I went to a funeral last week.
Judge Thurgood was one of the district judges when I was hired. We have two district judges and they are resposible for administering their juvenile and adult probation departments. At that time the two judges split those duties and Judge Thurgood was "our judge".
I was in awe of Judge Thurgood. He was like the Perry Mason of Judges. He was brilliant, tough and had frighteningly powerful eyes. Have you ever watched any of Billy Graham's early crusades? Judge Thurgood had eyes like Graham's. If you got caught in the Judge's gaze and he told you to drink the kool-aid, you'd do it and ask for more. We could pretty well predict the future of whatever schmuck was before the court by gaging the waggling of his eyebrows. If they rose on the outside and gnarled together in the middle, it was time to kiss your momma goodbye.
Judge Thurgood was a fair man. He was a man with high expectations of anyone he came into contact with, whether defendant, attorney or other court officers. He hated unneccessary delay. We grumbled about this frequently when we worked late into the evening dealing with people he was sending to us from his court. He worked until the job was done. Hopefully that happened by 5:00, but if not, so be it.
One day I waited on a court hearing in a hallway teeming with lawyers. You hear lots of interesting stuff in those situations. A couple of lawyers from Big Flat City were gossiping next to me.
"Did you hear about the Saturday court?"
"Yeah, I got my letter from Judge 'God' Thurgood!"
When the Judge couldn't get attorneys to bring their cases to court in what he felt was a timely manner, he would hold court on Saturday. This way none of the attorney's could claim other court duties as a reason to request a continuance.
The Judge was a powerful presence on the bench. Never before or since have I known anyone who could gnaw on a person like he could. If you were convicted of a crime in his court, he made sure you knew how society felt about your particular misdeed. My favorite of his speeches was the Lonesome Dove speech. It started with him pointing out a window and asking the defendant "Do you see that tree out there?"
Oddly enough, one thing I will always remember about Judge Thurgood is his handwrighting. He had the most gorgeous penmanship I have ever seen. His handwritten notes looked like the Declaration of Independence. ChevyPickup and I spent hours learning how to mimic his incredible signature. After all, forgery is the sincerest form of flattery.
Judge Thurgood was a survivor. He'd had hodgskin's disease 25 years ago. One day, several years ago, he left the bench following a court hearing, saying he didn't feel well. Within moments he'd suffered a major heart attack. He recovered from the heart attack, but not from the heart surgery. The cancer treatment he underwent years before had ravaged his body and he could not heal. Eventually he had to step down from office.
I didn't see him for several years after that. He became a sought-after visiting Judge all over this half of the state. He eventually retired from that and went into private practice in Big Flat City.
I hated it when he represented one of my people. Truthfully, I'm still in awe of him and being on the opposite side of the table from him could be pretty stressful. Despite his stooped, white-headed body and the ever present oxygen bottle, he still had those powerful eyes. Everytime I ran into him, he would smile, his eyes would sparkle and he'd say "We sure had a good thing going back then, didn't we?"
We sure did, Judge.
Tuesday, January 16, 2007
Monday, January 8, 2007
Whalloped by a Trollop
"There are girls who manage to sell themselves whom no one would take as gifts" - Nicholas de Chamfort
I had to make a quick stop at Wally World on my way to work this morning. I was out of hair product. (This had nothing to do with the sparking nun, by the way.) As I was rushing down the aisles I almost tripped over an old whore.
It was Georgia Amore. She looks to be about 70, but she's probably not a day over 69. Georgia and I spent a couple of years together in the early 90's when she was on my caseload. She was on probation for a DWI. She was a grouchy old crone, even then, and she gave me fits!
Georgia was riding in one of those Wally-Carts and had someone with her who looked like a paid care-giver. I'm not sure whether or not she recognized me. I certainly recognized her, even though her normally coal black hair was in a flaming red beehive.
We used to make the raids on the local night clubs, looking for probationers. Since Fake Cow County is dry, only private clubs are allowed to sell alcohol. To become a member of a club, all you had to do was sign a list normally kept in a spiral notebook by the door. Georgia Amore was the only one of my people who would sign in using her real name. I always stopped by the door to read the list when we went into a club.
We would invariably find Georgia ensconsed in a corner table in some dark dive. She always wore heavy-duty blue eye-shadow and spangly, curiously twisted shirts with silky gold pants. She also always had her gimpy leg propped up on a chair next to her. Every time we caught her she was pretty toasted and never really quite sure who we were and what we wanted.
I could never understand why anyone would want to purchase her services - a limping, wrinkled old lady with really od fashion sense.
Stupid me.
I'd watched too much television. The 80's cop shows painted much to elegant a picture of your average prostitute. My first real eye-opener was the time I talked with a girl who, like most, was prostituting for drugs. If real life had been like Hunter, she would have been using the money to feed her baby and keep her elderly aunt out of a crummy nursing home. And maybe even putting a few dollars in the bank so they couldn't forclose on the family farm and turn it into a parking lot.
Not so in real life. This girl's main income came from working a back room at crack parties. There would be a house full of people drinking and smoking crack and pot. She would be in a back room somewhere, doing blowjobs for $2.00.
Two dollars.
She'd earn enough to buy a couple of rocks, which she would use that day and be back "at work" when the high wore off. This wasn't the Stephen J. Cannel version of the oldest profession.
I never questioned Georgia about the particulars of her professional life. There are some things I just don't have to know. I wonder what Georgia's up to these days. She probably didn't have much of a retirement plan. But she's still got her fashion sense and evidently no shortage of blue eye-shadow.
I had to make a quick stop at Wally World on my way to work this morning. I was out of hair product. (This had nothing to do with the sparking nun, by the way.) As I was rushing down the aisles I almost tripped over an old whore.
It was Georgia Amore. She looks to be about 70, but she's probably not a day over 69. Georgia and I spent a couple of years together in the early 90's when she was on my caseload. She was on probation for a DWI. She was a grouchy old crone, even then, and she gave me fits!
Georgia was riding in one of those Wally-Carts and had someone with her who looked like a paid care-giver. I'm not sure whether or not she recognized me. I certainly recognized her, even though her normally coal black hair was in a flaming red beehive.
We used to make the raids on the local night clubs, looking for probationers. Since Fake Cow County is dry, only private clubs are allowed to sell alcohol. To become a member of a club, all you had to do was sign a list normally kept in a spiral notebook by the door. Georgia Amore was the only one of my people who would sign in using her real name. I always stopped by the door to read the list when we went into a club.
We would invariably find Georgia ensconsed in a corner table in some dark dive. She always wore heavy-duty blue eye-shadow and spangly, curiously twisted shirts with silky gold pants. She also always had her gimpy leg propped up on a chair next to her. Every time we caught her she was pretty toasted and never really quite sure who we were and what we wanted.
I could never understand why anyone would want to purchase her services - a limping, wrinkled old lady with really od fashion sense.
Stupid me.
I'd watched too much television. The 80's cop shows painted much to elegant a picture of your average prostitute. My first real eye-opener was the time I talked with a girl who, like most, was prostituting for drugs. If real life had been like Hunter, she would have been using the money to feed her baby and keep her elderly aunt out of a crummy nursing home. And maybe even putting a few dollars in the bank so they couldn't forclose on the family farm and turn it into a parking lot.
Not so in real life. This girl's main income came from working a back room at crack parties. There would be a house full of people drinking and smoking crack and pot. She would be in a back room somewhere, doing blowjobs for $2.00.
Two dollars.
She'd earn enough to buy a couple of rocks, which she would use that day and be back "at work" when the high wore off. This wasn't the Stephen J. Cannel version of the oldest profession.
I never questioned Georgia about the particulars of her professional life. There are some things I just don't have to know. I wonder what Georgia's up to these days. She probably didn't have much of a retirement plan. But she's still got her fashion sense and evidently no shortage of blue eye-shadow.
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