nod. “I’m on the way over there now.”
“Incredulous” doesn’t quite go far enough to describe her reaction. “Let me see if I understand this,” she says. “You were turning down every client in town for six months so you could hold out for Oscar Garcia?”
“Laurie, I’m late. Can we talk about this if and when he hires me? He might want a different lawyer.” The fact is, I’m hoping he turns me down. My conscience will be clear.
She laughs derisively. “Yeah, he’s a real prize. There’ll be a roomful of lawyers trying to win him over. Andy, how the hell could you do this to me?”
“I’m not doing anything to you, Laurie.”
“You know how I feel about him, you know what he’s done to my friend, yet of all the people you could represent you pick him.”
“Laurie, I know how this might seem. But believe me, it’s not about you. It has nothing whatsoever to do with you.”
It’s clear that she isn’t close to being convinced. “Then why are you doing this? Just tell me why.”
“There are reasons that I can’t go into, I truly can’t go into.”
“Yeah, right.”
I try a different approach, because this one obviously isn’t working at all. “Okay, you tell me why I would be taking on a client to get back at you. I love you, I care about you, but I would do this to punish you? To hurt you? Does that make sense? Did we have a fight I forgot about?”
She takes a moment to weigh my argument, and I think I have a chance until I can see the reject button go off in her brain.
“Don’t do it, Andy.” It’s a combination plea and command.
“I’m sorry, but I have to.”
She shakes her head. “No, you want to.”
She turns and leaves. I feel bad that she is hurt, but I feel much worse that she believes I would intentionally hurt her.
BEING PUT IN COUNTY JAIL IS LIKE SIGNING A FIRST baseball contract and reporting to the low minor league team they assign you to. You’re in professional baseball, and while you know you might someday find yourself in the big leagues, for right now this seems pretty significant. Of course, if someday you do make it to the majors, you realize just how small the minors were.
County jail is the flip side of that. When you’re sent there, you know you might find yourself in state prison if you get convicted, but for right now this seems pretty awful. Of course, if you do wind up there, or in a federal prison, you realize just how easy you had it back in County.
The thing is, when you’re in County, at least things are happening. You’re getting the lay of the land, seeing your lawyer, preparing for trial … it’s a new experience. When you’re convicted and sent to State, it feels like the system has forgotten about you, and in fact it has. Your life is not only miserable, it’s also boring, and there is no end in sight.
I guess my point is that, all in all, county jail is a pretty super-duper place to live. But for some reason, Oscar Garcia doesn’t see it that way. Oscar thinks it’s an outrage—a “motherfucking joke” is the homespun way he puts it—that he should be in this position.
He rants and raves for two or three minutes, then finally realizes that, since I am sitting there, I just might have a role to play in all this. “Who the hell are you?” he asks.
“My name is Andy Carpenter. I’m an attorney working for the public defender’s office on your case.”
He stares at me for a few moments, as if trying to remember something. “Don’t I know you from somewhere?”
I shrug. “Maybe. I went to NYU. What fraternity were you in?”
Oscar’s sense of irony doesn’t seem that well developed, and I’ve got a hunch he’s not going to be a master of self-deprecating humor either. He ignores my comment, mainly because he’s just remembered where he’s seen me.
“You’re that lawyer, right?” He points at me, no doubt to make sure I know he’s not talking to the table.
“That’s what I just finished telling
“Incredulous” doesn’t quite go far enough to describe her reaction. “Let me see if I understand this,” she says. “You were turning down every client in town for six months so you could hold out for Oscar Garcia?”
“Laurie, I’m late. Can we talk about this if and when he hires me? He might want a different lawyer.” The fact is, I’m hoping he turns me down. My conscience will be clear.
She laughs derisively. “Yeah, he’s a real prize. There’ll be a roomful of lawyers trying to win him over. Andy, how the hell could you do this to me?”
“I’m not doing anything to you, Laurie.”
“You know how I feel about him, you know what he’s done to my friend, yet of all the people you could represent you pick him.”
“Laurie, I know how this might seem. But believe me, it’s not about you. It has nothing whatsoever to do with you.”
It’s clear that she isn’t close to being convinced. “Then why are you doing this? Just tell me why.”
“There are reasons that I can’t go into, I truly can’t go into.”
“Yeah, right.”
I try a different approach, because this one obviously isn’t working at all. “Okay, you tell me why I would be taking on a client to get back at you. I love you, I care about you, but I would do this to punish you? To hurt you? Does that make sense? Did we have a fight I forgot about?”
She takes a moment to weigh my argument, and I think I have a chance until I can see the reject button go off in her brain.
“Don’t do it, Andy.” It’s a combination plea and command.
“I’m sorry, but I have to.”
She shakes her head. “No, you want to.”
She turns and leaves. I feel bad that she is hurt, but I feel much worse that she believes I would intentionally hurt her.
BEING PUT IN COUNTY JAIL IS LIKE SIGNING A FIRST baseball contract and reporting to the low minor league team they assign you to. You’re in professional baseball, and while you know you might someday find yourself in the big leagues, for right now this seems pretty significant. Of course, if someday you do make it to the majors, you realize just how small the minors were.
County jail is the flip side of that. When you’re sent there, you know you might find yourself in state prison if you get convicted, but for right now this seems pretty awful. Of course, if you do wind up there, or in a federal prison, you realize just how easy you had it back in County.
The thing is, when you’re in County, at least things are happening. You’re getting the lay of the land, seeing your lawyer, preparing for trial … it’s a new experience. When you’re convicted and sent to State, it feels like the system has forgotten about you, and in fact it has. Your life is not only miserable, it’s also boring, and there is no end in sight.
I guess my point is that, all in all, county jail is a pretty super-duper place to live. But for some reason, Oscar Garcia doesn’t see it that way. Oscar thinks it’s an outrage—a “motherfucking joke” is the homespun way he puts it—that he should be in this position.
He rants and raves for two or three minutes, then finally realizes that, since I am sitting there, I just might have a role to play in all this. “Who the hell are you?” he asks.
“My name is Andy Carpenter. I’m an attorney working for the public defender’s office on your case.”
He stares at me for a few moments, as if trying to remember something. “Don’t I know you from somewhere?”
I shrug. “Maybe. I went to NYU. What fraternity were you in?”
Oscar’s sense of irony doesn’t seem that well developed, and I’ve got a hunch he’s not going to be a master of self-deprecating humor either. He ignores my comment, mainly because he’s just remembered where he’s seen me.
“You’re that lawyer, right?” He points at me, no doubt to make sure I know he’s not talking to the table.
“That’s what I just finished telling
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