OLD PEOPLE peruse obits with barely restrained
dread.  The name of a friend or
acquaintance appearing in the list can ruin one’s day.  But yesterday my experience was different;
the name was that of an old foe.  We had
traded barbs many times while he defended criminal defendants and I prosecuted
them.  This guy, I’ll call him Frank
Malarkey, was said to chew up young prosecutors for breakfast. His undisguised
disdain for the process was evident in the expression on his face and the way
he dressed, which is to say, more expensively than young D.A.s.  He was a bantam rooster, short and aggressive,
and clearly very vain.  He was bald as a
cue ball and he was forever jutting out his jaw and tugging at the knot in his
tie.

Frank had been practicing law since I was in
elementary school.  He had long since stopped
bothering to research cases and was flying by the seat of his well-tailored
pants.  He relied on his reputation,
which wasn’t the blunderbuss he imagined it to be.  Frank was all bluff and bluster; I always
wondered how many judges actually regarded him with any kind of actual respect,
especially when he pulled his Smith vs. State act.  We’d be arguing a point of law, perhaps one
that would make or break the case, and whenever he saw that it might be going
against him, he’d cite the case of Smith vs. State which, I’m convinced,
was a figment of his competitive imagination.  He’d always rustle around in his papers, pretending to look for a copy
of the case, but never find it, then he’d claim that the case stood for the
exact proposition that he was putting forth in favor of his client.  I saw him pull this ruse more than once.  If as his opposing attorney I questioned the
legitimacy of his claim, he’d turn beet red, starting at the back of his neck
and proceeding up his bald head until it looked as if he might literally
explode from fury and frustration. 

Frank practiced law like the old lawyer's maxim: if you've got the facts, pound the facts; if you've got the law, pound the law; if you've got neither, pound the table.

I got Frank good one day.  We were in trial before a calm, respected
judge.  His client was charged with
firing a gun at the victim inside a multi-unit apartment building.  Fortunately no one had been hit but clearly
the victim, or an innocent bystander, could easily have been killed.  I had my victim on the stand and was bringing
out the facts of the case through his testimony.  Eventually I reached the point where I needed
to have him identify the culprit in the courtroom.

“Would you look around the courtroom, please, and
tell me if you see the person you’ve described as shooting the gun.”

“Yes, there he is.”

“Would you please point to him and tell the jury
what he’s wearing.”

“That’s him there,” the witness said, pointing. “He’s
wearing a gray suit.”

I looked over at the defense table.  Aghast, I suddenly realized that both
Malarkey, the defense attorney, and the defendant, were dressed in gray
suits.  I had to clarify the record. 

“Is it the one with the hair or without the hair?” I
asked.

The courtroom broke up.  The judge was laughing; the jurors were
laughing; what few spectators there were in the room were laughing.  Malarkey was bright red; if looks could kill,
I’d have been a dead man.

“The one with the hair, on the right,” said the
witness, trying not to grin.

The judge called a recess to allow everyone to
regain their composure.  I walked into his
chambers.  Malarkey was already there,
verbally jumping up and down in protest.  He never forgave me, I’m sure.  It
was one of my finest moments.