ME THE JURY

TO-WIT: ME THE JURY

For a little while, I sat all alone at my library table, contemplating what I had just done, but feeling nothing of the holocaust I had expected. Lightning had not struck me down, the earth had not swallowed me up, and the angel of Death, usually a welcome source of referral work, had not yet arrived to cart me off to the Hell I so richly deserved.

I glanced at my watch. Reassuringly, the sweep hand continued to mark off the seconds, evidencing nary a ripple in the time continuum that might otherwise distinguish this day from any other in the life of a lawyer.

Not fifteen minutes before, the room had been filled with lively discourse between counsel, a coming together of lawyers at my request to amicably settle a family dispute involving the appointment of a guardian for an incompetent sibling. To my mind, settlement was the only viable option, as the alternative was a hearing before a judge in another county who, having just been subjected to such a proceeding himself, had emerged with the authority to sign only his personal correspondence and his opinions without supervision.

What had made me so anxious is easy to explain. I had arranged the meeting not to advocate my client’s position but to abrogate it. Acting on my own volition and completely against her express wishes, I had, plain and simple, thrown her and her cause to the sharks.

After opposing counsel swam off, I did not remain in my law library for long. In the aftermath of such perfidy, I was uncomfortable amidst the books, the chapters and verses that have for so long chartered my course. By my very presence, I was debasing the spirits of Black, Brandeis, Cardozo, Douglas and their scant ilk that in that sacred chamber saturated the air around me like a heady perfume. h I know, Rehnquist was there too, but, as the guy who cleans out my septic tank says, “you kinda’ get used to it after awhile.”

This had been no spontaneous betrayal of my client’s interests, no siree, nor an act of rank cowardice either. To the contrary, I had made a cool and calculated decision well in advance of the meeting, and now, with a retrospection buffered by the passage of a little time, it doesn’t surprise me so much that I did it as it does that I am going to tell you all about it.

My client in this particular endeavor, was, at first blush, a charming and sweet beshawled old lady. She had for years been voluntarily taking care of her older, senile brother. as de facto guardian, she had had complete and unsupervised control of his finances, a not finances, a not inconsiderable sum of money. It was a position she wished to retain de jure and to that end she had engaged me to obtain the imprimatur of the court.

However, another sibling complained that there was some financial shenanigans going on and intended to oppose my client’s appointment. I told my client that there was no hard evidence to support such an allegation and that she would undoubtedly prevail at the hearing.

She was so relieved that she confessed to me that in fact she had helped herself to thousands of dollars. To make matters worse, her confession was not accompanied by any signs of remorse. To the contrary, she seemed to be quite pleased with her ingenuity.

My first reaction was one of disbelief. she couldn’t have done it. Jeez, I mean the woman wore a shawl.

At first, I suggested that, under the circumstances, it might be better if she abandoned her efforts. I advised her of the potential risk of discovery, utilizing every single polite adjective I could think of for “thief”, (other than “ex parte borrower,” there aren’t many). but, confident her scheme could not be detected and firm in her wish to continue to supplement her income, she demanded her day in court.

She was right, her scheme was undetectable. so I arranged the aforesaid meeting and agreed to a resolution that cut my client out like a piece of bad cheese. I had no authority, none, nada, gornischt, but I did it anyway.

Oh now, please, no letters, especially from you Disciplinary Committee types. I know I have a duty to my client, and that I an sworn to the highest ethical standards that the sacred search for truth and justice can extract, yeah, yeah. But for more than twenty years, I have suspended my disbelief in order to carry the banner of whichever foreign prince has for the moment’s recompense, engaged by halberd. And when, as now, a client confesses to miscreant conduct without the slightest insinuation of remorse, the weight of all that suspension can become a bit much.

Oh, I could have simply refused to represent her, leaving her instead to seek out another to carry her false banner, a colleague who might have preserved her confidence in a more professional manner. Her interests would have been far better served, even if those of justice were not. That would have been the proper thing to do too, but I was really afraid she would find someone with a lot more scruples than me.

And now, since it appears that I am not going to be precipitously snuffed out by an acts of retribution, I have to call her into my office and tell her what I have done. And if that shock doesn’t finish her off, wait until she sees my bill.

Are you surprised that I intend to bill for my services? You shouldn’t be. After all, I have taken a terrible risk by doing what I did. God knows to what board or agency she might report me, and the way I see it, any lawyer willing to take such a chance in the endless crusade for justice ought to be amply compensated for the effort.

© 1992, S. Sponte, Esq.

METAMORPHOSIS

ME AND MR. BIG