The following is a short story from my brother, one of my favorite stories ever. Hilarious!
I had just passed the bar exam with dreams of becoming a courtroom lawyer and someday arguing cases before the Supreme Court. But my job hunting had not produced the desired results, and my best offer was in the area of pest control. As this was outside my field of study, I respectfully declined. I found a low rent office and hung out my shingle, waiting for an inevitable throng of customers to beat a path to my door.
But clients were scarce and I soon realized that I could not afford to hold out for million dollar cases, but must help even the humblest of folks. Accordingly, I made a policy of taking any case as long as it had merit, with the occasional borderline case if the client could plunk down a reasonable retainer. I offered a free consultation, which increased traffic to my office to a steady trickle.
One day a young man with a long mane of hair burst into my office with an agitated expression on his face. He said he needed aggressive representation -- a junkyard dog. I told him I fit the bill (which was puffery) and asked him to tell me more. He introduced himself as Chad McMillan and began his story.
It seemed young Chad was having trouble with his next door neighbor, an old curmudgeon named Horace Jones.
Jones had taken a disliking to Chad’s dogs and had devised a scheme against them.
I asked Chad to describe the problem in more detail. He produced a copy of a court summons, directing him to appear in court two weeks hence on charges that his Chow was a nuisance and should be euthanized.
Chad continued. He owned two dogs, a large Chow named Betsy and a tiny poodle named Cherie. He loved both dogs dearly -- they were the dearest creatures to his heart -- next to his girlfriend Mandy, of course.
One day when Chad was walking his dogs outdoors, he rounded a corner and bumped into old man Jones. The dogs were startled and barked at Jones instinctively.
Jones snarled at the dogs, shaking his cane menacingly at them. Chad calmed the dogs and apologized to Jones for their behavior. But the old man was not appeased, and told Chad he had better watch those dogs or else. The threat was vague, but spoken with such vehement sincerity that it lingered in Chad’s mind long after the incident.
Chad suspected the root of the problem lay deeper than the dogs. The condominium complex was populated by two classes of people often at odds with each other; namely, owners and renters. Jones was an owner and Chad was a renter. Jones and other owners of like mindset resented the renters because of their youthfulness and irksome habits, such as listening to loud music and staying up late at night. The resentful owners had begun to make the renters feel unwelcome in various subtle ways, in hopes of driving them away.
Jones was one of the more vindictive owners. He filed a sworn affidavit with the city, describing various acts of misconduct by one of Chad’s dogs.
According to Jones, the dog had been involved in a recent dogfight on common property. She had trespassed through Jones’ backyard during a barbecue, snatching a hotdog off his plate and scampering away with the contraband. She had grabbed his newspaper off of his doorstop and shredded it with her teeth. She habitually barked at midnight, disturbing his slumber.
But the coup de grace was when the dog had barked at a small child by the side of the condominium pool, causing the child to cry and splash water on Mr. Jones, who was sunning himself nearby and was thereby inconvenienced. The child probably would have cried and splashed anyway, as children are prone to do. But this made no difference to Jones; for to his monomaniacal mind one of the hated dogs must have caused such an unholy disturbance.
The allegations seemed serious enough. I consulted city ordinances, and found that indeed there might be grounds for euthanizing the dog.
I asked Chad for his response. He swore that the allegations were lies, trumped up to intimidate him into moving out of the neighborhood.
I said I would take the case and try to keep Betsy alive. He thanked me, shaking my hand vigorously and expressing confidence I would do a great job. He left my office, visibly relieved.
The weeks flew by as I became busier at work. I drafted wills, reviewed contracts, and helped a truck-driver get a speeding ticket expunged. Before I knew it, the trial date had arrived.
I drove to the courthouse in my poorly air-conditioned jalopy of a car. It was a hot August afternoon. I thought of the phrase “dog days” of summer, knowing it applied with special meaning that day.
I thought about my own beloved childhood dog, who had met an untimely demise under the wheels of a speeding Volkswagen. A tear trickled down my cheek as I felt how important this case must be to Chad.
Chad was already at the courthouse when I arrived, along with several friends whom he said could vouch for his dog’s peaceful nature. We entered the courtroom together, no doubt cutting a motley figure.
Soon the bailiff cried out “All Rise!” The Judge entered the courtroom, fanned out his robe imperiously, and took his perched seat on the bench.
We anxiously waited for our case to be called. After what seemed an eternity, the bailiff bellowed out, “City of Sunrise versus Chad McMillan, animal control case number three!”
We approached the counsel table opposite the prosecutor, who glanced at us insouciantly.
The prosecutor told the judge he needed a moment to talk to me, which the judge granted. Taking me aside, the prosecutor said he had information that Chad had moved outside of city limits and that the dog no longer posed a nuisance within his jurisdiction. He would recommend dismissal of the case if Chad paid a fifty dollar fine. The dog need not be put to sleep.
Elated by this reasonable offer, I eagerly conveyed the good news to my client.
But Chad’s reaction surprised me. He said it was true he had moved. He now had a doghouse in his backyard, surrounded by a six-foot high fence. Betsy was chained to the doghouse all day long, so she could harm no one.
I told Chad that was great, now he just needed to pay the fifty-dollar fine and Betsy would be saved. To my astonishment, he refused the offer.
“You said you would aggressively represent me!” he fumed indignantly. “I want total vindication, not some pansy plea deal. Tell the prosecutor no! This is a matter of principle.”
I relayed the information to the prosecutor. He looked surprised, but his look soon changed from shock to that of stern, impassioned justice.
“Because your client is being so unreasonable, he can kiss his dog goodbye. I will put that Chow into cold storage!” He strode to his table and resolutely informed the judge that we needed a trial.
It became obvious, however, that the prosecutor had overlooked a small but important detail. He had not summoned any witnesses to court! He seemed to discover this only after the judge asked him to proceed with his opening statement. Appearing flustered, he begged for time to call his witnesses.
The judge said, “I will give you fifteen minutes to have your witnesses in this courtroom, or I will dismiss the case.”
The prosecutor scurried frantically to the hall to use the telephone. He returned quickly, assuring the court his witness was on his way at that very moment.
Mr. Jones arrived presently, sauntering into the courtroom with an unshaven face and ruffled hair, as if he had just gotten out of bed. He wore cutoff jeans, a T-shirt and a worn-out pair of sneakers. He appeared eager to testify. He scanned the courtroom and made eye contact with the prosecutor, nodding that he was ready to go.
The judge asked if there were other witnesses. I stood up. “Yes, your honor. There are several witnesses for the defense. They will testify as to the dog’s peaceful character.”
“Objection!” boomed the prosecutor.
The Judge suppressed a smile. “I will listen to the witnesses, and if their testimony appears irrelevant, I will disallow it. But since the city is trying to put the dog to sleep, Mr. McMillan is entitled to mount a vigorous defense and I will afford him some latitude.”
“Well, then judge, I ask that you exclude all witnesses from the courtroom until they testify, so that they cannot coordinate their stories,” the prosecutor said.
“Motion granted. All the witnesses will please leave the courtroom until they are called. Now, counsel, please proceed with your opening statements” directed the judge.
The prosecutor cleared his throat, rose to his feet, and approached the podium.
“Your honor, I will respectfully demonstrate that a certain dog, owned by this gentleman” – pointing a finger at Chad – “this certain dog is, was, and has been a nuisance as defined by city ordinance two-fourteen, subsection b.”
I checked the courtroom for spectators. It was late afternoon and ours was the last case on the calendar. I spotted only one person -- the animal control officer who had investigated the case. His eyelids looked heavy and he appeared ready for a visit from the sandman. A solitary fly landed on his nose. He seemed not to notice.
The prosecutor began his harangue against Betsy, recounting hair-raising antics of mayhem and attributing them to the canine menace. He said that Chows were inherently vicious dogs, much like Dobermans, Rottweilers or pitt bulls.
“Objection, your honor!” I blurted out my first ever courtroom objection. “That is species discrimination. My client has no control over her pedigree.” In the heat of the moment, I had forgotten that Chad was my client, not his dog.
“Please sit down, counsel”, advised the judge, “I will allow some leeway in opening remarks, especially since there is no jury.” I sat down, humbled, yet proud of my first courtroom objection.
The prosecutor continued. He said the evidence would show that Betsy was especially vicious, even for a Chow. Engrossed by his own eloquence, thin streams of sweat trickled down his forehead. Finally, he ended with a crescendo of bombastic rhetoric.
“And so, your honor, I will prove that this dog, this infernal beast, this kindred spirit to the Hound of the Baskervilles, is worthy of the ultimate canine punishment and should be put to sleep forthwith!” He wiped his brow and sat down. It had been a formidable opening salvo.
Now it was my turn to tell the rest of the story. I stood up and cleared my throat nervously. “Your honor, if it pleases the Court, I wish to speak today about a beloved dog named Betsy, who is loved not just by her owner, but by many neighbors and friends, of both human and canine persuasion. She is a docile creature, such that several of her human acquaintances even allow their young children to play with her.”
“Now, with respect to these disorderly acts that have been described by the prosecutor, the evidence will show that Mr. Jones has an ulterior motive in ginning up these charges. He has a personal feud with the dog’s owner. He fabricated or at least exaggerated these charges in order to drive Mr. McMillan away from the neighborhood.” I paused for a moment to drink from the water cup on my table.
“This brings me to my next point, your honor. It is impossible for Betsy to be a nuisance because she has moved out of the neighborhood and is now chained to a doghouse behind a six-foot high fence.”
“Objection, your honor!” roared the prosecutor. “That is inadmissible evidence of subsequent remedial measures!”
“Overruled!” came the Judge’s reply. “I believe that rule applies mainly to civil negligence cases. Again, I will allow some latitude in opening statements, counsel, so please sit down.”
I continued. “Moreover, your honor, Betsy is being unfairly treated because she is a Chow, which the prosecution claims is an inherently vicious species. This is an unfair generalization, unsupported by any particular facts regarding Betsy’s character.”
I finished matter-of-factly. “Not only will the city be unable to prove their case beyond a reasonable doubt, but we will prove that Betsy is a fine, law abiding dog who has done nothing to merit these charges.”
I sat down. I had not been as eloquent as the prosecutor, but I had made my point.
The prosecutor called his first and only witness, Mr. Horace Jones. The bailiff led Jones back into the courtroom, where he was sworn in, and then took the witness stand.
The prosecutor asked him about the incidents described in his affidavit. Jones rambled on enthusiastically, vividly painting the picture of a wildly out-of-control dog.
The prosecutor finished his questioning and, with a satisfied look, said somewhat smugly, “Your witness, counsel.”
I was nervous, knowing that Jones’ testimony had been damning. On top of that, I had never cross-examined a witness before.
I arose and fumbled through some papers, fishing for something to say. Several moments of awkward silence passed. The judge looked at me with raised eyebrows.
Finally, I asked the only question that came to mind.
“Mr. Jones, isn’t it true that Mr. McMillan owned two dogs?” I asked.
“Yes”, he said. “I remember because they were such an odd-looking couple. One was a gigantic beast, a Chow I believe. The other was a tiny poodle about yea high” he said, holding his palm a few inches above the witness stand. “Why, I believe the Chow could have eaten that poodle for lunch and still had room for dessert,” he said with a grin.
“Now, Mr. Jones,” I continued, “these disorderly acts you described -- the dogfight, the barbecue disruption, the howlings at midnight and so forth – which of the dogs committed these acts, the large Chow or the tiny poodle?”
There was a long and pregnant pause as Jones scratched his head. He seemed genuinely puzzled, as if he had not expected the question.
“Mr. Jones, please answer the question,” instructed the judge, strumming his fingers and looking at the clock.
“Well,” said Jones, stammering, “I uh … let’s see here … whoo boy … I never gave it too much thought but … ummm … I guess it was the poodle.”
Thwak! Down came the judge’s gavel, his voice reverberating throughout the courtroom with the beautiful words, “Case dismissed!”
Betsy was saved, and I had won my first courtroom trial!
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But clients were scarce and I soon realized that I could not afford to hold out for million dollar cases, but must help even the humblest of folks. Accordingly, I made a policy of taking any case as long as it had merit, with the occasional borderline case if the client could plunk down a reasonable retainer. I offered a free consultation, which increased traffic to my office to a steady trickle.
One day a young man with a long mane of hair burst into my office with an agitated expression on his face. He said he needed aggressive representation -- a junkyard dog. I told him I fit the bill (which was puffery) and asked him to tell me more. He introduced himself as Chad McMillan and began his story.
It seemed young Chad was having trouble with his next door neighbor, an old curmudgeon named Horace Jones.
Jones had taken a disliking to Chad’s dogs and had devised a scheme against them.
I asked Chad to describe the problem in more detail. He produced a copy of a court summons, directing him to appear in court two weeks hence on charges that his Chow was a nuisance and should be euthanized.
Chad continued. He owned two dogs, a large Chow named Betsy and a tiny poodle named Cherie. He loved both dogs dearly -- they were the dearest creatures to his heart -- next to his girlfriend Mandy, of course.
One day when Chad was walking his dogs outdoors, he rounded a corner and bumped into old man Jones. The dogs were startled and barked at Jones instinctively.
Jones snarled at the dogs, shaking his cane menacingly at them. Chad calmed the dogs and apologized to Jones for their behavior. But the old man was not appeased, and told Chad he had better watch those dogs or else. The threat was vague, but spoken with such vehement sincerity that it lingered in Chad’s mind long after the incident.
Chad suspected the root of the problem lay deeper than the dogs. The condominium complex was populated by two classes of people often at odds with each other; namely, owners and renters. Jones was an owner and Chad was a renter. Jones and other owners of like mindset resented the renters because of their youthfulness and irksome habits, such as listening to loud music and staying up late at night. The resentful owners had begun to make the renters feel unwelcome in various subtle ways, in hopes of driving them away.
Jones was one of the more vindictive owners. He filed a sworn affidavit with the city, describing various acts of misconduct by one of Chad’s dogs.
According to Jones, the dog had been involved in a recent dogfight on common property. She had trespassed through Jones’ backyard during a barbecue, snatching a hotdog off his plate and scampering away with the contraband. She had grabbed his newspaper off of his doorstop and shredded it with her teeth. She habitually barked at midnight, disturbing his slumber.
But the coup de grace was when the dog had barked at a small child by the side of the condominium pool, causing the child to cry and splash water on Mr. Jones, who was sunning himself nearby and was thereby inconvenienced. The child probably would have cried and splashed anyway, as children are prone to do. But this made no difference to Jones; for to his monomaniacal mind one of the hated dogs must have caused such an unholy disturbance.
The allegations seemed serious enough. I consulted city ordinances, and found that indeed there might be grounds for euthanizing the dog.
I asked Chad for his response. He swore that the allegations were lies, trumped up to intimidate him into moving out of the neighborhood.
I said I would take the case and try to keep Betsy alive. He thanked me, shaking my hand vigorously and expressing confidence I would do a great job. He left my office, visibly relieved.
The weeks flew by as I became busier at work. I drafted wills, reviewed contracts, and helped a truck-driver get a speeding ticket expunged. Before I knew it, the trial date had arrived.
I drove to the courthouse in my poorly air-conditioned jalopy of a car. It was a hot August afternoon. I thought of the phrase “dog days” of summer, knowing it applied with special meaning that day.
I thought about my own beloved childhood dog, who had met an untimely demise under the wheels of a speeding Volkswagen. A tear trickled down my cheek as I felt how important this case must be to Chad.
Chad was already at the courthouse when I arrived, along with several friends whom he said could vouch for his dog’s peaceful nature. We entered the courtroom together, no doubt cutting a motley figure.
Soon the bailiff cried out “All Rise!” The Judge entered the courtroom, fanned out his robe imperiously, and took his perched seat on the bench.
We anxiously waited for our case to be called. After what seemed an eternity, the bailiff bellowed out, “City of Sunrise versus Chad McMillan, animal control case number three!”
We approached the counsel table opposite the prosecutor, who glanced at us insouciantly.
The prosecutor told the judge he needed a moment to talk to me, which the judge granted. Taking me aside, the prosecutor said he had information that Chad had moved outside of city limits and that the dog no longer posed a nuisance within his jurisdiction. He would recommend dismissal of the case if Chad paid a fifty dollar fine. The dog need not be put to sleep.
Elated by this reasonable offer, I eagerly conveyed the good news to my client.
But Chad’s reaction surprised me. He said it was true he had moved. He now had a doghouse in his backyard, surrounded by a six-foot high fence. Betsy was chained to the doghouse all day long, so she could harm no one.
I told Chad that was great, now he just needed to pay the fifty-dollar fine and Betsy would be saved. To my astonishment, he refused the offer.
“You said you would aggressively represent me!” he fumed indignantly. “I want total vindication, not some pansy plea deal. Tell the prosecutor no! This is a matter of principle.”
I relayed the information to the prosecutor. He looked surprised, but his look soon changed from shock to that of stern, impassioned justice.
“Because your client is being so unreasonable, he can kiss his dog goodbye. I will put that Chow into cold storage!” He strode to his table and resolutely informed the judge that we needed a trial.
It became obvious, however, that the prosecutor had overlooked a small but important detail. He had not summoned any witnesses to court! He seemed to discover this only after the judge asked him to proceed with his opening statement. Appearing flustered, he begged for time to call his witnesses.
The judge said, “I will give you fifteen minutes to have your witnesses in this courtroom, or I will dismiss the case.”
The prosecutor scurried frantically to the hall to use the telephone. He returned quickly, assuring the court his witness was on his way at that very moment.
Mr. Jones arrived presently, sauntering into the courtroom with an unshaven face and ruffled hair, as if he had just gotten out of bed. He wore cutoff jeans, a T-shirt and a worn-out pair of sneakers. He appeared eager to testify. He scanned the courtroom and made eye contact with the prosecutor, nodding that he was ready to go.
The judge asked if there were other witnesses. I stood up. “Yes, your honor. There are several witnesses for the defense. They will testify as to the dog’s peaceful character.”
“Objection!” boomed the prosecutor.
The Judge suppressed a smile. “I will listen to the witnesses, and if their testimony appears irrelevant, I will disallow it. But since the city is trying to put the dog to sleep, Mr. McMillan is entitled to mount a vigorous defense and I will afford him some latitude.”
“Well, then judge, I ask that you exclude all witnesses from the courtroom until they testify, so that they cannot coordinate their stories,” the prosecutor said.
“Motion granted. All the witnesses will please leave the courtroom until they are called. Now, counsel, please proceed with your opening statements” directed the judge.
The prosecutor cleared his throat, rose to his feet, and approached the podium.
“Your honor, I will respectfully demonstrate that a certain dog, owned by this gentleman” – pointing a finger at Chad – “this certain dog is, was, and has been a nuisance as defined by city ordinance two-fourteen, subsection b.”
I checked the courtroom for spectators. It was late afternoon and ours was the last case on the calendar. I spotted only one person -- the animal control officer who had investigated the case. His eyelids looked heavy and he appeared ready for a visit from the sandman. A solitary fly landed on his nose. He seemed not to notice.
The prosecutor began his harangue against Betsy, recounting hair-raising antics of mayhem and attributing them to the canine menace. He said that Chows were inherently vicious dogs, much like Dobermans, Rottweilers or pitt bulls.
“Objection, your honor!” I blurted out my first ever courtroom objection. “That is species discrimination. My client has no control over her pedigree.” In the heat of the moment, I had forgotten that Chad was my client, not his dog.
“Please sit down, counsel”, advised the judge, “I will allow some leeway in opening remarks, especially since there is no jury.” I sat down, humbled, yet proud of my first courtroom objection.
The prosecutor continued. He said the evidence would show that Betsy was especially vicious, even for a Chow. Engrossed by his own eloquence, thin streams of sweat trickled down his forehead. Finally, he ended with a crescendo of bombastic rhetoric.
“And so, your honor, I will prove that this dog, this infernal beast, this kindred spirit to the Hound of the Baskervilles, is worthy of the ultimate canine punishment and should be put to sleep forthwith!” He wiped his brow and sat down. It had been a formidable opening salvo.
Now it was my turn to tell the rest of the story. I stood up and cleared my throat nervously. “Your honor, if it pleases the Court, I wish to speak today about a beloved dog named Betsy, who is loved not just by her owner, but by many neighbors and friends, of both human and canine persuasion. She is a docile creature, such that several of her human acquaintances even allow their young children to play with her.”
“Now, with respect to these disorderly acts that have been described by the prosecutor, the evidence will show that Mr. Jones has an ulterior motive in ginning up these charges. He has a personal feud with the dog’s owner. He fabricated or at least exaggerated these charges in order to drive Mr. McMillan away from the neighborhood.” I paused for a moment to drink from the water cup on my table.
“This brings me to my next point, your honor. It is impossible for Betsy to be a nuisance because she has moved out of the neighborhood and is now chained to a doghouse behind a six-foot high fence.”
“Objection, your honor!” roared the prosecutor. “That is inadmissible evidence of subsequent remedial measures!”
“Overruled!” came the Judge’s reply. “I believe that rule applies mainly to civil negligence cases. Again, I will allow some latitude in opening statements, counsel, so please sit down.”
I continued. “Moreover, your honor, Betsy is being unfairly treated because she is a Chow, which the prosecution claims is an inherently vicious species. This is an unfair generalization, unsupported by any particular facts regarding Betsy’s character.”
I finished matter-of-factly. “Not only will the city be unable to prove their case beyond a reasonable doubt, but we will prove that Betsy is a fine, law abiding dog who has done nothing to merit these charges.”
I sat down. I had not been as eloquent as the prosecutor, but I had made my point.
The prosecutor called his first and only witness, Mr. Horace Jones. The bailiff led Jones back into the courtroom, where he was sworn in, and then took the witness stand.
The prosecutor asked him about the incidents described in his affidavit. Jones rambled on enthusiastically, vividly painting the picture of a wildly out-of-control dog.
The prosecutor finished his questioning and, with a satisfied look, said somewhat smugly, “Your witness, counsel.”
I was nervous, knowing that Jones’ testimony had been damning. On top of that, I had never cross-examined a witness before.
I arose and fumbled through some papers, fishing for something to say. Several moments of awkward silence passed. The judge looked at me with raised eyebrows.
Finally, I asked the only question that came to mind.
“Mr. Jones, isn’t it true that Mr. McMillan owned two dogs?” I asked.
“Yes”, he said. “I remember because they were such an odd-looking couple. One was a gigantic beast, a Chow I believe. The other was a tiny poodle about yea high” he said, holding his palm a few inches above the witness stand. “Why, I believe the Chow could have eaten that poodle for lunch and still had room for dessert,” he said with a grin.
“Now, Mr. Jones,” I continued, “these disorderly acts you described -- the dogfight, the barbecue disruption, the howlings at midnight and so forth – which of the dogs committed these acts, the large Chow or the tiny poodle?”
There was a long and pregnant pause as Jones scratched his head. He seemed genuinely puzzled, as if he had not expected the question.
“Mr. Jones, please answer the question,” instructed the judge, strumming his fingers and looking at the clock.
“Well,” said Jones, stammering, “I uh … let’s see here … whoo boy … I never gave it too much thought but … ummm … I guess it was the poodle.”
Thwak! Down came the judge’s gavel, his voice reverberating throughout the courtroom with the beautiful words, “Case dismissed!”
Betsy was saved, and I had won my first courtroom trial!
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