blind insight

Can't I just kiss you and make it all better?

I have been learning important lessons in recent days, as Steve deals with a lousy turn of career events and I deal with being the girlfriend of a guy dealing with that lousy turn. While I've "been there" (I hope!) for many a friend going through school/job/life crises, I'm quickly finding that this is a whole different ballgame.

My wise and compassionate mother pointed out to me yesterday that not only have I suffered few major professional/academic disappointments, I've also never been the significant other of someone who has. It's not like my life has been one long summer day sipping mint juleps by the pool and getting pedicures while being fanned by handsome and adoring houseboys. I've had classes I didn't understand, prestigious awards for which I failed to make the final cut, jobs I hated and bosses I loathed. I've had friends disappoint me horribly and painfully. And I've had my heart ripped from my chest, crushed into an oozing ball of flesh, and used for batting practice. Oh, and there's that blindness thing.

But for the most part, things have gone pretty smoothly for me on most fronts, and I've certainly gotten where I wanted to go in my career. So as I try to be there for Steve in the right way, and to listen and comfort and validate and suggest, I'm realizing that I can't truly relate to what he is feeling and thinking and fearing. Plus, I've never before experienced the feelings and thoughts and fears that all of this has whipped up inside me, adding a few extra loop-de-loops on the relationship rollercoaster.

I have no doubt that each of us will get through this time and come out stronger people for it, and I trust that we will get through it together and come out a stronger couple as well. Still, it is a sad and stressful stretch for me (probably more so for him, but this is my blog). I am sad that he seems so defeated, though I am relieved to see him pulling together and taking steps to deal with the larger situation. I am sad that the future has been made murkier by this turn of events. I am sad that I can't simply fix this thing with a hug, a kiss, and a few wise suggestions. And I am especially sad that when, today, I got the exciting and wonderful news that I've been selected to receive a national honor from an organization to which I devote enormous amounts of time, I found myself hesitating to dial him up to gush and glow. I'll tell him tonight, in person, after gauging his mood.

If only success was such that we two could simply aggregate and redistribute it between us like shared funds. Because I'd give anything right now to carve out a great whomping big chunk of it for him.

Be careful what you wish for.

Drama. Excitement. Adventure. That's what's been missing from my life these days, leaving me restless and move-minded and moody. Until last night.

When I sat next to a stinky wino on a bus that eventually broke down, leaving me stranded on the side of West Colfax in one of the least pleasant neighborhoods in town, as the temperature dropped. And learned that everyone else on the bus was going only as far as a Lakewood park-and-ride, so could get on a soon-coming bus, but that the next one to Golden would be almost an hour later. And couldn't get in touch with Steve because he'd gotten some crappy news of his own and turned off his cell phone to hide from the world. And tried to call a cab, but was told first that they couldn't come because I couldn't give an address, then (after I made up an address) that it would be at least an hour. And continued calling Steve, leaving progressively more frustrated and worried and angry messages, to no avail. And called a friend, who said she could come get me but it would be a while. And finally got through to Steve. And was so relieved and frustrated that of course I had to scream and cry and swear. And then had two very nice cops (did I really say "nice" and "cops" in the same sentence?) stick around while I waited for Steve, since Colfax and Sheridan is not a great spot for a pathetic-looking white girl to hang out solo. And then had to pull myself together so I could help Steve through his own crisis of the moment. And so I didn't look all sobby-eyed and puffy-faced when I met his parents for the first time.

At least I learned this important lesson: there's no way in hell I'm moving to Golden.

Why?

I have been cursed (blessed?) with a vivid and active dream life. I have all sorts of bizarre and colorful dreams, most of which vanish from memory immediately upon my awakening. But the ones I have most often are of the parallel-universe variety, in which real people and real events (usually stressors) in my waking world manifest themselves in not-quite-real ways (I took -- or failed, or slept through, or turned up naked at -- the bar exam in my dreams dozens of times during the summer of 1996).

Last week, I was having recurrent dreams (nightmares, really) involving the facts underlying one of my cases. The crime in question was particularly brutal, and has disturbed me more than I typically allow. But now I am reading about what was done to my client during his brief and horrifying childhood, and the nightmares have changed. My dreams last night were vague and incoherent, but left me exhausted and shaken in the morning.

I accept as a necessary part of my work that my clients may have done or experienced terrible things. I try hard to separate those things from my work, and to focus my energies on the constitutional issues at hand. Some days, though, I find myself utterly paralyzed by the horror of it all. I can hardly breathe as my heart and lungs are compressed by the viselike grip of pain and abuse and poverty and hopelessness and addiction, cycling over and over and over again through generation after generation.

And again, I ask myself the unanswerable question, and wonder how it is that human beings can perpetrate such evils upon one another. And then wonder whether I am helping or hurting -- or simply sticking palliative band-aids on a hemorrhage of injustice.

Twelve skeptical men and women.

For the last few days, I've been reading the state-court record in one of my cases. This is one of my favorite parts of my practice, particularly when the case involves a jury trial. I discovered the pleasure of reading trials when I was clerking, and this became one of many reasons behind my realization that I am better suited to appellate practice than trial lawyering.

The trial transcript is sort of like the script to a play. Occasionally, one of the players improvises and things get really interesting, but for the most part, everyone says what they're supposed to say, and the story unfolds before me. I can almost see and hear the proceedings, particularly when the judge or one of the lawyers is prone to linguistic flourish or idle chitchat on the record. Often, the "actors" will comment on current events or the weather or local happenings, adding additional color and context to the proceedings.

But my favorite part -- thought it is often the most tedious and the least relevant to my case -- is jury selection. This portion of the trial is mostly ad-libbed, and the responses given by prospective jurors to voir dire questioning delight and shock and disturb me. I love learning about the lives and perspectives of these randomly selected members of the community. I become engrossed in reading about their jobs and children and ex-spouses and how their home was burglarized in 1989 and the time they got pulled over and harassed by the cops because their skin was the wrong color. In cases from rural Colorado and Oklahoma and Texas, I've been surprised (naively) to learn how very many people keep guns in their homes and go hunting for fun and relaxation. And I'm always a little saddened to realize that many, many Americans have little faith in the criminal justice system, think that everyone lies on the witness stand, and believe that people who are acquitted "get off" on "technicalities."

I've never served on a jury, nor have I tried a case to one. But each time I read voir dire and jury selection, I am amazed that the lawyers have seated certain jurors and surprised that they have challenged certain others. But then again, if the case is on my desk, then the jury must have returned an unfavorable verdict, and so whatever science or art or blind faith the defense attorney employed in making his selections has fallen short of the mark. My favorite jury-selection-method story comes from a case I covered as a law clerk. The trial took place in Guam, where it seems everyone is related by blood or marriage to everyone else, and virtually every juror was fewer than six degrees of separation from the defendant, a lawyer, the judge, or a witness. The judge, attempting to screen out those whose relationship to a trial participant was too close to permit unbiased consideration of the facts, developed a litmus test I've not seen before or since. After discussing the prospective juror's relationship to the person in question, and asking whether the juror could review the case objectively, the judge asked this dispositive question: "Do you barbecue together?"

In the trial I'm reading now, the defendant raised an insanity defense. During individual questioning, almost half the prospective panel expressed some version of the sentiment that pleading not guilty by reason of insanity is a "cop out." The prevailing view among these prospective jurors seemed to be that anyone who commits a terrible crime must be "crazy," but must also have known what he was doing. From where I sit, having seen many cases in which the defendant's mental health problems rendered him, as the law requires, incapable of distinguishing right from wrong, this view is dangerously short-sighted. And it caused me to wonder what The System (as so very many of the jurors seemed to think of it) can do to revise this opinion and ensure that individuals who will be gravely at risk and a danger to themselves and others in prison receive the medical care and supervision that might -- just maybe -- enable them to rejoin society.

More broadly, I wonder what lawyers and judges and police and politicians can or should do to help the average American understand the importance of jury service and recognize that the criminal justice system is not as it seems on Law & Order (to which I admittedly am addicted) or Perry Mason. As one of the lawyers commented in the transcript I'm reading, in response to a prospective juror's complaint about the length and ennui of the jury-selection process, in real life we don't get to investigate a crime, find the suspect, have a trial, and get a verdict all within the span of a one-hour show.

Doing my part as a card-carrying member of the ADL.

All kinds of thoughts and observations and musings rolling around in my head today, but I'm trying to make my way through a lengthy record so can't put them to type quite yet.

Instead, following the lead of Eve, Dawn, and others, I offer you this definition of "Jew."

Googlebomb, begone!

No, thank you!

Public defending is not the most client-driven of law practices. Appellate defending is even less client-driven, because the record is what it is and the client has little say in what gets raised on appeal. Habeas is an odd duck, however, because the clients have no constitutional right to counsel, and by the time they get to me they've been trying to raise their claims pro se for months, years, or even (as in one of my pending cases) over a decade. So while my typical habeas client is really, really happy to have had counsel appointed for him at last, he is also pretty attached to his own vision of his case.

Often, this leads to frustration for both of us, as I try to explain why we need to drop virtually all of the claims in the pro se petition, or why I'm not optimistic about a particular set of issues despite the obvious constitutional error from which they arise. And I suspect that sometimes a habeas client wishes he was still acting as his own counsel, since fighting his solo battles has provided an outlet for his time and energy and a buffer zone against despair.

I try to respect my clients' pro se efforts, and to acknowledge the competence they've displayed in presenting their claims sufficiently to convince a judge that the case warrants appointment of counsel. I let them know that I value their suggestions and appreciate receiving the fruits of their research labors. I try to keep them informed as I investigate their cases and research their claims, and I try to ensure that they feel a part of my strategy decisions. Because for most of my clients, it's been a long time since they've been treated with respect or compassion by pretty much anyone.

Just as my practice isn't driven so much by what my client wants, it also is not dependent on whether or not my client thinks I'm doing a good job. In contrast to my years in private practice, where I had to kiss clients' butts and let them review and edit (a/k/a totally screw up) drafts of my briefs and file motions I thought were a waste of my time and their money, in this job I am pretty much the master of my little domain. Sometimes my clients thank me, sometimes they don't. Sometimes they send me holiday cards or beautiful artwork they've made in prison, and sometimes they do nothing but bitch and moan about the injustices inflicted upon them (even when I win their cases). So if I needed positive reinforcement from my clients to stay motivated, this job would not suit me terribly well.

Still, there are those rare moments that let me know I'm doing okay, and maybe -- just maybe -- I'm getting the hang of this habeas thing. Yesterday, it was these words* from a client that brought a smile to my face and made it all worthwhile: "The way you compose and execute your arguments, temper the authority, and nudge them gently to general understandability -- you are sheer poetry at work."

And that, my friends, is all it takes to make my day.
_______
*slightly paraphrased to protect confidentiality.

There is joy in Mudville (at least today)!

Finally, finally, finally, after that ridiculous teaser over in Japan last week (voiceover: Looks like Mussina's last pitch was a breaking ball sponsored by Ricoh. Holy cow! Look at that heater. Whoops -- forgot to mention it was sponsored by Sony Ericsson), baseball is upon us. And as they seem to do every April, my beloved (really!) Rockies have launched the season with pomp and circumstance and solid pitching and power hitting, bringing me fresh hope that maybe this year (this year!) will be the one in which they vanquish thin air and bullpen ineptitude and second-half slumps and make me proud.

Were they aiming to tease me with promise and possibility, yesterday's opener was the money shot. Not only did my boys win, but they beat Randy Johnson in his home park on a near-flawless performance by a journeyman pitcher vying for the annual Failing Career Reborn in Colorado crown.

And so hope springs eternal, each spring.

And I even like the gefilte fish.

I love my family's Passover seder. During my college years, I could never manage to come home for seder, and instead suffered through various subpar iterations (the exception being the year I lived in France, when my parents' visit coincided with Pesach and we experienced one of the most wonderful seder meals of all time at the home of some French friends). But for the past twelve years, I haven't missed a single seder en famille.

Perhaps someday I'll have enough space to host a seder of my own, and my mother will see fit to relinquish the honors of hosting. But until then, I will be content to sit in my place at the corner of the long table, just to my mother's left and with easy access to the kitchen door. I will utter my requisite moans and groans at the dog-eared state of our yet-to-be-updated family Haggadah, complete with the cover my brother and I created on our Apple II in 1987. I will dissolve into giggles when we sing my father's special Boulder Action for Soviet Jewry spiritual, in which we "tell old Gorbachev/to let my people go." My mother and I will delight ourselves -- if no one else -- with our annual medley of Passover parody songs. And we will make my mother's night by attempting to sing all the verses of Echod Mi Yodeah in the melody only our family seems to know.

The table will be too crowded, the mazoh balls will be too dense (just the way I like them), and the chrain will be eye-wateringly bitter. My mother will insist that we drink at least one cup of "the good stuff" before we gratefully turn our glasses over to the more tolerable kosher Merlot. We will be ravenously hungry by the time we eat our first bite of mazoh, because my father will require that we not only read the entire (customized, lengthy) Haggadah but discuss it, too. And then there will be more food than we could possibly eat and enough laughter and silliness to erase any memory of slavery, plagues, and desert wandering.

We will search endlessly for the afikomen, marveling once again at my father's ability to baffle us despite the jam-packed room and his seemingly permanent presence at the table. And when we finally find it, he will force me to bargain with him for its return, though I know we'll (again) be getting a $1 coin (and, on occasion, a little extra treat).

We will tell the same stories, ask the same questions, and laugh at the same jokes. There will always be a stray Jew or two to bring fresh blood to the table, but for the most part, the faces will remain the same (if a bit older).

I suppose that one of these years the prayed-for will come to pass, and we will celebrate in Jerusalem. But until then, my own seder-closing wish is simply this: Next year, in Boulder again.

A neutral suggestion.

Perhaps someone among the blogger cognoscenti can fill me in on an interesting phenomenon I've lately observed as I browse the blawgs of law students and young(erthanme) lawyers. This is the increasing use of the word "em." I've deduced that this is supposed to be a gender-neutral third-person pronoun, but I remain mystified as to its origins and skeptical of its worth.

I agree that a unitary gender-neutral term may be preferable to s/he or he/she or similar terms. And I suppose the idea behind the proliferation of "em-ing" is that as more writers use this construction, it will become ingrained in the lexicon. Perhaps someday, we will treat "em" as the English equivalent of the French third-person-neutral "on" (which does double duty as "we" as needed).

And yet, I find it terribly distracting, and it has a certain jarring resonance to my uninitiated ear. If we must be in the business of arbitrarily creating words, can't they be pretty ones, at least?

Thus, I now open the comment box to alternative proposals for a gender neutral, third-person singular pronoun. To start the ball rolling, I offer you this rather obvious one: shizee.

"Hello, my name is Candi, and I'll be your server this evening. For tonight's special, we're offering insensitivity, served rare with a side of obnoxiousness."

You must see The Triplets of Belleville. It is a bizarre and charming romp, a story of love, devotion, perseverance, the triumph of good over evil, and the Popeye-esque dysmorphia of the elite cyclist.

And that's all I have to say about that.

Alas, my happy little post-movie bubble was burst by an all-too-prevalent intruder: the idiot waitress. I don't mean to disrespect all of the hard-working and life-sustaining members of the Food Servers Union of the World. My brother waits tables, my best friend put herself through college that way, and I, myself, was once a hostess on roller skates at the long-lamented Last American Diner. I love eating out, I do so far too often, and I reward good service with hefty tips (even mediocre service is likely to score at least 15% from me).

But the idiot waitress was spawned in 1986 at a TGIFriday's in Duluth, and has spread her kind like root rot through mid-market restaurants everywhere. She must introduce herself to her customers by name, a uniquely American practice I fail entirely to comprehend. She will return to the table a minimum of four times during the meal, just to "see how everything is going." These impromptu visits invariably occur either while the diners are deeply engrossed in conversation or immediately after one of them has placed a large forkful of food into his mouth. And of course, after her incessant interruptions during the meal, she will vanish as soon as the plates have been cleared, leaving the diners to wonder whether they will be permitted to depart before closing time.

But I'm sure you've heard this rant before from food critics, your in-laws, and the guy bitching loudly at the next table. What really annoyed the crap out of me last night was that in addition to committing all of the above infractions, the idiot waitress du jour played to my weak side and left me feeling disabled and moronic.

Not once, not twice, but three times she approached the table while I was in mid-sentence, and stood right next to me (instead of in front of the table) so that I had absolutely no idea she was there. When my friend (who bears some of the blame for my embarrassment and is on probationary status pending further review) finally alerted me to her presence, the waitress laughed uproariously, as though my failure to see or hear her was the funniest thing she'd witnessed since that one guy dropped that plate of guacamole down his date's white silk shirt. Lookit lookit!! She can't see me!! She's still talking!! Just like I'm not even here!! Isn't it hilarious!!

The first time this happened, I was chagrined. The second time, I was annoyed. And the third time, I was about ready to slap her, particularly when she decided to make sure I knew she was there NOT by standing in front of me, where I might actually see her, but by approaching once again from the side, and tapping me rather firmly on the back. While this method did, indeed, have the desired result, it also startled me enough that I only narrowly avoided reprising the guacamole/shirt incident. And of course, in response to my surprise, Ms. Sensitivity had another good laugh at my expense.

She treated me to further pats on the back and condescending smiles when she finally (finally!) brought us the check, and again when she returned to take our payment 20 long minutes later. I toyed with the thought of complaining to the manager and/or leaving her no tip at all, but I was too steamed to do the former and couldn't bring myself to do the latter. I left 10% and walked out feeling like a total dork.

I know that when it happened the first time, I should have told her that I'm hard-of-hearing and can't see for shit, and asked her to stand in front of me instead of to the side. But it just seemed like too much effort for the situation, and by the second or third round, I was too annoyed to deal with it. So I dealt with it passively-aggressively (and by that I mean "not at all"), and have only myself to blame for my lingering crankiness.