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When the verdict was read my client smiled broadly and rapidly turned toward me and shook my hand vigorously and patted my shoulder at the same time. His quickness of movement surprised me and as I stared into his smiling eyes and I saw no relief, only gladness. He again reacted when he saw my look and darted his eyes upward as if to thank the ceiling. He brought his gaze back down as open eyed innocence.
Thank you much, counselor, thanks to you very much! This time he spoke his congratulations as he continued to shake my hand. I knew you were a good one, from what I heard and could see you calculate. You got a very good start and this only proves your worth. You have my utmost gratitude and Im forever thankful. He grinned widely then spun around to move toward his wife only a few steps away behind the rail.
A couple of other court observers came over to me but I kept a sideways glance at my client. With narrow eyes I could see their blank look at each other then a slight eye movement toward me from him to her that caused her to smile more yet unmoving her glance. They hugged one another as I turned my attention back to who was talking to me.
For a youngster like yourself you did a meticulous job drawing the reasonable doubt. This was all circumstantial, and they knew it, but it was all they had. Just think they dont like the couple, theyre kind of liberal with the kids. Nothing but bias, though a tragedy that kid got taken from their school. Good job, Hank.
Thanks, Ben; I really appreciate your opinion. It means a lot to me. I told the older attorney. I figured he was here mostly to watch the proceedings.
As I gathered my paperwork I glanced over to the exit doors and they were already gone. They didnt stay around for anyone else. They had just left.
The prosecutor nodded at me as he turned to head for the exit but said nothing. I went back to finish up when I noticed the detective standing at my table.
At least we got them noticed. Theyll probably end up leaving the city to go further away. Well keep that trace on them, through the network, wherever they will land. These kind of people, once they got that taste theyll have to do it again. He kept his stare at me. That kid was molested enough to have caused torture. Then they suffocated him. If we find the DNA match itll probably be a drifter they hired to walk in around the same time. Then all he could say for the money he was paid they told him to pilfer through the living room to look for more cash and take pocket valuables. Just for an insurance claim, they would have told him. Too bad the living room led to the kitchen where the boy supposedly was making a snack. Holding the kid so hard to keep him quiet must of somehow cut off his air. Then to find the kid in the woods clubbed mercilessly with a log to create a messy distraction could have been anyone that carried him that mile. But it wasnt. He looked at the exit. Didnt you notice how they responded to the not guilty, counselor? It wasnt with the stress of the falsely accused. You could see that, couldnt you?
No sir, I told him, It was a random act. This city is dangerous.
They are, he replied. Then he left.
As I left there was a couple more handshakes from people. Outside the courtroom I sat down on a bench after the court officer refused to look directly at me. I was young but sharp as I had been told and willing to dig through the details until I could make a point. But this was the first time my gut had started to react. And my observance has become keener. Yes, now I know there is something wrong with their story. Everything too pat in their telling and everything too smooth in what must have happened. I am getting better.
I got up to go back to my office for I know there will be more offers. This will help gain wider notice; these people had money and influence. This case will help me in the long run. What matters is the win.
BONUS : On The Planet Corporate: Survival Through Fiction
I found myself sitting in the HR department of one of the most famous companies in America. My ice queen soon to be boss wanted me and I knew it. After all, I had graduated from a pseudo impressive university and I looked really good in my Ann Klein suit. Problem was, I'd never worked a day in Corporate America and I had just turned fifty. Hard to teach an old dog new tricks but the bills were piling up and the only place my freedom loving artistic spirit had gotten me was down and out in New York City.
I was offered the job; mostly because the actress in me conjured up Sigourney Weaver in Working Girl, a dash of Faye Dunaway in Network and I performed a nifty little improv using the shrewd and sassy elegance of Judy Holiday and Melanie Griffith as rather impressive role models. My stunning performance worked and there I was, embraced by my new corporate family and occasionally loaned back out to the rest of society, my pet Pomeranian and my old disco buddies.
After filling the pages of my gratitude journal for at least six months, and thanking the universe for this rather prestigious position, the honeymoon wore off and I became increasingly shell shocked. My co-workers were very strange indeed. I didn't feel that they were family at all, but that's what having a job is called on the Planet Corporate: family. Oh, they like putting us in teams too. Teams connote competition and a great rah, rah spirit. In my old world they called it "opening night." Here they call it "making goal." As you can imagine, I was confused.
I had a hard time understanding these people. They talked about a lot of things that didn't really interest me. When they werent obsessing on how low the sales numbers were, they were obsessing on the New York Jets, what to nuke for lunch and whether or not the Bachelor would chose the blonde or the tenacious little redhead. I was beginning to feel quite miserable. Why, the first time I heard I had a direct report I thought I was going to be writing up a presentation on how I was going to direct the Christmas play. The first time I was called a subordinate, I almost wept aloud. Jeez, if I wanted to be subordinate to anyone I would have married my ex.
Then I was told I was getting a performance review. Well, finally something to look forward to. I was happy at last. Surely, my calculated persona as a prisoner in pin stripes was impressive. Why, I learned to click down the hallowed halls of this very famous corporation in three inch heels. I found the perfect skirt length and kept my nails conservatively French tipped. I even talked numbers all day, like they were as important as season tickets to the Met, and I pretended to be in a constant state of urgency so my boss would think I was absolutely killing myself to make my sales goal.
Well, you could have knocked me over in a breath when I discovered that a performance review was actually based on whether or not I was selling anything. Disappointingly, my review was moderate to cold. I felt that I wanted to crawl under a rock and not emerge until I figured out how I could learn to care how much money my company made off the ninety percent of my life it was taking. My self esteem had taken an affront. Here I thought my humanity was more important.
So be it. I licked my wounds and went on like a good soldier. These people were expanding my sales goal wider than a middle age waist line, but still, I persisted. I plodded along, cursing my fate and trying to figure out if I'd enjoy driving a cab for a living.
Finally, some good news from the Planet of the Corporate: We were all going on a retreat. I joyously ran out to buy a yoga mat, karma sutra oil to share with colleagues, hot pink sweatpants and new Addidas. I couldn't want to chant with my corporate family. I was ecstatic.
But then, the bomb fell. I was both surprised and appalled. My corporate family was thrusting me into a hotel room with another adult, asking me to share the spit and spittle of sleep, the intimacy of bodily woes and the loss of privacy on my frequent calls home to the dog walker. That did it. I rebelled. I wore the new Addidas and the hot pink sweats to their all day meetings on how to sell more stuff. I chanted enthusiastically during the power lunch and used some little book on cheese they gave me as a place mat for the very gooey award night dinner.
Wouldn't you know it, I was written up. At first I thought I'd earned some good review on the little monologue I gave to the company president on corporate greed. Not so, I was put on probation and sent home to watch Oprah, the Secret and meditate on changing my life as I sat by the Hudson with my Pomeranian re-reading What Color Is Your Parachute.
After two weeks, I was back on the planet Corporate wondering how I'd get through it. I couldnt quit, it was already going to take me two years to get out of the debt I'd accumulated relying on an income doing extra film work and occasional voice overs for pharmaceutical drug companies. I needed the damn job. But something had shifted for me during my little reprisal from the bull pen of consumption. Maybe it was Oprah, maybe the law of attraction really works. I sure was intending to alter my present state. And it happened just like that. I put all my efforts into seeing myself as a happy little puppy and lo and behold, I started writing a novel.
Once I began, the words just flowed. I wrote and I wrote till my little fingers twitched. My life was altered forever by that simple action. I now started to wake at five am with a passion I hadn't felt in years. I threw myself at the keyboard for an hour or more. I filled my weekends weaving a story, creating characters that I couldn't get enough of. My joy was abundant.
Wouldn't you know it? The bull pen became tolerable. Even the ice queen melted a bit and the complicated hidden agendas of coworkers became insignificant. My head was filled with plot and character. Who cares who wants my head on a corporate silver platter? What cared I for corporate agendas when my chapters flowed off the page? I thought about nothing else. My sales numbers even increased, as did my tolerance for the ice queens and bully boys on the Planet Corporate. How strange it all was.
Now I have a book, actually several books. You see, I stole back my time. I found a place that I wanted to be. You might say I took back my soul to write. I would advise anyone out there who has found themselves on an alien planet, to follow their passion as well, even if it doesn't get you back on the planet Earth right away, I can assure you that eventually, it will, one way or the other. You see, your freedom will come out of the creation and your joy is in action, not the inaction of just feeling miserable. Writing is a place no one can enter or soil with demands you may never reach and definitions that limit you. So find your book and write it. If you don't, your Corporate family will become the title of your life, and the spirit who longs to fly free will loose touch with the words that might have been, and the key to the door not taken.
I found myself sitting in the HR department of one of the most famous companies in America. My ice queen soon to be boss wanted me and I knew it. After all, I had graduated from a pseudo impressive university and I looked really good in my Ann Klein suit. Problem was, I'd never worked a day in Corporate America and I had just turned fifty. Hard to teach an old dog new tricks but the bills were piling up and the only place my freedom loving artistic spirit had gotten me was down and out in New York City.
I was offered the job; mostly because the actress in me conjured up Sigourney Weaver in Working Girl, a dash of Faye Dunaway in Network and I performed a nifty little improv using the shrewd and sassy elegance of Judy Holiday and Melanie Griffith as rather impressive role models. My stunning performance worked and there I was, embraced by my new corporate family and occasionally loaned back out to the rest of society, my pet Pomeranian and my old disco buddies.
After filling the pages of my gratitude journal for at least six months, and thanking the universe for this rather prestigious position, the honeymoon wore off and I became increasingly shell shocked. My co-workers were very strange indeed. I didn't feel that they were family at all, but that's what having a job is called on the Planet Corporate: family. Oh, they like putting us in teams too. Teams connote competition and a great rah, rah spirit. In my old world they called it "opening night." Here they call it "making goal." As you can imagine, I was confused.
I had a hard time understanding these people. They talked about a lot of things that didn't really interest me. When they werent obsessing on how low the sales numbers were, they were obsessing on the New York Jets, what to nuke for lunch and whether or not the Bachelor would chose the blonde or the tenacious little redhead. I was beginning to feel quite miserable. Why, the first time I heard I had a direct report I thought I was going to be writing up a presentation on how I was going to direct the Christmas play. The first time I was called a subordinate, I almost wept aloud. Jeez, if I wanted to be subordinate to anyone I would have married my ex.
Then I was told I was getting a performance review. Well, finally something to look forward to. I was happy at last. Surely, my calculated persona as a prisoner in pin stripes was impressive. Why, I learned to click down the hallowed halls of this very famous corporation in three inch heels. I found the perfect skirt length and kept my nails conservatively French tipped. I even talked numbers all day, like they were as important as season tickets to the Met, and I pretended to be in a constant state of urgency so my boss would think I was absolutely killing myself to make my sales goal.
Well, you could have knocked me over in a breath when I discovered that a performance review was actually based on whether or not I was selling anything. Disappointingly, my review was moderate to cold. I felt that I wanted to crawl under a rock and not emerge until I figured out how I could learn to care how much money my company made off the ninety percent of my life it was taking. My self esteem had taken an affront. Here I thought my humanity was more important.
So be it. I licked my wounds and went on like a good soldier. These people were expanding my sales goal wider than a middle age waist line, but still, I persisted. I plodded along, cursing my fate and trying to figure out if I'd enjoy driving a cab for a living.
Finally, some good news from the Planet of the Corporate: We were all going on a retreat. I joyously ran out to buy a yoga mat, karma sutra oil to share with colleagues, hot pink sweatpants and new Addidas. I couldn't want to chant with my corporate family. I was ecstatic.
But then, the bomb fell. I was both surprised and appalled. My corporate family was thrusting me into a hotel room with another adult, asking me to share the spit and spittle of sleep, the intimacy of bodily woes and the loss of privacy on my frequent calls home to the dog walker. That did it. I rebelled. I wore the new Addidas and the hot pink sweats to their all day meetings on how to sell more stuff. I chanted enthusiastically during the power lunch and used some little book on cheese they gave me as a place mat for the very gooey award night dinner.
Wouldn't you know it, I was written up. At first I thought I'd earned some good review on the little monologue I gave to the company president on corporate greed. Not so, I was put on probation and sent home to watch Oprah, the Secret and meditate on changing my life as I sat by the Hudson with my Pomeranian re-reading What Color Is Your Parachute.
After two weeks, I was back on the planet Corporate wondering how I'd get through it. I couldnt quit, it was already going to take me two years to get out of the debt I'd accumulated relying on an income doing extra film work and occasional voice overs for pharmaceutical drug companies. I needed the damn job. But something had shifted for me during my little reprisal from the bull pen of consumption. Maybe it was Oprah, maybe the law of attraction really works. I sure was intending to alter my present state. And it happened just like that. I put all my efforts into seeing myself as a happy little puppy and lo and behold, I started writing a novel.
Once I began, the words just flowed. I wrote and I wrote till my little fingers twitched. My life was altered forever by that simple action. I now started to wake at five am with a passion I hadn't felt in years. I threw myself at the keyboard for an hour or more. I filled my weekends weaving a story, creating characters that I couldn't get enough of. My joy was abundant.
Wouldn't you know it? The bull pen became tolerable. Even the ice queen melted a bit and the complicated hidden agendas of coworkers became insignificant. My head was filled with plot and character. Who cares who wants my head on a corporate silver platter? What cared I for corporate agendas when my chapters flowed off the page? I thought about nothing else. My sales numbers even increased, as did my tolerance for the ice queens and bully boys on the Planet Corporate. How strange it all was.
Now I have a book, actually several books. You see, I stole back my time. I found a place that I wanted to be. You might say I took back my soul to write. I would advise anyone out there who has found themselves on an alien planet, to follow their passion as well, even if it doesn't get you back on the planet Earth right away, I can assure you that eventually, it will, one way or the other. You see, your freedom will come out of the creation and your joy is in action, not the inaction of just feeling miserable. Writing is a place no one can enter or soil with demands you may never reach and definitions that limit you. So find your book and write it. If you don't, your Corporate family will become the title of your life, and the spirit who longs to fly free will loose touch with the words that might have been, and the key to the door not taken.
