TO WIT: DAMN MY EARS
Some of you may recall when last we spoke that I was bound and determined to get back to my roots, legally speaking, by doing more of what I used to do way back when I was a young. hungry. angry. passionate lawyer. And no. I don’t mean a return to those halcyon days of abusing the minor judiciary.
Rather, I mean I had rededicated myself to representing the poor, the oppressed, the needy, those unfortunate folk who don’t by themselves have the wherewithal to deal with some of life’s less choice compost. Of course. for me, and most of us, that means pro bono work.
One of the quirkier upsides of doing pro bono work is that I actually find it bracing not having to mail out bills every month on these cases. With no anticipation of payment. there is no concomitant frustration at not getting paid, and, as an added bonus, it saves me a ton of money in postage. In fact, I’d probably be a lot happier if no one ever paid me. Oh. sure. I could no longer afford my therapist. but then again if I was happy to begin with, what the hell would I need a therapist for?
So immediately after figuring out how to explain to my partner that I intended to give away even more of my time, I did just what I said I was going to do. I called our bar association's pro bono coordinator. a lovely, intelligent, witty and devoted professional administrator. and offered my services.
“What,” she replied, "did you lose a bet?"
She was apparently surprised that I, or anyone for that matter, was volunteering. as normally she aggressively has to solicit colleagues to do the work. But when I told her
all about the new me, the revitalized me, the eager and energetic me, she seemed quite
pleased. That was a good thing. She never was all that fond of the old me to begin with.
“So,"I said. "have you got any cases for me?”
“Not at the moment,” she replied. "but I’llkeep your metamorphosis in mind “
“Oh. come on, you must have something,” I beseeched her. “I’lll take anything you’e got. I really want to do this.”
“Well, I do have one interesting case and its right up your free speech alley. A landlord is trying to evict a tenant for putting up a "Re-elect President Bush” campaign poster in his window."
'"What else you got?"
"I only have one other unassigned case,” she said. “but, to tell you the truth, all my entreaties to other lawyers to take this case have fallen on deaf ears." I could have sworn I heard a chuckle.
She proceeded to tell me that the "client'" was a tenant. profoundly deaf from birth. charged with harassment for physically and verbally assaulting his landlord over a rent dispute. "No one wants to take this case." she said. "so you can have it if you want:·
"Sure." I said. and the deal was struck. A few days later. I met the client in the pro bono office. He came with his signing interpreter and the interview went well. I quickly gauged that he was a quiet and unassuming sort. an hourly laborer working hard to get by and, judging by his demeanor, most unlikely to have harassed anyone. Once again I saw this as a dispute between the landed gentry and the proletariat, and, accordingly, I was as happy as a pig in swill.
At the hearing a few weeks later, things went quite well, provided you don't count either the result or the five independent witnesses presented by the prosecution to corroborate the landlord's story. Oh, I tried to shake them. I really tried to undermine their credibility, but the best bias I could come up with was that three of them and the landlord all shared a common gender.
Look at this face, I said to the magistrate in closing while pointing to my client, "Is that the face of a criminal? And with that, the interpreter, signing so that the client could follow the hearing, also pointed to the client, encircled her face with her hands and assumed the aura of a very young Shirley Temple. It was quite touching.
It was also quite ineffective. The magistrate did not hesitate to find my client guilty and impose a $25 fine. The interpreter communicated the verdict to the client with a simple gesture that no one could mistake for victory.
The client was quite stoic about the result, at least until we got outside. Then, with no magistrate around, he pulled a hearing aid from his pocket and commenced.
“Well. you sure screwed that one up, clown.”
I was startled. I had never heard his voice before.
"You can talk!” I exclaimed.
"How's this for talking,” he went on. "I give you the most sympathetic client in the county and you put me right into the crapper. You #$&y*#!&*+# turkey."
"And I guess you can hear too,” I said.
“Yeah, well, now hear this,” he said, and the string of epithets that followed was a pretty solid indicator that he had not actually been deaf from birth. At its conclusion. he stormed off in his car, burning rubber and leaving me and the interpreter alone on the sidewalk. She looked at me, once again encircled her head with her hands. made a frowny face and then left.
Oh. I know what you're thinking. You're thinking that here I was helping the downtrodden, sticking my neck out for the disadvantaged, ennobling myself and our profession, and then taking it in the throat from a cretin trying to take advantage of the system. Yeah, me too. But really, it’s OK. You can't be shortsighted when you do these kinds of cases; you simply have to keep your eyes on the prize. This work remains its own reward. and though I'm smarting a bit now. I'm sure I'll eventually find the professional grace and maturity to deal with it.
I'm actually relieved to know this guy can hear. Otherwise the cherry bomb I’m going to set off underneath his mobile home in the middle of the night would be completely wasted. A childish response, yeah, I know. but until all that grace and maturity shows up, it'll have to do.
©2004, S. Sponte, Esq.