TO WIT: BITE MY TONGUE
"What the hell's the matter with him?" I asked my partner as we left the courtroom.
" You know, " she said , " I bet he's asking the same thing about you.”
The little colloquy followed a rather heated courtroom exchange between opposing counsel and me on what should have been a routine motion. But I let things get out of hand, yes, I did. Now I'm ashamed of myself, sort of , and I am in need of the catharsis of confession. So here goes.
I don't care what you may have heard; I'm a really nice guy. I mean, just ask any of my colleagues, ask my partner or my secretary of 30 years; go ahead, ask any of my ex-wives - not No. 2 though - and they'll tell you the selfsame thing: I'm a really nice quy.
And this recent episode aside, and maybe a few dozen other ones pretty much just like it, I always treat my colleagues, every man, woman of horse's ass one of them, with courtesy and respect.
But the truth is I am by my nature a pretty combative guy, particularly in adversarial situations. Deep beneath this cosmopolitan and urbane exterior dwells the temperament of a Neanderthal, a primitive killer whose basic instinct has always been, quite simply, to eviscerate any and all opposition without mercy. As a child, I had few friends.
I can still recall how bereft I was as a third-grade baseball player to discover that no matter how high I raised my shoes when sliding into second base, I couldn't get Keds to slice flesh. And when I was 10, I used to sit in the corner by myself and slowly pronounce the word "disembowel" over and over. Even to this day I adore the onomatopoeic way it conveys the inherent rip-and-tear penchant of my soul.
Now, lest you jump to the wrong conclusion here, my doctor assures me I am no longer a threat to myself or others. I am
fully capable of intellectually imposing restraint upon my
volcanic psyche. After all, haven't I learned to stop beating the dog?
Initially, opposing counsel showed up 40 minutes late for the presentation of my simple petition for a hearing date. Then he pulled out a brief in opposition to my motion that he had never served on me and asked the court to dismiss my petition.
And when I suggested the court reschedule the matter to give me a chance to read the brief and properly prepare, he said, under his breath, "Whatsa matter, you a chicken, bawk, bawk, bawk." I yearned for a meat cleaver, but I let it pass.
His Honor agreed with me and re scheduled the argument for two weeks later. By then I had read the brief and found my esteemed colleague had mis-cited every case in it, every single one. Well, maybe "mis-cited" is the wrong term. Perhaps "mal- cited" would be more accurate. I was starting to produce steam from my armpits, and I know that is not a good sign.
Opposing counsel's presentation consisted of reading his brief aloud. He concluded by noting that if I possessed anywhere near the "legal expertisement" that he had, I would concede.
Even then I fully intended simply t o present my own carefully constructed unassailable argument. But instead I pulled out photocopies of all his cited cases, threw them down on the table in front of him, and said, "Tell you what, Bozo, here are all your cases. Why don't you just take a minute now and read them, and then why don't you t e l l me and the court just where they say what you say they say, huh? Take your time, I can wait.”
At that, His Honor intervened. "Now don't you think that's
my job?" he asked,ever so solicitously.
"Well, usually yes," I replied, "but I couldn't be absolutely certain you would have called him a Bozo."
Now please believe me, I don't use the word "Bozo" in legal argument lightly. Well, OK, I do, but I don't usually say it aloud. I simply lost control and there's no excuse for it.
So, feeling as wretched as I do over my appalling conduct, I think the only proper thing to do is publicly apologize. Of course I can't mention my opposing counsel by name, much as I might like to, so let's just call him "Mr. X." I will feel ever so much better as soon as he has this read to him.
M.r X, I'm sorry I acted so unprofessionally, I truly am. I'm sorry I called you a Bozo and I'm sorry for the embarrassment and hurt it must have caused you. And I'm really sorry I called the managing partner of your firm, a man who has been a close personal friend of mine for 25 years, and got you fired. That was probably something I should not have done. When I heard you had to go on welfare and that your wife took the kids and moved back to New Mexico, well, believe me, it hurt me a lot more than it hurt you.
I was also sorry to hear that you've resorted to alcohol to dull the pain, and if anything I did contributed to that, gee, I'm so sorry. I'm so, so sorry that I apparently ruined your life forever and that you will pass your remaining years a pitiful, wasted cretinous shell of a human being. Can you ever forgive me?
There, I feel so much better. You know, it's true what they say: Confession is really good for the soul.
© S. Sponte, Esq. 2003