To-Wit: Post Mortem
Judges who think they know more than I do aside, this is my very favorite thing in the practice of law. With figurative hat in figurative hand, I sit here waiting in the courthouse for a jury to return with verdict, hopefully for my Plaintiff, who, according to the pleadings, sustained horrid, gross, permanent and disfiguring soft tissue injuries of the cervical, thoracic, lumbar and dorsal spines in a minor little automobile accident. The injuries would have been much worse if I hadn’t run out of spines.
I don’t really have to stay here. I could come, or I could go, but I have no wish to do either. So with client astern, I sit here transfixed by the twelve peers and await their pleasure. If there is more fun to be had than this in the law, I have yet to discover it.
All is not however wasted. This otherwise unoccupied time affords me an unparalleled opportunity to survey my surroundings whilst I ponder upon life’s larger questions, such as why didn’t my client have that green wart removed from her nose years ago, and if she had, would she have had a better view of the intersection.
This kind of waiting is difficult for me, for it’s not just my client and her cause that is on trial. I put all of myself into trying a case, and for the last two and a half days, I have been literally opening my chest cavity in the presence of a courtroom full of twelve strangers to expose the workings of practically all my internal organs. How base and vile it all seems at times, that I would do such things in order that a client might possibly garner a few coins. How shabby. Thank God at least I make a nice living from it.
As always, I was so tense. “Ladies and Gentlemen of the Jury, I represent the Plaintiff,” I had said in my opening. “Would you like to see my bowels in spasm,” is what I meant.
“This case unfortunately involves an automobile accident that occurred on the day of , 198 ,” I had told them.” “I have to go to the bathroom really bad,” I wanted to say.
How many juries have I waited for now? Let’s see, I’m in practice almost twenty years, I try three, maybe four cases a year to verdict, that’s … let’s see now, that’s … where the hell’s my calculator?
This seemed to be a typical enough jury, as juries go. But none of them were doctors. None of them are ever doctors. I wonder why that is. You would think that since the abolition of the literacy tests you would see one once in a while.
I hope the jury liked me. Was my suit right, not too flashy? Maybe I should have worn the Phi Beta Kappa Key again. That might have impressed them. It’s a nice touch, and not particularly costly to rent.
“Why is the jury still out?” asks my client.
“It’s only been fifteen minutes,” I remind her, in my most reassuring tone, but where the hell are they anyway? It’s definitely not a good sign.
This is all the judge’s fault. He didn’t cut me one single break the whole trial. You think it’d mean something that we’ve been friends for twenty years, but nooo…. Mr. BigShot, he has to bend over backwards to be fair. Who the hell does he think he is anyway? If I’d had any inkling he intended to be judicial, I’d never have supported him.
Actually, it’s probably a good sign that the jury is still out. That means they’re carefully considering the evidence. That’s good for us, I think. The evidence was clear, convincing and compelling. It isn’t all that significant that the only liability witnesses were defense witnesses. Why didn’t my client see that parked truck anyway? That damned wart again….
I probably should have settled. The offer wasn’t completely unreasonable. Half my specials is better than nothing. I wonder if the offer is still open. Where’s defense counsel?
I need to get a handle on this. I’m getting hysterical. Why does this always happen to me? From this minute on, no more hypercritical self-evaluations, no more second-guessing until after the jury returns. But still, I wonder….
Was I clever enough, was I clever enough,
Was my opening polished, or was it too rough,
Did I have great demeanor, or was I too flip,
How come I kept feeling my fly wasn’t zipped,
Did I coddle their feelings, or rub their nerves raw,
Did I keep all the facts out that don’t fit the law,
I won it, I lost it, I don’t have a hunch,
The jury’s just stalling to get their free lunch,
My matter what happens, I gave it my best,
Things might have gone better had I worn a vest,
I lot it, I hate it, I haven’t a clue,
I can’t figure out why I do what I do,
Before God and my colleagues, I make this confession,
Only a moron would choose this profession.
© 1987, S. Sponte, Esq.