Years ago, I trained myself to do two things, to keep myself humble.
First, every time I heard or read the story of a bad person in my law practice or in the newspaper, I carefully comprehended his negative personality characteristics, and looked for the same in myself.
They were always there. Always.
So, very, very, very much, I realized that there but for the grace of God went I.
Second, I kept the sins of my own life ever before me. Every day. Every moment. For me, I never quite walk out the door of the confessional.
I discuss one of those sins, below.
John DiBart, Magnolia Little League President, who is always filled with joy, I think because he is a really good person, will probably remember at least some of the following.
Our 3 sons are all men, now. Big, big men. The earth shakes when they walk.
Josh, the oldest, is out and married. We tell the other two, Reid and Jeremy, that whoever stays at home has to change our diapers when we get too old to take care of ourselves. I am sure that that helps to generate appropriate ambitions in connection with moving out.
Each of the boys, as they were growing up, had their own intriguing characteristics.
It is said that God the Holy Spirit inspires parents to give their children names appropriate to their personalities.
Since I had the baptisms as their Catholic father, we gave each of the boys Hebrew-derived names, in honor of their mother's Judaism.
Thus, "Joshua," for the oldest. For me, a wonderful name of a great leader in the Old Testament (an Old Testament Roman Catholic saint -- there are quite a few of these); for Rise`, the given name of her mother's great grandfather Joshua Israel.
"Reid," for the middle boy. For me his name was a subtle twisting of my grandmother Carolina May Ried's surname; for Rise`, a celebration of her father Ruben's given name, because of the initial "R"; for both of us, the English alphabet rendering of the Hebrew pronunciation of the Hebrew term reish, sometimes used (for unclear reasons) to refer to the papyrus reeds growing in the wetlands of the Nile Delta, the Persian Gulf and elsewhere in the Fertile Crescent.
"Jeremy," for our youngest son, our "accident." For both of us his name was a celebration of the strong and great Prophet Jeremiah, whose Old Testament book I was reading at the time.
The given names of each of the boys turned out to be an appropriate celebration of the personality characteristics of each. In other words, that "folksy" story about the Holy Spirit assisting in the naming of God's children is non-fiction.
Reid's name was especially significant in this regard. Reid was my tough son -- really, really tough. In his young years, though he was the smallest and skinniest of our sons, Reid exhibited a special ability to "bend with the wind," like the reeds of the Nile Delta. Nothing -- no force on Earth -- could destroy Reid.
Which was fortunate.
For a time in Reid's toddler years, I would respond in the wrong way to my kids. I resorted to yelling and anger, to make my kids conform to the demands of my busy law-related schedule. I yelled, and yelled, and yelled at them.
For some reason -- I think because Reid was a little guy! -- I developed a habit of picking on Reid more than Josh, with my yelling and anger.
One of the things which really annoyed me about Reid is that he was always picking the skin on his arms to the point of bleeding. I would yell at him for that!
To put it bluntly, for a time, toward our children, and especially toward Reid, I became an angry, yelling b - - - - - d.
I've asked him about this time. He does not remember it.
One day, when he was only 4 years of age, my son Reid, with raw courage and righteousness, changed things.
I was yelling at Reid, but -- thank God -- he had the courage to object. "Dad, Dad, Dad," he said, "You are yelling at me, but I haven't done anything wrong!"
His words hit me like a pile of bricks. He was right! I was yelling at him, but his objection awakened me to the fact that he was innocent of any wrongdoing -- that he was guilty of absolutely nothing, but I was still yelling at him!
What kind of father was I?
At the time, I had to go see my secretary in Medford, a lady named Joan Miles. On the way, I stopped and asked a Catholic priest friend -- the kind of priest I could put my trust in -- to hear my confession. He agreed. And I confessed to the sin of crushing my sons' personalities with my loud-mouthed anger, especially Reid's.
After my work in Medford, I returned home, apologized to young Reid, thanked him for his courageous objection, told him about my confession to the priest, and spent the rest of my life working to develop a good relationship with him.
And then something amazing occurred -- Reid's habit of picking the skin on his arms to the point of drawing blood vanished.
That picking, picking, picking by Reid that annoyed me so much turned out to be something caused 100% by my unjustified anger and yelling.
Sometimes in life we think we're "good," when the truth is that we are not-even-adequate moral failures.
In any event, we signed-up Reid for T-ball. I would return from work before Rise`, and take Reid down the Vaughan Oil Driveway across Warwick Road from us. I'd cheer Reid on when he was playing. When his team was in the dugout, I'd read the book I invariably brought along with me. (One of my favorite memories from this period is how the mother of one of the other boys on Reid's team became my friend. I was 100% wrapped-up in my book, while Reid was in the dugout, one game, when someone suddenly slugged me hard on the shoulder. I looked up from my book and there was this pretty blonde lady sitting right next to me, looking at me with an angry face. "You won't talk to me because you heard I used to be a go-go dancer!," she accused. A "typical man," I thought, "Cool! A go-go dancer!" and I smiled and held out my hand and introduced myself. We shook hands, and were neighborhood friends after that.)
In any event, Reid graduated from T-ball to the youngest group of Little Leaguers the following year. It was then that Reid made a remarkable discovery. (He was given to analyzing the order of things around him, one of the habits he picked up from me.)
Reid realized that the pitching in the youngest group of non-T-ball Little Leaguers was so bad that about 1/3 of the time, if he just stood there with the bat like a statue and did absolutely nothing, instead of trying to hit the ball, he'd get hit by the ball, and they'd let him go to first base as though he had just hit a single; or the pitcher would throw 4 "balls," and they'd "walk" him, anyway!
On Reid's team, it was more effective to not swing, than it was to swing and try to hit the ball. Suddenly, by doing nothing, Reid ended-up getting on base more than any other player!
Thursday, October 29, 2015
Thursday, October 22, 2015
ELECTRICITY PROVIDERS BURNING DOWN HOMES -- WITH WATER ?
On a particular weekend in the late 1990s, my wife Rise` was away on a camping trip with our son Jeremy and the other Cub Scouts in Jeremy's den. The two older boys were visiting their sister, who lived in a home over on Somerdale Road. So I was at home alone, working in the basement.
The breaker box, which feeds electricity to the entire house !!!
I thought, "What in Heaven's Holy Name is water doing coming out of the circuit breaker box ???!!!"
I stood, and pointed my flashlight at the bottom of the breaker box, and there it was -- water dripping from the bottom !!!
I thought, "How is this possible ???!!!" I checked the basement wall above and behind the breaker box -- as dry as a bone !!! Where was the water coming from ?
I put on a pair of dry, heavy rubber utility gloves, and carefully screwed the face plate off the breaker box, and saw that the bottom of the metal box, inside, was covered with water. Further, breakers on one side of the box were soaked, with water dripping off them, and corroded beyond usefulness. I tried individual breaker switches on that side, with the gloves still on. They were all so completely corroded by water that they could not trip open ! One half of the breakers would have allowed an overloaded line to burn down my house !
But where was the water coming from ?
And then I noticed something inside the box -- the bare braided ground wire from the service head outside the house at the roof ...
... which is the middle wire in the diagram -- glistened with water, where it emerged from the insulation of the thick cable leading from the service head, above, to inside the breaker box. Water from the bare braided ground wire traveled to the grounding bar inside the box, and down the outside of the insulation of one of the 110 volt main wires into its 100 amp main breaker, and through that breaker into its hot pole, and down the hot pole into all of the breakers touching that pole.
I thought, "Wha-a-a-a-a-at ???!!! The ground wire in the main cable into my house is actually somehow piping rain water down the inside of the main cable to the electric meter outside ...
It started raining hard outside. After a short time, I heard the distinct sound of drip, drip, dripping water on the basement floor. I thought, "Wha-a-a-at ?!" Our roof was only about 15 years old at that point, and had 30 year tiles.
I checked around the furnace, next to the base of the chimney, because the flashing around the chimney at the roof line is frequently rain's first point of entry into a roof. Nothing. Dry as a bone.
I went upstairs to make sure that no water was overflowing inside the house -- from a running toilet, or an overfilled sink. Nothing. All was quiet and stable.
I returned to the basement and listened again. There it was. The distinct drip, drip, dripping sound. There was no doubt about it, we had rain water dripping into the basement somehow -- but where?
I went back to work in the basement, listening carefully, and finally figured out where the sound was coming from -- the corner where the sump pump was located, just below the breaker box supplying electricity to the entire house.
I thought that maybe water was dripping out of the corrugated "roach trap pipe" under the perimeter of the basement floor into the sump pump well, or maybe that water trapped in the sump pump effluent pipe above the check valve might be leaking back into the basement out of an aging rubber grommet at the point of the check valve.
I grabbed a flashlight and got down on my hands and knees and peered into the sump pump well. Absolutely dry. The sump pump system was uninvolved in the dripping sound.
Just then -- drip -- a drop of cold water splashed into the back of my head as I peered down into the sump pump well. I thought, "Wha-a-a-a-at ??? The only thing above my head at that point was the ..."
I thought, "What in Heaven's Holy Name is water doing coming out of the circuit breaker box ???!!!"
I stood, and pointed my flashlight at the bottom of the breaker box, and there it was -- water dripping from the bottom !!!
I thought, "How is this possible ???!!!" I checked the basement wall above and behind the breaker box -- as dry as a bone !!! Where was the water coming from ?
I put on a pair of dry, heavy rubber utility gloves, and carefully screwed the face plate off the breaker box, and saw that the bottom of the metal box, inside, was covered with water. Further, breakers on one side of the box were soaked, with water dripping off them, and corroded beyond usefulness. I tried individual breaker switches on that side, with the gloves still on. They were all so completely corroded by water that they could not trip open ! One half of the breakers would have allowed an overloaded line to burn down my house !
But where was the water coming from ?
And then I noticed something inside the box -- the bare braided ground wire from the service head outside the house at the roof ...
I thought, "Wha-a-a-a-a-at ???!!! The ground wire in the main cable into my house is actually somehow piping rain water down the inside of the main cable to the electric meter outside ...
... and through the electric meter inside the cable through my wall and into my breaker box, where it soaked, corroded, froze-up and so destroyed all of my breakers on one side !!!"
Some idiot somehow designed my electric system to collect and pipe rainwater into my basement breaker box !!!
A few amps too many on a single line would have burned down my house !!!
The law calls a set-up like this a res ipsa loquitor case [correctly pronounced rez ip-sah low-kwee-tour, but incorrectly rendered rez ip-sah lock-it-her in court by non-Latin-speaking lawyers]. The term means that the negligence by the installers is undeniable because the fact that the problem is occurring "speaks for itself." No other proof of negligence is needed. Rain water just doesn't belong in a circuit breaker box.
So, who screwed up? Who managed to set up our electric when our fire-destroyed house was rebuilt in 1982 and reconnected to the wires from the pole outside so that the ground wire was taking-in rain water, carrying it through the cable right down to our breaker box inside?
We called an electrician, who heard my story on the telephone, drove up to our house, got out of his truck, looked up at our service head, and said, "PSE&G did it, when your house was re-connected to the pole after your 1982 fire."
He said, "Here is what happened."
He drew us a picture, with the telephone pole across the street on the right, and our house on the left -- something like the following ...
"If metal conducts electricity well, it usually attracts water molecules for the same reason. The bare, braided ground wire from the pole to your house really attracts and holds onto water. Do you see how the wire from the pole to your house is higher at the pole end? Well, as rain falls upon it, the braided ground wire holds onto the rain water molecules, but gravity causes the rain water being held to flow downhill from the pole toward your house, and then, after it passes the low point, the water in the braided ground wire actually flows uphill toward your house, because the adhesionary attraction of the rainwater for the braided ground wire exceeds the pull downwards toward the ground of the force of gravity, while the pressure of the force of the flow from the pole exceeds the pressure of the force of the flow from the house, because the pole connection is higher. The three forces together actually net-out to a kind of a river of rainwater in the wire uphill toward your house. Get that?"
I indicated that I understood.
"That is why," he continued, "Every wire coming from the pole to the service head on the side of the house is supposed to have a very serious 'drip loop,' with the point of connection to the service head visibly higher than the point of connection to the wire from the pole, like this ..." He added a "drip loop" to his picture.
"Look at your 'drip loop' up there on your house. It's disgraceful. You don't have a drip loop." I looked up. He was right.
"PSE&G set-up your service head connection so that every single time it rains, water fills the ground wire from the pole, rushes downhill from the pole and uphill into your service head, rushes down the inside of your cable through your electrical meter, through your wall into your breaker box.
"As I was driving through town, I noticed that about one-third of the homes had inadequate drip loops, or no drip loops at all like your house. It's such a common problem in this town that I wouldn't be surprised if PSE&G used inadequate drip loops to save money. I'd bet money that several of the house fires in Magnolia were the fault of PSE&G or their corporate predecessors, when inadequate drip loops piped water into breaker boxes, corroding the breakers, making them inoperative, so that too many appliances on a line start a fire in the wall.
"Your entire set-up, from your service head to your breaker box, inclusive, has to be replaced. It's going to cost you $1,750. If you don't do it, it's only a matter of time before your house burns down."
Some idiot somehow designed my electric system to collect and pipe rainwater into my basement breaker box !!!
A few amps too many on a single line would have burned down my house !!!
The law calls a set-up like this a res ipsa loquitor case [correctly pronounced rez ip-sah low-kwee-tour, but incorrectly rendered rez ip-sah lock-it-her in court by non-Latin-speaking lawyers]. The term means that the negligence by the installers is undeniable because the fact that the problem is occurring "speaks for itself." No other proof of negligence is needed. Rain water just doesn't belong in a circuit breaker box.
So, who screwed up? Who managed to set up our electric when our fire-destroyed house was rebuilt in 1982 and reconnected to the wires from the pole outside so that the ground wire was taking-in rain water, carrying it through the cable right down to our breaker box inside?
We called an electrician, who heard my story on the telephone, drove up to our house, got out of his truck, looked up at our service head, and said, "PSE&G did it, when your house was re-connected to the pole after your 1982 fire."
He said, "Here is what happened."
He drew us a picture, with the telephone pole across the street on the right, and our house on the left -- something like the following ...
"If metal conducts electricity well, it usually attracts water molecules for the same reason. The bare, braided ground wire from the pole to your house really attracts and holds onto water. Do you see how the wire from the pole to your house is higher at the pole end? Well, as rain falls upon it, the braided ground wire holds onto the rain water molecules, but gravity causes the rain water being held to flow downhill from the pole toward your house, and then, after it passes the low point, the water in the braided ground wire actually flows uphill toward your house, because the adhesionary attraction of the rainwater for the braided ground wire exceeds the pull downwards toward the ground of the force of gravity, while the pressure of the force of the flow from the pole exceeds the pressure of the force of the flow from the house, because the pole connection is higher. The three forces together actually net-out to a kind of a river of rainwater in the wire uphill toward your house. Get that?"
I indicated that I understood.
"That is why," he continued, "Every wire coming from the pole to the service head on the side of the house is supposed to have a very serious 'drip loop,' with the point of connection to the service head visibly higher than the point of connection to the wire from the pole, like this ..." He added a "drip loop" to his picture.
"Look at your 'drip loop' up there on your house. It's disgraceful. You don't have a drip loop." I looked up. He was right.
"PSE&G set-up your service head connection so that every single time it rains, water fills the ground wire from the pole, rushes downhill from the pole and uphill into your service head, rushes down the inside of your cable through your electrical meter, through your wall into your breaker box.
"As I was driving through town, I noticed that about one-third of the homes had inadequate drip loops, or no drip loops at all like your house. It's such a common problem in this town that I wouldn't be surprised if PSE&G used inadequate drip loops to save money. I'd bet money that several of the house fires in Magnolia were the fault of PSE&G or their corporate predecessors, when inadequate drip loops piped water into breaker boxes, corroding the breakers, making them inoperative, so that too many appliances on a line start a fire in the wall.
"Your entire set-up, from your service head to your breaker box, inclusive, has to be replaced. It's going to cost you $1,750. If you don't do it, it's only a matter of time before your house burns down."
Wednesday, October 21, 2015
KILLING SANTA
Because my wife Rise`'s daughters were in their early teen years when we married, and because we lost the only daughter we had between ourselves to a tragic pre-nativity cord accident, I missed the experience of raising a daughter, and regretted it greatly.
And then God sent this delightful little Vietnamese-American ragamuffin, Lesle Nhu Kieu, to the house next door, in December, 2003.
I will explain elsewhere how I made the acquaintance with this wonderful little punk. At this point I want to get into another chapter of my experience with little Nhu [pronounced "kneeYOU" as one syllable].
Within a year after I commenced my relationship with her family and their immigrant Asian relatives and friends, I came to clearly understand that cultural illiteracy is as big a barrier to normal social functioning as illiteracy in the language department, and drastically affects comprehension of language, itself.
When we non-immigrant Americans hear a word in American English, we are ongoingly aware of all of the overt and subtle direct and indirect implications of the American English word, and of things and concepts associated with it.
When an Asian-American immigrant who is only somewhat fluent in English words hears an American English word, he or she forms a picture in his or her head of the thing most basically referred to by the American English word, but the picture has no "details" at the "edges" -- no overt and subtle direct and indirect implications of the American English word, and of things and concepts associated with it.
Instead, the "edges" of the word are surrounded by a kind of philosophical darkness, which in and of itself is somewhat intimidating, because immigrants don't know what they don't know.
And so, if you meet an immigrant who is fluent in American English, bow to him or her. They have achieved something very, very difficult and special.
In any event, because of the immense caution which cultural illiteracy forces only-partially-fluent Asian-Americans to exercise in their understanding of and use of American English, our delightful neighbors would send little Nhu over to our house when it came to helping her to prepare for special projects for school.
Because her parents had begun sending little Nhu to St. Luke's grade school on Warwick Road in Stratford, Nhu, though overtly Buddhist, would frequently come over to our house asking me to help her with a project connected with the Catholic faith.
One Saturday in December, I think in December of 2005, little Nhu came over to our house for Saturday babysitting by us with her school bag.
"Mr. Peter," she enthusiastically explained, using the form of address commonly employed by Asians combining the person's first, or given, name, with a formal "Mr." or "Mrs." title, "My Mom wants to know if you can help me write a paragraph on St. Nicholas, and then get me ready to read it to the class."
I was immediately aware of the difficulties which this would entail. The teacher had inadvertently generated a crisis. "Is your Mom still home?," I asked Nhu.
"She's about to leave for work right now," Nhu answered.
"Good," I said. "You stay here with Rise`, while I ask your Mom some questions about your project."
I ran over to the house next door, and caught her mother coming out the door. "Trang," I said, "Inside, so that Nhu can't possibly hear us across the driveway."
Inside I asked, "I've heard Nhu refer to 'Santa Claus' in the past, but I don't know if she believes that there really is a Santa Claus, or if she means that you and Thanh are really 'Santa.' How are you raising her?"
"Peter," Trang responded, "We are letting Nhu believe in Santa Claus, like the other kids her age. Why do you ask?"
"Did you know," I responded, "That St. Nicholas, who is dead, is Santa Claus?"
"Wha-a-a-at???!!!" she exclaimed, greatly surprised.
"Yup!," I shot back. " 'SAINT Nick-CLASS' ... 'SANTA CLAUS.' 'SANTA'/'SAINT' and 'CLAUS'/'Nick-CLASS' -- Get it?"
Trang understood. "Oh my!" she responded. "I understand." She thought for a moment.
"And not only that," I further explained, "Nhu is going to be reading her paper to a classroom full of second grade kids, all of whom deeply believe in Santa Claus. They are going to be very carefully listening to every word that comes out of Nhu's mouth, like that of no other child in class. What do you want me to do?"
Trang concluded, "I'll leave that up to you, Peter, except that no matter what I want Nhu to come out of this believing in Santa Claus. I'll see you later."
The main problem was Nhu, herself. Nhu was a deeply intelligent lefty. Her brain was made of sponge. It sucked-up everything in its path. And if she heard something, her brain immediately went to work picking apart the thing heard, looking at the parts from a hundred different angles, and putting them back together.
I went back home, and after Nhu had her Saturday morning breakfast -- when Nhu came over to be babysat, she and I used to have sardines wrapped in Swiss cheese for breakfast, which she would gobble-up like an alligator eating bunny rabbits
-- we got to work on the problem of preparing this paper for presentation to her second grade classmates on Monday.
To "preserve her faith in Santa Claus," I began by telling Nhu the following ...
"Okay, kiddo, first here's the basic story of Saint Nicolas. Nicholas was born in what is now the country of Turkey. He was a very good man who was raised Catholic and he decided to become a Catholic priest. He was so well-liked, and so good in his work as a priest, that the Church made him the Bishop of what is now called Demre, and what was then called Myra, in southern Turkey.
"Saint Nicholas became famous for his personal giving. One story is about a man in Demre with three daughters. Back in those days, dowry, or money from the bride's parents brought to the marriage by the bride, was a very big thing -- so much so that having too many daughters could be a financial disaster. So, the three girls' father worried very, very much about money when each of his daughters said that they were going to get married.
"The night before the first girl married, Bishop Nicholas left a bag of money at the girl's father's front door.
Shocked when he found it in the morning, he used the money as the dowry for the daughter. The same thing happened when the second daughter got married.
"When the third daughter was about to marry, the father hid outside of his house in some bushes to find out who was leaving the money -- and, finally, he caught Bishop Nicholas leaving the money at his door.
"Stories like this about Bishop Nicholas spread far-and-wide after his death."
"Whose death?," little Nhu demanded.
"Bishop Nicholas' death [cough, cough]!" I responded.
"SANTA CLAUS IS DEAD!!!???" Nhu asked with alarm.
"Shut up and listen!," I ordered.
"But you said ... !!!" she fired back.
"Shut ..." I responded.
"But ... !!!" she tried to interrupt.
" ...up !!!," I ordered.
Nhu growled, but obeyed.
"Listen carefully," I ordered, with an attitude. "After Saint Nicholas died, I think around 16 to 17 centuries ago, and everybody heard the stories about his wonderful giving, the Church made him a saint of the Catholic Church.
"God was so pleased with St. Nicholas that God started letting him come back to Earth every Christmas, dressed in his bishop's clothes, in a sled pulled by reindeer, to give presents to kids all around the world. That's why no one seems to be able to find St. Nicolas between Christmases. And that's why he can give presents to billions of kids around the world, despite the fact that he has only one sleigh. It's a magical, God-assisted process!
"And that's where this whole business of Santa Claus dressed in red came from -- that's actually a Turkish Catholic bishop's outfit he is wearing."
"Oh," little Nhu responded, "That makes good sense! That's why he never dies! I was going to ask you about flying and carrying so much stuff in one sled, too, but that answers the questions!"
We recovered careful print-outs of "sources" from the web for her paragraph -- I made sure that they were appropriately "sanitized" before Nhu got them.
She wrote the story in her own words, and I had her practice it out loud, till I thought she was ready.
Then I probably took her on some adventure or I just let her play outside with her friends for the balance of the day.
On Sunday evening, I told Nhu to say a little prayer to God for the strength and intelligence she needed to do a good job.
That Monday evening, after I returned home from court in Camden, Nhu was waiting for me, blasting angry.
"Mr. Peter !!!" she scolded, "I got into a lot of trouble in school with the class when I read my paper about Saint Nicholas !!!"
"Well," I asked, surprised, "Did you teacher like it ?"
"I got an 'A' for it," Nhu answered, "But when I got up to read it, and I said that Santa Claus is dead, but God lets him come back to visit us every year, all of the other kids started yelling at me and telling me that I am a liar and throwing papers at me !"
"But how did your teacher react at that time, Nhu?" I asked.
"She sat down in her chair and laughed and laughed and laughed, and finally she told the kids that I was right, but they didn't believe her, either!" Nhu recounted.
"Well," I responded, not sure that I was repairing much damage, "At least you know the truth!"
And then God sent this delightful little Vietnamese-American ragamuffin, Lesle Nhu Kieu, to the house next door, in December, 2003.
I will explain elsewhere how I made the acquaintance with this wonderful little punk. At this point I want to get into another chapter of my experience with little Nhu [pronounced "kneeYOU" as one syllable].
Within a year after I commenced my relationship with her family and their immigrant Asian relatives and friends, I came to clearly understand that cultural illiteracy is as big a barrier to normal social functioning as illiteracy in the language department, and drastically affects comprehension of language, itself.
When we non-immigrant Americans hear a word in American English, we are ongoingly aware of all of the overt and subtle direct and indirect implications of the American English word, and of things and concepts associated with it.
When an Asian-American immigrant who is only somewhat fluent in English words hears an American English word, he or she forms a picture in his or her head of the thing most basically referred to by the American English word, but the picture has no "details" at the "edges" -- no overt and subtle direct and indirect implications of the American English word, and of things and concepts associated with it.
Instead, the "edges" of the word are surrounded by a kind of philosophical darkness, which in and of itself is somewhat intimidating, because immigrants don't know what they don't know.
And so, if you meet an immigrant who is fluent in American English, bow to him or her. They have achieved something very, very difficult and special.
In any event, because of the immense caution which cultural illiteracy forces only-partially-fluent Asian-Americans to exercise in their understanding of and use of American English, our delightful neighbors would send little Nhu over to our house when it came to helping her to prepare for special projects for school.
Because her parents had begun sending little Nhu to St. Luke's grade school on Warwick Road in Stratford, Nhu, though overtly Buddhist, would frequently come over to our house asking me to help her with a project connected with the Catholic faith.
One Saturday in December, I think in December of 2005, little Nhu came over to our house for Saturday babysitting by us with her school bag.
"Mr. Peter," she enthusiastically explained, using the form of address commonly employed by Asians combining the person's first, or given, name, with a formal "Mr." or "Mrs." title, "My Mom wants to know if you can help me write a paragraph on St. Nicholas, and then get me ready to read it to the class."
I was immediately aware of the difficulties which this would entail. The teacher had inadvertently generated a crisis. "Is your Mom still home?," I asked Nhu.
"She's about to leave for work right now," Nhu answered.
"Good," I said. "You stay here with Rise`, while I ask your Mom some questions about your project."
I ran over to the house next door, and caught her mother coming out the door. "Trang," I said, "Inside, so that Nhu can't possibly hear us across the driveway."
Inside I asked, "I've heard Nhu refer to 'Santa Claus' in the past, but I don't know if she believes that there really is a Santa Claus, or if she means that you and Thanh are really 'Santa.' How are you raising her?"
"Peter," Trang responded, "We are letting Nhu believe in Santa Claus, like the other kids her age. Why do you ask?"
"Did you know," I responded, "That St. Nicholas, who is dead, is Santa Claus?"
"Wha-a-a-at???!!!" she exclaimed, greatly surprised.
"Yup!," I shot back. " 'SAINT Nick-CLASS' ... 'SANTA CLAUS.' 'SANTA'/'SAINT' and 'CLAUS'/'Nick-CLASS' -- Get it?"
Trang understood. "Oh my!" she responded. "I understand." She thought for a moment.
"And not only that," I further explained, "Nhu is going to be reading her paper to a classroom full of second grade kids, all of whom deeply believe in Santa Claus. They are going to be very carefully listening to every word that comes out of Nhu's mouth, like that of no other child in class. What do you want me to do?"
Trang concluded, "I'll leave that up to you, Peter, except that no matter what I want Nhu to come out of this believing in Santa Claus. I'll see you later."
The main problem was Nhu, herself. Nhu was a deeply intelligent lefty. Her brain was made of sponge. It sucked-up everything in its path. And if she heard something, her brain immediately went to work picking apart the thing heard, looking at the parts from a hundred different angles, and putting them back together.
I went back home, and after Nhu had her Saturday morning breakfast -- when Nhu came over to be babysat, she and I used to have sardines wrapped in Swiss cheese for breakfast, which she would gobble-up like an alligator eating bunny rabbits
-- we got to work on the problem of preparing this paper for presentation to her second grade classmates on Monday.
To "preserve her faith in Santa Claus," I began by telling Nhu the following ...
"Okay, kiddo, first here's the basic story of Saint Nicolas. Nicholas was born in what is now the country of Turkey. He was a very good man who was raised Catholic and he decided to become a Catholic priest. He was so well-liked, and so good in his work as a priest, that the Church made him the Bishop of what is now called Demre, and what was then called Myra, in southern Turkey.
"Saint Nicholas became famous for his personal giving. One story is about a man in Demre with three daughters. Back in those days, dowry, or money from the bride's parents brought to the marriage by the bride, was a very big thing -- so much so that having too many daughters could be a financial disaster. So, the three girls' father worried very, very much about money when each of his daughters said that they were going to get married.
"The night before the first girl married, Bishop Nicholas left a bag of money at the girl's father's front door.
Shocked when he found it in the morning, he used the money as the dowry for the daughter. The same thing happened when the second daughter got married.
"When the third daughter was about to marry, the father hid outside of his house in some bushes to find out who was leaving the money -- and, finally, he caught Bishop Nicholas leaving the money at his door.
"Stories like this about Bishop Nicholas spread far-and-wide after his death."
"Whose death?," little Nhu demanded.
"Bishop Nicholas' death [cough, cough]!" I responded.
"SANTA CLAUS IS DEAD!!!???" Nhu asked with alarm.
"Shut up and listen!," I ordered.
"But you said ... !!!" she fired back.
"Shut ..." I responded.
"But ... !!!" she tried to interrupt.
" ...up !!!," I ordered.
Nhu growled, but obeyed.
"Listen carefully," I ordered, with an attitude. "After Saint Nicholas died, I think around 16 to 17 centuries ago, and everybody heard the stories about his wonderful giving, the Church made him a saint of the Catholic Church.
"God was so pleased with St. Nicholas that God started letting him come back to Earth every Christmas, dressed in his bishop's clothes, in a sled pulled by reindeer, to give presents to kids all around the world. That's why no one seems to be able to find St. Nicolas between Christmases. And that's why he can give presents to billions of kids around the world, despite the fact that he has only one sleigh. It's a magical, God-assisted process!
"And that's where this whole business of Santa Claus dressed in red came from -- that's actually a Turkish Catholic bishop's outfit he is wearing."
"Oh," little Nhu responded, "That makes good sense! That's why he never dies! I was going to ask you about flying and carrying so much stuff in one sled, too, but that answers the questions!"
We recovered careful print-outs of "sources" from the web for her paragraph -- I made sure that they were appropriately "sanitized" before Nhu got them.
She wrote the story in her own words, and I had her practice it out loud, till I thought she was ready.
Then I probably took her on some adventure or I just let her play outside with her friends for the balance of the day.
On Sunday evening, I told Nhu to say a little prayer to God for the strength and intelligence she needed to do a good job.
That Monday evening, after I returned home from court in Camden, Nhu was waiting for me, blasting angry.
"Mr. Peter !!!" she scolded, "I got into a lot of trouble in school with the class when I read my paper about Saint Nicholas !!!"
"Well," I asked, surprised, "Did you teacher like it ?"
"I got an 'A' for it," Nhu answered, "But when I got up to read it, and I said that Santa Claus is dead, but God lets him come back to visit us every year, all of the other kids started yelling at me and telling me that I am a liar and throwing papers at me !"
"But how did your teacher react at that time, Nhu?" I asked.
"She sat down in her chair and laughed and laughed and laughed, and finally she told the kids that I was right, but they didn't believe her, either!" Nhu recounted.
"Well," I responded, not sure that I was repairing much damage, "At least you know the truth!"
Sunday, October 18, 2015
THE PILGRIM'S MAYFLOWER FINALLY MAKES LANDFALL IN MAGNOLIA
My son Josh was born in October, 1983. In the Spring of 1984, we drove him over to the Glenolden, Pennsylvania home of Anna Maria Kearney Eitelman, my last living grandparent, so that she could see her great grandchild, and so that we could photograph our son in his great grandmother's arms.
As we went back out to our car, Grandmom's last words to me, before she died a few months later, were, "PETE, REMEMBER TO LOOK FOR THE SEARS GENEALOGY."
I didn't forget it. I finally found it, in 2002. And what it revealed was astonishing ...
Peter J. Dawson, son of
my mother Eleanore Ann Eitelman, daughter of
my gf Edward Decatur Eitelman, son of
my g1 gm May Katherine Pitman, daughter of
my g2 gm Susan E. Sears Sorrell, daughter of
my g3 gf Philo Sears, son of
my g4 gf Edward Sears, son of
my g5 gf Alden Sears, son of
my g6 gm Mary Paddock, daughter of
my g7 gm Alice Alden, daughter of
my g8 gf David Alden, son of ...
one of the most famous married couples in the history of the world, my g9 gp's, John Alden ...
... who was the cooper, or barrel-maker, on board the Mayflower ...
... as well as a signer of the Mayflower Compact, and Priscilla Mullins ...
... who with her parents my g10 gp's William Mullins -- another signer of the Mayflower Compact -- and Alice Atwood sailed on board the Mayflower with John Alden, landing at Plymouth Rock in 1620.
I and my sons are pretty special, right? (And we didn't even have to do anything !!!)
Not so fast, there, Petey!
It turns out that approximately 40 million -- or 12% -- of Americans are directly descended from one of the Mayflower's passengers.
What ???!!! How could that be ???!!!
Well, it turns out that as people marry and reproduce, and (until the coming of The Pill) have an average of more than 2 children who succeed in achieving reproductive age and in having children, themselves, they produce a kind of "descendancy cone" -- an ever-vaster number of direct descendants...
... made of people who meet and marry the descendants of people in their own or in other "descendancy cones," so that, when a non-Mayflower descendancy cone person meets and mates with a Mayflower descendancy cone person, and so have children together, the people in those non-Mayflower "descendancy cones" start having Mayflower descendants!
Presto chango, there's a 12% chance in America that you or your living children are in part the products of the combined Mayflower "descendancy cones" -- that you and they are Mayflower descendants!
So, it turns out that I'm not so "special" -- that I have a lot of competition in America, and probably in little Magnolia, too.
Maybe even (God forbid!) among some of the Democrats!
It turned-out that I and my descendants are also offspring of a second Mayflower line, that of Thomas Rogers, also a signer of the famous Mayflower Compact.
Saturday, October 17, 2015
MAGNOLIA'S OTHER "VOLCANO"
Not too many years ago, when my very distant cousin June Robinson Hohing and her hubby Keith Hohing lived across Jackson Avenue from Rise` and I, Magnolia's "other volcano" occurred -- in their chimney. (Those who want to read about the Magnolia's "first volcano" are referred to
http://2magnolialife.blogspot.com/2015/10/the-magnolia-volcano.html)
Keith and June were wood burners who reduced their heating bill in the Winter by burning waste wood. They had a wood stove next to their fireplace, and vented the smoke from the burning wood up their chimney.
Had Keith and June known to ask them, members of the Magnolia Fire Company would have told them why venting smoke from combustion of wood up one's chimney can be problematic -- and why London had chimney sweeps in the era of Charles Dickens: The phenomenon of chimney fires.
One winter day, Rise` and I were both at home, minding our own business, when we suddenly heard the roar of a fighter jet outside our Jackson Avenue - side windows.
I yelled to Rise`, "Tiniest, what the heck is that sound outside???!!! It sounds like an Air Force jet taking off out side our door!!!"
We ran outside, and saw a most amazing sight: Keith Hohing was in the middle of Jackson Avenue, looking up at his chimney. Coming out of Keith and June Hohing's chimney was a tall blue flame. It wasn't a normal fire's flame. It was coming out at several hundred miles per hour, and roaring like a powerful volcano -- like the volcano in the final scenes of the 1961 Spencer Tracy movie, "The Devil at 4:00 O'clock." I said to Keith, "Keith, WHAT THE HECK IS GOING ON???!!!"
"Hi, Pete," he answered with laudable calm, "I think that I've got a chimney fire, and I think that that is what a chimney fire looks like!"
I said, "That can't be good, Keith. If blue flame is coming out of the top at several hundred miles per hour, then the bricks IN your chimney are red -- and the wooden superstructure of your house is about to catch fire. You called it in?"
"Fire company is on the way, Pete," Keith responded -- and at that moment I heard the Fire Company's alarm, 7 moaning blasts of their horn.
A few minutes later, the fire trucks pulled up. The Fire Chief, my friend Emil, drove up in his car a minute later. While Keith talked to the firemen about putting out the amazing chimney fire, Emil explained chimney fires to me.
"Hey, Pete," he said, as blue flame continued to rush-out of Keith and June's chimney at several hundred miles per hour with an incredible roar. "Wow!," he said. "That's a hot one! You're looking at a classic chimney fire, here. The folks living in that house must have a wood stove."
"Yup!" I answered.
"Well, what happens is that the flammable creosote builds up in the chimney, deeper and deeper and deeper ...
... until, finally, it catches fire. Because the fire extends up the length of the chimney, heat from the row of built-up deposits that are aflame in the chimney accelerates the gases rushing up the chimney faster and faster and faster, until there is this super-oxygenated, super-heated column of fast-moving hot gases, sucking O2 out of the house, and rushing it up the chimney, from the fireplace to the top of the chimney, like a super-hot jet. That's why, right now, it sounds like a fighter jet about to take off!
"The danger is that it will make the masonry in the chimney so incredibly red hot that it will ignite the wooden superstructure of the house next to the chimney bricks."
"That's what I told the owner," I responded. "How do you guys douse a strange fire like that?"
"We do two things," Emil answered. "First, we have to do what we can to choke off the O2 supply to the flue. Do Keith and June have one of those open-fireplace-and-wood-stove combinations in their house?"
"Yup," I responded.
"Well," Emil answered, "Our guys are doing what they can, then, to send some non-O2 or steam up the flue, to reduce the fire in the creosote, and then to cut off the air flow to the flue, which also reduces the fire. Both measures will help to change that 'blow torch' on the top of the chimney to an ordinary fire ...
Then our guys on the roof of their house will be able to drop chemicals down the chimney from the top, which will send only non-O2 gases up the chimney able to douse the fire.
"After we're sure that none of the superstructure of the house has been set afire by the enormous heat in that chimney, and the chimney cools off, it will be up to Keith and June to have the chimney cleared of creosote and inspected for damage from the fire, before they're able to use it again."
http://2magnolialife.blogspot.com/2015/10/the-magnolia-volcano.html)
Keith and June were wood burners who reduced their heating bill in the Winter by burning waste wood. They had a wood stove next to their fireplace, and vented the smoke from the burning wood up their chimney.
Had Keith and June known to ask them, members of the Magnolia Fire Company would have told them why venting smoke from combustion of wood up one's chimney can be problematic -- and why London had chimney sweeps in the era of Charles Dickens: The phenomenon of chimney fires.
One winter day, Rise` and I were both at home, minding our own business, when we suddenly heard the roar of a fighter jet outside our Jackson Avenue - side windows.
I yelled to Rise`, "Tiniest, what the heck is that sound outside???!!! It sounds like an Air Force jet taking off out side our door!!!"
We ran outside, and saw a most amazing sight: Keith Hohing was in the middle of Jackson Avenue, looking up at his chimney. Coming out of Keith and June Hohing's chimney was a tall blue flame. It wasn't a normal fire's flame. It was coming out at several hundred miles per hour, and roaring like a powerful volcano -- like the volcano in the final scenes of the 1961 Spencer Tracy movie, "The Devil at 4:00 O'clock." I said to Keith, "Keith, WHAT THE HECK IS GOING ON???!!!"
"Hi, Pete," he answered with laudable calm, "I think that I've got a chimney fire, and I think that that is what a chimney fire looks like!"
I said, "That can't be good, Keith. If blue flame is coming out of the top at several hundred miles per hour, then the bricks IN your chimney are red -- and the wooden superstructure of your house is about to catch fire. You called it in?"
"Fire company is on the way, Pete," Keith responded -- and at that moment I heard the Fire Company's alarm, 7 moaning blasts of their horn.
A few minutes later, the fire trucks pulled up. The Fire Chief, my friend Emil, drove up in his car a minute later. While Keith talked to the firemen about putting out the amazing chimney fire, Emil explained chimney fires to me.
"Hey, Pete," he said, as blue flame continued to rush-out of Keith and June's chimney at several hundred miles per hour with an incredible roar. "Wow!," he said. "That's a hot one! You're looking at a classic chimney fire, here. The folks living in that house must have a wood stove."
"Yup!" I answered.
"Well, what happens is that the flammable creosote builds up in the chimney, deeper and deeper and deeper ...
... until, finally, it catches fire. Because the fire extends up the length of the chimney, heat from the row of built-up deposits that are aflame in the chimney accelerates the gases rushing up the chimney faster and faster and faster, until there is this super-oxygenated, super-heated column of fast-moving hot gases, sucking O2 out of the house, and rushing it up the chimney, from the fireplace to the top of the chimney, like a super-hot jet. That's why, right now, it sounds like a fighter jet about to take off!
"The danger is that it will make the masonry in the chimney so incredibly red hot that it will ignite the wooden superstructure of the house next to the chimney bricks."
"That's what I told the owner," I responded. "How do you guys douse a strange fire like that?"
"We do two things," Emil answered. "First, we have to do what we can to choke off the O2 supply to the flue. Do Keith and June have one of those open-fireplace-and-wood-stove combinations in their house?"
"Yup," I responded.
"Well," Emil answered, "Our guys are doing what they can, then, to send some non-O2 or steam up the flue, to reduce the fire in the creosote, and then to cut off the air flow to the flue, which also reduces the fire. Both measures will help to change that 'blow torch' on the top of the chimney to an ordinary fire ...
Then our guys on the roof of their house will be able to drop chemicals down the chimney from the top, which will send only non-O2 gases up the chimney able to douse the fire.
"After we're sure that none of the superstructure of the house has been set afire by the enormous heat in that chimney, and the chimney cools off, it will be up to Keith and June to have the chimney cleared of creosote and inspected for damage from the fire, before they're able to use it again."
Friday, October 16, 2015
A CLASSIC LAWYER'S TRICK IN MAGNOLIA MUNICIPAL COURT (WARNING: LANGUAGE)
I greatly regretted leaving the law for financial reasons. I got pretty good at doing trial work, and I loved it, and by-and-large the judges liked me.
One of the things I liked about the law is the humor. Lawyers (who are largely shameless) love jokes making fun of the law, legal process and themselves. Here's an off-color oldie-but-goodie ...
1ST GRADE TEACHER: Okay, class, it's time for you to take turns going to the front of the room and telling the class what your parents do in their jobs. Suzie, you're up first.
SUZIE: My Dad is a fireman. He puts out fires in people's homes, and saves lives.
1ST GRADE TEACHER: Eddie, you're next.
EDDIE: My Mom is an airline stewardess. She takes care of passengers on a plane while the pilot flies it.
1ST GRADE TEACHER: Okay, Johnnie, you're next.
LITTLE JOHNNIE: My Dad says that he is a piano player in a whorehouse!
1ST GRADE TEACHER: Wha-a-a-a-a-at???!!! Johnnie, shame on you for saying that!!! Tell your father that I want to see him tomorrow before class!!!
The next day, little Johnnie's Dad brings Johnnie to school.
LITTLE JOHNNIE: This is my Dad, teacher.
1ST GRADE TEACHER (taking father aside): Sir, your little son Johnnie described you as a "piano player in a whorehouse" to the entire class yesterday.
JOHNNIE'S FATHER (chuckles): Oops! I didn't realize he overheard that. I'm a trial lawyer in the county court house. My wife asked me to describe my work in as few words as possible, as she was getting little Johnnie ready for his presentation, and that was a funny way I thought of to describe my work which I whispered in her ear.
Sometimes, very funky and funny things happen in court.
In one case, I was challenging a Will, which a daughter had had a lawyer draw up for her mentally incompetent multi-millionaire father, in which she had her father disown her brother and sister. Then, she essentially kidnapped her father to a shack in the middle of the Florida Everglades, and there, surrounded by alligators, Dad starved to death!!!
See http://www.freakingnews.com/pictures/33500/Man-Surrounded-By-Alligators-33994.jpg
I could tell that I was winning the judge over on the main allegation that the father was too mentally incompetent to comprehend what he was doing when he signed the Will. The mood in the courtroom was becoming antagonist toward the bad-girl daughter. All were becoming convinced that that daughter starved Dad to death to get his money. I was very intent on preserving that mood.
So, I put the other daughter on the stand, to flesh out the sordid details of Dad's death, and also to reinforce just how mentally "gone" Dad had been.
One of the things Dad used to do is sit in the dark in his house, sometimes for days at a time, squeezing tennis balls. He loved squeezing tennis balls.
This is what the testimony on that latter point sounded like ...
MR. DAWSON: So, Ms. B, is there anything which you can tell the court about your father which might help to shed light on your father's ability to understand what he was doing when he signed this Will, a month before his homicide?
Earlier in the case I had to fight to get in that word "homicide." Dad's coroner in Florida, it turned out, ruled death was the result of "inanition" -- starvation. The county prosecutor in Florida nonetheless decided to not prosecute for Manslaughter or Murder, however.
WITNESS: Yes. I can. He used to sit.
MR. DAWSON: Why do you mean by that? Please understand that I am not allowed to lead you in your testimony.
WITNESS: Oh. Yeah. He used to sit in the dark!
MR. DAWSON: Well, so what? I'm sure that you have sat in the dark.
I'm getting frustrated, here. Getting her to tell her story is like pulling teeth, despite weeks of practice.
WITNESS: Well, he would sit in the dark for hours. Days.
MR. DAWSON: What, if anything, would he be doing?
WITNESS: Sorry. I'm nervous. Dad used to sit in the dark for hours or days squeezing his balls!
At this point, the crowded courtroom exploded into uproarious laughter. The judge, who was 75 years of age, laughed so hard that he fell out of his chair to the floor.
The mood I wanted was gone with the wind. But, we still won.
I have seen lawyers pull some pretty funky stuff in little Magnolia Municipal Court.
Once when I was waiting for my case to be called, a case involving a charge of Driving While Intoxicated was the subject of a trial in the courtroom.
To understand the case, you have to understand The System's attitude toward drunk driving. Political dynamics in our country, beginning in the late 1970s, so effectively demonized drunk driving that DWI cases, though tried in municipal court, are treated with all of the seriousness of a murder case.
And God bless Mothers Against Drunk Driving and similar organizations for doing this! A drunk who gets behind the wheel is a killer.
At any rate, since this was a DWI case, it was a critical event in Magnolia Municipal Court that night.
Now, one of the things prosecutors love to do is have witnesses actually physically point at the accused in court, to identify him or her as the disgusting wrongdoer. In cases I have prosecuted, I had my non-police witnesses play this game.
However, when a policeman points at the guy sitting next to the defense attorney at the table in front of the judge, and says, "THAT'S HIM!!! HE DID IT!!!," it's not quite the same thing as an actual victim doing it. Why? Well, police sometimes take dozens of people into custody per month, and interview several more dozens of witnesses, and dozens of cases. How can they be expected to keep it all straight in their heads?
So, defense lawyers are always a teensy weensy bit skeptical when a police witness points at a defendant in the courtroom, sitting next to the defense attorney, and dramatically declares, "THAT'S HIM!!! HE DID IT!!!"
But few defense attorneys have the courage to actually test the policeman's identification of the defendant. Doing that could make the judge really, really mean, just before imposing sentence on our precious client.
But, I finally got to see an attorney do it, in Magnolia Municipal Court.
While the judge and prosecutor and public defender were back in chambers, I saw the defense attorney in the DWI case about to be called talking, talking, talking endlessly to a guy in the audience, while he ignored the young man in the seat for the defendant.
"Hmmmmmmmmmm," I thought. "What's going on here?"
Finally, the judge and prosecutor came out, and the Clerk called the case, and the prosecutor put the arresting officer on the stand. It was an open-and-shut case, with a .14 Breathalyzer reading. I knew the policeman well. He was my good friend. He did an excellent job in rendering his testimony.
But the Prosecutor couldn't resist. No one goes to the trouble of connecting the defendant to the offense with fingerprints taken while he is in custody. Instead, they do the pointing thing.
PROSECUTOR: Do you see the individual whom you had seen operating his motor vehicle in a drunken and disorderly fashion that evening, whose Breathalyzer test then yielded a Blood Alcohol Content result of .14, in the court room tonight?
ARRESTING OFFICER: Yes, I do.
PROSECUTOR: Would you please point him out for the court?
ARRESTING OFFICER (pointing): Yes. It is the individual sitting next to defense counsel at the defense table. THAT'S HIM!!! HE DID IT!!!
Suspicious on account of what I had seen in the courtroom before the judge and prosecutor came out, I watched with interest as the prosecutor announced, "Prosecution rests, Your Honor," and the judge said, "Defense can now put on their case."
It was at that moment that the defense attorney "sprung" his "trap": He shook hands with the young man sitting next to him at the defense table, smiled and said, "Thank you very much. Good job." And then the young man walked out of the courtroom to the street.
The judge ask the defense attorney, "Counselor, where's your client going?"
The defense attorney said, "Oh, my client's still here, Your Honor." And then, to the audience, "WILL THE DEFENDANT PLEASE COME TO THE DEFENSE TABLE AND SIT BESIDE ME?" And another young man came up out of the audience and sat next to the defense attorney.
And suddenly the entire courtroom realized that technically the police officer and prosecutor had implicated a perfectly innocent man, and then the prosecution had rested.
The police officer blamed himself -- he shouldn't have. The prosecutor turned red -- he was most to blame. And the judge stared daggers at defense counsel. The judge ordered defense counsel into chambers, and spent a half-hour "reading the riot act" to defense counsel for pulling a stunt like that -- defense counsel was implicitly requiring that every prosecution include an in-court verification of identity by comparison of fingerprints in court with those in the record.
As I was sitting there in court, I thought of a way to salvage a conviction: Simply hold the feet of everyone involved to the fire by continuing the trial.
Think about that.
Instead of getting angry at the defense attorney, the judge should say, "Counselor, that individual from the audience isn't the defendant. I distinctly heard evidence to the effect that the one sitting next to you at the counsel table during the police officer's testimony is the defendant. There is nothing in evidence to the effect that this new person is the correct defendant.
"But the one identified as defendant by the police officer has left the court before his trial is ended. And, I saw you send him away. Therefore, I am issuing a warrant for the arrest of the defendant for leaving the court room in the middle of his trial. And I am having you arrested for Obstruction of Justice, by sending the defendant away."
And then the judge should say to the real defendant, "Sir, I don't know who you are, but you can go."
The consequences of such a ruling would be very interesting.
Undoubtedly, the young man posing as the defendant who then left the court room would have been a friend or relative. So, the real defendant would have to watch his friend or relative go to jail. So would the friend or relative's family.
And, the lawyer, to save his own neck, is cornered into straightening things out by having the real defendant give testimony against himself, which would serve as the basis for his conviction for DWI.
One of the things I liked about the law is the humor. Lawyers (who are largely shameless) love jokes making fun of the law, legal process and themselves. Here's an off-color oldie-but-goodie ...
1ST GRADE TEACHER: Okay, class, it's time for you to take turns going to the front of the room and telling the class what your parents do in their jobs. Suzie, you're up first.
SUZIE: My Dad is a fireman. He puts out fires in people's homes, and saves lives.
1ST GRADE TEACHER: Eddie, you're next.
EDDIE: My Mom is an airline stewardess. She takes care of passengers on a plane while the pilot flies it.
1ST GRADE TEACHER: Okay, Johnnie, you're next.
LITTLE JOHNNIE: My Dad says that he is a piano player in a whorehouse!
1ST GRADE TEACHER: Wha-a-a-a-a-at???!!! Johnnie, shame on you for saying that!!! Tell your father that I want to see him tomorrow before class!!!
The next day, little Johnnie's Dad brings Johnnie to school.
LITTLE JOHNNIE: This is my Dad, teacher.
1ST GRADE TEACHER (taking father aside): Sir, your little son Johnnie described you as a "piano player in a whorehouse" to the entire class yesterday.
JOHNNIE'S FATHER (chuckles): Oops! I didn't realize he overheard that. I'm a trial lawyer in the county court house. My wife asked me to describe my work in as few words as possible, as she was getting little Johnnie ready for his presentation, and that was a funny way I thought of to describe my work which I whispered in her ear.
Sometimes, very funky and funny things happen in court.
In one case, I was challenging a Will, which a daughter had had a lawyer draw up for her mentally incompetent multi-millionaire father, in which she had her father disown her brother and sister. Then, she essentially kidnapped her father to a shack in the middle of the Florida Everglades, and there, surrounded by alligators, Dad starved to death!!!
See http://www.freakingnews.com/pictures/33500/Man-Surrounded-By-Alligators-33994.jpg
I could tell that I was winning the judge over on the main allegation that the father was too mentally incompetent to comprehend what he was doing when he signed the Will. The mood in the courtroom was becoming antagonist toward the bad-girl daughter. All were becoming convinced that that daughter starved Dad to death to get his money. I was very intent on preserving that mood.
So, I put the other daughter on the stand, to flesh out the sordid details of Dad's death, and also to reinforce just how mentally "gone" Dad had been.
One of the things Dad used to do is sit in the dark in his house, sometimes for days at a time, squeezing tennis balls. He loved squeezing tennis balls.
This is what the testimony on that latter point sounded like ...
MR. DAWSON: So, Ms. B, is there anything which you can tell the court about your father which might help to shed light on your father's ability to understand what he was doing when he signed this Will, a month before his homicide?
Earlier in the case I had to fight to get in that word "homicide." Dad's coroner in Florida, it turned out, ruled death was the result of "inanition" -- starvation. The county prosecutor in Florida nonetheless decided to not prosecute for Manslaughter or Murder, however.
WITNESS: Yes. I can. He used to sit.
MR. DAWSON: Why do you mean by that? Please understand that I am not allowed to lead you in your testimony.
WITNESS: Oh. Yeah. He used to sit in the dark!
MR. DAWSON: Well, so what? I'm sure that you have sat in the dark.
I'm getting frustrated, here. Getting her to tell her story is like pulling teeth, despite weeks of practice.
WITNESS: Well, he would sit in the dark for hours. Days.
MR. DAWSON: What, if anything, would he be doing?
WITNESS: Sorry. I'm nervous. Dad used to sit in the dark for hours or days squeezing his balls!
At this point, the crowded courtroom exploded into uproarious laughter. The judge, who was 75 years of age, laughed so hard that he fell out of his chair to the floor.
The mood I wanted was gone with the wind. But, we still won.
I have seen lawyers pull some pretty funky stuff in little Magnolia Municipal Court.
Once when I was waiting for my case to be called, a case involving a charge of Driving While Intoxicated was the subject of a trial in the courtroom.
To understand the case, you have to understand The System's attitude toward drunk driving. Political dynamics in our country, beginning in the late 1970s, so effectively demonized drunk driving that DWI cases, though tried in municipal court, are treated with all of the seriousness of a murder case.
And God bless Mothers Against Drunk Driving and similar organizations for doing this! A drunk who gets behind the wheel is a killer.
At any rate, since this was a DWI case, it was a critical event in Magnolia Municipal Court that night.
Now, one of the things prosecutors love to do is have witnesses actually physically point at the accused in court, to identify him or her as the disgusting wrongdoer. In cases I have prosecuted, I had my non-police witnesses play this game.
However, when a policeman points at the guy sitting next to the defense attorney at the table in front of the judge, and says, "THAT'S HIM!!! HE DID IT!!!," it's not quite the same thing as an actual victim doing it. Why? Well, police sometimes take dozens of people into custody per month, and interview several more dozens of witnesses, and dozens of cases. How can they be expected to keep it all straight in their heads?
So, defense lawyers are always a teensy weensy bit skeptical when a police witness points at a defendant in the courtroom, sitting next to the defense attorney, and dramatically declares, "THAT'S HIM!!! HE DID IT!!!"
But few defense attorneys have the courage to actually test the policeman's identification of the defendant. Doing that could make the judge really, really mean, just before imposing sentence on our precious client.
But, I finally got to see an attorney do it, in Magnolia Municipal Court.
While the judge and prosecutor and public defender were back in chambers, I saw the defense attorney in the DWI case about to be called talking, talking, talking endlessly to a guy in the audience, while he ignored the young man in the seat for the defendant.
"Hmmmmmmmmmm," I thought. "What's going on here?"
Finally, the judge and prosecutor came out, and the Clerk called the case, and the prosecutor put the arresting officer on the stand. It was an open-and-shut case, with a .14 Breathalyzer reading. I knew the policeman well. He was my good friend. He did an excellent job in rendering his testimony.
But the Prosecutor couldn't resist. No one goes to the trouble of connecting the defendant to the offense with fingerprints taken while he is in custody. Instead, they do the pointing thing.
PROSECUTOR: Do you see the individual whom you had seen operating his motor vehicle in a drunken and disorderly fashion that evening, whose Breathalyzer test then yielded a Blood Alcohol Content result of .14, in the court room tonight?
ARRESTING OFFICER: Yes, I do.
PROSECUTOR: Would you please point him out for the court?
ARRESTING OFFICER (pointing): Yes. It is the individual sitting next to defense counsel at the defense table. THAT'S HIM!!! HE DID IT!!!
Suspicious on account of what I had seen in the courtroom before the judge and prosecutor came out, I watched with interest as the prosecutor announced, "Prosecution rests, Your Honor," and the judge said, "Defense can now put on their case."
It was at that moment that the defense attorney "sprung" his "trap": He shook hands with the young man sitting next to him at the defense table, smiled and said, "Thank you very much. Good job." And then the young man walked out of the courtroom to the street.
The judge ask the defense attorney, "Counselor, where's your client going?"
The defense attorney said, "Oh, my client's still here, Your Honor." And then, to the audience, "WILL THE DEFENDANT PLEASE COME TO THE DEFENSE TABLE AND SIT BESIDE ME?" And another young man came up out of the audience and sat next to the defense attorney.
And suddenly the entire courtroom realized that technically the police officer and prosecutor had implicated a perfectly innocent man, and then the prosecution had rested.
The police officer blamed himself -- he shouldn't have. The prosecutor turned red -- he was most to blame. And the judge stared daggers at defense counsel. The judge ordered defense counsel into chambers, and spent a half-hour "reading the riot act" to defense counsel for pulling a stunt like that -- defense counsel was implicitly requiring that every prosecution include an in-court verification of identity by comparison of fingerprints in court with those in the record.
As I was sitting there in court, I thought of a way to salvage a conviction: Simply hold the feet of everyone involved to the fire by continuing the trial.
Think about that.
Instead of getting angry at the defense attorney, the judge should say, "Counselor, that individual from the audience isn't the defendant. I distinctly heard evidence to the effect that the one sitting next to you at the counsel table during the police officer's testimony is the defendant. There is nothing in evidence to the effect that this new person is the correct defendant.
"But the one identified as defendant by the police officer has left the court before his trial is ended. And, I saw you send him away. Therefore, I am issuing a warrant for the arrest of the defendant for leaving the court room in the middle of his trial. And I am having you arrested for Obstruction of Justice, by sending the defendant away."
And then the judge should say to the real defendant, "Sir, I don't know who you are, but you can go."
The consequences of such a ruling would be very interesting.
Undoubtedly, the young man posing as the defendant who then left the court room would have been a friend or relative. So, the real defendant would have to watch his friend or relative go to jail. So would the friend or relative's family.
And, the lawyer, to save his own neck, is cornered into straightening things out by having the real defendant give testimony against himself, which would serve as the basis for his conviction for DWI.
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