How To Be a
First Time Lawyer
by Shane Stay
My advice to
any first time lawyer is myriad in content, but
scant in meaning. First of all: what are you
wearing? I feel that dress shoes are highly over
rated in law. Why not sneakers? Black or white
color doesn’t really matter, though gray
would be my first pick, however, shoe companies
do not make too many gray sneakers anymore. Nike
made a great pair, back in 2005. I still have
those and wear them only on special occasions,
though they are located in Chicago and the
shipping fee would not be worth it. So I
compromised and wore black sneakers, with gray
trim. Black pants would be my first suggestion.
Why? Green or red would look just plain silly,
now wouldn’t it? The shirt is very important,
though I can’t recall what shirt I wore, or
if I even had a shirt on, as I was consumed with
my defense and opening statements. To be sure, I
was wearing a shirt or else the presiding judge
surely would have said something to the effect of,
“Hey, you’re not wearing a shirt.”
Regardless of my shirt choice on this day, it
couldn’t have been exorbitantly horrid, as
anyone who studies the styling’s of Tavis
Smiley or Freddy Mercury as much as I do
can’t go wrong.
My first case
was simple. The Thai-American fusion restaurant I
own with my ex, Newy, was visited by the Labor
Board and the agent, a woman with the mind of a
mafia boss and the soul of a reptile, accused us
of neglecting to pay our worker, Johnny-Joe-Jobba-Johnson,
less than twice a month and under the minimum
wage. We acquired the official paper work
from our accountant showing the agent to be
incorrect in her accusations.
I attribute
all of my astounding success less from studying
law books and more from singing loudly the whole
way to the court room. With songs from Tina
Turner, Debarge and Young MC how can you go wrong?
You can’t. It’s money and the louder
you sing along, the better. Though, about a block
from the courthouse Newy opened the car door to
get out and walk. I assumed after years of
hearing my angelic voice she was used to it; to
the contrary, she was holding in her disdain, and
speechless only because she was occupied with
other thoughts, until the bitter end as we turned
on to D Street and she couldn’t take anymore.
“Chut up!
I gonna walk!” Though I describe my voice as
heavenly, I have heard other people complain
about my singing and liken it to a rhinoceros
trampling a litter of baby goats. In fact, I
can’t recall anybody ever saying these words:
“Sing that song again.” But true talent
like Al Green, Barry White, me – we live in
a world of our own. We don’t need people to
tell us how good we are. We sing for the pleasure
of song. If there were no trees to absorb our
harmony, we’d sing our song. If there were
no frogs to take in our melody, we’d sing
our song. If there were no people to hear our
tune, we’d sing our song! We are vocal
artists – me, Al Green and Barry White
– and our song is intrinsically valuable to
us; it does not matter if there is an audience
attached to the magnetic waves we propagate into
the air, they are superfluous; much like Van
Gough and his ear. Another great album to sing
along to would be The Smith’s, “Louder
Than Bombs,” but don’t let the
presiding judge hear your karaoke version to the
song, “Shoplifter’s Of The World Unite,”
in the parking lot before your case. It raises
questions of credibility.
Anyway, Newy
and I gained our composure and went over our
“to-do” list of things to say and not
to say in the hearing. Newy was calmer than usual
and ready for action, as the only thing that had
annoyed her so far was my singing.
When
describing the female plaintiff, avoid using
words like “bitch, skank,” or “hoe.”
I checked with my lawyer friends and they said
that doesn’t go over too well. I scratched
them off the list as we entered the hearing room.
There she stood, matching all of my assumed
expletives. Pure evil she was; pure unapologetic
evil, standing in a cheap discounted dress from
JC Penney’s fall 2002 edition. And I
could smell her perfume, “Este Liar Edition!”
To add, her tactic was to speak as quiet as a
mouse. And she had another tactic up her sleeve:
she was friends with the presiding judge, both
employees from the same office of Labor! When the
odds are stacked against you like this it is
highly recommended to hum the words to Matthew
Wilder’s, “Ain’t Nothin’
Gonna Break My Stride,” in your head. I
would have done this but I forgot the words.
The female
judge made little eye contact with us, a tactic
often used by judges in Guatemala or Chile, which
is often proceeded by visits from an armed
militia. The prosecutor was hell-bent on using as
much circumstantial evidence against us; evidence
that had nothing to do with our case. The judge
was hell-bent on glowing over every word the
prosecutor spoke.
Do not forget
your pen. It is awkward and no good for your
cause to ask the judge for an extra pen to use.
Though, she was nice enough to lend us one. And
another thing, don’t bring scratch pieces of
paper to write notes on. This doesn’t look
too good. If you do, you’re a fake mustache
away from writing on a napkin. Also, sit with
correct posture. Don’t lean back in your
chair as though you’re taking in a good
sunset. Newy reminded me of this, with nudges to
the arm, on numerous occasions through out the
hearing.
Their
friendship was deep and evident. As the plaintiff
spoke the judge nodded in agreement, adding
little in conversation. When I spoke the judge
frantically jotted notes as if trading at the New
York Stock Exchange. She would speak up often,
asking questions that had little to do with our
case. “How long have you been open? What
kind of food do
you serve? Who’s got the best chance to buy
Lebron James?”At one point, the plaintiff
insidiously asked if Newy was related to our
accountants. I wanted to ask her in return if she
and the judge were lesbian lovers in the 700
Hundred Club. The plaintiff went on to assert
that everything our worker Johnny-Joe-Jobba-Johnson
told her seemed true and
she believed it. It was his verbal account that
galvanized her to write us a ticket for not
paying him twice a month and below the minimum
wage. The judge nodded in accord. Indeed, I
pointed out that on the very sheet of paper the
plaintiff had Johnny-Joe-Jobba-Johnson fill out,
he wrote that he was paid nine dollars an hour!
We all had a copy of this statement in front of
us! If she believed him so much, then how can we
be accused of paying him below minimum wage?! I
further stated the official paper from our
accountant indicates that we pay Johnny-Joe-Jobba-Johnson
eight dollars an hour, as opposed to the nine
dollar mark he guessed at. To this, the plaintiff
would say, “This is only a piece of paper! I
don’t believe this! I spoke to Johnny-Joe-Jobba-Johnson.
I don’t know what this paper is!” In a
desperate act of rebuttal my response measured
the value of the Declaration of Independence,
followed with a quote from Gandhi. I don’t
know where it came from and it made sense to no
one, including me.
The evil
plaintiff had no response. She was taking notes,
no doubt reminding herself to get a hair cut from
her Neo-Nazi hair stylist. I made my final
statement, rivaling the Gettysburg Address. The
judge asked me, “Is there anything else you
want us to know?”
“Yes.
I’d like Taylor Lautner to give me a back
massage. But I’m not gay.”
Despite this
monkey court room, I walked away victorious,
knowing that in fifteen days time, when the
decision has been made, I was the righteous one
on display that day, with good shoes, good pants,
some kind of unknown shirt, songs humming in my
head and a borrowed pen from the judge.
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