Despite the global shortage of shoe salesmen, I went to law school anyhow. I managed to finish in the allotted 3 years, graduating in the top 95% of my class. I passed the bar exam on the second go round, got to Austin late for the ceremony, and was sworn in by a classmate's very drunk lawyer-father in the parking lot of the Villa Capri Motel.

The front door of my apartment was definitely not in jeopardy of being broken down by members of the recruiting committees of the big law firms. After weeks of resume peddling, I hooked up with an older lawyer who was "winding down" his practice -- one that looked to the casual observer as if it had never really been wound up. He let me use his office as a base of operations, and gave me my first case. It was going to trial in two days. While wearing old blue jeans and a tee shirt, I won the case but almost went to jail in the process.

To say that my legal career had gotten off on a rather rocky start would be like saying that the Titanic had a few problems on the way over here during its maiden voyage.

* * * * * *

I've always heard that you'll never forget your first love. If you practice law for a living, you'll never forget your first client. I know I won't.

Twenty-six year-old Bobby Guillory and I were the same age. Any similarities between us--other than belonging to the same species -- ended right there. Bobby's goal in life was to contaminate his body with the maximum amount of chemicals that were available on any given day. Unlike most of us, Bobby had reached and even surpassed his goal at a very early age. His rap sheet read like an inventory list from Walgreens. Possession of amphetamines. Possession of barbiturates. Possession of hallucinogens. If there was a mood-altering drug out there, Bobby had possessed it.

And boy did he look it. We first met in my office the day before I was to try his speeding ticket in municipal court. He had walked in at just before five o'clock for his two o'clock appointment. Actually, Bobby didn't really walk -- it was more of a shuffle. When he moved from place to place it looked like he was on a Nordic Track, except he kept his arms dangling at his sides. He was a shade under six feet tall, and needed to pack on about thirty more pounds to reach his ideal body weight. The right side of his face had what looked to be three or four days stubble, and the left side about twice that. It appeared that Bobby had been shaving a few days ago but was interrupted half-way through. His bushy coal black hair looked like it was just a few days short of its monthly shampooing. Bobby Guillory struck me as a cross between Reverend Jim on Taxi and both Bill and Ted in Bill and Ted's Excellent Adventure.

"Nice shirt," I said as we shook hands, nodding towards his black tee shirt. Emblazoned across the front in white lettering was the rather bold statement: "GIVE ME ALL YOUR PROZAC--AND NOBODY GETS HURT."

  "Wow," was his response as he looked down at it, seemingly surprised that he had a shirt on.

  "You're three hours late," I pointed out. "Wow," he remarked with a slight grin on his face, slowly shaking his head from side to side.

So far I wasn't overly impressed with Bobby's vocabulary. For most people, "wow" is followed by exclamation mark, like "Wow! I just won the lottery!" For Bobby, it was like a long, drawn-out, soft-spoken observation. Like when Dr. Roentgen had accidently discovered x-rays in his lab. He had held up a chemically-soaked piece of paper with a light behind it and saw all of the bones in his hand. "Wow," he'd probably said, with absolute reverance for the moment.

  "If you're late for court tomorrow morning the judge will have you arrested," I warned him.

He stared at me with a look that most people would misinterpret as intense concentration, and said, "Sorry, dude. I must have forgotten to set my watch back."

I didn't say anything, as I knew he wasn't finished. "Wow ," he added.

"Bobby," I said as if speaking to a small child, "this is May. We went on daylight savings time last month. And you set your watch forward."

He looked at me as if someone had just explained the Pythagorean Theorem to him. "Wow," he observed. " No wonder I was late."

For the next two hours, I talked to Bobby about getting zapped by radar in a school zone and how a conviction for his third moving violation in less than twelve months would result in suspension of his driver's license. His response to this was -- as you've probably guessed -- to slowly nod his head and say, "Wow."

I locked the front door of the office and walked Bobby to his car. The front bumper of his ancient Ford Falcon was decorated with a slightly off-center and tilted bumper sticker (I thought to myself: Who would put the bumper sticker on the front bumper?) that commanded: "Eat More Possum". I pondered that message for a few seconds and then gave up.

  "You be here at seven tomorrow morning," I instructed him. "Let me see your watch," I ordered sternly. The Timex Ironman was, much to my surprise, only ten minutes off. I adjusted it, then set the alarm for six a.m.

  "There are only three questions you're going to have to ask during your trial in the morning," I assured him.

He opened the front door of the Falcon and started to get in, then hestitated.

  "Doncha mean, dude, that there's only three questions I'm gonna have to answer?"

"Nope, my friend," I said, patting him on the back. "You are going to be asking the questions."

He climbed into the front seat, and as I closed the door I heard him mutter to himself, "Wow."

* * * * * *

Municipal court is a zoo. Prosecutors in polyester suits and clip-on ties, police officers in uniform sporting huge, black patent leather holsters on their hips, defense lawyers walking around the front of the courtroom shouting names off a list, and a sea of wide-eyed citizens wandering around bewildered by it all.

Bobby and I sat next to each other in the front row. I was wearing his old jeans, non-matching joggers (New Balance on the left and Adidas on the right), and a ZZ Top Texas Tour tee shirt with a list of cities on the back. He had on my dark blue suit, crisp white dress shirt, and Jerry Garcia tie. My Florsheim wing-tips were a little tight, but we'd gotten them on him. As he promised, he'd shaved -- both sides of his face. I hadn't. He'd shampooed. I didn't. When he'd shown up at my office on time--much to my surprise--I'd told him that we had to switch clothes. It bothered me not a little bit that he didn't even ask why. Bingo. In just a handful of seconds he was standing there in his boxers. I had to admit that he looked pretty darn good afterwards. We'd spent almost an hour going over the three questions. I had printed them out on my word processor in thirty-point bold type.

After over two hours of pleas, dismissals, and warrant issuing, the judge finally called our case.

The Honorable Frank Stanfield was the Chief Municipal Judge. In legal circles, this was right up there with Head Parking Lot Attendant. Judge Stanfield looked to be somewhere between his late seventies and a hundred years old. The poor guy's hearing had deserted him years ago, and he sported bilateral hearing aids the size of portable CD players. He wore a look of perpetual exasperation on his face. What little hair he had was the color of dull steel wool and stuck straight out on both sides and on top of his head.

  "Bobby Guillory!" he shouted, glancing threateningly around the packed courtroom.

Bobby and I, as we had practiced all morning, stood up and walked together to the bench. The prosecutor was a young man with reddish-orange hair and thick glasses. His untailored, ill-fitting Men's Warehouse suit suggested that he was --like me-- fresh out of law school. He scrunched up his face and held the folded complaint less than two inches from his eyes.

"Officer Desmond!" he stated in a loud, squeaky voice, turning to his rear to glance at the police officers sitting together in the first three rows on the right.

"Here!" came the reply, as if it had been screamed by a Marine Corps drill instructor into a P.A. system.

Bobby and I turned to see one of the largest humans I'd ever observed. Stuffed inside a size ten uniform was a size twelve body that could only have been produced by genetics, testosterone excess, and steriod abuse. His thick, brown hair was cut in a short flat-top. Officer Desmond looked like he could get down on all fours, soap up the top of his head, and give the tires on your car a real good scrubbing.

He walked forward to the witness stand briskly, smartly excuted a left face, and raised his massive right hand. It ocurred to me that this guy had done this before. Judge Stanfield administered the oath to him, asking him if he'd tell the truth, the whole truth, and all of that. " I do!" he stated with the inflection of a "Ten Hut!".

I had to suppress my desire to add-- like Al Pacino did throughout Scent of a Woman: "Who-ah!"

  "Proceed," Judge Stanfield ordered with a wave of his hand towards himself, like he was sweeping crumbs off the bench on to the floor.

  "State your full name, sir," the prosecutor directed.

I noticed a slight hesitation as Desmond glanced nervously to the left at his buddies.

"Ma . . . Ma . . . Marion Desmond," he finally said.

This was greeted by some semi-suppressed snickers behind me -- but I didn't dare turn around.

Good God, I thought to myself...our Hulk Hogan look-alike was a Marion. Who-ah.

But it was only a temporary set-back for Desmond. In short order, his testimony took on the rhythm of a well-rehearsed mantra. Where was your vehicle? Where was the defendant's? What was the traffic like? The weather? The light conditions? The street? What was the posted speed limit? Was it clearly marked? Was your radar unit in working order? When was it last calibrated? What reading did you observe when the defendant drove his automobile through your beam?

They had Bobby doing forty in a thirty, and they had him cold. Finally, after the package was tightly wrapped with a big bow on the top, Men's Wearhouse Man turned to a very bored Judge Stanfield and stated, "Pass the witness."

Stanfield nodded towards Bobby and I, waved some crumbs on his lap, and said, "Proceed."

As we had hoped, Officer Desmond looked to Bobby--not me. Bobby slowly unfolded the paper with the three question on it. So far, so good.

  "Officer," he began, "can you....."

  "Speak up!" screamed the judge.

Bobby hesitated, swallowed hard and then started again.

"Officer, can you identify the defendant?"

"Absolutely," came the quick response. No grays in this guy's life. Everything was black and white.

Question number one had been asked and answered as planned.

  "Would you point to him . . ."

"Speak up!" Stanfield screeched again with a pained expression on his face.

Bobby took a few deep breaths and continued.

  "Would you point him out to the Court?"

Desmond held out an arm that looked bigger and longer than my leg. He pointed directly to me, as I bowed my head sheepishly.

  "That's him!" he stated confidently, as if he'd just picked the Boston Strangler out of a crowd.

We were two-thirds of the way home.

"Are you as positive about the rest of your testimony as you are about your identification of the defendant?" Bobby asked, not varying a syllable from the script he held in his hand.

Officer Desmond glanced at me again, and then repeated what must have the most often-used word in his vocabulary. "Absolutely."

Silence. Bobby had successfully navigated the treacherous waters of reading three simple questions, and he was very pleased with himself. Actually, he was amazed. "Wow," he whispered, obviously impressed with the enormity of his accomplishment.

"Well?" scolded Judge Stanfield, irritated that ten seconds of needless silence had threatened to upset the precise schedule of Municipal Court Number 2.

I nudged Bobby and pointed to the bottom of the page.

"Pass the witness," he dutifully read.

  "Anything further from the City?" Stanfield asked immediately.

"The City rests," announced the prosecutor.

As Desmond stood up to retreat from the witness stand, he was wearing the telltale smirk that he must have been taught in the police academy.

"Anything from the defense?" Stanfield asked Bobby.

I spoke for the first time.

"Move to dismiss, Your Honor," I stated confidently.

The judge didn't hestitate. "Your lawyer addresses the Court, " he instructed with not a little bit of irritation in his voice. "Not you."

"I am the lawyer, your honor," I explained. "This gentlemen," I said, motioning to Bobby, "is the defendant."

All of a sudden there was a silence in the courtroom. No whispering, no fidgeting, and no movement of any kind. The only sound was the large hand of the electric clock on the wall advancing to the next minute.

  "The officer has testified unequivocally that I am the person to whom he issued the citation," I explained. "He further testified," I continued, "that he was as sure of the rest of his testimony as he was of his identification."

Judge Stanfield's lower mandible sagged noticeably as his upper mandible stayed in place, revealing the most ill-fitting set of dentures I'd ever seen.

"He was wrong on both counts," I observed. Then I repeated, "Move to dismiss."

I glanced to my right and noticed that officer Desmond was standing just a few feet from the witness stand, had his hands on his hips, and was glancing at me with all of the contempt he could muster. His jaw muscles seemed to be in spasm as they jumped around on both sides of his face. I held his stare, smiled slightly, and gave him a wink. He looked like he was‚  going to explode on the spot.

"Where's your suit?" Stanfield growled.

  "My client's wearing it, Judge. I didn't want him to make a bad impression," I explained with feigned innocence.

"Well I assure you, young man, that you're not making a good impression!" he responded quickly.

  "But I'm not the one on trial your honor," I reminded him. "Officer Desmond testified under oath that I was the person who was speeding. ' Absolutely', he said. He also testified that he was as sure of that fact as he was of the rest of his testimony. And he gave us another 'absolutely' on that one, too. There's been no evidence of any kind against my client, and the prosecutor rested his case."

Feeling pretty good about the present state of affairs, I added, for the third time, " Move to dismiss."

Judge Stanfield bowed his head and slowly scratched the almost-bald top of it with a hand visibly shaking from what I interpreted to be a mixture of barely-controlled rage and a pretty good dose of Parkinson's. The wisp of scraggly hair couldn't conceal his scarlet scalp. After what seemed to be an eternity, he shook his head slowly and ruled.

"Case dismissed."

The courtroom erupted with thunderous applause, cheering, and whistling. Score one for the citizens. After being pushed around all morning in an extremely hostile enviroment, the little people had finally won one.

Bobby Guillory, my first client, had a wide smile on his face, and he gave me the look that every lawyer lives to see-- a mixture of relief, happiness, respect and affection. He put his arm around my shoulder and stated, predictably, "Wow."

Like an enraged carpenter trying to hammer a nail through a block of wood, Judge Stanfield banged his gavel on the bench repeatedly as he shouted, "Order!" "Order!" "Order!" "Order!" And when all of the noise finally stopped and Municipal Court Number 2 was again quiet, one last, exasperated, "Order."

Bobby and I turned to walk away, but from the bench I heard the judge utter three chilling words.

  "Not so fast."

I stopped and turned slightly towards the bench. "Pardon me?" I asked.

  "Your client is free to go counsel," he said threatenly. "I'm not finished with you."

I had no idea what he was he was talking about. I was speechless.

"Cat got your tongue?" he asked with an ominous grin on his face.

I always thought that was an unusual saying. I mean, where in the heck did that come from? Was there some famous orator who was in the middle of a speech when all of a sudden an enraged cat appeared from nowhere, jumped on his chest, and bit him on the tongue and shut him up? If it meant that I had absolutely no idea what to say next, it certainly applied.

  "You're in contempt of this Court," Stanfield ruled, and then added, "No lawyer comes in here dressed like that."

Now that the charade was over and I had gone from being a prop back to being a lawyer, I felt not a little bit self-conscious standing in front of the bench looking like a semi-homeless person.

  "Your fine is $250.00. Pay it to my clerk by noon, or I'll issue a warrant for you arrest," he warned sternly.

As Bobby Guillory and I walked out of the front door of the Municipal Courts Building, I did the mental arithmetic: subtract the $50.00 fee I was charging him, and it had cost me $200.00 to win my first case. I needed to find an ATM machine pronto.

Officer Desmond was standing on the sidewalk glaring at the citizens as they approached the building. Citizen intimidation was obviously his favorite off-duty pastime.

As Bobby and I walked towards the parking lot, I couldn't resist. In the midst of all of the hustle and bustle of citizens and police officers coming to and leaving from the Municipal Courts Building, I turned and shouted, "Hey . . . Marion!"

When he snapped his head in our direction with a mixture of surprise and contempt on his face, I added at the top of my voice, "Who-ah!"

THE END

2005, JusticeSeekers. All rights reserved

 

 

Paul Waldner is one of Christopher Pittman's defense attorneys,
 A partner with Andy Vickery of Justice seekers.

If you have not viewed the 48 hours video on their site I would encourage
you to do so. To support this case or any others on this site defense fund information can be found on the legal defense websites. :::48hours:::
http://www.justiceseekers.com/index.cfm?menuitemID=202

 

 

S.C. Supreme Court to hear teens appeal

Posted on Thu, Sep. 01, 2005

Youth was convicted of killing his grandparents when he was 12

By NICHOLE MONROE BELL AND HENRY EICHEL

The Charlotte Observer

The S.C. Supreme Court has decided to hear the appeal of a Chester County teen who was convicted in the 2001 shooting deaths of his grandparents.The ruling means the youth, 16-year-old Christopher Pittman, will bypass the S.C. Court of Appeals because his case involves an issue of significant public interest or a legal principle of major importance, according to the Supreme Court.
to read more........
http://www.thestate.com/mld/thestate/news/local/12529968.htm

Posted on Thu, Sep. 01, 2005‚