What We Are (32 page)

No.
YOU
are the problem
.

Is it really in your best interests to argue with your lawyer?

You can be fired any time, counselor
.

Am I on trial here or you?

We're all on trial
.

Yeah, sure. Write another poem about it
.

I'll tell you a story instead
.

Hold up
.

A jury member with dark hair and darker eyes is recounting the sinister foster homes of his youth. I, for one, feel legitimately bad for the cat, as he describes his adoption into a family of usurers of the system, adding annually to their crop of kids to secure extra cash from the county. My attorney looks over at the dark-eyed foster home juror, says aloud, “He's fine, Your Honor, he's just fine,” writes:
Let's hear your st

“No questions, Mr. Choi?”

“No, Your Honor. We'll take him. Thank you.”

The judge's eyes narrow. Mr. Weil reads the judge's suspicion for what it is and looks over at us, trying to incite the judge's wrath. Neither has a case this time: If we have no questions, we have no questions. You can't force us to be interrogative. Why I have no questions for my attorney during jury selection, however, is another matter. Now that I think it over, the reality just may be that I'm enjoying this little debate; it means something to me, amazingly, more than a verdict, which means nothing.

My position is simple: The law is not the truth; the law is a deal, an agreement to the way the story will be told, a simplification of life; therefore, don't attach haughty grandeur and flowery language like justice and
in veritas
to a handshake. I'll take whatever verdict they throw down and ride with it, no complaints, as long as they leave the sermonizing to some other quack on a mutherfucking street corner.

I write,
Heard the case of Pal Singh?

Don't know. Let's hear it
.

Met him on the inside. Punjabi. No. 3 Greco-Roman wrestler in the world. Came to compete for us in '06 Olympics but dropped into East San Jo. Cousin's a gangbanger. This cousin gets surrounded one day by rival gang, getting beat real bad
.

He takes the pen from me, looks over at the jury, nods, smiles, writes:
I know this story. He cut off one guy's finger with a scimitar. Sliced into another guy's leg
.

Right. Everyone fled, cousin too. Singh calls the cops. Quoted in the paper, “Helping, very much helping. Man down. Hurting with blood.”

My attorney writes:
Already know the tragedy here. He called the cops ... on himself
.

Not even the bad part, I write. DA offers Singh 13 to 15 years, attempted murder. Or one year county for two counts of assault
.

My attorney shakes his head.
DA was bluffing. Couldn't get 13 to 15 in Texas
.

Did my boy Singh know this? He bought the bluff, foreigner scared shitless by big numbers. Second deal was worse offer. DA split the cases, one per victim, so Singh gets two strikes. One for each scimitar stroke. Singh was the cleanest mutherfucker I ever met. Now one slipup away from a 25-to-life third strike. What do you say?

At the jury box, a woman of Hispanic roots is explaining how she believes the police are crooked. The lady next to her, mid-seventies, maybe also Hispanic is shaking her head at each mispronounced word. One denouncing cops, though maybe Mexico City cops. One praising our cops, or maybe just denouncing chilango accents.

My attorney stands, says, “Your Honor, we have no problem with this selection for jury.”

The judge raises an eyebrow and says, “No questions, Mr. Choi?”

My attorney shakes his head, sits.

“As you wish, Mr. Choi.”

He writes:
I say he got bad representation
.

Was the DA innovative or a crook with no heart?

Both
.

Yeah? Let's flip the script: How many guilty clients have you gotten off the hook by technicality, because the DA didn't cross one of his t's?

Let me ask you this: Who between the two of us is more intelligent? The pariah who outlines the system's flaws or the insider who can outline the system's flaws? I'm alive and kicking. How about you?

Do you defend child molesters, rapists, snitches, murderers, thieves?

I defend you
.

Rephrase: Do you defend clients that you know are child molesters, rapists, snitches, murderers, thieves?

I defend whoever I have to
.

Tran$lation: You defend whoever will pay
.

My attorney stands, says without looking over at the box, “Mr. Sandhu, have you ever known anyone who has been beaten in your native country?”

Mr. Sandhu stands to speak and the judge says, “You may be seated, Mr. Sandhu. You need not stand when answering Mr. Choi's questions.”

Mr. Sandhu, still standing, doesn't move.

“Sit down, Mr. Sandhu,” the judge orders.

He sits at once and my attorney says, punching a fist into his palm, “Have you ever witnessed anyone being beaten?”

Mr. Sandhu looks around with concern, as if he's the one on trial or the one about to be beaten.

Judge Nguyen joins the charade by punching his own cheek and taking the blow. “Beaten, Mr. Sandhu. Have you ever witnessed anyone being beaten?”

“Beating?”

“Yes, Mr. Sandhu.”

“In India?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Of course I get beatings in Punjab. Many beatings of all kinds. That is why I come here to America. Here, right here.”

“Well, you're not here anymore, Mr. Sandhu,” says my attorney, nodding with what I believe to be fake concern. “Thank you for your time. Not interested, Your Honor.”

Judge Nguyen says, “You're dismissed, Mr. Sandhu.”

My attorney sits, even as the judge is issuing an evil eye our way, writes:
That's right. I do
.

So you're the problem
.

You're missing one half of the equation
.

I nod at the other side of the aisle.
Fuck them, too
.

Precisely
.

No. Fuck them. And fuck you
.

Fuck you back
.

Do they prosecute people they know are innocent
?

How the
hell
would I know?

Why the
hell
would you take a case if they only prosecuted the guilty?

You're gonna have to come with something bigger than that
.

All right
.

I stand up, the pen in my hand. “Your Honor, I don't want this crook representing me.”

The judge doesn't even look my way. Doesn't swing his seat in my direction. This sends me into a euphoric state which translates in real time into reckless, but absolutely liberating free speech. “I am under no obligation, Your Honor, constitutionally or morally, to accept representation from someone so thoroughly incompetent. My liberty is in jeopardy, sir, and putting it in the hands of an attorney, frankly, means entrusting my life to a precocious used-car salesman. I would rather lie, swindle, misrepresent, hyperbolize, and smooth-talk on my own behalf, Your Honor.”

Again, the judge is calm, unrattled. The man could at least blink but he won't afford me eye contact, extending my status of persona
non grata. Even the leatherhead stenographer has stopped typing and won't look at me. So I have said nothing. Officially. Somehow this cat knows that not acknowledging my statement is infinitely worse on my insides than holding me in contempt.

“Mr. Choi,” he says, not even asking me to sit down, “in what capacity are you with us today?”

I feel two fingers loop inside my belt line, hear the whispered words, “Trust me,” as I'm pulled downward into my seat, the counselor in question rising to his feet, smiling.

“Your Honor,” he begins, “might I apologize for the outburst of my client? He has been under an inordinate amount of stress with the recent death of his Aunt ... Liluokalani, with whom he'd resided for a decade and a half. He was Aunt ... Lily's personal caretaker to the very last minute.”

“Mr. Choi,” says the judge, “your client's misfortune is of no relevance in this courtroom. In fact, as evidence by the testimony you no doubt heard today from our potential jurors, we are all under stress, sir. And I am sure your training and experience have educated you on the concept of legal pertinence.”

“Yes, Your Honor, certainly.”

“Okay, Mr. Choi. Then I am also sure you will not mind if this court holds you personally responsible for any future outbursts your client should have on behalf of Aunt Lily.”

“Not at all, Your Honor.”

“Very good.”

I write on my pad for the insane: Just when I think I'm out, they pull me back in.

He writes back:
Trust me for once
.

Do I have a choice?

He begins to write, but I take back the pen and leap blindly into the litigational future:
Go ahead, man. My life is yours
. I look over at
the potential twelve, whisper into his ear: “Those mutherfuckers are going to hang me.”

He glances over at the box, nods at a random potential jury member, opens up his briefcase, pulls out a brand new yellow tablet, and scribbles:
Again: write it with a straight face
.

I take the pen, draw an arrow halfway across the page,
Those muther-fuckers to your immediate right are gonna hang me with straight faces
.

Impossible
.

Don't flatter yourself, counselor
.

Hangings were outlawed in this state over thirty years ago. You'd get an injection of strychnine or the chair
.

Comforting. Going out with a freewill of choice of poison. Real democracy at work
.

How many strikes do you have, Robert Frost?

One
.

2+3 x 2+2

What the hell is that?

The time you'll get if convicted
.

What's the first 2?

Enhancement for a prison term prior
.

The 3?

Sentence for the assault
.

Second 2?

Second strike enhancement
.

Last 2?

Hate-crime enhancement
.

Enhance these nuts
.

That's what better happen if you go up for ten, Emily Dickinson
.

Can you get us out of here for a bit? Maybe we should talk?

Yep and yep. We'll have lunch
.

“And it's on me,” he says, standing and nodding at the judge
.

“I know this whole thing sickens you,” my attorney says.

I sip my Coke, look out the cafeteria window, and watch the jurors, litigants, defendants comingle as if they're all friends out here in real life, returned from the virtual reality of a courtroom. “It just reaffirms the way the world works, man.”

“Let's talk about the law.”

“Tablets of stone on Sinai?”

“Code of Hammurabi.”

“Fourteen stations of crucifixion rock?”

“Magna Carta and the rights of man.”

He's good, fast, rightly vocationed. I say, “What a sham this thing is.”

“A snow job?”

“A dyslexic jow blob.
We nolo contendere the show, Your Honor, yo no contesto por que yo no understand what jou want from me, man
.

He laughs and I smile and this exchange makes the Samoan lady from the jury pool raise her eyebrows suspiciously. She's at the table next to us: two sandwiches, two bags of chips, no guests at her table.

“The law says we're not supposed to be near any jury members.”

“Don't worry about it,” he says. “Happens all the time. Look, you can tune out in the courtroom, okay? That's why I came today.”

“To allow my mind to wander?”

“To give you a break. Don't worry about anything in there. I've got something that's gonna shut the case down, so you can rest a little, all right?”

I look up and he nods firmly. It's kind of him, an affirmation of a different sort. “Why you doing this, man?”

“Look, I can't say I felt bad for you in there because you'll take it as pity. I can't say that it was wrong what happened to you because I work for the system that made it wrong. Let's just say I felt a little guilty for fronting you off back at the Fairmont.”

The Samoan lady has somehow moved closer to us, is sitting now right behind us, spying on our conversation. My attorney reads my mind. “I'm
telling
you. Don't worry, okay?”

“So what are we gonna do for the next fifteen minutes: share stories about the bar exam?”

“We could talk about your second strike.”

“This thing's a joke and you know it.”

“Well, then, let's get Lincoln-Douglas on one another. Old times sake.”

“Bring it, Dishonest Abe.”

“So what's the beef?”

“We'll keep it on topic. Argue:
The three-strikes law is not a sham
“.

He knocks on the tabletop, closes his eyes, opens them, and says, “California's three-strikes proposition was put on the ballot in the mid-nineties and voted into law by the good people of this state. Landslide figures, my friend. There's a reason for this: The law is sound. Premised upon the idea that society cannot allow a violent felon to repeat a crime, or one of equal or greater value, more than three times, despite his background, his economic circumstances, his genetic predilection, or our pervasive and good-hearted belief in rehabilitation. In this pragmatic state, there is a statute of limitations when it comes to our faith in the corrective
capacity of lawbreakers. We aren't magicians, but we aren't stupid either. Your floor.”