict. Your loved ones must be very patient with your overriding and passionate goal: to win the case. Your ego flies the plane and wants the ultimate reward of a "W", for only that will make the intensity and pressure of the trial understandable, even admirable, and even congratulatory, for the "winning" attorney gets the ultimate prize, to wit, the "juice" of victory. His is the center spotlight. He has thoroughly prepared for this ma-no a ma-no confrontation and a not guilty verdict is the ceremonial crown on his head.
And, what of the client? Shouldn't he/she be the sole beneficiary of an acquittal and not second in line to the attorney?
The answer is "no" because a win for the attorney reaps the same benefit for the client.
So, for a criminal defense attorney to unashamedly say, "I won it for me", the client is just as much the beneficiary.
The stock and most expected answer to this Post's question is, "Everyone is entitled to a fair trial, regardless of the nature of the crime charged. The constitution mandates this." This is technically correct.
In actuality, if the lawyer has that personal proclivity to be able to ignore the assumed guilt of the client, and, yet, be irresistibility drawn to the thrill of professional combat, ready to give his 100% effort, with no holdback, he's in it for the juice of winning, with the client reaping the ultimate and glorious consequence of victory. The constitution plays little or no part in this. That's the way it is, folks.
From the very first meeting with your client, you have a fairly reliable gut feeling as to whether or not, he has, in fact committed the crime(s) with which he is charged. He doesn't have to admit his guilt. Very, very, few do. For to do so requires your admonition that you cannot and will not call him to the stand for the purpose of maintaining his innocence. For, he would be committing perjury and you could face an indictment for subornation of perjury.
However, the client's protestations of innocence, notwithstanding, you may be convinced, after getting your arms around the case, of his criminal culpability. Most attorneys, under such circumstances, are unable to give their 100% in a defense effort. I can readily understand this, and respect their feelings.
They should not, therefor, engage in criminal defense work, but , rather, move on to other areas of the law where this consciousness of moral challenge is decidedly less present, if at all.
"A criminal trial shall produce the truth!"
Nice in theory, and, by coincidence, might be correct.
In the world of practicality, however, a criminal trial demonstrates which, of the opposing counsel, is the more effective persuader.
That is the art of excellence in a criminal trial.
AMEN.
Tuesday, May 24, 2011
THE BOOMERANG EFFECT
I haven't got the cojones to invent this story and publish it as non-fiction.
It may sound immodest as hell, but, it is what it is, and it is the truth.
It happened this afternoon.
Went to and was treated by my chiropractor. His good health is incorporated into my nightly prayers.
Time for lunch. I am a loyal customer of a sandwich shoppe located in the same strip mall, and make this a frequent visit of a two-parter. Profuse but genuine exchange of friendliness with the owner. A good and decent, hard working, family man. Give me a million more like him.
He took my order and I sat at a table waiting for my pick-up signal. After a minute or two, a young woman delivered my sandwich. She looked to be in her early thirties, well groomed, very gracious and quite attractive.
I was hungry as hell so I dug in, ravenously. Nothing exotic, just a turkey sandwich, with lettuce, tomato and mayo, on a lightly toasted sesame roll. Man, I gotta tell ya, it hit me as the most delicious food I've ever tasted. When I finished, having nursed it down with a diet coke, I had to get another, to go. I returned to the counter and gave my order to the lady.
"You're a judge, aren't you?"
"I was. I'm retired, now."
"But, you were the chief judge of the court, weren't you?"
"Yes. Why do you ask?"
"About ten years ago, I was involved in some trouble and I had to go to court. I couldn't afford a lawyer. I was so frightened, I was shaking and couldn't stop crying. You were the judge. You saw through the whole thing right away. You interrupted what was going on. You just waved your hand and everybody stopped talking. You judged everything on the spot. You told me to calm down, that everything was going to be okay, that I should put this behind me and get whatever help I needed. You threw the case out. You judged everybody. You saw that I was a good person. I kept thanking you, but I never forgot that day. You're a good judge."
She had been very skimpy on the details, and I wasn't about to ask her anything, given the fact that she was emotionally involved in what she was saying, and we were in a public place.
"I'm truly glad things have worked out for you, and that I did what was, obviously, the right thing. What's your name?" She told me. "Mine's Gerry."
"Thank you, Gerry."
"No, thank you, ......"
I took my food and walked to the door. As I was stepping out, I turned and heard her say, to a man with a quizzical look on his face, "That's Judge Alch!"
Believe me, such incidents are rare, so excuse the liberty I take when I savor the DNA of it.
I earned my pay, at least on that day.
It may sound immodest as hell, but, it is what it is, and it is the truth.
It happened this afternoon.
Went to and was treated by my chiropractor. His good health is incorporated into my nightly prayers.
Time for lunch. I am a loyal customer of a sandwich shoppe located in the same strip mall, and make this a frequent visit of a two-parter. Profuse but genuine exchange of friendliness with the owner. A good and decent, hard working, family man. Give me a million more like him.
He took my order and I sat at a table waiting for my pick-up signal. After a minute or two, a young woman delivered my sandwich. She looked to be in her early thirties, well groomed, very gracious and quite attractive.
I was hungry as hell so I dug in, ravenously. Nothing exotic, just a turkey sandwich, with lettuce, tomato and mayo, on a lightly toasted sesame roll. Man, I gotta tell ya, it hit me as the most delicious food I've ever tasted. When I finished, having nursed it down with a diet coke, I had to get another, to go. I returned to the counter and gave my order to the lady.
"You're a judge, aren't you?"
"I was. I'm retired, now."
"But, you were the chief judge of the court, weren't you?"
"Yes. Why do you ask?"
"About ten years ago, I was involved in some trouble and I had to go to court. I couldn't afford a lawyer. I was so frightened, I was shaking and couldn't stop crying. You were the judge. You saw through the whole thing right away. You interrupted what was going on. You just waved your hand and everybody stopped talking. You judged everything on the spot. You told me to calm down, that everything was going to be okay, that I should put this behind me and get whatever help I needed. You threw the case out. You judged everybody. You saw that I was a good person. I kept thanking you, but I never forgot that day. You're a good judge."
She had been very skimpy on the details, and I wasn't about to ask her anything, given the fact that she was emotionally involved in what she was saying, and we were in a public place.
"I'm truly glad things have worked out for you, and that I did what was, obviously, the right thing. What's your name?" She told me. "Mine's Gerry."
"Thank you, Gerry."
"No, thank you, ......"
I took my food and walked to the door. As I was stepping out, I turned and heard her say, to a man with a quizzical look on his face, "That's Judge Alch!"
Believe me, such incidents are rare, so excuse the liberty I take when I savor the DNA of it.
I earned my pay, at least on that day.
Friday, May 20, 2011
FORGET TO REMEMBER
Everybody wants to be happy. Sporadically, over time, that happens.
Everybody wants to be happy all of the time. That,in my personal opinion, is impossible.
In the September of your years, reflections on your life are prompted by daily occurrences. Everything is seen through deja vu colored glasses. The intensity differs, but the emotional response does not. Remembering unhappy experiences is a bitch. Your degree of pain is determined by the degree of healing that has taken place. Past unhappiness can come from a variety of sources. To set forth a laundry list is to beckon depression. This post, therefore, deals with but one: unrequited love.
A broken heart.
If you are a profound romantic, falling in love seeks all, or nothing at all. Half a love never appeals to you.
There's a new look in your eyes, a new spring to your walk. You can think or talk of nothing else, nor do you want to. You incorporate words of a favorite song into your everyday speak. Your friends smile at you with envy. Anything, everything, is possible. There are no dark tones. Your ambition is limitless. Watch out, world--here you come.
But, if something goes wrong, despite your determination to never let that happen, you reach for the other's hand; you try, desperately, to hold on, but the realization begins to emerge that you can't. You reject that notion and expend all of your energy in trying to revive and sustain this miracle that was. But, it's not within your control, and it goes by you, as you spin off the tracks. You keep looking back, retracing your steps, but second guessing merely pours salt on your severely wounded heart. Your life, measured by the calendar, continues on, in the complete absence of any healing process. You walk with your head down.
Years pass, but you never forget.
"Let it go."----You can't.
"Move on."----You can't.
Is this rational? The answer is not yes or no, it's who cares.
You've put yourself on a raft, letting the tide take you where it will. You keep committing the fatal error of trying to rewrite the script, which inevitably leads to second guessing yourself. So, what's the cure?
Time. Let it carry this burden for you. Try to stop remembering, at least try. If you lose this battle, don't beat yourself up. The passage of time is your most effective medication. And, there's no co-pay.
There will come a day when you suddenly become aware that the pain is a little less. Be grateful, and keep going with the flow. Will you ever completely forget? No. Will you be able to look back and not flinch? That's the goal.
In the meantime, try to forget to remember.
Everybody wants to be happy all of the time. That,in my personal opinion, is impossible.
In the September of your years, reflections on your life are prompted by daily occurrences. Everything is seen through deja vu colored glasses. The intensity differs, but the emotional response does not. Remembering unhappy experiences is a bitch. Your degree of pain is determined by the degree of healing that has taken place. Past unhappiness can come from a variety of sources. To set forth a laundry list is to beckon depression. This post, therefore, deals with but one: unrequited love.
A broken heart.
If you are a profound romantic, falling in love seeks all, or nothing at all. Half a love never appeals to you.
There's a new look in your eyes, a new spring to your walk. You can think or talk of nothing else, nor do you want to. You incorporate words of a favorite song into your everyday speak. Your friends smile at you with envy. Anything, everything, is possible. There are no dark tones. Your ambition is limitless. Watch out, world--here you come.
But, if something goes wrong, despite your determination to never let that happen, you reach for the other's hand; you try, desperately, to hold on, but the realization begins to emerge that you can't. You reject that notion and expend all of your energy in trying to revive and sustain this miracle that was. But, it's not within your control, and it goes by you, as you spin off the tracks. You keep looking back, retracing your steps, but second guessing merely pours salt on your severely wounded heart. Your life, measured by the calendar, continues on, in the complete absence of any healing process. You walk with your head down.
Years pass, but you never forget.
"Let it go."----You can't.
"Move on."----You can't.
Is this rational? The answer is not yes or no, it's who cares.
You've put yourself on a raft, letting the tide take you where it will. You keep committing the fatal error of trying to rewrite the script, which inevitably leads to second guessing yourself. So, what's the cure?
Time. Let it carry this burden for you. Try to stop remembering, at least try. If you lose this battle, don't beat yourself up. The passage of time is your most effective medication. And, there's no co-pay.
There will come a day when you suddenly become aware that the pain is a little less. Be grateful, and keep going with the flow. Will you ever completely forget? No. Will you be able to look back and not flinch? That's the goal.
In the meantime, try to forget to remember.
Thursday, May 19, 2011
PROTECTING THOSE WHO PROTECT
I had been on the Bench for just over a month. I was encountering bumps in the road but learning from my missteps. I was surrounded by veteran court personnel who, being the good people that they were, were at the ready to help me at all times.
The matter before me was a violation, by a young man, of a Restraining Order which prohibited him from having any contact with a specified woman. Being in love, he consistently sent her flowers and drove by her house. Conduct not deemed dangerous per se, but, nevertheless, violating the R.O.
Indeed, on the morning of the hearing, the Probation Officer, assigned to the case, spoke to me in my lobby in order to helpfully brief me on the background.
"Judge, here's the story with this guy." The off-the record atmosphere encouraged him to spread it out for me in candid fashion, for which I was most grateful. "Not a bad dude, but more a pain in the ass than anything else." Ah, the grace, beauty and precision of high level legal loquaciousness.
"The thing is, I would respectfully request that you ream him a new a-hole. I mean really scare the crap outta him. The victim will be happy and I'll keep a close eye on him."
I nodded affirmatively. "But, please, Your Honor, really lay it on him, heavy." I morphed into the Raging Bull, stalking his prey for demolition within the first fifteen seconds of the first round. I squinted my eyes, and all but drooled in sadistic anticipation. My tongue would be as deadly as the whip of Zoro.
As I entered the courtroom, some of the spectators, perhaps sensing the atmosphere, leaned forward on the benches. The clerk immediately called the case. The defendant stood at the microphone, flanked by a Court Officer, uniform starched and creased, at full attention.
A word about these two men: the defendant was in his very early twenties, and it was there for all to see that any vestige of self control had been completely overcome by the imminence of doom that, most surely, lay ahead. He was scared to death. The C.O. looked as if he had, the night before, exhausted most if not all of his beer of choice at his pub of choice. His mouth was so dry that tackling more than two syllables at a time would have surely caused lockjaw. Moreover, his goddamn hair hurt. Patience was not to be his strong suit, that day.
The clerk handed me the file. I glared at the violator and began my menacing message.
"Sir, listen to me, very, very closely." The accused began to visibly shake with fear. I decided to ratchet up the sneer and contempt volumes, but not too much, lest I look like the Judge that I'm not.
"You have been ordered to stay away from and have no contact with......" I paused, for I had never ascertained the name of the woman he was bothering. The seconds of silence grew longer as I desperately scanned the docket sheet. The defendant began to whimper, causing the Court Officer to advise him to"shuddup!" The man began crying that he didn't want to go to jail, but rather to his mother. Not an unreasonable request, actually.
The longer my delay, the more his cries increased. "I wanna go home!" The C.O. replied,"turn it off or I'll deck ya". Now, there's a guy who would take a bullet for me. The thought entered my mind that I was about to lose complete control of the courtroom.
At last, I saw a block on the docket sheet entitled "complainant" with a woman's name typed in: Jane Sturgis.
I was ready to continue...."no contact with Jane Sturgis! That means if you see her walking on the street towards you, cross to the other side and walk in the opposite direction. If you see Ms. Sturgis in a store, stop in your tracks and get the hell out of there, fast! Don't call her, don't write to her, don't send her anything, etc. etc. etc."
I was really whipping myself up into a lather---(and, by the way, who the hell ever came up with that phrase? and does he/she not need psychiatric help, fast?)---and, at the same time, the defendant could be heard moaning, over and over,"I'll do it. I'll do whatever the Judge says. But, how can I, when I don't even know who Jane Sturgis is? (screaming now) WHO THE HELL IS JANE STURGIS?"
Something had gone amiss. If this guy was making this up, he could pass a polygraph test administered by a security organization so secret that nobody knew its name. I almost paused myself into an eyes open coma.
Suddenly, my Clerk turned around and looked at me. His face was kind of a reddish green. In a tone of panic, he hissed,"Judge, Jane Sturgis is the cop who made the arrest. The victim's name is Susan Troy."
Without missing a beat, I continued,"And that goes for Susan Troy, as well. My words relate to both of them!" And, I then repeated my "don't" shpiel, all over again, segueing from "Sturgis" to "Troy". I was just as menacing, but this time, the defendant just kept nodding "yes", with a huge smile of relief.
That story made the rounds of District Courts for miles and miles. It was transformed into a legend talking point. And, whenever Officer Sturgis came into my courtroom, which she did, with great frequency, a fellow cop would escort her to sidebar, to make sure that I could see that she was o.k.
And, she would always say,"Thank you so much for protecting me, Judge Alch. I owe my safety to you." When I retired from the Bench, many years later, that story was still alive and well, and Officer Sturgis would always give me a heads-up on her welfare.
P.S.: six months after the incident, I was designated to act as "the emergency Judge" for a two week period. I was on call for all matters, in and around my Court's jurisdiction, that occurred between 4:30p.m. and 8:30a.m. One night, I received a call from the State Police that detectives, assigned to narcotics, needed a Judge's signature for the issuance of a search warrant. They came to my home at 3:15a.m. I read the supporting documents, which were all in order, and issued the warrant. As the police were leaving, one detective stated,"I just wanted you to know, Your Honor, that Officer Jane Sturgis is just fine."
I never did anything to make the Sturgis story go away.
The matter before me was a violation, by a young man, of a Restraining Order which prohibited him from having any contact with a specified woman. Being in love, he consistently sent her flowers and drove by her house. Conduct not deemed dangerous per se, but, nevertheless, violating the R.O.
Indeed, on the morning of the hearing, the Probation Officer, assigned to the case, spoke to me in my lobby in order to helpfully brief me on the background.
"Judge, here's the story with this guy." The off-the record atmosphere encouraged him to spread it out for me in candid fashion, for which I was most grateful. "Not a bad dude, but more a pain in the ass than anything else." Ah, the grace, beauty and precision of high level legal loquaciousness.
"The thing is, I would respectfully request that you ream him a new a-hole. I mean really scare the crap outta him. The victim will be happy and I'll keep a close eye on him."
I nodded affirmatively. "But, please, Your Honor, really lay it on him, heavy." I morphed into the Raging Bull, stalking his prey for demolition within the first fifteen seconds of the first round. I squinted my eyes, and all but drooled in sadistic anticipation. My tongue would be as deadly as the whip of Zoro.
As I entered the courtroom, some of the spectators, perhaps sensing the atmosphere, leaned forward on the benches. The clerk immediately called the case. The defendant stood at the microphone, flanked by a Court Officer, uniform starched and creased, at full attention.
A word about these two men: the defendant was in his very early twenties, and it was there for all to see that any vestige of self control had been completely overcome by the imminence of doom that, most surely, lay ahead. He was scared to death. The C.O. looked as if he had, the night before, exhausted most if not all of his beer of choice at his pub of choice. His mouth was so dry that tackling more than two syllables at a time would have surely caused lockjaw. Moreover, his goddamn hair hurt. Patience was not to be his strong suit, that day.
The clerk handed me the file. I glared at the violator and began my menacing message.
"Sir, listen to me, very, very closely." The accused began to visibly shake with fear. I decided to ratchet up the sneer and contempt volumes, but not too much, lest I look like the Judge that I'm not.
"You have been ordered to stay away from and have no contact with......" I paused, for I had never ascertained the name of the woman he was bothering. The seconds of silence grew longer as I desperately scanned the docket sheet. The defendant began to whimper, causing the Court Officer to advise him to"shuddup!" The man began crying that he didn't want to go to jail, but rather to his mother. Not an unreasonable request, actually.
The longer my delay, the more his cries increased. "I wanna go home!" The C.O. replied,"turn it off or I'll deck ya". Now, there's a guy who would take a bullet for me. The thought entered my mind that I was about to lose complete control of the courtroom.
At last, I saw a block on the docket sheet entitled "complainant" with a woman's name typed in: Jane Sturgis.
I was ready to continue...."no contact with Jane Sturgis! That means if you see her walking on the street towards you, cross to the other side and walk in the opposite direction. If you see Ms. Sturgis in a store, stop in your tracks and get the hell out of there, fast! Don't call her, don't write to her, don't send her anything, etc. etc. etc."
I was really whipping myself up into a lather---(and, by the way, who the hell ever came up with that phrase? and does he/she not need psychiatric help, fast?)---and, at the same time, the defendant could be heard moaning, over and over,"I'll do it. I'll do whatever the Judge says. But, how can I, when I don't even know who Jane Sturgis is? (screaming now) WHO THE HELL IS JANE STURGIS?"
Something had gone amiss. If this guy was making this up, he could pass a polygraph test administered by a security organization so secret that nobody knew its name. I almost paused myself into an eyes open coma.
Suddenly, my Clerk turned around and looked at me. His face was kind of a reddish green. In a tone of panic, he hissed,"Judge, Jane Sturgis is the cop who made the arrest. The victim's name is Susan Troy."
Without missing a beat, I continued,"And that goes for Susan Troy, as well. My words relate to both of them!" And, I then repeated my "don't" shpiel, all over again, segueing from "Sturgis" to "Troy". I was just as menacing, but this time, the defendant just kept nodding "yes", with a huge smile of relief.
That story made the rounds of District Courts for miles and miles. It was transformed into a legend talking point. And, whenever Officer Sturgis came into my courtroom, which she did, with great frequency, a fellow cop would escort her to sidebar, to make sure that I could see that she was o.k.
And, she would always say,"Thank you so much for protecting me, Judge Alch. I owe my safety to you." When I retired from the Bench, many years later, that story was still alive and well, and Officer Sturgis would always give me a heads-up on her welfare.
P.S.: six months after the incident, I was designated to act as "the emergency Judge" for a two week period. I was on call for all matters, in and around my Court's jurisdiction, that occurred between 4:30p.m. and 8:30a.m. One night, I received a call from the State Police that detectives, assigned to narcotics, needed a Judge's signature for the issuance of a search warrant. They came to my home at 3:15a.m. I read the supporting documents, which were all in order, and issued the warrant. As the police were leaving, one detective stated,"I just wanted you to know, Your Honor, that Officer Jane Sturgis is just fine."
I never did anything to make the Sturgis story go away.
Tuesday, May 17, 2011
NONE KNOW THEM BUT TO LOVE THEM, NOR NAME THEM BUT TO PRAISE
What goes with these semi or full criticisms of the circumstances attending the death of Osama bib Laden?
"It was wrong to kill him if he wasn't, himself, using deadly force."
"The goal of the mission should have been to capture him alive, and bring him to trial, thereby showing the world that American Due Process applies to foe as well as friend."
"Why the secret burial at sea?, why no release of pictures, etc.?"
Are you kidding me? We're talking about Seal Team Unit 6, here; an elite part of the men and women serving in defense of our country.
Sent into harm's way for a tour of combat in a no-man's-land; then, if they are lucky enough to have survived, back home for a period of time, shortened by a recall to active duty, to be again enveloped by a hell of sand. And, they do this proudly. Where do we get such men?
I'm not criticizing the patriotism of the complainers, I'm simply opining that their sentiments are misplaced. I stand in awe of the Seals. I thank God for them. When I read accounts of the degree of intensive training they went through, one dress rehearsal after another, preparing for every contingency, then meeting head-on and conquering unanticipated events, I am thrilled with pride. To me, this is a symbol of what the U.S.A. is all about.
One of my students personally knows a group of Seals, and he sums them up this way: if they're having a beer at a tavern, and a fight breaks out among other customers, they rise and vanish, even though one of them could have immediately neutralized the situation. The coolest of cool. They remain focused on who they are. He brought one of them to a class and we chatted. Charming but not too talkative, unassuming, yet giving off an aura of strength and confidence. When he was leaving, we shook hands, and I said,"God bless you."
I was not embarrassed to say it; he was not ill-at- ease to hear it.
"It was wrong to kill him if he wasn't, himself, using deadly force."
"The goal of the mission should have been to capture him alive, and bring him to trial, thereby showing the world that American Due Process applies to foe as well as friend."
"Why the secret burial at sea?, why no release of pictures, etc.?"
Are you kidding me? We're talking about Seal Team Unit 6, here; an elite part of the men and women serving in defense of our country.
Sent into harm's way for a tour of combat in a no-man's-land; then, if they are lucky enough to have survived, back home for a period of time, shortened by a recall to active duty, to be again enveloped by a hell of sand. And, they do this proudly. Where do we get such men?
I'm not criticizing the patriotism of the complainers, I'm simply opining that their sentiments are misplaced. I stand in awe of the Seals. I thank God for them. When I read accounts of the degree of intensive training they went through, one dress rehearsal after another, preparing for every contingency, then meeting head-on and conquering unanticipated events, I am thrilled with pride. To me, this is a symbol of what the U.S.A. is all about.
One of my students personally knows a group of Seals, and he sums them up this way: if they're having a beer at a tavern, and a fight breaks out among other customers, they rise and vanish, even though one of them could have immediately neutralized the situation. The coolest of cool. They remain focused on who they are. He brought one of them to a class and we chatted. Charming but not too talkative, unassuming, yet giving off an aura of strength and confidence. When he was leaving, we shook hands, and I said,"God bless you."
I was not embarrassed to say it; he was not ill-at- ease to hear it.
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