By S. Sponte, Esq.
As much as I hate to admit it, I subscribe to the local newspaper. It is a shabby newspaper and pretty much the reason why the pejorative term “rag” was invented. Published by a right wing ne’er-do-well who comes from money and has not experienced any kind of real labor since birth, it prints the unenlightened ramblings of a cadre of columnists whose views of the world place them somewhere to the right of Taras Bulba.
I quit getting the paper when, a number of years ago, it canceled “Doonesbury” as being a minion of the devil here on Earth. To my chagrin though, I soon realized that I needed the paper for its local coverage and begrudgingly I resubscribed. This morning, for perhaps the first time since then, I am pleased that I did.
Over my morning black coffee (I have learned to drink it black on account of what the paper’s editorial comments kept doing to my cream), I read a delicious local story about one of our judges who had sentenced an unrepresented defendant to jail for possession of marijuana. The defendant in turn placed a curse upon the judge. “A curse upon your being,” he was reported to have said.
Boy, I was disappointed. I mean, after seeing that tantalizing headline, ‘JUDGE CURSED,” I had hoped to read something a little more original, hex-wise. Hey, I mean if that’s the best curse he could come up with, he’s wasting his time. I myself have flung that same malediction many times at many judges, albeit in the privacy of my own office, and as yet I have precious little to show for it.
As a lawyer, this business of cursing the judiciary has long been of interest to me. Early in my career, I realized that sometimes litigants need a bit more than 200 years of uncontroverted precedent to persuade a recalcitrant jurist of the rightness of their position. After having given the matter extensive thought, I concluded that having a couple of efficacious curses at hand to buttress a client’s position might occasionally prove useful.
So one day I went to the county law library and there, on the shelf marked “Courts – Of This World – Not,” I found an old volume entitled Leave It to Chants. A quick perusal satisfied me that within lay some fodder for my nefarious plot, and so, in keeping with the custom of our library, I hid the book under my coat and departed.
After familiarizing myself with the book, I decided to try my hand at one of the judicial curses, and I had just the target in mind. It seems that when it came to deciding my clients’ cases, one local jurist in particular has been determined to make up his own mind rather than simply take my word for it. While I am all for an independent judiciary, this was simply going too far. So, following the instruction in the book, one night I gathered up all the necessary ingredients and put them in the center of a black stone circle together with one of his opinions. I then stripped down to my athletic supporter and danced a dance from the book that for all the world reminded me of the cha-cha.
Well, the next time I appeared before that judge, it was a different story, let me tell you. When at the conclusion of my case my opponent moved for a directed verdict, I could tell that the judge was trying to form the expression “Granted.” However, the only word he could get out was “Denied.” He started waving his arms vigorously in protest, because there was nothing wrong with his hearing, but despite his best efforts, “Denied” was all he could say.
I decided then and there to make my own motion for directed verdict, despite the fact that my opponent had not yet presented his case. Again, though he tried to form the word “Denied,” the judge said “Granted.”
The courtroom filled with bedlam. Opposing counsel launched a tirade, his client passed out and the judge himself, realizing that his lexicon had gone awry, grabbed a yellow pad and began to write down his decision. Fortunately this was to no avail, as no one has ever been able to decipher any of his written opinions.
My opponent insisted he would get better treatment by the judges of the Superior Court, but I knew better. The book had a whole chapter devoted to appellate procedure. And what with recalling all of this, my thoughts turn to that poor pathetic pothead who tried so lamely to curse the judge. He should have known better. He should also have been represented by an attorney, maybe someone like me, someone who knows that the path to success in the courtroom sometimes include doing the cha-cha in a jock strap. Hey, hey, that’s why I make the big bucks.
Copyright 1998, S. Sponte, Esq.