Misdemeanor Trials (4 page)

CHAPTER FIVE

NICE TIE

“Simplicity is the keynote of all true elegance.”
―
Coco Chanel

It had been a week earlier that John received a telephone call to schedule an interview with the District Attorney Anthony Crandon.  He arrived at the government building a few minutes early, and shortly after his first session with Dr. Simpson.  The building had no distinguishing features and was a world apart from the slick professionally decorated offices of the private law firms that he had interviewed.  He originally planned to graduate from law school, pass the bar, and work in a prestigious law firm, make lots of money and buy a Porsche.

John sat across from Crandon.  “You have some rather impressive achievements, Mr. Trader,” said Crandon.

John had graduated second in his class, just behind Sally Bloomfield.  He had been unable to match her intensity during law school.  She never did anything in law school but study.  He was sure she slept with her law books.  He was positive no one else, with or without law books, would want to sleep with her.  He learned that she had a nervous breakdown two days before the bar exam and had to be hospitalized.

“Let's see.  You were Associate Editor of the Law Review, Captained the team that won the National moot court competition, and did a Summer with the State Supreme Court,” said Crandon.

Crandon was overweight, almost obese.  His suit was a cheap, wrinkle intense navy blue.  His shirt was generic white, and his tie had to be from Goodwill, dark around the knot and thin that was stylish ten years earlier.  John, on the other hand, was wearing a $900 suit from Nordstrom, a tailored shirt from Macy's and a silk tie he found at the Salvation Army.  It was at least a $100 handmade tie from Winestocks that some unrepentant hapless computer programmer on Random Access Road in the high tech area of the city had spilled soup on.  John had it cleaned and it was his favorite tie.  That was John's interview outfit.  It was also his only suit, and he was always faced with the dilemma of what to do if he had a second interview.

“You also did a Summer program with Bendini, Lambert and Locke.  Did they offer you a position?” asked Crandon.

Bendini had offered him an extremely generous salary the first year, low interest financing on a home loan and a leased BMW.  He knew he could afford a second suit after his first paycheck.  They wanted him to do Contracts and Business litigation for the most prestigious law firm in the state.  He was going to accept it without hesitation, but he decided to talk to a few other firms first.  He told himself he deserved to find out what was out there.  It was merely curiosity.  He knew no one would match Bendini's offer.

His first interview with another law firm other than Bendini was uneventful.  He spoke with the hiring partner, a person whose name escaped him.  The hiring partner's suit, shirt and tie were tailored, possibly handmade.  His desk was oak, the carpet was plush and warm, and the sofa on the side wall was a large leather baseball glove.  He was clearly a baseball fan.  John asked him a few questions about the firm.  The partner answered openly and in detail.  He explained that the law firm represented insurance companies.  He described one of the more recent cases where the Plaintiff, a shopper, was suing a supermarket for an injury resulting from a glass window that was broken when a car jumped the curb and smashed into the storefront window.  The Plaintiff was injured.  The Plaintiff was suing, arguing that the Supermarket had a duty to insure that all windows were safety glass.  The Partner explained that in researching the issues before the court, he had become an expert in the properties of shattered glass.  John almost fell asleep.  Then John asked him what his history was and where he and worked.  The tone of the conversation changed.  The Partner smiled for the first time the whole day.  The Partner looked over to the right, out the window from the 21
st
floor, and his eyes almost twinkled.  He told John how his first three years after law school had been with the Tulare County District Attorney's Office.

 He said there were six deputy district attorneys in the office and that during the first year he was in court trying one of the many homicide cases that occurred among the migrant farm workers who traveled up and down the Central Valley during the harvest season, oftentimes transporting drugs to various parts of the state as mules.  The mules would screw up, not make a delivery, pocket some of the sales money, or skim drugs or money, and then die for what they did.  It was a dangerous place, and he was convicting dangerous people.  He said he never slept a full night when he was a prosecutor.  He went to work every day frightened of the uncertainty of trial and the outcomes, and that it was the most intense period in his life as a lawyer.  After three years at Tulare he was offered a position by Hoge, Fenton, and Dubert.  His voice then changed, the smile left his face, and he looked at John in the deadpan conservative way John had learned was the stock in trade of private attorneys.  The Partner said he had been at Hoge Fenton for twenty years now.

In the two other law firms that John interviewed, he asked the history of everyone he spoke to.  Wherever someone had been a deputy district attorney, the same thing happened.  They smiled, a glint appeared in their eye, and they beamed for the few moments they reminisced.  John then interviewed with a few district attorney offices.  He found the smile, the glint and the energy was there from the beginning to the end of the interview.

“Yes, I did receive an offer.  But I want to work for the District Attorney's Office,” replied John, not mentioning at half the salary, but only if you survived probation.

Crandon said, “In this office we have to deal with a lot of low lifes.  You will see people in the criminal justice system who don’t understand it.  You'll be dealing with minorities who don't speak the language well, if at all, and people who would slit your throat and take your wallet without a second thought.  These people have a much diminished sense of consequences, and their view of the future is a week or maybe two weeks, sometimes only days.  On their refrigerators they have calendars that show a week, not a month.  Most probably don't have calendars.  Most of them probably don't have refrigerators.  They miss court dates because they are under the influence, or hung over, or just slept late because they don't have jobs.  Do you think you could deal with these people?”

“Yes, sir,” replied John.  “As long as I don't have to deal with their clients.”

 Crandon smiled.  “When could you start work?”

John thought of his one presentable suit, his small rented house and the student loan that he would have to start paying in less than a month.  John looked at his watch.  “I'm not busy the rest of the day.”

“Okay.  We start here at eight AM.  On Monday report to the sixth floor and ask for Naomi.  She'll take you to the team where you'll be assigned initially.”

“Where would that be?” asked John.

“Misdemeanor Trials,” said Crandon.

John stood up, shook Crandon's hand, and Crandon said “Nice tie.”

CHAPTER SIX

WOUNDS

“Time does not heal all wounds.  Time covers them with scar tissue and the pain lessens, but is never gone.”

--Rose Kennedy

At 8:00 AM Trader sat across from the desk of Naomi Ledbetter, training supervisor at the District Attorney's Office.  Ledbetter's neat and clean desk was gray metal, placed against one side of a small cubicle with walls about five feet tall.  She was rather matter of fact, and dressed in a plain sweater covering her plump body.  “Welcome to the office, Mr.Trader.  Normally we give five days of orientation and training, but we are especially shorthanded so I am going to send you right away to Tom in Misdemeanor Trials.  Follow me, I will show you your cubicle, and then I will introduce you to Tom.  He is five cubicles down, and he has a ten inch American flag above the wall.  Honestly, I think he needs it to find his cubicle.  Let's go.”

Ledbetter took John to a cubicle that was done in government green.  “This is your cubicle.  Don't forget where it is.” Ledbetter continued to talk as they walked to the elevator.  “Cases are handed out by the paralegals, paychecks are picked up at the receptionist’s desk, and there is a special number to call if you are sick.”

Tom Benton's cubicle was disordered, the opposite of Ledbetter's tidy cubicle.  Tan folders stamped in two inch letters with “District Attorney” were stacked on his desk and on the credenza.  The floor was stacked with boxes filled with files.  Ledbetter introduced Trader and left.  Benton told Trader to sit, but there was nowhere to sit.  The one visitor chair in the cubicle was stacked with files.  Benton told Trader, “Put the files on the floor and I will be with you in just a minute.” After a few minutes, Benton closed the file he was looking through and put it on top of a stack on his desk.  “I have ten files here with cases that are assigned for trial in Judge Crawford's courtroom this morning at ten.”

“I haven't done a trial.  I just started this morning,” said John.

“You're a lawyer now.  Trials are what you do.  But you won't have a problem this morning.  Basically you'll be going to a shakeout in the Judge's chambers.  You will make plea bargain offers and hopefully settle.  If there are any unresolved cases at the end of the shakeout, the Judge normally will take the oldest case and begin the trial this afternoon.  Offers are written in the file.  If the case settles, there is a list of things necessary to cover on a change of plea, and you can use the checklist in the file to make sure you and the Judge have covered it all.  Generally the Judge does everything.  You just have to make sure it is all done correctly.  If you have any cases left over that you have not settled, witnesses have been notified and subpoenaed by the girls, but odds are you won't go to trial since the Judge takes the oldest case first, and these cases I am giving you are relatively recent.  Call Melinda if you have a case for trial, and she will notify the witnesses when to appear.”

Benton handed Trader the stack of files.  “Is there anything else you need to know?”

“Who is Melinda?” asked John.

“She is the paralegal near reception by the elevator wearing a gray sweatshirt and jeans.  Tell her who you are on the way out.  Anything else?” asked Benton.

“Yes,” said Trader.  “Where is the courthouse?”

“Oh, shit,” said Benton.  “Are we in real trouble.”

Trader left Benton's office with the stack of District Attorney files, still unsure where the courthouse was.  Benton called after him, “I will send someone over in the afternoon who can give you some guidance in case you are sent to trial.  Good luck.”

Trader walked over to his assigned cubicle to spend the next hour reading the files.  The cubicle was Spartan with a metal desk, a phone, a computer terminal and two chairs, one for him and one probably to stack files on.  He had brought his own pen.  The files had police reports and witness lists on the right side, and an offer to settle was penciled in the left hand side right next to the forensic laboratory reports, if there were any.  There was also a chronology of court pretrial hearings and notes by attorneys who had handled the file previously.  He had six DUI files, one possession of alcohol by a minor, two spousal abuse files, and one indecent exposure file.  Trader started to read the files.  It seemed to him that the DUI cases were straightforward.  The defendant was seen driving in a strange way, and the cop pulled him over.  The driver smelled of alcohol, the cop gave him a balance test and then took a breath sample.  The lab reports said that all the drivers had alcohol in their system that was more than the .08% legal limit.  The police reports didn't read exactly like that, but Trader was getting used to the language already.  The driver was the perpetrator, or perp.  The car, referred to as the vehicle, was typically weaving within the lane or over the lane lines.  The police described how they, or the “perp,”  “exited the vehicle” instead of got out of the car.  The officer then “administered” field sobriety tests and diagrammed the results in the police reports.

After an hour of reviewing the files, at six minutes each, he felt completely unprepared and uninformed.  He grabbed the files and headed toward the elevator on his floor.  He waited at the elevator with six or seven other persons, all dressed in business suites with serious looks on their faces, carrying several files.  They were relatively young, with intelligent looks, and appeared confident and focused.  When the elevator arrived, he was the last one on.  He listened to the quiet chit-chat of the others in the elevator, as they spoke about the courtroom they were going to, about the cases they were handling that day, and the results of their most recent trial, along with some pointed criticisms of the judges.  He heard one person say they were going to Crawford's courtroom.  He was tempted to turn around so he would know who to follow.  When the doors opened, he exited quickly, stepped to the side, let the other lawyers pass.  He then fell in behind and followed them on the short walk to the mysterious Hall of Justice where the courtroom caves with demons dressed in black robes waited to eat him alive.

At the door to the Hall of Justice, the line was long, populated by people Trader thought looked like criminals.  They were waiting to go through the metal detectors.  There were fat guys, with multiple tattoos on their arms.  John wondered if they thought the tattoos made them attractive, or possibly more attractive.  There were several ladies dressed in CFM heeled shoes, with straps and dresses, plunging necklines and very thin material that looked more appropriate for a bar, or a bridesmaid.  There was another line that was for prospective jurors.  They were generally nicely dressed, short hair for the men and nicely arranged hair for the women.  There were no tattoos or sexy dresses.  The attorneys who he was following headed for a third line that moved quickly.  No attorney had to go through a metal detector and the deputy waved them through.  When Trader approached the deputy stopped him. 

“I don't recognize you.  Do you have a Bar Card?”

“No,” said John.  “It hasn't been mailed to me yet.  I'm a new D.A.”

“Sorry,” said the Deputy, “You'll have to go through the metal detector.”

John took his place at the end of the line, by now 20 deep, holding his files as he moved half-step at a time, closer to the metal detector.  When he arrived, he was handed a plastic box.  “In here,” said the Deputy.  Trader undid his belt, pulled off his watch, took the pens from his coat pocket, took out his wallet and then patted himself to see if he had forgotten anything.  When he walked through the metal detector, the alarm sounded.

“Please step forward and raise your arms,” said the deputy.  With a bored expression the deputy began to waive the wand over Trader's arms and body.  The wand sounded an alarm multiple times.  “Are you sure you emptied all of your pockets?” asked the Deputy.

“Yes,” said Trader.

“Do you have metal in your body?” asked the Deputy.

“Yes,” said Trader.

“Implants?” asked the deputy.

“No,” said Trader.  “Shrapnel.”