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.
Tuesday, November 28, 2006
It was Monday.
I had to testify in court yesterday. One of our most contentious attorneys was asserting that his client could not possibly be as bad as I said he was. Before the hearing the lawyer and I had totally agreed on what we thought was best for this guy. In the end the judge agreed too and sent the guy to a year-long lock-up for drug treatment and to have his head examined.
But that didn't stop Mr. Contrary from fighting about it and belaboring every. single. point. It is always a 'trial' to have to be in a court room with him. I guess that's why the DA was a little distracted when he called me to testify. When he tried to call me to the stand, he announced to the court that his first witness would be Rachel Ward.
Yeah. I can see where he would've made a mistake like that.
But that didn't stop Mr. Contrary from fighting about it and belaboring every. single. point. It is always a 'trial' to have to be in a court room with him. I guess that's why the DA was a little distracted when he called me to testify. When he tried to call me to the stand, he announced to the court that his first witness would be Rachel Ward.
Yeah. I can see where he would've made a mistake like that.
Can't you?
Wednesday, November 8, 2006
White Joe will miss him too.
Today was Sonic gossip day. You remember my Sonic guys, right? Trinny reported first and he was bummed. He's losing Cheese. Cheese has defected to the new I-HOP as a cook.
Cheese came in right before lunch. He has indeed traded in the burger grill for the breakfast grill. Did you know there are four grills at I-HOP? One for meat, one for eggs and pancakes, one for other stuff and he doesn't know what the fourth one is for. There has been much weeping and gnashing of teeth at the Sonic since Cheese has announced he is leaving.
Cheese did do the stand-up thing and told the manager, Ray-Ray, that he will stay a couple more weeks and train his replacement to "f*** this grill-shit up tight" just like him. (Cheese and I have had conversations about the need for him to develop a more formal verbal register for daily business and professional interaction.) Ray-Ray has evidently just returned from some sort of Managerial Jeezus Camp. He called Cheese into his office a few days after Cheese announced he was leaving.
"I want you to read this book, Cheese."
"What is it?"
"Its called 'Choices' and it will help you with your Sonic Future."
"I don't have a damn 'sonic future', Ray-Ray! I'm goin' to I-HOP!"
Cheese actually read the book. I asked what it was about. He explained it thusly:
"It was about some runner dude. He was always runnin' all the time - every day. Like he was gonna get in the f***in' Olympics or somethin'. He was always in races but he never won shit. I don't know why he kept doin' it - he was messed up about it, I guess. Then there was some really long race or some shit and he won it because it went on and on and that's all he did."
I'm not really sure what motivational lesson Cheese took from that.
In addition to moving up the corporate ladder, Cheese is going back to school. He's attending classes in the mornings, learning how to flip pancakes in the afternoon and working at Sonic at night. I told him I was impressed. He's attending classes at the alternative education school, which is where his younger brother attends. The younger brother really looks up to Cheese. He wears the same kind of clothes, has the same goatee and now he's doing the same work to get a diploma. They're hoping to graduate together.
I asked Cheese what his brother's name is.
Cheeto.
Cheese came in right before lunch. He has indeed traded in the burger grill for the breakfast grill. Did you know there are four grills at I-HOP? One for meat, one for eggs and pancakes, one for other stuff and he doesn't know what the fourth one is for. There has been much weeping and gnashing of teeth at the Sonic since Cheese has announced he is leaving.
Cheese did do the stand-up thing and told the manager, Ray-Ray, that he will stay a couple more weeks and train his replacement to "f*** this grill-shit up tight" just like him. (Cheese and I have had conversations about the need for him to develop a more formal verbal register for daily business and professional interaction.) Ray-Ray has evidently just returned from some sort of Managerial Jeezus Camp. He called Cheese into his office a few days after Cheese announced he was leaving.
"I want you to read this book, Cheese."
"What is it?"
"Its called 'Choices' and it will help you with your Sonic Future."
"I don't have a damn 'sonic future', Ray-Ray! I'm goin' to I-HOP!"
Cheese actually read the book. I asked what it was about. He explained it thusly:
"It was about some runner dude. He was always runnin' all the time - every day. Like he was gonna get in the f***in' Olympics or somethin'. He was always in races but he never won shit. I don't know why he kept doin' it - he was messed up about it, I guess. Then there was some really long race or some shit and he won it because it went on and on and that's all he did."
I'm not really sure what motivational lesson Cheese took from that.
In addition to moving up the corporate ladder, Cheese is going back to school. He's attending classes in the mornings, learning how to flip pancakes in the afternoon and working at Sonic at night. I told him I was impressed. He's attending classes at the alternative education school, which is where his younger brother attends. The younger brother really looks up to Cheese. He wears the same kind of clothes, has the same goatee and now he's doing the same work to get a diploma. They're hoping to graduate together.
I asked Cheese what his brother's name is.
Cheeto.
Thursday, August 31, 2006
What I Learned at Work This Week:
I learned from Mindy that you can now get glow-in-the dark ink in your tatoo. Who knew? At first I thought that's gotta be way all unhealthy. But then I decided its not as if you are getting the finest in soy-based, eco-friendly dyes in your average tatoo anyway. (Or are you?)
Mindy learned about this innovation in body decoration from the girl she met with right after lunch. The girl jumped out of the chair and dropped her drawers to show Mindy the smiley-face tatoo on her butt. (This happens more often than you would think. We're pretty quick at intercepting people before they can whip out the surgery scars, new tatoos or orafices emiting drippy stuff, but sometimes they are just too fast.)
Anyway, the glow-in-the-dark thing opens up a whole new realm of new tatoo possibilities - maybe something helpful? Along the lines of "Inset Tab A Into Slot B"?
Mindy learned about this innovation in body decoration from the girl she met with right after lunch. The girl jumped out of the chair and dropped her drawers to show Mindy the smiley-face tatoo on her butt. (This happens more often than you would think. We're pretty quick at intercepting people before they can whip out the surgery scars, new tatoos or orafices emiting drippy stuff, but sometimes they are just too fast.)
Anyway, the glow-in-the-dark thing opens up a whole new realm of new tatoo possibilities - maybe something helpful? Along the lines of "Inset Tab A Into Slot B"?
Thursday, July 6, 2006
People Are Funny. Really.
Remember the Only God Can Judge Me guy? Let's call him Roger. Roger's original guilty plea was rejected by the Judge. He tried to renig on his confession and de-implicate his co-defendant. They got all that sorted out and he was back in court on Monday to plead guilty again.
Following his guilty plea and his release from jail, he trudged down to our office for his initial intake. He arrived at 11:45 a.m. I tried to get some personal data from him, and ran into a bit of trouble. He is barely 20. His family are migrant workers and have all returned to the valley. They won't be back here until gin season. He had no idea where he would stay - homeless. No car, no phone, no money and no kinfolk.
Then he remembered a friend of his parents who still lives at the Campito (local migrant housing). He might be able to stay with the friend. I quickly read over the terms and conditions of probation with Roger. I felt pretty sure this would be my only chance to do so. I let him leave at 12:00 with strict instructions to return at 2:00 p.m. and to tell me where he would live.
Then the secretaries and I tried to make some wagers on whether or not he would return. It was pretty unsuccessful, as betting goes, since we all bet no.
Two o'clock, and no Roger. At about 2:30, Roger called the front office. He spoke to Sophie, one of our receptionists.
"Hey - this is Roger. Will you tell that lady that I'm going to stay at the Campito - apartment 2B."
"Didn't she tell you to be here at 2:00, Roger?"
"Well, yeah. But I don't have a ride. Tell her I will be here until December."
Sophie quickly convinced him that he needed to report prior to December. She hung up the phone and came to my office to tell me all about it. By the time she finished the story, Roger was in our waiting room. Even though he claimed he had no ride, he managed to make the three mile journey in less than ten minutes.
I went to the front to talk to Roger. I took the information on his new abode. As we spoke I noticed he was chomping wildly on a peppermint. Just as I was explaining how much time he would spend in prison if he didn't follow these rules, I caught a wiff of his breath.
Wheeeew!
"Roger! How many beers have you had?!"
"What?" Roger tried desperately to appear stunned. He managed to look stoned. "I don't know what you mean - I'm not drinking."
"You're lying Roger. Don't lie to me. How much did you drink?"
"Well, ok. I had two beers. But I just got out of jail, you know?"
"You're still lying Roger. How many?" We are nose to nose at that point. He tried to break eye-contact.
"...I had five. Maybe six. But, but, how did you know?" Roger was pretty well wasted.
Not being one to waste a chance for manipulation of a soddenly suspicious mind, I glared at him over my glasses. "Never, never, never believe that you have us fooled Roger. We. always. know." If I'd trusted myself to do it without cracking up, I'd have thrown in a bit of maniacal laughter just for effect.
I have to admit a modicum of grudging respect for Roj. If I had been released from custody with nothing but the clothes on my back, I certainly couldn't have scored a place to live and a ride into town, not to mention a few cold ones in under two hours.
I gotta tell ya this story too. I have a woman on my caseload - about my age. No teeth, almost bald but kind and cheery as can be. But, good grief, she is naive. After ten years of smoking crack with her no-good, abusive husband, she sobered up. She's been clean most of the last three years. He hasn't. A couple of months ago, he beat her up. Again. As usual.
This time, however, she had a job. And co-workers who convinced her he couldn't do that to her any more. She left him and went into the women's shelter. The last straw came when she discovered he'd been smoking crack all the time she thought he was clean. She never suspected that all the time he spent hanging out with his same old druggie friends was time spent doing drugs. I don't know what the hell she thought they were doing!
Today she told me a mutual friend came to visit her at her new digs at the pay-by-the-week motel. At this point, she told me she had to tell me something embarrassing. "Um, ok?" was my brilliant response. She then whispered that she and her husband hadn't done "what married people do" since January of 2005. I think I just blinked stupidly at her. Today, while talking to her friend, she learned a horrible truth. Her husband has been seeing another woman all this time.
She sat back and waited for me to fully grasp the magnitude of this bombshell.
"Well, uh, you knew something was wrong all along, right?" I said. "I mean, you knew he was up to something, even though you didn't know all the details, didn't you?" I stammered.
"Nope. I didn't have any idea. He always told me he just couldn't, you know, do it with me while I was on probation. And I always reminded him that I was gonna be on probation for three years." She paused and I clamped my mouth shut. "He told me he could wait."
Regardless of whatever else happens - political shenanigans, budget crises, and bureaucratic inanity, I love my job.
Following his guilty plea and his release from jail, he trudged down to our office for his initial intake. He arrived at 11:45 a.m. I tried to get some personal data from him, and ran into a bit of trouble. He is barely 20. His family are migrant workers and have all returned to the valley. They won't be back here until gin season. He had no idea where he would stay - homeless. No car, no phone, no money and no kinfolk.
Then he remembered a friend of his parents who still lives at the Campito (local migrant housing). He might be able to stay with the friend. I quickly read over the terms and conditions of probation with Roger. I felt pretty sure this would be my only chance to do so. I let him leave at 12:00 with strict instructions to return at 2:00 p.m. and to tell me where he would live.
Then the secretaries and I tried to make some wagers on whether or not he would return. It was pretty unsuccessful, as betting goes, since we all bet no.
Two o'clock, and no Roger. At about 2:30, Roger called the front office. He spoke to Sophie, one of our receptionists.
"Hey - this is Roger. Will you tell that lady that I'm going to stay at the Campito - apartment 2B."
"Didn't she tell you to be here at 2:00, Roger?"
"Well, yeah. But I don't have a ride. Tell her I will be here until December."
Sophie quickly convinced him that he needed to report prior to December. She hung up the phone and came to my office to tell me all about it. By the time she finished the story, Roger was in our waiting room. Even though he claimed he had no ride, he managed to make the three mile journey in less than ten minutes.
I went to the front to talk to Roger. I took the information on his new abode. As we spoke I noticed he was chomping wildly on a peppermint. Just as I was explaining how much time he would spend in prison if he didn't follow these rules, I caught a wiff of his breath.
Wheeeew!
"Roger! How many beers have you had?!"
"What?" Roger tried desperately to appear stunned. He managed to look stoned. "I don't know what you mean - I'm not drinking."
"You're lying Roger. Don't lie to me. How much did you drink?"
"Well, ok. I had two beers. But I just got out of jail, you know?"
"You're still lying Roger. How many?" We are nose to nose at that point. He tried to break eye-contact.
"...I had five. Maybe six. But, but, how did you know?" Roger was pretty well wasted.
Not being one to waste a chance for manipulation of a soddenly suspicious mind, I glared at him over my glasses. "Never, never, never believe that you have us fooled Roger. We. always. know." If I'd trusted myself to do it without cracking up, I'd have thrown in a bit of maniacal laughter just for effect.
I have to admit a modicum of grudging respect for Roj. If I had been released from custody with nothing but the clothes on my back, I certainly couldn't have scored a place to live and a ride into town, not to mention a few cold ones in under two hours.
I gotta tell ya this story too. I have a woman on my caseload - about my age. No teeth, almost bald but kind and cheery as can be. But, good grief, she is naive. After ten years of smoking crack with her no-good, abusive husband, she sobered up. She's been clean most of the last three years. He hasn't. A couple of months ago, he beat her up. Again. As usual.
This time, however, she had a job. And co-workers who convinced her he couldn't do that to her any more. She left him and went into the women's shelter. The last straw came when she discovered he'd been smoking crack all the time she thought he was clean. She never suspected that all the time he spent hanging out with his same old druggie friends was time spent doing drugs. I don't know what the hell she thought they were doing!
Today she told me a mutual friend came to visit her at her new digs at the pay-by-the-week motel. At this point, she told me she had to tell me something embarrassing. "Um, ok?" was my brilliant response. She then whispered that she and her husband hadn't done "what married people do" since January of 2005. I think I just blinked stupidly at her. Today, while talking to her friend, she learned a horrible truth. Her husband has been seeing another woman all this time.
She sat back and waited for me to fully grasp the magnitude of this bombshell.
"Well, uh, you knew something was wrong all along, right?" I said. "I mean, you knew he was up to something, even though you didn't know all the details, didn't you?" I stammered.
"Nope. I didn't have any idea. He always told me he just couldn't, you know, do it with me while I was on probation. And I always reminded him that I was gonna be on probation for three years." She paused and I clamped my mouth shut. "He told me he could wait."
Regardless of whatever else happens - political shenanigans, budget crises, and bureaucratic inanity, I love my job.
Friday, June 9, 2006
What's your Sonic name?
I have three guys on my caseload who all work at Sonic Drive-In. They love to unload all the Sonic gossip when they come to see me. I occasionally try to be somewhat sympathetic and use the fact that they hate working fast food as a motivator for them to get their GEDs.
Bleh - they ain't buying it.
The funniest thing about all this is the names of these guys. They are Trinny, Cheese and Slow Joe. Evidently to work at Sonic, you gotta have a special name. Cheese is the most frustrated with the Sonic politics and the most likely to keep me up to date on what's happening. He told me last week that they hired two new guys. Neither of the newbies is working out. I asked him who the new guys were. Cheese did not disappoint and deadpanned the names just like he was reading them off a baptismal certificate: "Old Man and White Joe."
I thought I was going to bust a gut from trying not to laugh. Of course, the moment he left I ran to all my co-workers and let them know the latest additions to the cast of characters at Sonic. We all had a good laugh.
Then we reminisced about the time we all chose our stripper names, in case we decided to make a career change. But that is another story. This time we pondered what our Sonic names would be. I want to be Chili Dog. We decided Mindy's name is gonna be Tots. TH would be Route 44. Rose is Frito Pie.
M2 came down the hallway then and we asked her what her Sonic name would be. She never broke stride and said:
"Do they have a drink called Bitch?"
Bleh - they ain't buying it.
The funniest thing about all this is the names of these guys. They are Trinny, Cheese and Slow Joe. Evidently to work at Sonic, you gotta have a special name. Cheese is the most frustrated with the Sonic politics and the most likely to keep me up to date on what's happening. He told me last week that they hired two new guys. Neither of the newbies is working out. I asked him who the new guys were. Cheese did not disappoint and deadpanned the names just like he was reading them off a baptismal certificate: "Old Man and White Joe."
I thought I was going to bust a gut from trying not to laugh. Of course, the moment he left I ran to all my co-workers and let them know the latest additions to the cast of characters at Sonic. We all had a good laugh.
Then we reminisced about the time we all chose our stripper names, in case we decided to make a career change. But that is another story. This time we pondered what our Sonic names would be. I want to be Chili Dog. We decided Mindy's name is gonna be Tots. TH would be Route 44. Rose is Frito Pie.
M2 came down the hallway then and we asked her what her Sonic name would be. She never broke stride and said:
"Do they have a drink called Bitch?"
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
Posts
