Many of my contemporaries
entered law practice as prosecutors or public defenders in city courts and
lower County courts. When we entered practice around 1974, nearly every
violation was a “misdemeanor,” and conviction exposed the perpetrator to both
jail and a fine. The mere “violation,” punishable by only a fine, didn’t enter
the law books until years later, so lots of defendants were looking at lots of
jail time, there were many, many trials,
and there was a certain amount of wholesale justice.
When Elizabeth Rene’ prosecuted, and she was
blind, even her service dog learned to
stand up when the bailiff opened court by calling, “All rise!”
One misdemeanor defense
counsel was Irving Paul, who was a tall man whose suit jacket always stuck out
below the ski jacket he usually wore. He was noted for his compassion. When he called on his clients in the drunk
tank, he would shout out, “Okay, everybody who is in here for peeing in public,
step forward. We will plead you guilty and get you out of here.”
One of Mr. Paul’s clients was
an older woman, hard of hearing, who had to wear slippers to court because her
feet were so swollen from diabetes or heart disease. She was terribly
distraught about the shop-lift she had committed, and she was sobbing and
sobbing. Mr. Paul draped an arm around her shoulder. “It’s okay,” he shouted.
He pointed to the City’s prosecutor. “Do you see that woman over there? She
smokes marijuana!”
In the City of Seattle
courts, the prosecutors, defense counsel, and judges saw so many bizarre
shoplifting cases that they developed their own nomenclature for them. They
called them the “ham-in-the-pants” cases.
And of course, one day it happened:
The prosecutor read the charges.
The man was accused of trying to shoplift a ham in his pants. He stood there bewildered while the court
personnel laughed until the tears were rolling down their cheeks.
There was no concern about
guilt by association: Every Thursday was
“Ladies’ day.” All of the women who had been arrested for prostitution were
paraded into court for their trials. Those who hadn’t been released on their
personal recognizance, or who hadn’t made bail, wore jail gowns that looked
like knee-length surgical scrubs, but their shoes were their own. Very high
platform shoes were de rigueur among hookers that season.
My friend Fred was a public
defender who was assigned to defend one of the “ladies of the night” who
insisted on testifying on her own behalf. What was she doing at 4: a.m. at the
corner of Fourth and Union? Waiting for the bus. Did she see the police officer
who had just testified against her? Yes. Did you have a conversation with him
about an act of prostitution for $20? “Not for any $20.00,” she said. The other women in the courtroom hooted and
stomped their feet, and when the noise subsided, the judge found her guilty.
“The lady doth protest too much,” the judge said.
Fred was assigned, also, to
defend three men who had been accused of some kind of theft. One of the three
took one look at his black assigned attorney, and found the money to hire a
white man to defend him. All three defendants came to trial simultaneously.
Fred’s clients were acquitted, but the one with the paid attorney was found
guilty. Some months later, when we had gone out for a drink after work, the man
who had been convicted came to our table and apologized for firing Fred. Fred wasn’t exactly
forgiving. “I could have done that for you for free,” he said.
One woman who was accused of
simple assault testified honestly. “I bitch-slapped her!”
My business partner Duncan Wilson
acted as a visiting judge for the City of Auburn from time the time. A woman
came before him to plead guilty of stealing her son’s computer, selling it, and
buying a motorcycle so that she could join an all-woman motorcycle gang. “Woman
motorcycle gang!” Duncan asked her. “What do you guys do, ride down to Target
and mess up the towels?”
My friend Fred still works in the misdemeanor court, but for many years, he has been the judge.
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