TO-WIT: ONE BOOK TOWN
From time to time, the various pursuits of my profession take me to the hinterland counties to ply the therefores, wherefores and whiles of my craft. I really do enjoy such Arcadian adventures now and again because they usually afford me a welcome opportunity to meet new lawyers and practice before new judges. there is nothing quite so bracing, say, as appearing for the first time in a new county before an unfamiliar judge whose first utterance from the bench is an acerbic warning that I have violated Local Rule One by groveling before the court on only one knee.
Quite recently, yet again in pursuit of the divine Miss Justice, I went to an adjacent semi-rural county, there to try a case of some minor significance. Even though the county is close-by, I had never practiced there before. In fact I had never been in the county before, save for one late night appearance many years ago as a lust-engorged teenager trying to find an oft-rumored but poorly advertised business establishment. The subtle similarity of the two pursuits was not lost on me. However, on the occasion of this second junket, I was hoping for a result that didn’t involve penicillin.
At one time the old courthouse of this county must have been quite elegant. It had been dedicated to the pursuit of justice, like all of us, but after many years of service, it was tattered, careworn and tired, like all of us. As with many turn-of-the-century courthouses, it was replete with Greco-roman columns, marble fountains and balustrades, and gods and demi-gods of all sizes, shapes and sex. And that was just in the men’s room. I thought I even spotted a rare Franco-Sephardic gargoyle perched delicately atop the exterior dome, but I was mistaken. It was only the Prothonotary on a coffee break.
My client’s rights in this matter were far from clear. I had decent enough facts and there was some supporting precedent, but in all honesty, the case was a bit thin in the law. Fortunately however, so was opposing counsel. As a lawyer, he was not exactly what one might call well-endowed. In fact, he is known as “Shorty” in his home county because throughout his career his briefs have always been so diaphanous.
As this was a non-jury trial, I used a lot of pictures to illustrate my opening remarks. The evidence went in smoothly enough, and after I was certain that I had beaten the few good points in my case considerably beyond death, I rested.
Now at that point any good lawyer on the other side would have moved for a compulsory non-suit. Can you imagine my surprise then when my adversary did just that? He even cited a little law and as it was already nearly noon, the judge said he wanted to adjourn and use the luncheon hour to do some research before he ruled on the motion.
I idly looked at the photocopied cases opposing counsel had handed the judge and me in support of his argument. To my horror and chagrin, there was a new case there that I had not seen before, and it exactly supported his argument. Damn, I wonder who found it for him.
Faster than a speeding bullet, I panicked. I lurched out of the courtroom and headed for the law library, all thoughts of lunch quite abandoned. It was probably just as well, actually, I had seen the chalkboard at the luncheon counter when I entered the courthouse that morning, and the daily special was called “Guess Again.”
“Tell me,” I asked the law librarian desperately as AI bolted into the main room, sweating bullets, “is this the only law library in the building? I mean, do the judges here have their own law libraries?”
She assured me that it was the only library in the building and that it was shared by all the judges and their clerks. In an instant I formatted a sleazy, devilish plot. I admit that I am not proud of what I did, but then again I always thought that I was born to practice in Philadelphia.
In a flash, I had located and sequestered every Atlantic Reporter that contained every case adverse to my client’s position, including not only the one that had caught me by surprise but a newer one as well that was even more devastating.
“Can I check these out for a couple of weeks?” I asked.
She didn’t give me a verbal response, but there was something about her body language that said, “definitely not.” I think it was the cross body block she threw at my knees.
For a brief moment I considered ripping out and eating the offending pages, but I knew that would never work. I have never been able to stomach appellate court opinions.
Finally, in desperation, I grabbed all of the books I had taken down from the shelves and scurried off into the alcove that contained the Untied States supreme Court Reports. I had my whole load there in the corner, secure in the knowledge that these books would never again see the light of day. No judge or lawyer would ever have any occasion to meander into that section of the library. I was mightily pleased with myself and even had some time left over for a bite to eat.
When court reconvened, His Honor took the bench, listened very carefully to the oral arguments and then, without so much as a blink of indecision, he granted the non-suit. As I stood up to leave, he beckoned me with his forefinger to approach the bench.
“Thanks,” he said “for getting all that research together for me. You out-of-county lawyers always hide the books in the same place. Saves me a lot of work.”
“Funny, though,” he went on, staring directly into my eyes, “you don’t look Philadelphian.”
© 1992, S. Sponte, Esq.