TO-WIT: POPS
Despite my typically charming demeanor, I find that when I am obliged to get up at six a.m. to be suited, tied and on time for an eight thirty court appearance, I am not a happy camper. And when the reason for my appearance is the need to be in argument court to oppose a frivolous motion, well, that just further gladdens me no end.
So it was that I recently put in an increasingly rare appearance in civil court, on this occasion to oppose a motion to stay my motion for judgment on the pleadings. I had spent many frustrating hours on the computer the night before, trying to find as many supporting cases as I could, and I had come up empty. It was well past midnight before I realized that the dearth of such cases was not a curse but rather a blessing. There is no such thing as a stay of
a motion for judgment on the pleadings, and the reason is pretty obvious. You see, if a judge actually hears the argument and then denies the motion for judgment on the pleadings, well, isn't that pretty much the same thing?
So surely you can imagine the paucity of my chipperness as I sat in the back of the courtroom, along with perhaps fifty other lawyers, all of us waiting for argument court to commence. Promptly at nine the judge took t h e bench and surveyed the throng.
"Well, as you know, its our custom in this county to take arguments according to the seniority of counsel," he said, and of course I was instantly reminded that, yes, that is how we honor the aged, wizened, the doddering old colleagues in our county - by letting them go first. It is
meant primarily as a sign of respect, but I always figured i t had a pragmatic application as well. I just think it's wise to get the old bastards in and out of the courtroom
before their faculties and their bladders, either or both, inaugurate their first acts of betrayal for the day.
Having made his announcement, Judge surveyed the assemblage , and then said "Well , Mr. __________, you’re senior here today, let's start with you." And for a minute there, a brief, terrifying minute, I thought he had filled in the blank with my name.
"Did you say me, Your Honor," I asked incredulously? "Yes, you're the senior most member here, are you ready?"
"Uh, can I get a recount," I queried rather timidly.
He laughed, those in attendance laughed, everyone was amused. Yes, it was witty, a smart off the cuff retort, but of those assembled, there was one not laughing and that would be me.
I could not be most senior, I simply could not be. Not me, I'm the contentious rebel, I'm still that fresh out of law school child of the Sixties, the firebrand determined yet to change the course of history. I'm still the defender of the weak, the slayer of dragons, I'm still Superman, The Lone Ranger, The Green Hornet. Okay, so maybe I limp and shuffle to the Batmobile a bit more than I used to, but still, I can't be senior.
I gathered myself together, I made my argument, I successfully resisted the temptation to refer to opposing counsel as "that young whippersnapper" and I left the courtroom with a mighty stride, a confident, shimmering demeanor, a conqueror's gait. Yet upon my exit I swore I could hear one of the spectators saying "Nice argument, Pops. "
Me Pops? I hadn't thought so, but bodies rarely lie. Yes, I ache, I limp, I wheeze, all telltale signs that most of the l i f e I've been waiting for has already happened. Us children of the Sixties, we're now in our sixties, alive to be sure, but certainly kicking less. Oh, I still have a fire in my belly, but now its mostly just indigestion.
Last night I had this dream about Clayton Moore, the Lone Ranger, of blessed memory. In pursuit of an outlaw, he tried to mount his great horse, Silver. But betrayed by too many years in the saddle, he couldn't get his left leg high enough to get into the stirrup, and he strained his inner thigh muscle trying to do it . He reached for his lasso, but, talk about your nightmares, the damn thing went limp in his hand. Finally, in a fit of anger, he threw his
pistol to the ground. It fired, the bullet ricocheted off a nearby rock and then careened into the gun hand of the outlaw, knocking his six shooter to the ground. Applause, applause, and he rode off into the sunset.
Well, if he can do it, so can I, even if I do need a mid-deposition nap now and again. Call me "Pops" if it amuses you, it won't phase me a bit. That's because I don't hear as well as I used to. Fortunately that deficit usually passes for nobility, applause, applause, but that will just have to be our little secret.
©2005, S. Sponte, Esq.