OCTOBER 17, 2022 – (Cont.) Later, when I appeared at Mike’s office to begin prepping him for trial, he asked how many “barroom brawls” I’d been in. I assumed he was asking figuratively, but when I started giving an account of my courtroom record, Mike cut in. “No, no, no,” he said. “I mean actual bar fights. How many bar fights—you know—inside a bar, have you been in?”
“Are you serious?” I said, just then (a) remembering how bizarre Mike truly was; and (b) realizing what a sheltered life I’d led, despite all my self-deceptions to the contrary. But as we are acculturated to do, I hid my thoughts. “Zero bar fights,” I continued, “but the better question is, ‘How many bars have I been in?’ For the time being, [Mike], I’ll leave you hangin’ on that question. The real issue here is whether I’m up to the task of trying your case in front of a jury. The answer is a resounding ‘Yes,’ but with the flashing red caveat that you have to behave yourself and do exactly as I tell you.” As long as Mike remained seated, I’d have the alpha advantage. Instantly, in a single, assertive motion, I stood up, shoved my chair back and spread my feet apart, shoulder width. Pushing my suit coat apart as if it were a cape, I then pushed my shoulders to the sides and stuck my fists on my hips. “Deal?”
“Deal,” said Mike with a tone of resignation, as he remained seated.
Most of lawyering . . . heck, half of living, I thought, is appearance—and seizing the moment.
Two weeks later at Mike’s actual trial, I struggled with the threshold question of seating him at the table with me in keeping with customary practice. The opposing party was a well-behaved individual, not given to impulsive reactions—as he’d demonstrated at his deposition and later at the arbitration. Seated like a model schoolboy at the plaintiff’s table, the guy would provide a marked contrast to Mike. Yet, Mike’s absence from the table would be conspicuous and doubtless be negatively construed by judge and jury.
What to do? I had to take the risk that Mike would be . . . Mike, despite my stern lecture that he had to be poker-faced at all times and pretend he was bound and gagged.
Sure enough, soon into the testimony of the plaintiff’s first witness, the wheels came off my instructions. Mike snatched my tablet, ripped off a ragged sheet, scribbled away frenetically, and waved the result in front of my face. Ignoring my kicks to his shin, he resorted to “whispering” in a voice audible throughout the courtroom. “It’s a big lie!” Mike said repeatedly. The perturbed judge called out to me to “get control of [my] client.”
I tried—whispering a stern reprimand and detonating a very hushed F-bomb into Mike’s hairy ear. Two minutes later, Mike was back at it. “Sheesh!” he said out loud, in reaction to the plaintiff’s witness. Then leaning toward me—as I leaned away—he said in what he thought was a whisper, “I told you he’s a liar.”
The judge called my incorrigible client and me to the bench. Mike was unmoved. I struggled to hide my total frustration with him. I asked the judge for a recess, which was granted, and I immediately led Mike to what I appeared to be a quiet corner of the hallway outside the courtroom. (Cont.)
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© 2022 by Eric Nilsson
