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CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
The
county commissioners appointed a lawyer in private practice to be our new
director. This lawyer, Gordon Elliott,
was a polite, unassuming man. I saw him
frequently around the courthouse complex; he said “aw shucks” and apologized
often. José thought he was obsequious
rather than polite. He was short, about
five feet five, and had a large belly that hung over his pants. Not a man to take risks, he wore both a belt
and suspenders. Gordon, I was told, was
well respected as a lawyer, although I had never heard of him actually winning
a trial. It was rumored that his true
desire was to become a superior court judge.
Other than the casual greeting,
I had only had one real interaction with Gordon. This contact had happened a couple of months
ago, after a case-management hearing in Judge Baker’s courtroom. Judge Baker was primarily a family-law judge,
but she occasionally filled in on criminal matters. She was usually friendly, but emotional, and
prone to histrionics.
Superior Court held case-management
hearings Wednesdays and Thursdays at 11:00. These hearings were remarkably meaningless—the
lawyers could report whether they thought a case was going to trial or whether
a plea date had been set. I had a guilty
plea scheduled with Judge Stewart at the same time as a case-management hearing
in Judge Baker’s court. I had arranged
for José to cover my case-management hearing, to report to Judge Baker that my
case (a drug possession charge with Penny Pickens) would be going to trial as
scheduled in three weeks. It was a
common practice to have another lawyer cover a case-management hearing if the
assigned lawyer had a conflicting court appearance.
After my guilty plea, I
returned to my office around noon to find a note from José. “Judge Baker wants to see you about the case
management matter at 12:30. Sorry.” So much for lunch, I thought, and bought a
bag of Cheetoes and a Diet Pepsi, my regular standby lunch. With orange fingers, I reported to Judge Baker’s
courtroom as directed.
Penny sat rigidly at the
counsel table. She appeared to be in a
snit, but, then, she always appeared to be in a snit. Once the judge came out to the bench, Penny announced
the case formally, even though there was no record of these hearings.
Judge Baker asked, “Ms.
Hamilton, what is the status of this case?”
“We have not been able to
settle this case,” I answered, “and plan to go to trial as scheduled three weeks
from now.” These were the exact words I
had written on my note to José.
“Ms. Pickens?”
“Well! Since I have extended an offer that Ms.
Hamilton has chosen not to accept, I suppose we will have to proceed to trial
as scheduled!”
“Ms. Hamilton?”
“That’s fine, your honor.”
“Thank you, counsel. The matter will proceed to trial as scheduled
three weeks from Monday.” I walked over
to Penny’s table and signed the paperwork confirming the trial date, happily
leaving orange Cheeto smears all over the document.
I turned to leave, thinking
what a colossal waste of time and lunch the hearing had been, when the judge
cleared her throat. “One more thing Ms.
Hamilton,” she said. I turned back. Penny had a snotty smile on her face. “I expect you to attend these case-management
hearings so that I do not have to specially set aside time over the lunch hour
at great inconvenience to myself and Ms. Pickens.”
A sarcastic answer almost
bubbled out of my mouth, something like, “I will endeavor to bring my human cloning
machine with me to court next time.”
Instead, I opted for polite defiance.
“Well, Judge,” I said slowly, “I had a guilty plea scheduled at the same
time in another courtroom, and I had arranged for Mr. Rivera to cover for me in
this courtroom. What more would the
court have me do?”
“Ms. Hamilton!” the judge
exclaimed in a high-pitched voice. “I
don’t like your tone!” She banged her
gavel, stood up, and marched out of the courtroom. I was stunned.
Sure, I was talking back a bit, but it was ridiculous to give me a hard
time for an inability to be two places at once.
Besides, my tone had been fine; it was my words that she didn’t like.
I
was thinking about how ridiculous the judge’s tantrum had been, when I saw Gordon
Elliott sitting in the back of the courtroom.
He stood as I approached; I was thinking he was going to say something
like, “Unbelievable! What is her
problem? It’s not like you forgot to
arrange coverage (which lawyers did all the time).” Instead, he said, “You’d better go apologize
to her. You shouldn’t have talked to her
like that.”
“What? Um, well, she was kind of out of line.”
“You can’t upset a judge
like that. I’d go and apologize if I
were you.”
I said something like, “Uh,
I don’t think so,” and left the courtroom.
I thought that it was odd that he had misjudged the situation. I tried not to talk back to judges, but
sometimes you just had to stand up for yourself. Surely, Gordon Elliott knew that.
When
Gordon took over as director of the office, I was apprehensive, but still hopeful. One of his first actions was to call an
office-wide meeting. We had never had an
office-wide meeting, as far as I knew.
“People,”
he said calling the meeting to order. “I
assume all of you know, but my name is Gordon Elliott, and I am your new
leader.” He said this dramatically, as
if he were a world leader, rather than the head of our rag-tag group. José crossed his arms. “I am here to be your leader, but also to be
an inspiration for you all, I hope, to strive to be better. What do I mean by ‘strive to be better?’ I mean that we can all do better, be better.”
What
had happened to the unassuming lawyer we knew from around the courthouse? I wondered.
“This does not look
good,” José said, shaking his head.
“We
should at least give him a chance,” Matthew said. Matthew always wanted to give people a
chance.
“For
example, I’ve noticed that a number of you are slovenly in your
appearance.” José looked down at the
battered leather sandals he wore sockless with his wrinkled khakis. I stared at our new leader, incredulous.
“This
office does not have a good reputation with the downtown law firms. We can make it better. I can help you make it better. First, if you want to be perceived as
professionals, you must dress as professionals.
Therefore, as your leader, I am tightening up the dress code. Suits for the men, with ties every day and
every minute you are in the office. And
preferably skirts for the women. Now, I
can’t legally require skirts, but this is a conservative town, and we want to
send out a conservative message.
“I’d also like to
introduce you all to Marsha Rimski, who I have selected as our new office
manager.” He gestured to a thin,
officious woman with stiff, dark brown hair.
“Mrs. Rimski is an efficiency expert and will be charged with promoting
professionalism within our firm.”
Firm? I had never heard anyone refer to our office
as a “firm.”
“Mrs. Rimski will be
making some changes to maximize our professionalism. Please comply with her dictates.”
Dictates? We had never had “dictates.”
“In closing, you all—we all—obviously have a long way to
go. But now that I am here, we can begin
to make progress—soon, the public defenders’ office will be the best law firm
in Athens.”
By
the time he finished his little pep talk, he was facing a room full of public
defenders with their arms crossed and mouths open in disbelief.
We
walked back to the office with our heads down.
“I think he wants us to be prosecutors,” Janice said, pulling on her
cigarette.
“If
he keeps it up with the dress-for-success crap,” José said, “I’m going to start
showing up for work without pants.”
“That’ll teach him to tell you to wear socks,” I said.
“He
thinks we have a bad reputation because we aren’t dressing right. We have a bad reputation because people don’t
understand what we do,” José said.
“And
never will,” I said, taking a drag off of Janice’s cigarette.
“He
just doesn’t get it,” José said. “A
lawyer who represents poor people charged with crimes will never be popular or
the head of the civic club. I can deal
with the public’s lack of respect for what we do, but now he wants to take away
our freedom, too.” José was trying to
get wound up for one of his rants, but the energy just wasn’t there.
I
cursed our misfortune as I walked to my car, which I had parked in one of the
metered spaces on the street. When I
reached it, I saw a parking ticket on the windshield. Dammit, I thought. I bet no one would prosecute me if I killed
one of those meter maids.
When
I looked at the ticket more closely, I realized the license plate number written
on the ticket didn’t belong to my car. I
checked a few of the cars parked on the street.
Doug’s car. Apparently he thought
he could trick me into paying his ticket by putting it on my car. I shook my head and smiled. When it came to practical jokes, he was
clearly an amateur. The thought of my
revenge made me at least momentarily happy.
A few days later, Doug
called me.
“Why
did I just get a call from the city clerk?”
“I
really can’t imagine.”
“The
clerk said the city had just received one of my parking tickets.”
“I
hope you sent it in on time.”
“Kate,
the city clerk’s office received my ticket, which had been cut up into tiny pieces
with an attached note that read, ‘This is what I think of your stinking parking
ticket.’ Signed Douglas Catheter Vaughn.”
“Oh,
you shouldn’t have done that.”
“I
didn’t do that.”
“But
your name’s on it.”
“My
middle name is Cathcart.”
“Well,
still.”
“Why
would I misspell my own name?”
“It’s
O.K., Cathcart, everyone makes mistakes.”
“It’s my mother’s maiden
name.”
“You know, I can’t really blame you. I hate those parking guys too.”
On my way from the
courthouse to my office, still giggling at the thought of the city clerk’s face
as pieces of shredded parking ticket fell on her lap, I decided to stop at the
new espresso stand parked outside the courthouse. I still had not mastered the latte lingo, but
I needed caffeine badly enough to give it a try.
“What can I get for you?” The latte guy was tall and built and probably
all of 18 years old. The sign said my barista’s
name was Tom.
I scanned the long list
of options. “How about, um, an Americano? Is that good?”
“Sure, I like a girl who
takes her coffee without milk. You must
be tough.”
I smiled at him. Flirtation and coffee. I would definitely be coming back.
“What size would you
like?” he asked.
I looked back at the
sign, determined to appear tough and non-amateurish. My eyes darted around the complicated sign. “Let’s see—I think I’ll have the, um …” Why couldn’t they just have small, medium,
and large? I saw some numbers in the bottom
corner. “I’ll have, um, the, um—the sixteen
inches.”
I
held out a five dollar bill.
“Wow,” he said. “You really must be tough. Either that, or you meant ounces.”
“Yes,
ounces. And give me 16.”
He
touched my hand as he took the bill. “We’ll
save the other for later.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
After work I joined
Janice, José, and Matthew at our usual table at Moezy’s. I ordered a whisky.
“What’s with the whisky,
Kate?” Matthew asked.
“I’m feeling a little
frustrated. I think I need to start
dating,” I announced.
“Aren’t you kind of old
to be a virgin?” José said.
“Funny.”
“Why now?” Janice asked.
“I think I just made an
accidental pass at the latte guy.”
“Accidental?”
“It’s a long story.” I cringed at the word “long.”
“Isn’t he a little young?”
Janice said.
“I didn’t plan it, OK? I’m just thinking that maybe it’s time for a
boyfriend.”
“What do you need a
boyfriend for?”
“Someone to bring me
flowers and sleep with me.”
“Matthew and I can do
that,” Jose said. “Matthew, you can take
care of the flowers …”
Pam had been refilling
our beers. “I know a guy,” she said. “I can set you up.”
“A blind date?”
“He’s in his late 30s, so
a little older than you. He owns his own
construction company, and he likes to have fun.”
“Construction company?”
Jose said. “That’s totally hot. Does he have a tool belt?”
“Shut up, José.” I took my fresh beer from Pam. “It would be good to see someone who’s not a
lawyer.”
“I’ll set it up,
Kate. You won’t be sorry. He’s a great guy.”
“I’ll think about it.”
I cleared my throat; they
weren’t going to like what I had to say next. “I invited Gordon over,” I said, like this was
a totally normal thing to do.
“You
did what?” Janice demanded.
“I
was thinking that things have kind of gotten off on the wrong foot, so I
thought maybe if we all had a drink, we could talk, and …”
“Kate,
he doesn’t drink.” José said.
“Doesn’t
drink? I repeated. “But isn’t he a public defender?”
“Not
really,” Janice muttered.
“He
doesn’t like other people who drink, either,” José added.
“How
do you know all this, anyway?” I asked.
“After
the meeting the other day, I ran into Phil Newman and asked him about Gordon.”
“Who’s Phil Newman?”
“Just the best criminal
lawyer in town, probably in the whole state. He’s brilliant and hilarious. Anyway, I asked Phil about Gordon. He said, ‘I’ve never seen a case that Gordon Elliott couldn’t fuck up.’”
“Maybe he can still be a
good boss?”
“That’s what I said to
Phil. He just shrugged his shoulders and
said, ‘Maybe I’m wrong, but Gordon’s very insecure. Judges and prosecutors like him because he’s
an ass kisser,’” José said. “Phil said
that Gordon really wants to be a judge, and probably sees the public defender
position as a stepping stone to a judgeship.”
I
saw Gordon coming through the swinging doors.
“Quick,”
I said, grabbing coffee mugs from the nearby wait station. I handed them out and we poured our drinks
into the mugs.
When
he reached our table, I smiled and asked, “Coffee, Gordon?”
“Thank
you, Kate, but I try to avoid caffeine products.”
But not excessive amounts
of food, I thought, eyeing his stomach, which strained against the restraint of
his belt and suspenders.
“Janice, isn’t it?” he
said. “Would you mind not smoking? I have allergies …”
Janice
looked at him for a second, and then put her cigarette out. I don’t think she had ever been in a bar
without a lit cigarette in her hand.
“So,
Gordon, we were just hoping to get to know you a little better,” I said,
playing the hostess as he took a seat across from me.
“Well,
by way of background, I am a 1975 graduate.
I worked in the prosecutor’s office from 1975-1985. Since then I have been in private
practice. I am married to a beautiful,
brilliant woman and I have three beautiful children.”
“I
didn’t know you were married,” I said, conversationally. “What does your wife do?”
“She
raises brilliant children,” he said.
I wanted to ask what
would become of the brilliant girls raised by the dutiful women. But I knew the answer: The girls would go on to raise more brilliant
children. “What is your vision for the
office?” I asked instead; I thought I
should give him one more soft-ball question.
“The
public defenders’ office must become more courteous and professional. There should be no difference between our
office and downtown lawyers. We should
strive to have the judges and prosecutors admire and respect us, rather than
treat us with hostility and disdain.”
“But
don’t you think good public defenders sometimes make judges and prosecutors
angry when they stand up for their client’s rights?” José said, pointing out the painfully
obvious.
“A
good trial lawyer possesses a careful combination of traits. He is intelligent, persistent, persuasive,
and, where needed, aggressive. I have
often wondered if a woman can be aggressive enough to be a good criminal trial lawyer. On the other hand, women are more intuitive,
and this probably balances out their lack of aggression.”
I almost bit through my
coffee-whisky mug. Did he really just
say that? I waited for someone else to
say something, but no one did. I looked
at Janice, who looked back at me, but said nothing. The moment passed without either of us saying
anything as we stared at him helplessly.
Maybe we weren’t aggressive enough after all.
“I think I need to go to
the bathroom—would you excuse me?” I said, quickly escaping the awkward silence
at the table. Once in the stall, I slid
the door’s lock shut and sat on the toilet without pulling up my skirt. I didn’t really need to go, I just needed to
think. What could I possibly say to Gordon? I couldn’t figure him out. It was easy to discern most people’s basic
motives, but I couldn’t grasp his.
Surely he didn’t want to make us all miserable. Maybe if I could understand him better, I
could reason with him. I flushed the
toilet on auto pilot and checked my lipstick in the shiny condom
dispenser. The woman reflected between French
ticklers and ribbed-for-her-pleasure looked worried.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
While
nothing changed on the surface at work—except José started wearing a tie and
socks every day—the mood in the office shifted.
José hated giving in, but then decided that socks and ties weren’t worth
getting fired over. Before it felt like
we were a band of underground resistance fighters; now we felt, I don’t know—lost,
rudderless. Despite feeling adrift,
however, we still had our work and our clients. José, Matthew, and I spent most of our days in
court, anyway. I sometimes read police
reports in the courthouse cafeteria, not liking the change in the air at the
office.
A few weeks after our
meeting at Moezy’s, Gordon called me into his office. I was a little apprehensive, having tried to
avoid him and focus on my work, but I wasn’t too worried. He probably just wanted to know how things
were going in felonies. I was thankful
that I had worn a skirt that day.
“I have been getting
complaints from some of the prosecutors about you,” he said in a surprisingly
angry tone once his office door was closed.
“Yes,” I said proudly,
remembering Ed’s congratulation speech.
“We
can’t have that.”
“Can’t
have what?” I asked, confused.
“Complaints.”
For heaven’s sake, I
thought. “What are they complaining
about now?”
“Penny
Pickens called and said that you have a client in jail who could plead guilty
and get out of jail, but you haven’t pled him yet.”
Of
course. Penny and I were in a minor
battle over a client in jail charged with drug possession. I wanted her to reduce the charge to a
misdemeanor, since the client didn’t have any previous felonies. She wanted him to plead guilty as charged. She had some leverage, though, because he
could plead guilty to the felony any day, and be released from jail, while his
trial date was two weeks away. I had
convinced the client to wait for his trial, because prosecutors would often reduce
the charge at the last minute, not wanting to bother with the trouble of a
trial.
“That’s
because I talked to my guy, and he wants a trial. It’s just in two weeks, anyway.”
“Well,
Ms. Pickens is upset.”
“So? She’s a complete harpy.”
“Please
don’t use that language, Kate. I expect
you to apologize to Ms. Pickens immediately.
Report back to me when you have made the apology.”
I
left Gordon’s office, my polite smile frozen.
Why was he getting involved in this?
Ed would have laughed in Penny’s face if she complained to him that I
wasn’t pleading someone guilty fast enough.
A
couple of days later, I passed Gordon in the hallway. “Did you and Penny Pickens make up?” he
asked.
“Not
really.” The case was still set for
trial.
“Did
you apologize to her?”
“You
were serious about that?”
“Miss
Hamilton, I direct you to apologize to Ms. Pickens immediately.”
I
stared after him as he walked off. I
would swallow my tongue before I apologized to Penny for doing my job.
I
tried to hide from Gordon, but I ran into him in the lunch room the next day. “Did you apologize to Ms. Pickens?” he asked.
“Actually,
no.”
“Miss
Hamilton, I gave you a direct order, and you have now disobeyed it. What is the explanation?”
I
tried to appear disarming. “I’m just not
very good at direct orders…You see at one time in my life I considered joining
the military,” I invented, “but I thought, Kate, you are not very good at
direct orders, so I didn’t join.” I was
hoping I could babble my way out of this.
“Instead, I went to law school and became a public defender. So the very reason I am here is because I’m
bad at direct orders.”
“This
is a warning, Kate Hamilton. Disobey me
again, and you will not have a job.”
I
turned to leave without comment, my brain trying to process what was happening.
“Oh,
and one more thing, Kate. Mrs. Rimski
says your office is a mess. Have it
clean before you leave today.”Want to read more? Find the next chapters, 27-29, Nurses, Clowns, and Incense, here.
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