A Fresh Canvas By Morning

By Shannon


Criminal attorneys see the worst of society.  Sometimes we're lucky enough to notice the best. 

In the beginning of Moby Dick, the narrator says:  “Whenever I find myself growing grim about the mouth; whenever it is a damp, drizzly November in my soul; whenever I find myself involuntarily pausing before coffin warehouses, and bringing up the rear of every funeral I meet; and especially whenever my hypos get such an upper hand of me, that it requires a strong moral principle to prevent me from deliberately stepping into the street, and methodically knocking people's hats off--then, I account it high time to get to sea as soon as I can.”

Well, I strongly agree.  The sea has always provided the best attitude-adjuster for me.  So, this weekend I took a roadtrip alone to a beach several hours away.  I walked the sidewalk above the beach.  I ate seafood.  I shopped in the local gift shops.  When the sun's intensity waned enough to permit my fair skin to enjoy the beach without burning, I walked the water-packed sand, marveled at the pelicans and seagulls, and laughed at a fisherman waving his pole like a sword at the birds that kept diving in and stealing his fish before the fish chomped down on his hook.  I stopped and watched a man dressed in a full wet suit with a boogie board tied around his waist and trailing behind him as he operated a metal detector in waist deep water hoping for hidden treasures.  I tried to count the number of breathing holes in the wet sand left by hermit crabs who lay just under the surface, but there were just too many to count.  I obtained a pinkened nose. 

It was perfect. 

Then I made one last observation.  I had been walking the beach for so long that the sun was 30 minutes from setting.  There were very few people left - a family, a lone woman, another man with a metal detector and me.  Just as I started to step down I glanced down and then I almost fell down trying not to ruin the message written with a child's hand in the sand.  It was a message of love to her parents.  I knew the sea would erase it by morning, but I wasn't going to mess it up.  Then I looked up and saw that in this section of beach every few feet there were more messages written in the sand.  Some were done by adults and some by children, but all included love.  Then I looked closer.  There were 4-wheeler marks here and there and foot prints here and there and holes dug here and there, but none of these messages had been stepped on, written over, or driven over.  Why?  For the same reason I didn't step on them.  They were not my messages to erase or deface.  My perfect night was made more perfect with the realization that people had been courteous to others they may never meet by leaving their messages of love alone for the sea itself to erase.

Judge Rules White Girl Will Be Tried As Black Adult

I saw this a while back and it was so funny I had to share it as a post.

Ann

Don't Wear Heels in the Express Line

By Ann

My feet are throbbing as I stand in line in heels waiting for the people in the express lane to get on with their lives in an express manner.   This line states that it’s for 7 items or less  with a lighted up sign that rivals the flashy billboards in Vegas.  Nonetheless, I suspect that  the old lady in front of me probably didn’t notice.  I contemplate this as she puts dozens of items on the short conveyor belt in an agonizingly slow manner.  Once she finally makes it to the end, she seizes the opportunity to have a small town chat with the pimply teenager behind the register.  I sigh in my head and pray to any heavenly being who will  listen to please save me from the most dreaded of dreads.  Please don’t let it be that.  That which every debit card owning person dreads from the antiquated numb nuts of the world. 

With bated breath, I watch the older woman’s arthritic hand reach into an oversized purse and pull out (gasp)…. A CHECKBOOK!!!!!!

My prayers were ignored and I watch in horror as the woman tries to write out a check with shaky, unstable hands.  She pauses almost every thirty seconds to ask how to spell the store’s name or to ask how much again, or to talk about her dog who is at the vet overnight due to a bad case of tapeworms.  I learn that a dog can get these worms from eating poop.  I learn a lot of things about this woman while I wait since I cannot even sigh out loud as I would rather get punched in the stomach than to be mean to an older person.  So I do nothing but smile on the outside and scream a carnal and gutteral scream on the inside.   I am not a patient person.  I am not even remotely patient.  In fact, I am above average in the arena of neurosis and anxiety. 
But my experience as a public defender has helped me hide some of my rage. After all, on a daily basis, I am bombarded with insults from the general public, from my clients, from other attorneys, and from the bench.  I counsel the worst of the worst during their lowest of experiences and filter a never-ending stream of bad news to their families.  I talk to people incarcerated in human sized cages and try to negotiate deals with little to no leverage or bargaining power.  I make arguments to a court that recognizes me as little more than a potted plant used for judicial decoration while it administers rulings wholly inconsistent with my arguments.  

I do this and try my best to keep my feelings and thoughts to myself.   In short, my job as a public defender has enabled me to sit through this tortuous grocery line adventure without spontaneously combusting. 

When I am finally released from the line and I have paid for my two cans of dog food, I walk triumphantly throught the automatic doors.  The sun hits my face and the wind blows through my hair as I almost sing out loud that I AM FREE! 

My independence song gets caught in my throat at the sudden realization that I have no idea where I parked my car. 
I did it again.   

Well at least I wore a good pair of shoes.  

Ally and Harry

By Shannon

I’ve been watching Ally McBeal on Netflicks.  I loved that show when it was on from 1997 to 2002.  Last night I watched an episode that aired in the spring of 2000 about the two senior partners’ (Richard and John) vacation to L.A.  Richard got arrested as soon as the plane landed.  He had talked to the first-class passengers about updating their wills before take-off because of the rash of recent plane crashes.  The pilot ordered him not to speak for the duration of the trip.  Richard didn't obey.  When the fat man sitting next to him began passing gas and sweating profusely, Richard started talking again and opened the ceiling compartment and put on the air mask.  This led to his arrest upon landing.  In court John defended him and argued that the airlines already expect us to put up with so many indignities in order to fly – delayed and cancelled flights, being herded like cattle through security, etc – that Richard's behavior was justified.  The judge dismissed the case.

Less than a year and a half later 9/11 happened.

I’ve felt a bit of melancholy as I’ve watched the first few seasons of Ally McBeal - the last few before our world forever changed.  Watching this show I can clearly remember what our “normal” was like before 9/11, Gitmo, Bin Laden, the Patriot Act, Porn Scanners, etc.  Even T.V. still seems less funny ten years after 9/11.  Days after 9/11, when regular programming finally resumed, I remember David Letterman saying something like: “If you live a thousand years will you ever understand what happened?”  No we won’t and our T.V. reflects this darker reality.  It was shortly after 9/11 that Ally was cancelled - as was Sex in the City.  They were frivolous shows, but fun nevertheless.  However, "fun" seemed inappropriate right after 9/11.  Reality TV and serious cop and lawyer and medical shows took over, pushing out our comedies.  30 minute sitcoms were cancelled to make room for one hour dramas.  I remember the days when my family would watch 30 minute comedies in the evenings after dinner.  The majority of shows seemed to be 30 minute sitcoms back then.  The only one hour show I remember my family watching back then was Star Trek:  The Next Generation.  (Yes, we were dorks.)  Now my mother and I enjoy the hour-long dark-drama called Criminal Minds.  Those who were small children or not yet born on 9/11 will never remember laughing with their families in front of the T.V. the way we did before…

We talk about all the ways 9/11 changed us, the nation, and the world.  However, I’ve not heard anyone talk about the way it changed our television.  The creator of Ally McBeal has finally created another funny lawyer show.  It’s called Harry’s Law and I love it.  It has moments of hilarity, but each episode is much more poignant than Ally ever was.  Ally was pre-9/11 and Harry is post-9/11 – the day that changed television forever.

Addiction and the Double Standard of Justice

By Ann

A young woman is jarred awake because there is a man on top of her.  He forcefully thrusts and takes what he wants without her consent.  She screams and pushes him off and goes home.  Unfortunately for this woman, her violation, her victimization has just barely begun and it hasn’t even considered peaking.  She will learn that her rapist carries HIV and she will have to go to the hospital and request a test all by herself.   She will go to the police.  She will plead for justice.   She will be admonished by them and told to go home because this  rape is nothing more than a civil matter rather than criminal. 

Another young woman lays seven minutes away from death completely unresponsive because she has overdosed on heroin.  She lays naked in a drug dealer’s bed.  He has been overdrugging her for weeks.  Every time she would pass out, he would earn a living by allowing anyone to come into the room and do whatever they want with her body.  She wouldn’t realize this happened until the ambulance was called and she would learn that she was naked.  She would never know who violated her or what diseases they had.  She would never really know what happened in that bed.  What she would know is that the justice system has a different set of standards for people like her.  She wouldn’t be tested for STDs at the hospital.   She wouldn’t be afforded a rape kit by any health care professional.  The drug dealer would continue his criminal enterprise.  She wouldn’t be guided by a therapist or a trauma specialist.  She would however, receive a set of criminal charges for possessing drugs.   In the infinite wisdom of the local government, the rationale is that she wouldn’t be near death if she wasn’t using drugs.  Apparently, the use of drugs negates any right to not be raped, kidnapped, or abused.   The system blatantly chooses to ignore her dignity and her right to justice simply because she is addicted to drugs.   A drug addict not only has to struggle with the demons of addiction, but they must also forego any semblance of human rights simply because they are sick.

And I have to sit in my office as each one cries and lets it all out.   They shake and tremble and have no one else to tell.  I will tell the authorities and they will scoff.   The prosecution will assume that the girls are trying to get out of their petty charges which don’t even carry jail sentences.   I will try to explain that the girls aren’t using their trauma as leverage.  Nonetheless, I will be stonewalled  by the authorities and the girls will suffer in silence.  Their attackers will likely abuse them again because the world of addiction and abuse is a vicious cycle.

 I will do everything I can but it will never be enough.  I have no power and we have no leverage.    

And I don’t even get to wear a white hat.