The Equalizer – Chapter One

She was the most feared, most hated, most exasperating defense litigator anyone had ever run across.  She was a one woman wrecking crew and believe me when I say that you did not want to get in her way.

She defended murderers, rapists, child molesters, drug dealers and was renowned for once successfully getting an acquittal for a known serial killer.

On two occasions I was fortunate or unfortunate enough depending on your view, to go head to head with her in a courtroom.

I was an up and coming prosecutor for the District Attorneys’ Office and I was determined to make my mark.  I was confident but I was not a know-it-all.  I was definitely not a pushover and my lack of experience did not reflect my work ethic.  I suffered no fools, but I have to say that only one litigator ever scared the living hell out of me.

That person was Parker Carolina Patterson, also known as “PCP” and she was five thousand times more deadly.

One common street name for PCP is “Angel dust” but it certainly didn’t apply to her.  She was more often than not described as a less commonly used term, “Embalming Fluid.”  She would gut you, laugh while you were bleeding and have you at the morgue before you even knew you were dead.

It was a given that any attorney was going to be crucified as soon as a trial began and if possible, the seasoned attorneys who had been emasculated and virtually gelded by her, passed their cases onto unknowing, wet behind the ears associates, like me.

They called that process “the Baptism of fire.”  It was sort of like throwing Daniel into the lions’ den, only they knew the lion was going to eat Daniel alive.  She chewed up novice attorneys like a wood chipper and spit them out into piles of mulch, wearing off-the-rack neckties.  She did it to me…twice.

I used to say “she won…rather than I lost.”  I thought it sounded better. “She won vs. we lost.”  To me, phrasing it that way somehow lessened the sting of defeat.  It may be a pride thing or a man thing or a Freudian thing. I don’t know but speaking of Freud, in her case “sometimes a cigar is just a cigar” was accurate.  Sometimes a raging bitch is just a raging bitch.

I would describe her as a cross between Angie Harmon and Charles Manson. She had the stunning beauty of Angie but something about her eyes made you think you were staring straight into the face of Satan.  Her porcelain skin appeared to have never seen a ray of sunshine and was absolutely flawless.  Her fire-engine red pouty lips, when parted revealed either a perfect Hollywood smile or a string of insults that would make God shake his head in disbelief.

I remember the first time I was snared into the web of Parker Carolina Patterson like it was yesterday.  I had what we call a “slam-dunk case.”  I was armed with indisputable evidence.  There was motive, opportunity and the ultimate coup de gras…a confession.

Although Parker had successfully convinced the judge that the confession had been coerced and was therefore inadmissible, I wasn’t worried.  I was also not worried that there had been any collusion or underhandedness about the judges’ decision.

Parker Patterson was not only hated by other litigators, she was hated by judges.  She talked to them like they had shit for brains and being slapped with contempt was to her like being handed a parking ticket.

My first case was prosecuting a man named Bernard Copley.  In a fit of rage, he stabbed his wife, Maureen, two hundred and sixty-five times.  I hadn’t seen too many crime scene photos but I will never forget those.  They were, even today, some of the worst I had ever seen and the first time I looked at them, I thought I might wretch.

Parker submitted the “crime of passion” defense and successfully convinced the jury that “each and every one of us is capable of anything under the right circumstances.  It has nothing to do with love or hate.  It has to do with passion.”

Bernard Copley was sentenced to time served, which amounted to 38 days in jail.  That wasn’t the only coup she pulled off.  She requested and was granted protection for her client due to the violent outbursts and threats from family members when the verdict was read.

This was common practice for her.  She had no qualms about looking the judge straight in the eyes and saying “I demand protection for my client.” She always requested it and it was always granted, for reasons no one could ever really understand, unless it was like several judges said…”I’ll agree to anything to get you out of my face and out of my courtroom.”

Apparently, she had connections and told the presiding judges that she could make someone “anonymous” faster than any federal agency.  She also reminded the judges that her first concern was the safety of her clients and any delays put said clients at risk.

After our case was over, Judge Dunbar who had repeatedly been compared to the infamous Judge Roy Bean looked at her and said “if true justice was served today, you would be hanging from the nearest tree.”  Her response? “All things being equal your Honor, if true justice was served today, you would be undergoing an autopsy.”

Balls?  Yep.  She had them.

Judge Dunbar sarcastically thanked the jury and dismissed them.  That is typically when attorneys shake hands and obligatory congratulations or “we’ll see you at the appeal,” are exchanged.

I admit that I was not feeling very cordial and like a spoiled brat, I offered no congratulations.  After she put her paperwork into her Coco Chanel briefcase, she handed me the latest edition of “Understanding The Law For Dummies.”

As we were walking out, Maureen Copley’s mother grabbed Parker’s arm and said “do you think God will forgive you for what you do?”  I was surprised when Parker hesitated for a moment and without making eye contact, turned slightly toward her, looked down and said “no.”

 

To be continued________________

Tommy’s Dog – Chapter Four

Mama felt bad after telling Tommy that this had to be the last time he could see the dog but she knew it was for the best.  While she waited for him to come back home, she got out some old photo albums and started flipping through the pages, now yellowed and crumbling with age.

Page after page was filled with pictures of “grandpa,” from when he was a little boy until just before he died.  He had the happiest eyes and he was always smiling.  He had been a wonderful father and how she wished he had lived long enough for Tommy to have really known him.  He was one of those people who leave an indelible mark on your life.

She walked down memory lane as she remembered all the corny jokes he used to tell.  She smiled when she remembered how many times he would push her in the swing he had made from a tire, while telling her stories of old Blue.

She was so lost in nostalgia that when Tommy leaned over her shoulder and spoke, it startled her.  She didn’t even know that he had come back home.

He pointed to a picture of old Blue and excitedly said “that’s the dog!  That’s the dog who hides behind those rocks!”

All mama could get out was “what?”  Tommy repeated “that’s the dog who hides behind those rocks!  I think he wants to play hide and seek.”

Mama said “honey, that can’t be.  That’s a picture of old Blue and old Blue died many years ago.  You know that.  It’s just some dog who looks like him.”

Tommy was adamant when he kept repeating the same words.  Then he said “no, mama.  I promise.  Come with me and you’ll see for yourself.”

Mama said “Tommy, honey.  I just think you want it to be him but you know it can’t be.”  Her heart sank when Tommy looked at her and said “why don’t you believe me mama?”

“Okay,” she said.  “Let’s go have a look.”  Tommy started tugging on her hand as she reluctantly walked out of the house.  When they got to the place Tommy said he saw him, they waited for a few minutes and then mama asked “where is he?”  Tommy looked disappointed and said “I don’t know.  He was here before.”

Mama said “well, he’s not here now and we have to get back home so I can start dinner.”  Tommy said “please, please, can we wait just a few more minutes, mama?  Please?”

Mama was ready to start walking back home when Tommy squealed “there he is!  There he is mama!  See?  I told you.”

Mama looked around but she couldn’t see anything.  “Where do you see him Tommy?” she asked.  Tommy looked puzzled and said “he’s standing right there, mama.  Don’t you see him?”

Mama smiled.  She now knew that the dog was just an “imaginary friend” Tommy had conjured up.  Trying to appease him, she said “yes I see him Tommy but we need to get on home now.”

Tommy started running.  He said “c’mon mama.  C’mon!”  He wants to play hide and seek.”

Mama called for Tommy to come back but he kept running.  She started walking toward him, calling his name over and over until she finally caught up with him.

Tommy said “see?  These are the rocks he likes to hide behind.”

Mama froze.  The “rocks” Tommy was talking about were tombstones.  They were standing in the middle of The Green Terrace Cemetery.

Mama wasn’t sure that Tommy even knew a cemetery was there and he obviously didn’t know what it was, given that he thought the tombstones were just rocks.

Tommy took her hand and said “he hides behind this one.”

Mama sat down and cried.  Tommy asked “what’s wrong mama?”

She said “this is where your grandpa is buried.”

 

It Einde.

 

 

 

 

 

Tommy’s Dog – Chapter Three

Mama said “I told you that he probably belonged to someone else and don’t you think that if he wanted to play, he wouldn’t have run away?”

“I guess so,” said Tommy.  But he just looks so lonely and he’s always there.  I don’t ever see anybody playing with him or throwing him a stick.”

He surprised mama when he looked at her and said “would you tell me more about grandpa’s dog?”

Before mama could catch herself she laughed and said “that little dog was something else.  Grandpa said he never left his side.”  Tommy, a bright little boy said “but I thought you said old Blue left and started his own family.”

Mama knew she had been caught and it was time to as they said back then, “fess up.”

She had never wanted to lie to Tommy.  She had long ago decided that should he ever ask where babies came from, she wasn’t going to tell him the tired old story about children being found in a cabbage patch.  But that was going to be a talk about life.  What she was going to have to talk to him about now was death.

“Sit down Tommy,” she said.  “I don’t want you to get upset when I tell you this, okay?  Tommy said “okay.”

Mama said “one day old Blue was hit by a car and he died.  I didn’t tell you because I didn’t want you to be sad.”  Tommy’s eyes welled up with tears and said “what happened to his family?”

Mama was thinking “oh, boy.  Which is going to be worse, telling him there never was a family or that his family moved on?”

She decided to tell him that the “family” had moved on after he died.  Tommy of course, asked where they went.  Mama said “I think they moved to another state.”

Now it was time to tell him that grandpa had died.  “Do you remember grandpa?” she asked.  “Kind of,” Tommy said.  “He was funny and he had grey hair.”  Then Tommy laughed and said “and he couldn’t play fetch very well.”

Mama smiled and said “honey, he’s not with us anymore.”  Tommy looked up and said “where did he go?  Did he get another family?”

“No,” mama said.

“Did he get hit by a car and died too?” Tommy asked.  Again mama said “no, he just got old and sick and he died.”  Tommy looked at her and said “will he come back after he gets better?”

Tommy’s little boy mind wasn’t capable of understand the finality of death and mama wasn’t exactly sure what to say to him.  While she was thinking, Tommy looked at her as if he hadn’t heard a thing she said and asked “can I go play with the dog now?”

Mama said “yes, but I want you to try to find something else to do.  I think you are becoming too attached to that dog and when he goes back home, you’re going to be very sad.”

Tommy stood there for a few minutes and mama said “do you promise?  Do you promise that this will be the last time you’ll go see the dog?”

Tommy reluctantly said “okay.”  Mama said “you have to say ‘I promise’ and let me see your fingers.”  Tommy held out his little hands and said “I promise.”

Mama said “okay, then.  Go see him and tell him goodbye.”

 

To be continued____________

 

Tommy’s Dog – Chapter Two

Mama was still giggling about what Tommy said but managed to say “you know, grandpa had a dog when he was a little boy.”  She turned around and winked when she said “that was before his hair turned grey.”

“What was his name?” asked Tommy.  Mama said “his name was old Blue.  Grandpa was just a little whippersnapper like you when he had it.”

“What happened to it?” Tommy asked.  Mama said “I think he found a wife and started his own family.”  She knew Tommy didn’t know that dogs didn’t get married, start families and move away and she hated to lie to him but she thought he was a wee bit too young to hear that grandpa’s dog had been hit by a car and died a few days later.

She also didn’t have the heart to tell Tommy that grandpa had died the year before.  He wouldn’t understand about death so she had kept him alive with memories and stories, like the dog he called “old Blue.”

Mama said “that dog was so special to grandpa that he never had another one.  He said ‘couldn’t another dog in the county ever take the place of old Blue’.”

While mama was strolling down memory lane, Tommy suddenly interrupted her thoughts and said “maybe I can name that dog.”  Mama looked at him and said “remember?  I told you he probably belongs to somebody and I’m sure he already has a name.”

Tommy said “well, then can I feed him?”  Mama asked if the dog looked hungry.  Tommy said “no, but I thought maybe if I fed him, he would like me.”  Mama said “honey, I’m sure he likes you but I’m not sure we should feed someone else’s dog.”

Tommy said “well, then can I just take him a bone?”  Mama said “I’ll tell you what.  The next time I make chicken, you can take him a bone.  How’s that?”

Tommy smiled and said “Okay.  I’m going to go play with him now.”

Mama shook her head.  She was afraid that in just those few days, Tommy was becoming too attached to the dog.”

Tommy came home that afternoon, carrying a big stick.  “What have you got there?” mama asked.  Tommy said “I was trying to get the dog to play fetch with me.  I called him old Blue.”

Mama didn’t know why but she suddenly got chills.  “What did you say?” she asked.  Tommy said “I wanted him to play fetch with me but I didn’t know his name, so I called him old Blue.”

Mama gently, but sternly reminded Tommy that they had discussed him giving the dog a name.  Tommy said “I know but I called him old Blue and he came walking over to me.  He wouldn’t get real close but he acted like he wanted to play so I picked up this stick and threw it.”

Mama asked what he did next.  Tommy said “he just looked at me, wagged his tail and then ran over and hid behind one of those rocks.”

“Rocks?” his mama asked.  “What rocks?”  Tommy said “those big rocks out next to the woods.”

 

To be continued____________

Tommy’s Dog – Chapter One

Little Tommy lived with his mama in a small but well-kept house at the end of Still Shadow Lane.  It was a little blue cottage style house with yellow and green trim.  His daddy had run off with another woman right after he was born and it was just the two of them but laughter and smiles were abundant.

His mama had carefully hand painted the number 38 on a board and it hung over the front porch from a piece of chain she found on the side of the road.

Mama was always finding interesting things and she was blessed with vision.  She kept a book made of cloth pages and she carefully sewed and labeled her treasures to the pages.  Her findings ranged from smashed real gold earrings to antique pop-beads to a tiny rusted locket.  Her motto was “one man’s trash is another man’s treasure.”

Little trinkets weren’t the only thing mama found.

One day Tommy came running home and said “mama, look what I finded!” In his little hand was a badly scuffed, hardly recognizable coin.  “It’s just a penny,” he said.

His mama said “that’s okay.  Pennies make dollars and it doesn’t matter if they’re brand new or a little worn.  Let’s go put it in the found money jar.” For as long as Tommy could remember, mama had what she called a found money jar.

It was an old “Tom’s Cookie Jar” from the early fifties and it had come from one of the stores that her grandma and grandpa had once owned.  Although the lid had long ago been broken, it was a treasured possession.

Any time money was found, it would go into the jar and it was never to be taken out until the end of the year.  When the end of the year arrived, they would take it out, count it and then buy something special with their free money.

Tommy dropped the penny into the jar and then said “I saw a dog today!” Mama smiled and said “you did!?  What kind of dog?”  Tommy said “um…the kind that goes arf-arf.”  Mama giggled the way she did so often when Tommy said something cute.

Mama also kept another kind of book.  In that book she wrote down all of Tommy’s sayings.  She wanted to write them down and when he grew up, he could read it to his own little boy.  Once when he asked her what she was writing, she said “sometimes, men grow up and they forget that they were once little boys.  I don’t want you to be one of those men.”

For the next several days, Tommy came home and told his mama about seeing the dog again.  His mama said “I’m sure he belongs to somebody in the neighborhood.  You know dogs.  They like to roam around and protect their territory.”

Mama asked Tommy if the dog was wearing a collar.  Tommy said “I don’t think so.”  Mama said “well, we’ll ask around the neighborhood and see if anybody has lost their dog but I’ll bet he lives somewhere close.”

Tommy looked at her optimistically and said “if he doesn’t belong to anybody, can we keep him?”  Not wanting to get his hopes up and not wanting to disappoint him by telling him that they really couldn’t afford a dog, mama said “we’ll see but like I said.  I’m sure he belongs to somebody.”

The next day, Tommy came home and said “that dog isn’t wearing a collar, mama.”  She asked him if he was sure and he said “yes’um.  I looked.”

He looked at his mama and said “mama?  Is it okay if I pretend he’s mine and call him my dog?  Just for now?”

Mama smiled and said “just for now but you know it’s just pretend, right?”  Tommy looked down and shuffled his feet.  Then he said “okay.  It’s pretend, just for now.”

Mama tried to change the subject and asked “what does he look like?”  Tommy thought for a minute and seemed to perk up a bit.  He said “he has grey hair, sort of like grandpa.”  Mama laughed and said “grey hair?  He must be an old dog.”

Tommy said “um, I don’t think so.”  When mama asked him why he didn’t think so, he said “he can run faster than grandpa.”

 

To be continued_______________

 

 

Advice From Trolls

I was trying to catch up on blogs the other day and checked on a new follower called “Free to be V.” (vanessaday.blog)

She gives a powerful account of her addiction and her struggle to acquire and maintain sobriety.  Her honesty and absolute accountability for her own actions is truly admirable.  She doesn’t “pass the buck.”  She doesn’t cry “woe is me.”  She doesn’t blame society.  She owns her addiction.

She wrote a post called “When Words Are Weapons” and talked about reading a comment under an article.  It said:  “We shouldn’t have to help fund the drug problem!  Addiction is not a disease, it is a choice!  We should just allow natural selection to take its course.”

We call these people “trolls.”  They can be anonymous (most are) or they can be from other bloggers, “friends” and yes, even family and exes.

Bloggers have quit posting because of these hateful comments.  These people will attack anybody about anything.  This particular comment was obviously about alcoholics but it really doesn’t matter what you are writing about.

This is a brief synopsis of the general comments that we have all suffered by these “people.”

“If you’re an alcoholic, just stop drinking.”
For crying out loud!  Why the hell didn’t I think of that?  And by the way.  I’ll bet you have no problem whatsoever “funding” yourself and friends while you are drinking at the local bar, right?

“If you’re a drug addict, just stop using.”
Oh, sure.  Put it down and walk away like you’ve just finished dinner.

“If you’re depressed, just get over it.”
Okay.  You mean sort of like getting over a bad hair day?

“If you’re bi-polar, choose one pole and stick with it.”
Now that makes sense.  Sort of like choosing the good twin over the evil one, right?

“If you’re homeless, stop begging on the corner.  Get off your ass and get a job.”
Sure.  How about giving me yours?

“PTSD?  You mean Pretending To Be Scarred Disorder?”
Oh, yes.  We’re all pretending to be scarred.  It doesn’t matter if it came from abuse, war, rape or an unfaithful spouse.  We’re all pretending.

“If you’re mentally ill and can’t afford medication or housing, don’t whine to us about it.  We pay enough taxes.  You’re not really mentally ill.  You’re just lazy.  Stop spending your disability checks (that come out of MY taxes) on flat screen TVs and just die.”
I can’t tell you how many mentally ill people I have seen lying on the street in front of a flat screen TV, laughing it up while watching their favorite show!

“If you were the victim of abuse, why didn’t you say something about it?  After all, you stayed.  It couldn’t have been that bad.”
You’re right.  Children have no excuse for not speaking up and wives are just trying to get attention by showing off their bruises.  What a great conversation starter.

These are all actual comments.  The responses are of course, mine.

There are also those who feel entitled enough to condemn the many wives who had their marriage and their family destroyed, due to an adulterous spouse.  After reading about themselves, they make snide remarks like “I’m sure that’s how they remember it.”

It’s understood that everything is their fault and insults and alienation is the result of their decision to leave the relationship.  Then they’re told to “just get over it and move on.”

As for me, to appease those who believe my story is simply “how I remember it,”  I will write the following.

 

“My life was a goddamn fairy tale.
I was married to Prince Charming.
My children were living Angels who
worshiped the ground I walked on,
and it would be a toss-up as to
whether his mama or mine was
the sweetest woman who ever
drew breath.”

                                                            

Tell me.  Is that the way YOU remember it?

 

 

 

 

The Ballad Of Miss Emmogene Cook – Chapter Seven

I was worried about Miss Emmogene being even more lonely since I was going away so I asked mama to take up the torch, as it were.

Mama was old school and didn’t believe in the “impersonal lazy way” of communicating through computer emails and outwardly cursed what she called that evil texting.

Instead, she wrote letters to me.  The ancient art of penmanship was fast disappearing and some of my most treasured possessions are those hand-written letters from my mama.

She would tell me about what was now their “cookies and brew fests,” and even confessed that every year on the anniversary of the day I left, real “brew” was consumed while both she and Miss Emmogene talked of days gone by and dreams yet to be realized.

I could tell that mama was growing fond of her.  I could also tell that she felt such empathy for this woman who had spent her entire life, living in a fantasy world when time was young and so was she.

The love Miss Emmogene had for her beau had never wavered, never aged and had only been doubted by those of us who didn’t have the capacity to believe in fairy tales.

One day, mama called me.  As soon as she said my name, I knew something wasn’t right.  I asked “what’s wrong mama?”  She said “honey, Miss Emmogene died today.”

I tried to hold back my emotions and asked her how.  “I think she just died of a broken heart,” mama said.  “The doctors said “it just gave out.”

I told mama I would be on the next flight home and suddenly, as if Miss Emmogene was with me, I said “mama, make sure they put her in that red silk dress.”

I had told mama about it, so she said she would tell the undertaker.  I remember thinking “undertaker?  Undertaker?  He was going to be the one making the arrangements?”  She had no family on record.  The only friend she ever had, that I knew of, was me and then my mama.  The saddest part was that there would be nobody to mourn her but me and my mama.

I told mama to tell the undertaker to hold off and wait for me.  I would be her next of kin and I would take care of her.  I thought she would have liked that.

I was in a daze while I was trying to pack my suitcase.  I was going through the motions like a zombie.  During the flight, several times, I had to hide in the bathroom to keep from crying in front of the entire plane.

Memories came flooding back.  This woman who in my foolish youth, I had made fun of because I believed her to be a witch, turned out to be one of my favorite people and most cherished friends.

Her reverence for the love of her life, albeit a fabricated lover, laid the groundwork for how I too, would revere the love of my life.

I smiled as I wondered if she knew that around campus, I was famous for my “brew.”  More than a few times as a joke, an upper class man would post a flyer on the bulletin board, saying “for the best brew on campus, go to Hilliard Hall.”  I always delighted in the faces of those lower class men who showed up, prepared to get plastered on what turned out to be sun tea.

When I got home, as soon as I saw mama, as we hugged we sobbed for what seemed like an hour.  Miss Emmogene’s words echoed in my memory.  “Leadership is about submission to duty,” and my duty was to take care of her.  I contacted our pastor and told him that I would do the eulogy if he would say a prayer for her.

Unbeknownst to me or my mama or anybody else, years ago Miss Emmogene had purchased two burial plots in the Sacred Heart Cemetery.  I could only imagine they were intended to be the place where she and her beau were to rest side by side for all eternity.

I made sure that she was dressed in her red silk dress, even though it was almost thread bare.  Her locket was carefully placed around her neck and a bouquet of wildflowers were placed in her hands along with the smallest painting of her “beau.”

Mama, the pastor and I were the only people at her service.  The usual “ashes to ashes, dust to dust” phrase was offered by the pastor while I played “Oh How We Danced” on my phone.  When it was my turn to speak, I was so overcome with grief, I couldn’t say a word.

Mama walked over and said “this was a gracious and graceful lady, who befriended my son and knew the value of love and leadership.  Mostly, she taught us about the ever enduring gift of hope.  May she rest in peace and find the love in Heaven that she so longed for on Earth.”

The pastor and mama walked away so the workers could cover up the coffin but I stayed behind for a few more minutes.  I knelt down and whispered “I hope you don’t mind Miss Emmogene but I took that record with me.”

I finally started walking away and I noticed what looked like a figure behind a tree.  I walked over and saw this man who looked like he hadn’t eaten or slept in days.  His coat was dirty and had holes in it.  His shoes were mismatched and covered in mud.

He was trying to walk away when I asked if I could help him.  He looked at me through hollow, worn eyes and in an almost inaudible voice asked if I knew Miss Emmogene.  I smiled and said “yes I did.  I’m Johnny Lee Wainwright, III and she was my friend.”  I held out my hand and as he held out his, I saw the exposed scared fingers of his gloved, dirty, shaky hand.

He didn’t offer his name but he didn’t have to.  I knew who he was.  I had been wrong.  We had all been wrong.  Hadley Langston Thackeray, III wasn’t a fantasy.

“What happened to you?’ I asked.  He looked toward her grave-site and said “my life didn’t turn out the way I hoped and I couldn’t bear to let her know.”

“Could you tell me,” he asked.  “Did she die alone?”

I put my hand on his shoulder and said “no.  She didn’t die alone.  You were with her.  You had always been with her.”

Samāpti.