down each other's throats. My father had come over to watch the game with me. He was never a big football fan, and my fanaticism about the Giants was clearly learned elsewhere. But he had been joining me to watch the games with increasing regularity since my mother died a year before. I don't think it's that he was liking football any more; I just think he was liking loneliness even less.
It must have been halftime that he brought it up, since if it were during the game I never would have heard him. “Do you remember the Willie Miller case?” he asked.
Of course I did. My father had sought and received the death penalty; this was not something I was likely to forget.
“Sure. What about it?”
He told me that some information had recently come to his attention. He wouldn't tell me how, or even what the specific information was, but he said that he had learned that a juror lied in voir dire, a significant lie that could result in a new trial if revealed to the court.
He was grappling with what to do with the information, since revealing the specifics would amount to breaking a privilege. Yet as an officer of the court he felt uncomfortable with concealing it, since Willie Miller was entitled to have the truth come out.
“How would you feel about representing him on an appeal?”
“Me?” I'm sure my mouth was stuffed with potato chips, so it probably came out “Mnnpphh?”
“Yes. You could have an investigator look into it, find out the facts without me having to tell you, and then go to the appeals court.”
The case, as I remembered it, was open-and-shut. Willie Miller, even when seen through my skeptical defense attorney's eyes, was a murderer. I was not about to get involved in an appeal based on a technicality. What if it succeeded? I'd have to go through a trial I was bound to lose.
“No thanks.”
“It would be important to me.”
There it was, the sentence from which there was no defense. In my family, when you asked a favor of someone, it was acceptable to refuse. But once the person said that it was important to them, it crossed a line and became an absolute imperative. We did not use those words frivolously, and they carried an awesome weight.
“Then I'll do it.”
“You've got no chance, you know.”
I laughed. “Then why the hell is it so important to you that I enter the swamp?” That is how we referred to legal cases that dragged on forever with little or no chance of ultimate victory.
“Because the man is on death row.”
The Giants kicked off to start the second half, the Redskins drove the length of the field for a touchdown, and I was on a case that might well leave me forever stuck in the Lincoln Tunnel.
But, no! Suddenly, without warning, a burst of speed by the cars ahead lets me gun the accelerator to almost five miles an hour. At this rate, there's a chance I might make it home in time to leave for court tomorrow morning.
THERE IS NOTHINGLIKE A GOLDEN REtriever. I know, I know, it's a big planet with a lot of wonderful things, but golden retrievers are the absolute best. Mine is named Tara. She is seven years old and the most perfect companion anyone could ever have. She is also funny and playful and smart. The only problem she has ever caused is that I spend so much time with her in the mornings that I am almost invariably late for work.
This morning is a case in point. I take Tara for an hour walk, throw a ball with her in the park, then come home and feed her. I've got to be in court by nine-thirty, so I wind up taking an eight-second shower and mostly get dressed in the car on the way. I'd love to take her with me, and she often comes to my office, but the bailiffs take a dim view of canines in court. What they don't realize is that she's smarter than half the lawyers that practice there.
Having said my goodbyes and given her a biscuit, I stop at a newsstand on the way to court, even though I'm in grave danger of being late. The decision to stop is essentially an involuntary one; I have long ago certified stopping at this particular newsstand as a permanent superstition. I would rather face the wrath of a judge by being late than irritate