RANDOM HARVESTS

At the last GOP debate, why wasn't there some response by any of the candidates when members of the audience booed a gay soldier, on the job in Iraq, asking about the don't ask-don't tell law? The strongest after-the-fact statement was "unfortunate." This man, one of our finest, risking his life for his country,  should be greeted with "God bless you" or "We are grateful for your service", regardless of what he has to say. Is the fear of the ultra conservative right that strong? Let's get centered here. Enough gutless silence. A soldier gets a pass on boos from any audience.

Why are acts of violence (read "kill") committed exclusively by pro-lifers against pro- choicers? Might it reflect out-of-control maniacal zealots versus reasonable people who dare to have another view? Believe what you will, but a doctor providing abortion services, in a responsible medical way, will not be charged with any degree of homicide. People should be able to disagree without killing each other. Or is the right of pro-choice an exception to that rule? And why must this issue be discussed in whispered tones?

Never, ever, discuss politics while drinking.

If a close friend or relative of a criminal defense attorney is killed by a drunk driver, watch that lawyer's zeal in defending OUI cases plummet off the chart.

Why are so many self-professed intellectuals really pseudo-intellectuals?

Why do men, at the height of their good-look swag, get unnecessarily short haircuts, and have to hibernate 'till it grows back. A full head of hair is a man's strongest asset. Groom, don't cut.

I don't care who you are or what you do, always have a wintergreen BreathSaver in your mouth. What an edge you'll have, comin' owtta the gate.

Why do young people refuse to benefit from advice of elders, insisting on making the same mistakes themselves, before paying heed?

How to handle a woman? Look to Camelot: "Simply love them, love them, love them," Try to top that.

A key member of the Boston Red Sox, following their stunning loss to Baltimore, coupled with the more stunning Tampa Bay come-from-behind victory over the Yankees, said"I believe in God and it was his will that we not make the playoffs." Can you even try to picture those words being spoken by Ted Williams, Babe Ruth,Joe Dimaggio, or players of their ilk?  They'd be kicking empty cans all over the lot, as well as their own asses. Please, a breakdown is a collapse is a choke.

Falling in love with love is falling for make-believe.

Weren't former president of Egypt Hosna Mubarak, former Panamanian dictator Manuel Noriega and former dictator of Iraq Saddam Hussein all one time allies of the United States? Receiving monies and weapons from us? Don't look now, but their being overthrown at our initiative, has worsened the security of those regions and ours as well. We should pick our poisons more carefully.

Why the hesitation in unequivocally stating that President George W. Bush lied us into the Iraq war and all that inevitably followed. He was a puppet of his Vice President and did what he was told. Funny, if it wasn't so damned dangerous. Can you ever forget his reaction, caught on tape, to being told, by Andrew Card, of the Twin Tower attacks? THERE WAS NONE FOR 8 SECONDS. Cheney was the man in charge and issued the tough orders. A most competent guy, when he's on your side.

I am not a racist. But a Mosque near the site of Ground Zero insults the memories of those slain and does irreparable damage to their families and loved ones. Like building an Auschwitz memorial on the West Bank. Any constitutional argument in support, should be trumped by common sense.

Yes, I do get very concerned when I see people in Muslim garb flying on the same flight. I remain anxiously vigilant and pray that there are FBI agents, posing as passengers, on the plane. I'll bet I'm not alone.

Two stoned guys conversing: "Is Rip Torn his real name?"
"Is Rip Torn who's real name?"

"God grant me the serenity to accept things I cannot change, courage to change the things I can, and wisdom to know the difference."
Is that not up there, just beneath the Bible, as a standard for living?

If you knew Suzy like I knew Suzy, her father would be after you, toozy.

President Obama, avoiding the speed lane while staying in the middle of traffic, will slowly but surely win the race. His car is named "REASON."

As Mrs. Cassidy said to Mr. Cassidy, "It's time to hopalong."

THE SPY WHO CAME IN FROM THE KITCHEN

He was a walk-in. No appointment but what the hell, could be moolah. He sat across from me. Not from Gentlemen's Quarterly, for sure. Dressed like a shitbum. A tilted stocking cap on his head. A schmuck with earflaps. His face was sunburned and scarred from cheek to cheek and nose to chin. Looked like a hot- crossed-bun. The following is a verbatim transcript of our dialogue, with pertinent commentary.

"The CIA is trying to kill me."

"Frequently happens."

"They're sending me signals through my TV." Hmmmm. This guy has made it to the second rung.

"The electro-waves from my radio and phone are also sending me messages."

"Have you notified the FBI?"

"Are you crazy? They're in on it too." The first three words sorta grabbed me.

"I'm being poisoned through my water pipes." That's a first. Give the guy credit.

"Do you have any proof of this?"

"I certainly do." Bluff-calling time.

"They've filled my kitchen sink tap with urine." The cuckoo's nest has come to rest.

He reached into his coat pocket, pulled out a wrinkled brown paper bag, from which he produced a small bottle filled with an auburn liquid. I recoiled in horror as he placed it on my thirty-five hundred dollar desk. I screamed,"No-no," as he lurched forward as if to open it.

"Please. The chain of custody must be preserved. Put it back!" I prayed to the God of Lysol.

"Will you help me?"

Got to be diplomatic, here. Any possibility of a complaint to the Board of Bar Overseers must be nipped in the bud.

"I'm sorry, sir. This office specializes in criminal defense work. We simply do not handle CIA-attempt-to-murder cases."

Rejected and deflated, he left with whatever the hell it was. As he closed the door behind him, my phone rang. It was a very deep voice. "Ya done good, kid." The caller ID reflected "NSA."

If it was a test, I passed.

"GET" THIS CASE!

Those were my orders, from my nationally famous partner, regarding the 1969 murder of Joseph Yablonski, an American labor leader in the United Mine Workers. Our firm was Bailey, Alch and Gillis, and that was F. Lee, if you please. He was the hottest lawyer in the country because he was the best lawyer in the country. He was gifted with the most extraordinary mind I have ever seen in play. Watching him work was an exhilarating and educational experience. He was a stunning genius on his feet. I would watch him cross-examine a witness and have no idea as to where he was going. And if I didn't, the witness had no clue. When the inevitable trap was ultimately sprung, the witness was decapitated. I watched and studied his moves, as my personal criminal trial education continued. I was learning from the Master. These were heady, fast-track times.

The day after the Yablonski murder, our office received a call from a woman who identified herself as the sister of one of the alleged shooters who was about to be arrested and charged, and who wanted Bailey as his attorney--fast! An appointment was made for him on the following day at 2p.m. Bailey, whose commitments had him flying, non-stop, all over the country, was unable to be there and thus delegated to me the most urgent and important task of getting the client signed. I looked Lee straight in the eye and solemnly declared my realization that this was a most challenging assignment and that he need not worry. I was not without talent and would roar to the occasion. Lee felt certain that this would be a big score, since the suspect's fees would be paid by the Union, not known to handle things in a niggardly way. The secretaries were duly advised as to the next day's preeminent event and all was at the ready. A notorious case, bringing in a hefty fee, created the atmosphere we lived for. And I would be the one to lock it up.

I was late getting back from court. Maximum panic mode. Please, Lord, let the guy be patient. If not, it's off the roof. Schmuck, schmuck, schmuck. I ran from the elevator, stopped briefly to gather myself, and entered our penthouse suite. There, sitting in the waiting area, was my man. Muscles bulging under his t-shirt, soiled jeans, an unmistakeable Mine Worker murderer. I introduced myself, apologizing profusely for my tardiness, and beckoned him to follow me down the hall to my office. Don't run, idiot, and be cool. I grandiosely gestured him to a chair as I noticed my secretary waiving me over.

"You may have to speak up a bit, he's a little hard of hearing."
"No problem, thanks."

I sat across my desk from him, and decided to get right on with it. You don't bullshit with guys like this. I studied him, mano a mano, and let it fly. Skip the preliminaries.
"Sir! You killed Yablonski! Mr. Bailey will take your case. I've discussed it with him. The retainer will be $50,000. He'll set the final fee down the line when the facts are clearer. Is that agreeable?"

The guy just stared at me. No expression. No reply. Thirty seconds passed. Zilch. Then I remembered what my secretary had told me. I was talking too softly. The guy couldn't hear me. I moved my chair up, so that the edge of my desk was collapsing my chest. I sat erectly (relax-I'm not going there), leaned forward into the famed giraffe position, and bellowed, "Okay! You killed Jablonski!  Bailey will take the case! Fifty grand up front, the total fee to be set later!" I was, just about, yelling.

Same freakin' thing. Nada. Maybe his eyes widened to the point of the pupils popping out, but he said not a word. Another thirty seconds of silence. Perhaps I should sit on his head and risk spritzing his eardrum with saliva. Suddenly, thank God, I perceived lip movement.

"My name is Jim Duffy. Yesterday, I got pinched for drunk driving. That's why I'm here."

Ha-Ha! The Alch could not be fooled that easily. I shot right back.
"No need for that, Sir. This is a privileged conversation. My lips are sealed. Murder is a heavy charge, but we're here to help you!" My secretary later told me that she could hear me through the walls.

He rose from the chair, white as snow, opened my door and began fast-trotting down the hall. I took chase. He was muttering, "These f--kin' guys are nuts! A lousy OUI ticket and I'm lookin' at the chair!"

"Come back. Please stop. We have to talk!" But, it was no use. The guy jumped on the elevator and was gone. I had lost him and probably Bailey's confidence as well. I had flubbed the dub.

Subsequent events proved not so. The next day, the sister called, apologizing for her brother being a no-show. He had been steered to a union-connected lawyer. The big case had simply never materialized. No fault of mine.

But, somewhere, in this world, there was a man undergoing a lobotomy, in a desperate attempt to rescue his sanity, and forever obviate his fear of serving fifteen years for a traffic ticket.

One thing, for sure. He would not be a repeat client.

True story. Dem waz da days.

SHAME

It would not have opened the flood gates to appeals based upon witness recantation. It did not deal a death blow to anti-execution activists. It portrayed the Court of Last Resort, not just as being devoid of compassion, but as lacking common sense and the strength to adhere to it. Strict constructionists they most surely are, for who can doubt that our Founding Fathers were soulless robots?

No positive thing was accomplished by putting Troy Davis to death. It was an act of meanness.  Life in prison is not a lenient sentence when post-conviction evidence raises such legitimate doubts of guilt. It cannot be disputed that the minds of the Justices were already made up against mercy, when they indulged in the charade of granting a thirty-minute stay. It smacked of sadism. They were not being asked to change the landscape of the general anti-death penalty movement. They refused to acknowledge the singular circumstances which distinguish this particular case.

Why am I pulling punches? The plain truth is that our highest court distanced itself from courage, as if it were a plague.They may, in their naivete, have intended to bolster the integrity of our criminal justice system, whereas, in fact, they besmirched its dignity. Their moral compasses are seriously misaligned.

The Supreme Court condoned the killing of a possibly/probably innocent man who had the audacity to request that he be locked up in prison for the rest of his life.

They paid no heed to the pleas of world sentiment.

Ice water was in their veins.

Shame on them.

TROY DAVIS--IRREVERSIBLE ERROR

Troy Davis is scheduled to die, tomorrow night, at 7p.m.  On August 19, 1989, he was convicted of murdering an off-duty Savannah police officer. All appeals have been exhausted, the latest being a denial of clemency by a Georgia parole board.

The existing evidence supporting a conclusion of innocence has been well documented. Seven of the nine witnesses, who linked Davis to the shooting, have either recanted or materially altered the stories they told the jury. William S. Sessions, a former federal district judge in Texas and FBI Director under Presidents Ronald Reagan, George H. W. Bush and Bill Clinton, wrote a sharply-worded editorial last week, in the Atlanta Journal-Constitution: "Serious questions about Mr. Davis' guilt, highlighted by witness recantations, allegations of police coercion, and a lack of relevant physical evidence, continue to plague his conviction."
Also calling for a halt to the execution are Pope Benedict XVI, former President Jimmy Carter and the leadership of the NAACP, as well as Amnesty International. (see John Rudolph's excellent article in the Huffington Post)

Let's be clear. The issue at hand is not a request for a new trial. That meritorious claim has been wiped away. What is being sought is a commutation of sentence from death to life imprisonment.

Surely, there has been enough post-conviction evidence developed to warrant this "relief." Prosecutorial supporters cry out for justice. The blindfold on Lady Justice, however, demonstrates that we are dedicated to treating all Americans with fairness, equity and in a manner that is right. She is blinded to demographic characteristics such as race, social class or gender. The protests in this case are more than just another anti-death-sentence stance. Indelible nagging doubts have been created and won't go away.

At one point in the appellate process, the U.S. Supreme Court, for the first time in over fifty years, remanded the case for a hearing which would afford Davis an opportunity to prove his innocence!!! A federal District Judge set the burden of proof bar at "clear and compelling evidence." What ever happened to the constitutional mandate that a defendant bears no burden of proof, at any time? Not surprisingly, the Judge found that Davis had not met this contrary, ridiculously high standard.

 My comments are not painted with a broad brush. They are confined to this particular case. Life imprisonment does not fit comfortably in the definitions of "leniency."

The countdown to death continues. If, at 7.01p.m., tomorrow night, an individual confesses guilt, attended by irrefutable evidence, it will be too late.

Irreversible error.

WUTSISNAME AND WUTCHAMACALLIT

He was a repeat client and a singular man. He wasn't "made" because he wasn't Italian. But, connected up the ying-yang. His vernacular should have been patented. Consistent exposure to his vocabulary made understanding him inevitable. Contagious, actually, for you soon began talking his language, literally and theoretically. And it endeared him to you, for, despite his lawless proclivities, he was a most likable rouge. "I've gotta talk to that guy about that thing" was a staple phrase, subject to three hundred and fifty interpretations, from which you chose at you peril. The safe reaction was to nod affirmatively and vow to figure it out, later. He was 6'4, with large hands and long fingers. All the better to choke you with, my dear. I represented him four times, in federal court, against charges of loansharking. Thus, our relationship spanned the test of time, and I got to love the guy. I'll call him "Gabe".

He once arranged for us to meet in a coffee shop at an affluent summer resort. I was early, so I sat at a table, facing the door, and waited. Suddenly, there was an eclipse of the sun. As if someone had dimmed the lights very low. There, framed in the doorway, was Gabe, his huge hulk easily blocking out all vestiges of the outside world. Customer conversation ceased. Unease filled the room. He just stood there, relishing the effects of his moment. Then, with perfect timing, he pointed at the waitress with his weapon-finger, and then at me, and half-yelled,"Get that guy a wutchamacallit and I'll have the other thing." The waitress, an obvious graduate of Gabe English High, knew exactly what to do, and did it. What an entrance!
                                ***************************************
He was being held, without bail, pending trial. I had retained local counsel (it was out-of-state) and our visits with Gabe were frequent. He had requested (read: "ordered") that I bring him two hot pastrami sandwiches on bulkie rolls, one quart potato-salad, one quart coleslaw and twelve half-sour pickles, all from a Kosher delicatessen across the street from the jail. I had just purchased a gorgeous leather briefcase for mucho loot. It pained me to put my eyeglass case in it, lest I somehow damage the pristine leather lining. This situation, however, called for a mandatory abandonment of that cleanliness standard. Never, the passage of time notwithstanding, did the odor of that food leave my briefcase. You could smell me coming a mile away. For awhile, I was called "Kosher Alch".
When we met in the attorney's room, I noticed that Gabe had a new affliction. His head was permanently twisted to the left. He claimed to have had this condition for months. Hmmmmm. You just don't ask for specifics in a case like this. You nod in sympathy and tag it for later analysis. Defense-connected for sure, but don't ask, don't tell. He would seize a sandwich with his right hand, grab his chin with his left, and force his head into a straight-ahead position. Only then would his mouth open, allowing for the introduction of food. This went on, bite, after bite, after bite. It was like watching a ballet, and, in a strange way, with an audience of two lawyers, it became a dance of fascination. He ate, pardon the expression, like a man going to the chair.
As I began going over the pertinent events, I took note of a strange noise. It was a low humming of some unidentifiable music. It was coming from my local counsel. The more my questions continued, the louder the sound became. It was now a full fledged opera. nearly shattering my eardrums. Between this and the hand-to-mouth-turning-head routine, I was on the verge of going mad. I glanced at my co-counsel with a what the f--k is goin' on here look. Still belting out Madama Butterfly, he began furiously pointing at the ceiling and walls of the room. I got it. He was shielding our conversation from the assumed "bugs" hidden everywhere. I was now convinced. I had lost my mind. I needed a drink--fast.
                    **********************************************
 Gabe had been picked up on phone taps. The Government played them for the jury. This entailed the wearing of earphones by everyone, including counsel and defendant. Cords ran from these head sets to electrical outlets set into the courtroom floor. There was very little slack, severely limiting head movement. Gabe's gaze was straight ahead, courtesy of his left hand. I was listening, very intently, to the playback when I heard a noise interfering with my hearing. It was a drumbeat, steady and, frankly, excellently performed. As if the Notre Dame marching band had stormed in. It was Gabe's elongated fingers. Brmmmm--brmmmm-brm,bm bm, banging on the defense table. I hissed, "Stop that sh-t!" He was seated to my right so he was already (and constantly) looking at me, and nonchalantly responded "While you're listening to wutsisname, I'm doin' the wutchamacallit." With my mind still bent out of shape from not being able to rid my nostrils of the smell of half-sour pickles, I furiously clamped my hand on Gabe's to stop Buddy Rich, and attempted to move my chair away from him. I was suddenly being strangled by mic wire. Gasping for breath, I saw the earphones whipped off my and Gabe's ears, and land on the bridge of our noses. The judge and jury were staring at us like two escapees from the nut house. I was struggling to breath normally again, wondering what the hell else could happen. That question was immediately resolved. Brmmmm-brmmmm-brm,bm,bm. Gene Krupa had returned.
                 ***************************************************

I never lost a case for Gabe. He, in turn, became my best PR man. Many cases came my way, stamped with his referral. He was much more than just a client. When he would drive me to the airport after a victory of acquittal, he would always shake my hand and say,"That was a helluva piece of work."

So was he.






1

A DEFENSE COUNSEL WITH CLEAN HANDS--WHOODA THUNK IT

The first Watergate-related criminal trial. The defendants were charged with burglarizing the National Democratic Committee Headquarters housed at the Watergate complex. The judge had ruled, at the gitgo, that I could not use my contemplated defense.(see my post of 6/11/2011, "Reflecting On An Icon") I was fighting with my hands tied.

As part of its case-in-chief, the prosecution called a White House staffer whose job caused him to have daily contact with my client. The case was being tried by the United States Attorney and his First Assistant. No second-stringers allowed, if you please. The direct testimony in no way related to my client. Prior to the commencement of cross, the Court recessed for lunch. Everyone filed out of the courtroom and walked down the long corridor leading to the exit door.

I found myself a few paces behind the witness who was accompanied by his attorney.So, I said to myself,("what a wonderful world"--no, no, no!!) "what do I have to lose?" Approaching the lawyer, I asked, "My I pose a question to your client?"
"I may not allow him to answer, but go ahead."
"Mr. (witness), what is your opinion of my client, as head of security for the Committee To Re-Elect The President?"
"Absolutely outstanding. A top-notch professional."
"And what is his reputation in the security field/"
"Everyone who has worked with him is equally impressed.""

When court re-convened, Judge Sirica asked if I wished to cross-examine. I rose and put to the witness the same two questions. Same answers. "Nothing further, Your Honor."

The judge looked at me with arched eyebrows. The prosecutors were momentarily stunned. The trial proceeded to its dismal conclusion of guilty verdicts. Subsequently, my client's letter to Judge Sirica, which shall be the subject of a later post, began a collapse of the house of cards, ultimately causing the resignation of the President of the United States.

Fast forward several months. The Watergate cover-up has been fully exposed. A special prosecutor has been appointed and convened a Grand Jury. Everybody, in any way connected to Watergate proceedings, has been summonsed to appear.

On the day of my turn, as I was being escorted to testify, I passed the open door of the U.S. Attorney's office. My name was called out. It was the two trial prosecutors beckoning to me. I sat opposite them with a quizzical look.

"Gerry, there's something we must ask you about. In this ongoing investigation, in this paranoid atmosphere, one thing has been sticking in our throats. It concerns you."
I had no idea what the hell they were talking about. As Watergate was being played out, the pile of fallen figures was rapidly rising. The criminal cover-up conspiracy, as well as perjury before Congress, was rampant and surging. Knowing that I had done nothing wrong was, at that particular moment, quite comforting. They continued.
"At the trial, when you cross-examined (witness), how could you have dared ask those questions, unless you already knew the answers, and (softly and gently, now) were "in" on the cover-up?"

Blinded by the suspicion permeating the Capitol, they could not even theorize with simplicity. I explained exactly what had happened. Their jaws dropped. They digested this unanticipated response. And, they instantly knew that it smacked of truth.
"My God! Of course! We should have known that it was this uncomplicated. You know, throughout the trial, you were the only reasonable man with whom we dealt. We apologize for even thinking of such a remote possibility. We are truly relieved."
"I understand. Relax. Glad you gave me this chance to straighten it out."
We shook hands, I testified before the Grand Jury without even being advised of my right against self incrimination. And, that was that.

I was, briefly, part of history. Some memories are indelible. My involvement in the Watergate saga is one of them. As I advise my classes, if you tell a lie, a first year law student will nail you. If you tell the truth, Clarence Darrow can't trip you up.

That's an axiom with which you cannot argue. And its applicability is not confined to a courtroom.