The Stupendous Dodgeball Fiasco (15 page)

“What?” asked Phillip. “Why would you want to interview me?”

“Don’t be modest. You and your lawsuit are big news today,” the reporter said. He flipped the switch to his tape
recorder. “Let’s start with background questions.” He pushed the microphone in front of Phillip’s face. “Is it true that you were born in a circus tent?”

“Excuse me,” Phillip said. He grabbed Shawn by the arm and tugged him away so they could talk privately.

“What are you doing here?” Phillip asked Shawn.

“Everybody’s here,” Shawn said. “Practically the whole sixth grade. When Mr. Race heard your case was going to trial, he declared it a school field trip. Said it would teach us kids a lesson. He thinks you’re gonna lose. But me and some of the other kids, we think you got a chance.”

“Are you Phillip Stanislaw?” an attractive Hispanic woman asked. “He’s over here,” she shouted to a man with a television camera on his shoulder.

“Oh no, you don’t,” said the newspaper reporter. “I saw him first.”

While the television reporter and the newspaper reporter argued, Phillip fled to the old part of the courthouse and the freight elevator. He took the elevator to the second floor and didn’t stop moving until he was in courtroom number two.

It was even more crowded inside the courtroom than the lobby. A vast assortment of people filled the spectator seating, packed together like a circus audience on Free Peanut Night. The last rows of seats were filled with sixth-graders, craning their necks to get a better view.

There was a wooden railing that separated the courtroom proper, behind which were a table and chairs on the left and another set on the right. At the left table, Phillip saw a pair of men and a woman in dark suits. At the right table, he saw Sam and an empty chair, which he quickly filled. Sam
pointed out the defendants’ lawyers: Mr. Dinkle, the boss attorney, and his assistants, Ms. Jones and Mr. Terry.

Sam also told Phillip that because of the special relief they had sought, a judge instead of a jury would be deciding the case.

“The good news,” said Sam, “is that the judge who’s been assigned to our case isn’t a dodgeball fan.”

“That is good news,” agreed Phillip.

“The bad news is that she coaches a recreational soccer team for senior citizens called ‘Golden Toes.’”

“Why is that bad news?” asked Phillip.

“It may make her identify more with the defendants and make her lean their way.”

“Will she try to be fair?” asked Phillip.

“I hope so,” said Sam.

Phillip noticed a pitcher of water on his table and poured them both a tall glass. He also noticed a small trash can next to the table and moved it closer, just in case he had to throw up.

“Hear ye, hear ye,” said the court tipstaff, the judge’s courtroom helper. “All rise for the Honorable Ida E. Monn.”

B
offo, the three-legged circus poodle, lost his leg in a bicycle accident, and they said he would never ride again. The leg was buried behind the ticket tent. Each day, Boffo would dig holes around the tent trying to find his leg. Each evening, the circus moved to another town. Boffo never did find his leg, but his other legs became so strong from all that digging that he was able to start riding again. Whenever a situation seemed hopeless, Phillip’s mom would remind him about Boffo.

Phillip was thinking about Boffo as Judge Monn entered the courtroom in a swirl of black robe. A judge is like a referee, Sam had explained. Her job is to make sure people play by the rules and don’t misbehave.

Phillip thought Judge Monn’s black robe made her look more like the grim reaper than a referee. She had silver hair and a neutral expression. The judge surveyed her courtroom like it was a soccer field and tossed herself into her chair. Everyone sat.

“Let’s get this hearing started,” said Judge Monn. “Are there any matters to be dealt with before we begin?”

Mr. Dinkle rushed to a podium. Although his hair was also
gray, his step seemed quite lively. Phillip wondered if Mr. Dinkle colored his hair to make himself look older.

“Good morning, Your Honor,” Mr. Dinkle said. “The defense would like to present this Motion to Disqualify Opposing Counsel.” Phillip looked to Sam for a translation.

“They want the judge to tell me I can’t be your lawyer,” Sam whispered to Phillip.

“Can they do that?” Phillip asked. But Sam had already stood up. He buttoned the jacket of his tailor-made suit.

“Stop dragging your feet,” Judge Monn said to Mr. Dinkle, “and tell me why.”

“Conflict of interest,” said Mr. Dinkle. “Yesterday, we hired Mr. Phoenix’s son to work for our law firm. A lawyer shouldn’t try a case when a close relative works for the law firm on the other side.”

“Of all the low-down tricks,” said Sam. “The only reason you hired him was so you could try to get me disqualified.”

Sam and Mr. Dinkle began arguing. Phillip wished they would stick to the facts about how B.B. Tyson broke his glasses. What would he do if the judge wouldn’t let Sam try the case? Phillip remembered something he had read in a law book. He needed to get Sam’s attention, but there were no salt and pepper shakers for their secret signal. Phillip picked up the the drinking glasses.

“If Mr. Stanislaw cannot find replacement counsel,” said Mr. Dinkle, “he’ll have to withdraw his lawsuit.”

Phillip banged the glasses together.

Cling! Cling! Cling! Cling!

“What is that annoying sound?” asked Judge Monn.

“I believe,” said Sam, “my client is signaling that he wishes to speak.”

Phillip stood up and cleared his voice so that his words wouldn’t sound too squeaky.

“Yes, ma’am,” he said. “I would like to know if it would solve the problem if I had another lawyer.”

“Well, of course,” said Judge Monn. “That’s the whole reason I’ve been hearing arguments. Do you have another lawyer?”

“Yes, ma’am,” said Phillip. The courtroom was so quiet you could hear a feather drop. Phillip’s knees wobbled. He wasn’t sure that he could force out the words.

“Don’t let the grass grow under your feet,” said Judge Monn. “Out with it. Who is this lawyer?”

“Me, ma’am,” Phillip said, trying to sound certain. “I would like to represent myself.”

A hum like the static from a broken speaker crept through the room. Judge Monn beat her gavel against her mahogany desk.

“Objection!” the three dodgeball defense lawyers screamed in unison as they sprang from their seats.

“He can’t practice law without a license,” Mr. Dinkle said.

“You only need a license when you represent another person,” said Sam. “The Constitution of the United States ensures the right of a party to a lawsuit to represent himself.”

The lawyers began bickering again. Phillip hit the glasses together until they stopped. Judge Monn uncovered her ears and ordered the tipstaff to remove the glasses from Phillip’s table.

“Young man,” Judge Monn said to Phillip. “If you wish to address this court you will do so like the other attorneys. You will rise from your seat, say the word
objection
, and wait for this court to recognize you.”

Phillip didn’t understand why the law had so many strange rules. When he was in the law library, he had found a whole book about odd laws. The laws made it illegal to carry an ice-cream cone in your pocket in parts of Kentucky, to sleep on a refrigerator in Pittsburgh, and to walk across the street on your hands in Connecticut. Still, he wasn’t about to argue with the judge.

“Yes, Your Honor,” said Phillip. He stood up and adjusted his pants down a little at the waist so he wouldn’t get a wedgie.

“It seems to me,” Phillip said, “that if the Constitution says I can represent myself, and Mr. Dinkle says I can’t, then the Constitution should win.”

“This is ridiculous,” Mr. Dinkle said. “Your Honor, the boy is only eleven years old.”

“That’s true,” Phillip said. “But do you have a legal case that says that an eleven-year-old can’t be his own lawyer?” The judge looked over at Mr. Dinkle.

“He’s got you there, doesn’t he?” said Sam. Mr. Dinkle folded his arms against his chest in a dramatic display of exasperation.

Judge Monn leaned back in her chair and rocked. “You consider yourself a bit of a rabble-rouser, don’t you, son?” she asked Phillip.

“No,” he answered. “I just like to read.”

“You don’t know what kind of trouble you’re asking for when you say you want to represent yourself,” said Judge Monn, “do you?”

“Probably not,” Phillip admitted.

“I ought to let you go ahead in order to teach you a lesson,” she said.

“Thank you,” said Phillip. “Please let me know if I’m making any mistakes.”

“I’m sure Mr. Dinkle will keep you informed on that front.”

“Yes, indeed,” said Mr. Dinkle. “In fact, after further consideration, the defendants wish to withdraw their objection. If Mr. Stanislaw wishes to represent himself, we would be delighted.” The three lawyers began to snicker.

“The objection having been withdrawn,” ruled Judge Monn, “this court will permit Mr. Stanislaw to represent himself.”

When the gavel hit, a news photographer stood up and a flash went off in Phillip’s direction. Muffled clapping snuck from the last row of spectator seating. Phillip looked back and saw Shawn and his cousin smile.

Phillip felt like smiling, too, until he heard Judge Monn say, “You may call your first witness, Mr. Stanislaw.”

B
runo’s Nightmare is a complicated three-person juggling pattern sometimes used in circus acts. Phillip’s nightmare was suddenly realizing he was in charge of his lawsuit and had no idea what to do next.

“Now what?” Phillip whispered to his friend. Sam ruffled through a box of file folders with Braille-coded edges. He handed Phillip a thick document titled “Plaintiff’s Trial Memorandum.”

“Find the page that says witness list,” Sam instructed him. Phillip found it and read the first name.

“My first witness is Marvin Nerp,” he announced to the judge. A puny man in a brown polyester business suit rose from the defendants’ table and swaggered over to the stand. He had a pencil-thin mustache and oily-smelling hair brushed back to cover a balding spot on the back of his head. While the tipstaff was swearing in the witness, Phillip asked Sam, “Who is this guy?”

“He owns the dodgeball factory,” Sam said. “Get him to admit that the dodgeballs his company makes are supposed to be used to hit children.”

Phillip noticed that the room had gone quiet.

“We’re waiting, Mr. Stanislaw,” Judge Monn said.

He forced himself to his feet, opened his mouth, and tried to sound like a real lawyer.

“Good morning, Mr. Nerd,” Phillip said.

“Nerp,” the witness corrected him. “My name is Marvin Nerp.”

“Did you say Twerp?” Judge Monn asked.

“No,” the witness thundered, “Nerp! I said Nerp!”

Giggles escaped from the back of the courtroom. Mr. Dinkle delivered a cold, hard stare to the rows of schoolchildren that advised them it had better not happen again.

“Mr. Nerp,” said Phillip, “do you make dodgeballs?”

“My company makes dodgeballs,” he said. “I am Chief Executive Officer of the American Dodgeball Company.”

“What are dodgeballs for?” asked Phillip.

“What are they for?” Mr. Nerp repeated. “What a stupid question. They’re for playing dodgeball, of course.”

“Okay,” said Phillip. “I guess you can leave.” The witness looked strangely at Phillip then over at his own lawyer, Mr. Dinkle, who was already on his feet.

“Your Honor, I would like to ask a few questions of the witness on cross-examination,” said Mr. Dinkle. “If Mr. Stanislaw doesn’t mind.”

“No,” said Phillip. “I don’t mind.”

“Mr. Nerp,” said Mr. Dinkle, “thank you for taking time out of your busy schedule. I know you are an important man, and you are needed back at the factory where you employ one-fifth of the workforce of this humble city. So I will be brief.”

It took Mr. Dinkle nearly an hour to be brief. He asked Mr. Nerp questions about the dodgeball factory. He also asked
him about charity work. Mr. Nerp testified about how he didn’t lay people off during years when his profits were low. He even testified about how something called the capital-gains tax was the work of the Devil.