Archive for January, 2010

Putting the squeeze on a lawyer is fun. New client, appointed, the prosecutor wants to use his testimony against a codefendant who is insisting on trial next week. Well we got appointed tuesday. The codefendant attorney starts asking me if she can talk to my client. I say no. Will I say that my client knows anything? Hell no. She has a right to depose my client, but she has to get it done in the next 3 days before trial on Monday. I stand in front of the judge and dummy up, and she’s put in the unenviable position of having this new witness to deal with, but a speedy trial demand. She can depose, but then trial gets put off till god knows when and the prosecutor can build a better case, or she can go blind into trial and deal with my client’s potential testimony. The judge had to hold in his laughter a bit when he heard me dummy up in court. He knew what I was doing.
The best part was, we put my client and the codefendant on tomorrow’s docket, then, when the codefendant attorney leaves, we recall him and have my client removed. Ah the games we play sometimes. Once in a while, this job sort of resembles tv lawyering.

When I ever doubt why I do what I do, or when it feels like shitlaw is a lot of complainy whiny baby clients and no action, I look for the few times I get to do hearings on my own. I’ve won some motions and made some arguments on caselaw, presented evidence, directed and crossed witnesses, and when I’m done, I realize that is some fun stuff to do. Its infinitely better than sitting on my ass taking phone calls, writing shit, chasing medical reports or discovery, or dealing with moron clients. I wish I could just do in court stuff all the time.

Yeah law school is a scam, student loans = slavery, doc review no jobs everythings going to India, dental plan, lisa needs braces, tom the temp, JDU, Law is for losers, etc… but once in a while this stuff is fun and when I win a hearing or even don’t lose and get a drawy decision, the endorphins my brain releases are a pretty cool high.

I know some time ago I posted about the spreadassitude of the legal profession. It took its toll on me as I ballooned to somewhere north of 340 pounds. Since November I’ve been on a pretty reasonable low carb diet with about 2500 calories a day, along with hitting the gym 3-4 times a week. It has yielded some success, but I wanted to step things up for the new year. Apparently there’s some sort of internet drinking contest I am supposed to attend, and I’d assume not look as much like a overgrown blimp when broadcast to the world.

My cousin in all his car crashing, booze chugging, dope smoking lunacy, has stumbled upon one thing that is constructive and an intense workout – Brazilian Jiu Jitsu. He’s in love with UFC and MMA and all that tv shit. I respect it, since I took about a year of karate in law school. But I never really thought about it as a workout replacement until I spoke to him at the final burial for my mother, grandparents, and cousin. He said it would jump start my weight loss and be a great investment.

150 dollars later I am in my first class. I have never felt so clumsy and intensely out of shape. Its 150 a month for four classes a week with a black belt champion to study under. “Take it easy the first time, go at your own pace” the instructor tells me.

I barely get through the opening warm ups before I’m gassed.

A 6′2 310 pound guy isn’t very coordinated, unless he is a trained NFL athlete. Basic moves, such as a mount escape involving some dude on your chest, prove difficult, as my legs don’t stretch well and are too large to hook the guy on top of me easily. Knee dips, going down to your front knee and sweeping the back leg forward to stand up again, with a weighted 10 pound ball, are more like small car accidents as I collapse on my knee each time with some pain. Even get-up moves that involve your knees, elbows, and jumping back to a ready stance are awkward and slow.

Still, after two classes, and before I even have a proper gi, they impress upon me to just stick with it. These moves are foreign to me and difficult to execute, especially since I’m sucking so much wind. Speaking of wind, the blast I gave my partner during an armbar escape exercise certainly gave pause. Not to worry, the partner said, the mat is a gassy place. People rip farts all day long while doing these moves.

There are at least 10 other guys in the class aside from me on a given night, and even a woman who spars with the guys. Two of which recognize me. “Don’t I know you” says an ex classmate turned prosecutor.. “Oh I want to roll with this guy,” he gets out before the instructor steps in and advises against it. I’ll end up the class ragdoll before long, but let’s at least get me in marginal enough shape to be of some use.

Still, I have 300 in sight by the end of the month, which will make nearly 40 pounds in almost 3 months, which is a start. If I can present myself at 275 by the time of this idiotic internet insanity, I won’t look completely awful.

I may come from a middle class white suburbia background, but I can’t understand the depth of stupidity underlying the idea that somehow its an inherent evil to talk to cops. The “Stop Snitchin” mentality is instrumental to the utter lawlessness of the poor neighborhoods of major cities. Violent monsters can butcher people in broad daylight in a crowd, and more often than not, “Nobody saw nothin.”

I have a client who was a drug mule. A small time user himself, he was given the honor of delivering marijuana and cocaine to a sting operation at a motel.
He is the only one in the vehicle, gets busted, and makes his post miranda statements.

The weed charges aren’t as bad, but the coke puts him in 3 year minmanville. Now the guy is in his late 30s, obese, in terrible health. He’s had lung clots, cardiovascular disorders are killing his legs, and now he’s on oxygen 24/7. We tried to convince the state to let him have house arrest cause frankly he’s such a medical drain he will be left to die in prison.

Well today they said no dice. Even though his left leg is turning black, even though he was hospitalized at the time of his last pre trial conference, the state says no dice unless he debriefs.

I presented him with this option some time ago, before his medical condition worsened. “No way man I aint no snitch” he said. I didn’t bring it up again until I got the email from the prosecutor yesterday indicating the bad news.

Now if i’m hitched up to an 02 tank, my leg is oozing pus and is probably going to be amputated, and my life is generally shit, and im looking at adding a 3 year hitch in prison on top of that, i dont give a fuck who i need rat out, im singing in the key of e.

But this guy, he just won’t do it. They don’t even want him to set up stings, they just want to talk. We can have it be utterly private in our back conference room, and nobody will be the wiser. It will look like just another attorney visit. But he just won’t budge. When I told him about he he started crying and pitching a huge fit. Even though it was his first felony charge and he has such major medical conditions, a minman is a minman, and I can’t do anything about it unless the state drops the charge or the elements aren’t met. The latter just aint going to happen.

Our federal guys sing like a well oiled choir. They bust their ass for their 5K reductions and rule 35s. Federal prison is a walk compared to state holes, too. These guys are facing more time, mind you, but they rat out major drug organizations. No sense of loyalty to those dirtbags. So why should this low level nobody, half in the grave, feel like he owes some asshole who exposed him to this sort of risk for a few hundred measly dollars? I don’t understand it.

I can sort of understand the warped logic of inner city blacks who say they would rather choke on their own tongues before saying anything to a cop. They have the feeling, however misguided and ridiculous, that the cops sole purpose is to keep the black people down and so on. But this guy is as white as snow, and has never had a problem before. It just boggles the mind.

Then it hits me. Its his cousin. The same cousin who refers us people all the time, who keeps asking us to look up to see if he has warrants, who cost his mother her 30 thousand dollar SUV which was seized civilly. The secretary nailed it: the sherriff’s want the goods on the cousin, and our guy just won’t do that. Suddenly i remember my own cousin, and well, it makes sense. A little bit.

But I would never run drugs for any relative, nor would I ask one to do it for me. It’s a shitty place to be in, but you have to take responsibility for something when you run weed and rock for someone and get busted.

I had to travel back home to meet up with the fam. Everyone’s ashes had finally been interred: my mom, my late cousin, my grandparents, all in the same cemetary. It was closure for them, I had put it all behind me long ago. It provided a chance to catch up with out of state relatives. One relative is at odds with another over her son, my now oldest cousin, the older brother of which was one of the deceased.

The deceased cousin was a ne’erdowell from the age of 11. By 13 he had already had sex, been shoplifting, discovered booze and drugs, and had his first arrest. It bled onto his younger brother. By 18 he was dead, having drunk driven himself into the back of a parked semi at 40 mph. Thankfully he died on impact.

The younger brother, my oldest cousin, was never the same. Leaving the propriety of his parents out of it, he did not take this well at all. His outlet became tattooing himself, alcohol, and drugs. The only difference between him and his brother, objectively, was a criminal record. Thank God for that.

He graduated high school and went to a local college, but pretty much partied away his first year. I won’t come down on him for that because I did pretty much the same thing. Except he got a hell of a lot more sex than I did. So he came home to the local community college. Sick. He had developed some sort of digestive disorder that had him vomiting multiple times on an almost daily basis. His mother, a nurse, also a drug user, had him put in the hospital for diagnosis. Whatever cyclical vomiting syndrome was, he had it.

The mother parented by being a huge enabler. One of her tasks was buying the cousin a new car. Instead of having him work to save up some money and helping get a solid beater, she shells out for this:

Which he proceeds to do this to, over and over and over and over again. (dumbkopf deleted from view)

The damage to date has been largely cosmetic. I drive a mitsubishi lancer and its a good car. His has all the bells and whistles, and is a pleasure to drive, and isn’t a manual (after replacing the clutch once ive sworn off stick permanently). I offered him 10K cash for the damn thing and he said no.

Now, he tells me he has sworn off drinking, though the cigs and weed are still there. He’s training for MMA and knows he shouldnt do those things but oh well what the hell. So what does he do Christmas night?

Plow it right into the back of a parked truck.

Can you imagine the call to his mother. The same type of accident, except the boy wasn’t drunk. His car utterly wrecked. How he managed to come out of the accident unhurt is amazing. So his mother should see this as yet another wake up call? The kid is irresponsible and has utterly destroyed a beautiful 20 thousand dollar car by wrecking it 5 times in 2 years.

Nope. She’s out car shopping with him now. Last I heard he’s angling for a GTI.

edit: Ha now i have controls over when things get published. I can move this train a lot faster.

Its a social D sorta holiday: The Story Of My Life

2005 was a weird time for my family. It was time for bar attempt number 2, my grandfather and I lived all alone in his rather palacial home on the waterfront. It was too much for him. He told me I had to go in May of that year. He wasn’t terribly thrilled when bar attempt 2 came up short. He didn’t really care anymore. My relationship with him pretty much ended at that point. He didnt ask about me, rarely called, or seemed to even care. That’s when I moved back to City 17.

That summer through the end of 2006 didn’t really amount to much. I was struggling to pass the bar, working in dead end restaurants and telemarketing jobs, with intermittent clerk work in between where my license status was never brought up. My loans were in deferment, and my private loans were.. well.. falling behind. One day I got into a minor car accident, and a $1000 deductible was more than daunting. I had to beg the family for help with it and I nearly didn’t get it. Nobody bothered to tell me my grandfather had the month before paid off my entire private loan debt to the tune of 88 thousand dollars. I never knew either until I confirmed it with the loan company. He was a cosigner to the loans, and more likely than not did it just to protect himself. Who can blame him. A heads up would be nice, so it didnt seem like I was just a begging mooch even though in some ways I was. That Christmas with the family was marred because I was the odd man out; the black sheep. I felt guilty even receiving a Christmas present. At least I had the MBE taken care of.

2006 was where a light started to shine at the end of the tunnel. Well, not until the July exam, as the February marked another failure on the state exam. Amazingly, I found a tutor who helps people from my TTT for free with writing essays. Writing really fucking good essays. Our state exam tests state specific law with essays and multiple choice, and strategically, he said, you score the most points with essays, and its where people leave the most points off the paper. If I would have met with him years before I might have gotten this right the first time. Anyways it all fell into place and I passed. Only problem was, I hadn’t submitted my application to the bar. Big fucking idiot number 1 mistake: why the fuck didn’t I start the application when I was a 1L when it would have cost 75 dollars and I would have dealt with the ethics crew a lot sooner. As it stood, my application got held up because I didnt file my 2000 tax return until right when I got my passing score. The reason: that year I sold a bunch of stock to pay for college. Nobody told me about the capital gains tax, and I had a 3000 dollar tax bill blossom into 5500 bucks. It’s paid off now, but thats more stupid tax, to say the least. Of course in the meantime I had to retake the MPRE since my law school score had expired. Lovely stuff, this bar exam process. 2006 ended with me spending Christmas in Jurisdiction X with my loved one, who told me shortly after coming back that she was moving to X to stay. Oh good, another bar exam.

She left in February 2007, which really hurt. She and I had been dating since 2002, and for one reason or another we hadn’t lived together. It was mostly my fault for not getting the bar exam settled. She never got a serious job down here, working essentially part time and commuting 1.5 hours one way for part time wages. Believe it or not I made more than her working 2 jobs, and she was the attorney. Now I finally had my shit together, and found the job I work at now, and she was out of my life. I decided I would face the damn demon again and take another bar exam and dig up all the shit I had to dig up for Florida, including a 1986 divorce decree that changed my surname, and do it all over again. I’ll be damned. I was told the essay section tested common law, MBE type concepts. 5 essays. No biggie. Until I got the blue books and noticed 6 of them, and noticed a 6th essay question. Civil procedure. Well, fuck me. I called my old lady from her car in the parking lot, and we talked civ pro as much as we could bullshit. Well, it worked. Even with a 121 MBE for that test, I bullshitted my way to a passing grade, since the civ pro essay was all about perfect diversity jurisdiction or whatever the fuck it is to get your way into federal court.

I informed my family that I was going to try to move to Jurisdiction X, and that I was doing okay, and was an actual fucking lawyer, and doing something with my life. They started to warm up to the idea, but for my grandfather it was too late. He had started dating some woman 18 years his junior, and it was obvious to everyone she only liked him for his money and he only liked her because she was someone to hang out with. Then his health started its decline, as senility set in. I spent that Christmas with the family, and my grandfather’s girlfriend was nowhere to be found.

2008 marked the beginning of the end for my Grandfather. I kept up with him from time to time, but he was suffering from dementia. The new girlfriend he had encompassed much of his free time, and he practically adopted this woman and her family as his own. Posthumously I found out the extent to which he did, it was rather disgusting seeing photos of him doting over a family that had no idea who the hell he was. But there wasn’t a lot I could do about it. I was busy trying to find work in Jurisdiction X, since I got sworn in. I was flying all over east jesus to job interviews. The shitter was that I got an offer, and a damn good one. 55K plus benes for a barely 1 year lawyer about 25 minutes from my old lady’s home. It’s just she wasn’t having any of it. Long story short, I had to turn it down. I’m not going to go into detail about the where and why, cause me and my old lady, we could fill pages on that tale. Let’s just say 2008 was aggravating on many fronts, but with my family, it was quiet. Not much really happened, Christmas was boring and tepid and my grandfather was barely coherent. Fast forward to 2009.

July 2009 rolled around, and on a rainy day I got a phone call at work. It was Uncle “Hot” Carl. “Toiletlawyer, I just wanted to tell you that your grandfather is dying and he won’t make it through the day. He suffered a cranial aneurysm. We don’t know when he will go so don’t be in a rush to get over here.”
Just then the 80 thousand in private loans he paid off and never told me, the golfing trip to Pinehurst North Carolina, the Mazda 626 he bought me, the Country Club, the times we spent together in his better days, him reattaching my right thumb, all these memories flooded my brain as I put in “Somewhere Between Heaven and Hell,” the signature Social D album, and jammed my shitty Mitsubishi across the state in rainy weather. I was scheduled to go to Jurisdiction X two days later for a pre-established trip. And here I was going to watch the man who was essentially my father die. I had no father figure in my life worth a damn aside from him. My biological father left my mom and I for his gay lover when I was 2. My mother dated and married a few shitheads in the interim, two of which beat me, and one of which I beat back when I was 13. My friends say I am rather well adjusted for coming from such a fucked up background, but I digress.

I arrived at the Hospital, one in which he performed many surgeries as a cardiovascular specialist during his 30 year surgical career. There he was, snoring obnoxiously in a tiny hospital bed, surrounded by my family. He was put on painkillers while the bleeding did it’s dirty work. Doctor after doctor, family friend after friend, came by to pay their respects. It was surreal. The one thing I will remember most about the whole damn thing was the baseball player on tv hitting a home run as my grandfather breathed his last. I’ll always remember Carl Crawford for that. Life has it’s weird juxtapositions.

This meant a lot of changes for my family. With no central figure to rally around, we felt lost and disparate. Sure, we tried to rally together for a while, but as the will settled out and everyone got their money and purchased their luxuries, fissions grew. A spite grew over one of my cousins, who, along with his mother, frequently used drugs and alcohol, and had sunken to a gaunt 5′10 135 pounds from a more appropriate 175. He drank heavily and frequently, and wrecked his 2009 lancer evo more times than i can think of, all purchased with his mother’s money, the same mother/aunt whose neglect of my older cousin led to his drunk driving death so many years before. This fight came to a head during thanksgiving this year, and it directly weighed upon Christmas. I was actually glad to spend Christmas eve at the dog track, and part of Christmas day in a jail visiting a client.

To think it would come to this: I’d rather be around gamblers and criminals than my own family during the holidays. I hope that changes, I really do.

You think your family law clients are scum, and your rapists and drug traffickers are not so bad.

I swear I have too many family law clients who are whiny babies and can’t act like a rational human being and expect me to wipe their asses and do every little fucking thing for them, and then they get all mad when I send them the bill and ask for another retainer payment because they can’t pick up a got damned phone and work out the simplest shit with the baby mama or whatever.