CHAPTER SEVEN
A
TEST OF HEARTS—A COURTROOM BATTLE
After the fight with Precious
Princess One and Two, I was exhausted and emotionally drained. I knew that but for
the intervention of my prince charming I could have lost both Scruggs and
Samantha. It was a loss I knew I could not have withstood.
As I left the Pomona Valley Humane Society, my emotions
overwhelmed me again. Twink was gone,
but God had given me a glimpse of the man I loved and thought was lost to
me. However, the test of wills at the
shelter had severely tested my self-confidence in my ability to
problem-solve. I ping-ponged between
elation and sorrow, confidence and trepidation, and exasperation and smug
self-congratulation. My emotions finally rested in the familiar zone of
depression.
My appearance at court was supposed to be brief and should
have been very routine. It was a simple
misdemeanor pretrial where all I had to do was speak to the prosecutor about a
potential plea agreement, then put the matter over to a new date for my client
to appear to enter his plea. But instead
of a simple in-and-out appearance, it became another test of my will and desire
to continue practicing criminal defense.
Over the years I had become
almost immune to the insults leveled at me and my clients. I had heard it all: Officers told me I had
“gone to the dark side” when I left the District Attorney’s Office. The public
asked me, “How could you represent guilty people?” And some people called my clients miscreants
and evil. But in my heart I had always
known I did the work to protect others, the innocent public who would have
unwittingly given up their constitutional rights had someone not taken a stand
to keep the justice system honest.
But that day in August, my patience had already been tested
beyond my ability to withstand another insult.
The Precious Princesses had depleted my store of good humor, and my
emotions were rubbed raw. Thus, when
faced with a new deputy who was hiding her inexperience by a show of bravado
and insult, I flashed my anger in return.
“Your client beat the hell out of his girlfriend,” she said.
“Yes, I know,” I answered.
“That’s why we’re just looking for a plea offer.”
“But your client is an animal,” she said. “You know he split her lip and bruised her
eye?”
“Yes,” I answered, smothering my irritation.
“I don’t know why it was only filed as a misdemeanor,” she
said, flipping through the police reports.
“It should have been a felony. If
he doesn’t take the deal today, I’ll refile it as a felony.”
“My client’s not here today,” I answered, my patience worn
thin. “I’m here to get the offer, then
relay it to him.”
“Well, we don’t do that in this courtroom,” she said. “Defendants are expected to be in court on
their pre-trials.”
I found myself clenching my fists in anger. She was wrong, of course. I had been coming to that courtroom and
appearing in front of that judge for more than twelve years. The customary practice was that when a
defendant hired a private lawyer they did not have to be present in court for
misdemeanor pre-trials. The young D.A.
was either flexing her muscles or terribly ignorant.
I tried again. “This
is my first pretrial on this case,” I said, using my patient voice, while
picturing in my mind slamming her head repeatedly into counsel table. “It is customary for me to get the offer and
then relay it to my client. I am sure
the judge won’t have a problem with that.”
She responded with the “sniff.” What was with all the young women crossing my
path that day? Did they all have
allergies? Did I smell? Or were they just using the universal gesture
of disgust?
I again clenched my fists at the perceived insult. Enough!
I had enough of the disdain for one day.
I turned on my heel and walked away.
My anger was surging and I needed more space between me and the young
prosecutor, afraid I would take action on my imaginings.
About that time the judge retook the bench. He smiled at me as the clerk handed him my
file.
“Good morning Mrs. de la Peña. How are you this almost afternoon?”
I knew I was late getting to court, and I also knew he
wasn’t insulting me, but my patience was gone.
I tried to smile back, but I know it came across as a grimace.
The judge picked up the file and asked me if my client was
present. To which I started to state I
was appearing “9-7-7,” a code to say my client was not in court that day and I
was alone. Unfortunately for me, the
D.A. immediately interrupted me.
“The defendant is not here today, your honor,” she
said. “The People request a bench
warrant issue. I have also told defense
counsel that if her client does not take the offer today, we will refile as a
felony.”
That did it! I’d had
my fill of young women trying to use their perceived authority to usurp my
position, first as an animal adoptee, and then as a defense lawyer.
I whirled on the D.A. and almost hissed my disapproval. The clerk and the bailiff heard my intake of
breath. They knew me well and knew I was
the more volatile of the de la Peña partnership. The clerk’s eyes widened and the bailiff
stepped around from behind his desk, each preparing for the eruption they were
sure was to happen.
The judge also knew me well. He held up his hand to stop me
before I started, knowing there could be proverbial bloodshed, or at least a
verbal drubbing of the young prosecutor.
I took the hint and closed my mouth.
“Mrs. de la Peña, I see this is your first pretrial on this
matter and I assume you are appearing 9-7-7.
Without your client here, I presume you cannot tender the offer to
him. You will have him here at the next
date? What date did you want?” he asked,
almost smiling.
With those simple words he had told the prosecutor it was
sufficient for me to appear without my client.
But it left on the table the matter as to whether the offer for a plea
bargain would remain open.
I desperately wanted to snitch on the young woman sitting at
counsel table. I briefly imagined
storming up to her supervisor’s office and laying on him the insults she had
tendered in court. But it would have
been only temporary revenge to rub her nose in her inexperience. She would spread stories of my transgressions
throughout the minions of younger D.A.’s and my reputation would suffer. My years of experience told me to just be
humble and swallow my anger.
“Your Honor,” I answered, “about the misdemeanor plea, will
it remain open?”
“Speak with the D.A.,” he answered. “I am sure her office wishes to dispose of
this case without further delay or cost.
Filing a felony would incur both.”
As I turned back to the D.A., she again sniffed at me,
saying, “This judge always expects the defendant to be present at
pre-trials. Also, I will speak with my
office about refiling this as a felony.”
At that point there was nothing I could do. My client was not present because he was at
work. The chance of me getting a hold of
him and into court was certainly impossible.
I had no real choice other than to do the criminal defense lawyer
equivalent of a “throw-down.”
“Fine,” I answered.
“You do that.”
Again she sniffed and snapped her file shut.
I hoped my bravado was not an exercise in folly. This wasn’t the first time I had represented
this client with regards to his unhealthy relationship with that girlfriend. It was usually mutual combat, but in keeping
with the idea that someone had to go to jail when there was blood spilled, it
usually was my client who spent the night in jail. All I could do was hope the reviewing felony
deputy would decide the case was more trouble than it was worth and let the
original offer stand until the next pretrial.
By the time the judge recalled the case and we set dates for
the next appearance, I had a splitting headache. My jaw hurt from clenching it and I had deep
grooves in the palm of my hands from my fingernails. Worse yet, I was again feeling impotent.
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