by S. Sponte, Esq.
I knew when the envelope arrived from the appellate court that it was THE OPINION. I had won the case in the lower court and that in itself was no small miracle, and while I wasn’t convinced that my victory was the correct result, I had won nevertheless and felt no need to analyze it much it beyond that.
As the envelope lay there upon my desk, I knew that I could have simply opened it right then and there, read the thing and be done with it. You would have, but me, uh-uh, I never do that, at least not any more.
You see, opening the envelope containing an opinion is serious business. Next to hearing the verdict of a jury, it may be the most quintessential moment in the practice of law, far too holy and ritualistic an event to be treated lightly.
Now as a lawyer, I worship facts, I relish them, I bow down to them on a regular basis. I only believe in hardcore evidence and I categorically reject all mumbo-jumbo in favor of what is indisputably real. And what is fact, what is indisputably real, is this: if I just rip open an opinion without first paying homage to the Gods of the Law, the decision will be adverse.
Early on in my career, I didn’t do that. I mean I would simply tear open the envelope and read the opinion, committing all my faith to the belief that justice would out. What can I say? I was so young.
I opened my first four opinions that way and they were all adverse. By the time I received the fifth opinion, I had lost all my confidence. I sat there at my desk and stared at the envelope for a long while, trying to divine its innards by some form of psycho-spiritual alchemy. I should have known better. I mean, if I was any good at the art of predilection, today I might be happily married and a lot wealthier.
As I stared at the envelope, unable to move, I fell into a depressive reverie, and that’s when I first heard the voice. I could have sworn it called out “Avraham,” but that’s not my name. The rest of the message I heard clearly though.
“But I need my secretary,” I responded.
“How ‘bout a goat?” the voice said.
Damn! I had sacrificed my last goat at the start of the trial term. Instead I negotiated the best deal I could, and when the terms had been concluded, I opened the envelope. I had won. I was delighted, the gods were appeased and my kids quickly got over the loss of their missing hamster.
And now, here I was again, facing yet another opinion. The envelope was far too thick to be good news. It was a lengthy opinion and a lengthy opinion could only mean one of two things. It was either a reversal of my favorable result in the lower court, something the appellate court would have had to explain at length, or His Honor had simply run amok with his word processor and printed out “Affirmed” eighteen thousand times.
But it was not the thickness of the envelope alone that accounted for my wariness. I had initially become apprehensive about my prospects at the start of oral argument when opposing counsel rose first to present his case. The presiding judge of the panel put up his hand and said “There is no need for you to say a word, counselor. I think we fully comprehend the argument you ought to make, so why don’t you just sit down and let us hear from your opponent. He should have lost this case in the lower court and would then be arguing first anyway.”
I admit I was taken aback. But I am an experienced professional, and an experienced professional is cool under fire. I stood up and presented what I thought was a cogent and concise argument, at all times in control of all my faculties and completely indifferent to my racing pulse, my blurred vision, my wet trousers. (What is, I wonder in this age of gender equality and political correctness, the female equivalent? Wet shoes?)
Apparently however I was not cogent enough, for when I finished, the same His Honor stood up, grabbed his necktie in his right hand and gave a sharp and mocking yank upwards. You can’t imagine how disappointed I was when I realized that he had only feigned gagging.
In an effort to lull me into a false sense of security, His Honor had affixed a “Love” stamp to the envelope, but I am not so easily fooled. I knew what I had to do. Once again, as if by rote, I got down on my knees and prayed. Silently, solemnly, I made my deal. Then, and only then, I opened the envelope.
Lo and behold, I had won. The trial court had been affirmed and in addition the appellate court had tacked on counsel fees. It was a pretty good result, especially considering that I had not asked for counsel fees.
I know what you’re thinking. This is all a lot of hogwash, right? Well, think about the opinions that you’ve received in the course of your career. Are they all clearly the byproduct of an appellate judicial system that cherishes intellect and reason above all else? Yeah, mine neither.
Still, many of you will not believe me, but that’s okay. I feel no strong urge to convince you I know what I’m talking about, and even if I wanted to, I don’t have the time. I have a winning opinion clutched tightly here in my hands and I have my end of the bargain yet to uphold. I’m leaving the office now. I have to go home and find the dog. Here, boy, here.
Copyright 1992, S. Sponte, Esq.