Saturday, July 25, 2009

Hiking outside of Seoul

So, this morning, I decided to head back into the Angeles National Forest, to do a morning hike. From where I live (about 10 miles east of Downtown Los Angeles), the closest location that offers some hiking trails is the Chantry Flat recreation area, in the San Gabriel mountains. I used to hike there every weekend, and I noticed that if I got there around 8am, I could get a parking place in the parking lot.

That, however, was last summer. This summer, I've gone a couple of times, and by 8am, I'm already having to park a half mile down the access road from the parking lot. And of course, the vast majority of people are headed to the 1.5 mile trail that leads to Sturdivant Falls, a popular picnic destination. However, why is the rec area so crowded? Koreans!

Yep. You heard me. Koreans. The parking lot is chock full of Koreans, who arrive as early as possible. The access road opens at 6am, and I'm sure that they are lined up, waiting to drive the three miles up the winding road to snag parking places.

Today, I tried to get up a bit earlier, at 6:30am, to see if I could arrive by 7:30, and get a parking spot. I got there at 7:35, and I was out of luck again. But, this time, I didn't have to park a half mile down the road. I was somewhat closer to the parking lot. And once again, as I set off on the Upper Winter Creek Trail, looping around to Hoegee's Campground, I lost track of how many Korean hikers I ran across. I would say that about 80% of the hikers are Korean, at that time of the morning. Of course, there's a reason why I'm there that early; it's summer. It's really hot, and under the canopy, it's really humid. Hiking in the middle of the day is absolutely brutal; 90 degree weather with humidity to match; not a pleasant hiking experience. And so, I share the morning trail with the Koreans.

Later in the morning, as I sat on a large fallen log near the Campground, getting ready to turn around and retrace my steps the 3 miles back to my car, a middle aged Korean man sat next to me. After exchanging greetings, I asked him what was with all of his countrymen (and women! More than half the hikers are women.) hitting Chantry Flat every Saturday. He told me that Koreans love to hike. He said that Seoul, the capital of South Korea, is surrounded by 6 mountains, all accessible by public transport, and all popular hiking spots. So, for Koreans in Southern California, hiking offers them virtually free exercise, a chance to socialize with friends, and it reminds them of their homeland. After a brief 10 minute conversation, he set off to go hike up to Mount Wilson, and I set off back to the ranger station, passing several Koreans along the way.

So, now I understand why they're there; I just wish they would save me one measly compact parking space for my Honda.

Saturday, July 11, 2009

A date with MRSA

One of the occupational hazards of representing prisoners for a living is that you get exposed to whatever they are exposed to. The County Jail, in Downtown LA, has had all sorts of outbreaks over the years; chicken pox, tuberculosis, and most recently, MRSA, a particularly virulent outbreak of a staph infection.

In the past year, I've had clients that were treated for MRSA, and, from what they've told me, it's not a pleasant experience.

Which brings me to Wednesday. I was representing one of a pair of defendants charged with carjacking. The two guys were alleged to be gang members, and they were accused of helping two other gang members steal a car from a woman, who knew all 4 men. When I interviewed my client at his arraignment, he was pretty angry that he was in custody, and was really incensed that the female victim was identifying him. So, when the prelim rolled around, I was curious to see what the victim would do.

See, in gang cases, the way that the victim testifies is often more important that what they actually say. Because, when victims say that they can't really ID the defendant in court, or if they say that they can't remember what really happened, judges and DA's always assume that the only reason for the phenomenon is that the witness is so intimidated by the gang members that they are faking. Of course, it can't be that the victim is being honest......

So, when the victim testified, she said that she had given permission for one of the gang bangers (her boyfriend) to borrow the car, and then changed her mind, which is what led to the other guys being involved, and the car being taken, with charges being filed. However, she made it a point to say that the two defendants in court never took the car; and she claimed "I don't remember" to many statements that she told officers the night of the incident. And throughout, she was complaining of pain in her head, and she had what, from my vantage point, looked like like a swollen eye lid, that was leaking.

So, after she testified, but, before the next witness could testify, the judge took a recess and ordered the courtroom cleared of all but court personnel. It was at that point that we were told the victim's eye problem was caused by MRSA, and she had touched her wounded and leaking eye, and then touched everything in the witness area; the desk, the microphone, two exhibits, her chair, etc. MRSA is highly contagious on contact, and hard to kill. So, disinfecting is necessary. And now the court was going to have to be disinfected, and the unit that did that would arrive sometime in the afternoon. So, at 11am, we recessed for the morning, and resumed at 2pm, in another courtroom.

When we resumed in the afternoon, the investigating officer testified as to what the victim's original testimony was, and the defendants were held to answer and bound over for trial. On Thursday morning, the next day, we found out that the disinfecting team didn't arrive until around 4pm, and it took about an hour to clean everything up.

So, later that morning, I decided to have some fun. I became the first person to sit in the disinfected area, which made the court staff really queasy, and very doubtful of my sanity. So far, so good.

Although my butt itches...., could it be from the chair?

Tuesday, June 30, 2009

How did that happen?

So, I've been doing this job since 12/14/1994. I was sworn in as a lawyer the day before, so this is the one and only job I've had as a practicing lawyer.


I remember my first few months in the office; like all baby lawyers, I was negotiating a huge learning curve; trying to learn how to be a PD at the same time I was learning how to be a lawyer. I remember how all of the jargon seemed incomprehensible to me, and having to speak to a judge on the record was such a nervewracking experience. I would watch experienced lawyers work, and I would marvel at their ease with how they handled their caseload.

I remember watching felony lawyers appear in court; they would banter with their judge, exchange pleasantries, and then handle their cases with what appeared to be a total familiarity with their surroundings. I would watch them, and think to myself, "I'll never get there".

And yet, here it is; all of these years later, and even walking into a new courtroom for the first time doesn't faze me. It's all the same, really; you first walk in and look for the bailiff, to let them know that you are an attorney, and that you have cases there. Then, the clerk; to hand over a business card and introduce yourself, providing your bar number so that they can input you into their computer system. Then, the reporter; hand a card to them, so that they'll know how to spell your name. Then, I go the DA; tell them who I am, and that I'm the new PD. They ask where I'm coming from. And, this time, when I tell them I'm coming from Norwalk Felonies, the DA's, both new and inexperienced, are a little awed; just by virtue of telling them where I've come from; they know I'm one of those: the experienced felony lawyer who's totally familiar with the surroundings.

Somehow, I became one of those guys that I stared at all those years ago. How the hell did that happen? And where the hell did the time go?

Thursday, June 25, 2009

Hurry up and wait.

So, it's now week 2 of my new assignment in East Los Angeles.

The plan is that I'm one of 3 lawyers assigned to one felony courtroom. And lot's of stuff gets done here:

1) Arraignments: People are told what their charges are, and we set them directly for a preliminary hearing, or we set them for an Early Disposition date, where we try to settle the case early.

2) EDP: We get probation reports from the Probation Department, which include a rap sheet, which tells us exactly what our client's record happens to be. Then, armed with this info, we try to get the DA to agree to a plea bargain that our client will be OK with.

3) Preliminary Hearings: Probable cause hearings, where the DA brings in just enough evidence to establish a) a felony has been committed, and b) the defendant is the one who did the crime.

We are still trying to work out a happy medium in terms of actually dividing the work. Theoretically, I'm supposed to do all 3 things, while one guy (Michael) only does prelims, and the other guy (Armando) only does EDP and arraignments. So, I get to be the jack of all trades, master of none.

It's still a work in progress. My guess is in the next couple of days, the three of us will sit down and figure this shit out.

But, in terms of work; all of it is easy. I don't have to prep anything; the prelim is very brief, sometimes 15 minutes, sometimes an hour plus. But, it's not like a trial. I take nothing home with me. And Sundays are mine again.

To a felony trial lawyer, Sunday morning is the worst. For everyone else, they leisurely get up, and it's a day of rest. But, for a felony trial lawyer, the first thing that goes thru your mind on Sunday morning is all the crap you have to do this week. Which case is going to trial? Which motions did you forget to file? Which investigation reports did you not do? And your day goes downhill from there.

But, with this gig; none of those concerns. It all rolls off of your back. Because your possession of the file is temporary. Of course, there are trades. Since there are more matters to do, you are in court more than you are in felony trials. And there is a lot of downtime in court. So, there's a lot of times, I'm sitting there, watching a prelim and waiting to do my stuff. And I lost my 9/80 Fridays. Back to the normal work schedule. But, a little bit of R/R isn't such a bad thing. I can recharge my batteries for the next felony trial assignment.

Sunday, June 14, 2009

A last look back.

So, the boxes are packed and moved, the transfer memos have been written, and I am officially out of Norwalk.

Before I left, I sat on the couch and thought of who I was leaving behind:

DiSab: came in late, left early, refused to wear his reading glasses unless he was using them in trial for effect.

Gabe: every couple of hours, like clockwork; either a question or something he wanted proofread. If he was waiting on the couch for me to finish, within 10 minutes, he'd be snoring like a fiend.

Cappucino: Son of a bitch looks 20. And he's also eaten at El Bulli. And I like the guy anyway.

CRod: One of the guys, but she happens to be an attractive woman. Now pregnant, that emotional pendulum should make for great arguments with her custody clients. I'll forever be indebted to her for turning me on to Mom's Burgers.

Snooze: My twisted, demented, partner in crime. He just got back, and now I'm gone. It was never a fully adult conversation at lunch unless Snooze was there.

Noguchi-san: The zen-master. The best court partner Gabe Martinez ever had.

Mendez: I'll miss her balance ball chair.

Daniel: The new guy, and a crude, sexist germophobe; he is a perfect fit for Norwalk.

The Commodore: The old, crusty veteran. Always armed with a joke, and some leftist political commentary.

So long, gang, and thanks for the use of the hall.

Saturday, June 6, 2009

Touristing my own town.

So, one of the benefits of having a steady paying job is that I get to do something I dreamed about as a small boy; travel. My first trip out of the country was in 1996, a trip to Guernsey Island, and then, London. I had been in the PD's office about a year and a half at that point. Since then, I've been to Europe several times, and Asia several times. My wife and I usually do one, if not two, trips per year.

We love big cities; the hustle and bustle, the subways, the tall buildings, the energy, the dining options, you name it, we love it. But, we realized recently that we live in a big city, one that tourists flock to all the time. And we further realized that we never viewed our home city the way tourists do. So, this year, we decided to change that. We've decided to take some excursions to places that tourists go in LA, to see the city as they do.

With that in mind, I booked a room at the Bonaventure Hotel in Downtown LA. For those of you that have never been to LA, you've seen the Bonaventure. It is the cylindrical tower with small cylindrical towers surrounding it, and with the elevators on the outside. The hotel has been featured in so many movies and TV shows, I lost count.

We checked in last night, around 7:30pm. Each of us with one bag; Dolores', of course, being larger than mine. We dumped the bags, checked the room out, and headed back out for dinner. The Bonaventure is on the western end of Downtown, the business and law firm section of town, and the dining options are a ways away. So, we drove to the other end of Downtown, and headed to a place called Pete's Cafe on 4th and Main. I had been there before for lunch, when I worked Downtown. Really nice place; wouldn't look out of place in San Francisco or New York. Dolores got a seared tuna appetizer, while I got a caprese salad. She went with crabcakes for her entree, while I went with a smoked and roasted rack of lamb. Everything was fantastic.

Stuffed from dinner, we went back to the hotel, and went up to the top, the 34th floor, where there is a rotating lounge. If you sit there for a full hour, you will get a 360 degree view of Downtown LA. So, since it was a lounge, we got drinks. She ordered a chocolate martini, and I got a lemon drop. Now, as opposed to my college days, I am pretty much a teetotaler; so I'm a real lightweight with alcohol. There was a fair amount of citrus vodka in my drink, and I could feel it. But, since I was already in the hotel, who cared, right? I tend to just get silly when I drink, and D just watched me getting silly and amusing myself, playing with the Pepperidge Farm goldfish left as appetizers, making puns, and giggling to myself. We didn't quite last the hour, since the slow turning was messing with Dolores' head. So, we went back to the room, and pleasantly tipsy, we turned in for the night.

This morning, we slept in. But, we finally checked out and got underway around 11. I didn't want to leave the car at the hotel, because the parking rates are criminally usurous. So, we drove to a lot near Chinatown, and dumped the car there. We walked thru Olvera Street, and looked at all of the booths selling Mexican and Central American schlock to midwesterners and people homesick for their homelands. We then went across the street to Union Station, to catch the Metro Red Line to Metro Center/7th Street. It is such a shame that LA doesn't have a better Metro system; this city really needs it, and it will never happen in my lifetime. But, I digress. Once off the Metro, we walked 2 blocks to the Original Pantry.

I used to go there a lot when I was in college and law school. Dolores had never been. I had warned her that one does not go to the Pantry for a light lunch; it is heavy duty eating. There was a slight line to get in; par for the course. 25 minutes later, we were seated. She got 2 eggs, bacon, french toast, and potatoes. I couldn't resist ordering the country fried steak, with corn and mashed taters, and I got 2 orders of their cole slaw, which is the best cole slaw ever. It was an obscene amount of food, as evidenced by the photo. We were absolutely stuffed to the gills when we walked out and waddled back to the Metro station.

Once at Union Station, we walked about 15 minutes to Chinatown. We cruised up Broadway and back down Hill Street, stopping in several galleries and shops, and peering into at least one shop where you could purchase freshly killed poultry of all sorts; squab, old chicken, and various other game birds. I filed the location away, for the next time I was interested in doing some experimental cooking. We also went into a large department store, that had a very large tea section. We love tea, from our various travels, and getting really good loose leaf Chinese tea can be rather difficult and expensive. This place may be just the find we've been looking for. We were pretty beat, so we didn't explore the possibilities as much as we could have. But, we'll return.

So, having been walking for a couple of hours, we went back to the car and headed home, having enjoyed our touristy romp thru Downtown LA.

Sunday, May 31, 2009

Another year, another transfer

So, Thursday, I found out that I'm being transferred again. This time, I'm leaving my felony trial assignment in Norwalk for the early disposition program in East Los Angeles. My understanding is that I will be handling felony matters for settlement or for preliminary hearing.

A couple of benefits to the move; one is that I no longer have the stress of a trial rotation. Once I handle a preliminary hearing, it's done, and I don't have to deal with that case any more. Another benefit is the fact that I will be much closer to home; my house is just minutes away via surface streets.

A couple of cons, though. One, is I lose my 9/80 day. In felonies, you work a "9/80" schedule, where you get every other Friday off. This position I'm going to is a more traditional 5 day/week schedule. No great harm, but I will miss my regular day off (RDO). The other con is the fact that I will miss my Norwalk assignment. I enjoy being in felony trials; the hustle/bustle of court work, the give/take with the bench and the DA's, and my colleagues. I have some really good friends there in Norwalk, and it will be a shame to lose the daily contact. Plus, I'm leaving a sweet courthouse gig; I've got a great judge and DA, and it's the best courtroom gig I've ever had. But, I knew all along that great things don't last; and I enjoyed every minute there.

So, every transfer that comes along, I think of all the places I've been. It's a long list:

12/94-4/95: Criminal Courts Building (CCB), Downtown LA, Misdemeanor Training
4/95-5/95: Metropolitan Courthouse, Los Angeles, DUI Training, Misdemeanor Trials
5/95-1/97: South Gate Courthouse, South Gate, Misdemeanor Trials
1/97-1/98: East LA Courthouse, East Los Angeles, Misdemeanor Trials
1/98-3/99: Pomona Juvenile Court, Pomona, Juvenile Practice
3/99-9/99: CCB, Downtown LA, Calendar Deputy, Misdemeanor Trainer
9/99-2/02: Norwalk Courthouse, Norwalk, Felony Trials
2/02-1/03: Huntington Park Courthouse, Huntington Park, Deputy-in-Charge, Misdemeanor Trials
1/03-1/04: Public Integrity Assurance Section, Downtown LA, staff attorney
1/04-3/05: Long Beach Courthouse, Long Beach, Felony Trials
3/05-3/06: Metropolitan Courthouse, Los Angeles, Early Disposition/Preliminary Hearings
3/06-6/09: Norwalk Courthouse, Norwalk, Felony Trials.

That's what a public defender's resume in Los Angeles County looks like. Lot's of movement, lots of friends, and lots of goodbyes.

I've said lots of goodbyes over the years. One would think that it gets easier. I've found that it doesn't.

Monday, May 25, 2009

Back on the hiking trail

So, on Memorial Day, after taking 7 months off for nothing more than sheer laziness, I cracked out the poles, backpack, Camelback, and my hiking garb to head back out into the Angeles National Forest.

Of course, hiking on Memorial Day was not the smartest thing in the world to do, especially since I decided to hike out of the Chantry Flat Ranger Station, which is only the busiest spot in the whole San Gabriel Mountain Range. If you're not there by 7am, you will not park in the lot; you have to park down the mountain road, and walk up to the trailhead. And today was no exception; I got there around 8:40, and had to park about a half mile down the road. The place was crammed with cars, 80% of them having forest day passes. I felt so smug as I put my annual pass on my dashboard and set off for the forest primeval.

The vast majority of hikers were headed for Sturdivant Falls, an easy 1.5 mile hike in. I was going for a more vigorous hike; one with fewer people to contend with. The reason that Chantry Flat is so popular is twofold; 1) It's really accessible; take Santa Anita Avenue north, where it turns into the road that, 3 miles later, takes you right to the station, and 2) You have numerous hiking options. I decided to do the following: Upper Winter Creek Trail to Hoegee's Campground, about 3 miles, then take the Lower Winter Creek Trail back to Robert's Camp, which was about 2 miles. That left me with killer part of the hike; from Robert's back to Chantry Flat is an asphalt road, about .6 miles long. But, you climb about 700 feet in that distance. No switchbacks, just climb. I call it the stairmaster. Usually, I stop twice on that stretch. Today, I tried to stick with a nice, steady and slow pace. I stopped once for a couple of minutes, and then made it up to the station, where I still had another half mile back to the car.

So, all told, I did about 6 miles. I did that in a little over two hours; considering that I haven't hiked in months, that was a really good pace. So, I'm looking forward to hiking again on a somewhat regular schedule. I'd love to go out every weekend, but if I can go 2-3 times a month, I'll be really happy with that.

Monday, May 18, 2009

A red letter PD day.

So, I had two cases on calendar today that I was a little worried about dealing with.
One was a guy charged with shoplifting and store burglary. He had gotten himself high on drugs, and stole a ton of booze from a supermarket. He had a old strike offense and had been to prison twice in the past 7 years. So, the offer for him was 32 months in prison. He wanted probation and a drug program. When I first arraigned him 7 weeks ago, I told him I felt that he was being unrealistic about his request for probation; with his record, he was almost certainly going to prison. He argued that he had never, ever gotten a drug treatment program. I told him that was because he never got arrested for drug possession; he always got arrested for stealing shit. It's always easier to get a drug program when you're charged with a drug offense. He suggested that if I couldn't help him, he would represent himself. I told him it was his choice; but my job was to advise him of all likely possibilities, not just humor him and tell him a fairy tale.
When he came in for pretrial 3 weeks ago, my judge wasn't in; she had called in sick. So, I told him that I would set the case for trial. On the next court date, I would ask the judge to eliminate the strike prior, and give him either probation and a drug program, or a reduced prison sentence. He agreed. Last week, he called to ask me what I was doing for him. I told him that I had written my motion, asking the judge to eliminate the strike prior, and we'd just have to wait for her decision.
I figured that my judge wouldn't give my guy probation, but instead send him to prison, albeit for less than the 32 months that the DA's wanted. But, I figured that my client would balk at a reduced prison offer, and refuse it. That would mean I'd have to do his trial, and he'd end up doing probably 4 years in prison afterward.
So, in court this morning, I let the judge know that I'd filed the motion, and told her what I wanted. She read my motion, and told me my guy could have probation and a drug program. A total shock; didn't see that one coming. When I went downstairs to let him know, he was pretty stoked. So was his family; I had prepped them for the fact that my client was probably doing some prison time, based on my assessment of the case.
The second case was even better. This guy was charged with carjacking, robbery, and alleged to have used a gun during the crimes, along with being alleged to be a member of a gang. He was also alleged to have a prior strike offense. So, he was looking at consecutive life counts. I'd had this case last year, but when I kept telling him that his defense was pretty hokey and wouldn't get past a jury, he decided to represent himself. After being on his own for a couple of months, he decided to take me back. The first thing I tried to do was convince him to try and settle the case. He was still in his 20's and I thought I could get the DA to offer me around 20 years. Not great, but better than getting a double life sentence. He said he wouldn't take anything that high.
So, I got his case ready for trial. There were some things I could argue, but the bottom line was that I figured a jury wouldn't buy my theory. Today was the day we would set a start date next week for the trial. I went to see my client last Friday to go over what we were going to do. He realized that winning the trial was unlikely, but couldn't wrap his head around the fact that any possible offer would be to high for him to accept. He said that he'd take 13 years. I told him the DA would have to eliminate all sorts of allegations to get that low, and that wasn't likely. But I'd ask, and see where the bidding went.
This morning, I went to the DA. I told him that I was making a defense offer of 13 years in prison for the carjacking and the gun use allegation. The DA asked about the gang enhancement; I told him that I thought I could prove that my client wasn't a gang member, and if the jury bought that, I'd beat the life sentence. He said he'd talk to his boss. 20 minutes later, I had my 13 year offer.
What worked for me here is my reputation; the DA's all know that I don't bullshit them, and I don't go crazy asking for all sorts of unreasonable things for my clients. They know that I'm an an effective trial lawyer, and they all respect me. So, when I told the DA that I was going to try to beat the life allegations, and told him my theory, he knew I might be able to pull it off. That's why I got that offer.
And with offer in hand, I went to my client, and told him he needs to take the offer before the DA's realize that they just gave away the courthouse. My guy wasn't the sharpest tool in the shed, but he agreed to take the offer, after I had to tell him about 50 times that he shouldn't take the case to trial.
So, I got probation and a drug program when the client wasn't charged with drug possession, and I settled a double life case for 13 years. That was a pretty good day's work for any PD.
Some days, I think that I am pretty good at this job. And this day was one of them.

Sunday, May 17, 2009

Saturday at the Towers.

In LA County, there are several jail facilities that house prisoners who are either awaiting trial or serving out county jail sentences. There are 3 facilities in Downtown LA; Men's Central Jail, and what are referred to as the Twin Towers; Towers 1 and 2.

Normally, when attorneys go to jails to visit their clients, they go during the week. However, since I live only 10 minutes from Downtown, every so often I'll visit a client on a Saturday. Yesterday, I had to take a promotional exam for work. Even though we were allotted 4 hours within which to complete the exam, I was done in 45 minutes, and afterwards went Downtown to visit a client.

The Towers are relatively new; they were completed less than 10 years ago, so they are not fraught with all of the problems that you hear about across the street at the Men's Central Jail. Lots of light, modern amenities, the building looks pretty plush for a jail.

The downside of seeing a client on a weekend is that it's the same time that inmate's families are allowed to visit their loved ones behind bars. So, I have to deal with a really large crowd of people who are also visiting.

For me, it's really easy to come do a visit. Because I am a Public Defender, I get to park for free by only flashing my PD badge. The general public has to shell out $7 for a space. And if they get here late in the day, there are no spaces to be had. Once I park, I walk into the tower that my client is housed at, walk right to the counter, provide my ID and my visiting slip, and I am allowed to go upstairs immediately to wait for my client. Everyone else has to wait in a 30+ minute line just to get to the counter. Once at the counter, they fill out a slip, and have to show the deputy ID, and then the deputy verifies the ID, and begins the process of setting up the visit. The visitor is told to wait in the waiting area until their name is called. The ones who arrive first thing in the morning wait about 1/2 an hour to make their visit. Those who arrive later wait longer. Once they go up for their visit, they are only allotted 30 min. to talk to their loved ones. Factoring in the fact that other inmates have to leave first, the visit usually is closer to 20 minutes. That's it. Whereas I can stay as long as I want with a client.

For me, visiting clients on Saturday is just an exercise in people watching. So many people go visit loved ones in jail. I see lots of wives, girlfriends, and baby's mommas there, and in various states of dress. As I was driving back home, I saw a very attractive young woman, couldn't have been older than 20, wearing leggings, knee high leather boots, and a pretty expensive looking shift. She was headed for the Towers. I was curious as to who she could be visiting.

I see a lot of mothers. Lots of inmates are in their upper teens and low 20's. A life of crime is usually for the young, and there are a lot of mothers in that line. And you know that this isn't their first time there. They go every weekend. It is amazing to think about having to see your child only once a week, and only behind bars. And then the children. Lots of children. From newborns to teenagers. These women have no one to babysit, so they bring the kids with them. And some bring the kids so their father can see them, even behind glass. I find myself wondering what it must be like to talk to your father behind glass; having to use a phone to hear him. What if you're a young boy, and you've spent more time seeing your father behind glass than in the flesh? What does that do to the boy?

And then, you're upstairs in the visiting floors. It's a long room, with 6 booths. Each booth has a phone, so you can talk to your loved one. In that room, there are usually 20 or so people, all taking turns talking to their loved one. One person is on the phone, and every one else is waiting for their turn; siblings, children, parents. It's really loud, because everyone can hear everyone else's conversation. Usually, I get to visit my client in a private booth reserved for attorneys. That way, I don't hear anyone else's conversation. But, there have been times that I had to talk to my client in the main room, surrounded by all the other visitors. I listen to "I love you"s, and conversations about kids and parents, about how the rent is going to be paid, about what the lawyer is doing or not doing, about when the inmate is getting out. All done behind glass.

And as I leave, and walk to my car and drive away, to my nice suburban life, I wonder what will become of me; I've spent my professional life with these people and their families. I know more about human misery, frailty and suffering than most people. And I wonder how that changes me. I've spent more time in jail facilities than most religious people have spent inside of church. I've heard such stories of sadness, anger, desperation, stupidity, recklessness and pure evil. How can I remain unchanged?

Saturday, May 9, 2009

On Mother's Day....

Firstly, I do wish a Happy Mother's Day to all you mothers out there. I hope your partners bought you something nice, and I hope your kids bring you breakfast in bed, even if it's only a box of PopTarts.

As for me, Mother's Day is simply a reminder of the fact that I haven't seen or spoken to my mother in over 10 years. I have been motherless for almost 30 years. As I sit here now, I don't notice any adverse results from having finished childhood without a mother, but I would be the last one to recognize those results, anyway.

My early childhood was rather idyllic, looking back. My younger brother and I had an intact family until I was about 10, at which point things started going wrong. At the time, it appeared that my parents were fighting over my mother wanting to go out and get a parttime job. Dad would have none of that, and the squabbling began. It got to the point that my mother decided to move out.

Although we loved both of our parents, at that age, we were actually more attached to Dad; our mother was somewhat emotionally unstable; quick to anger and fling shoes at us if we were out of reach. Dad, although a strict disciplinarian, was more tolerant of our goofing around, and certainly much more evenkeeled. So, when she decided to move out, we chose to stay with Dad in the house. We opted for the calmness of Dad, along with the fact that we could live in the same house and go to the same schools, and not disrupt our lives any more than necessary.

While my brother and I were making our decision, Dad was enforcing his will on his wife, telling her that she wasn't getting custody of us no way, no how. She really didn't have much choice, really; Dad was a formidable opponent. If she wanted out, she was leaving emptyhanded. And so she left. For the next 2-3 years, she moved back in several times, but it never worked out, and she left for good before I started high school. So, for those years, it was just Dad, my brother and I in the house, sans any female influence whatsoever. However, Dad was still hooked on Mom; for him, she was his thunderbolt.

Late during my freshman year in college, I had occasion to run into her at South Coast Plaza in Costa Mesa. We met by happenstance in the parking lot. She came over to my car and we chatted for awhile; I hadn't seen her in about 5 years, so I was catching her up on the fact that I'd graduated high school and was now attending UCLA. At some point, the discussion turned to my father, and she said that she still had Dad wrapped around her finger, and could move back in with him in a heartbeat. That really pissed me off; so I told her that although she had Dad wrapped, I wasn't, and if she set foot in the house, I would find a way to "fuck her under". Her response was galvanic; she burst into tears, bolted out of the car, and headed into the mall.

I sat there for a moment, pondering what I had done. I then went into the mall to find her. I just started walking, knowing that the odds of finding her were minimal at best. However, 50-60 yards in front of me was a large crowd of people. I knew my emotional mom was in the middle of that scrum, so I jogged over there. And sure enough, she was prone on her back, with a rent-a-cop tending to her. I pushed my way thru, telling people that it was my mother on the ground. She saw my face, pointed to me, and yelled, "He's not my son!!!!". That was all I needed to hear; I turned around and walked away.

Later that year, while I was off at school, my parents remarried. I came home from school for winter break, only to find the house redecorated in a very distinctive way. I opened the door, and my parents walked down the stairs. Dad said, "I've got something to tell you....". I interrupted him and told him "Don't tell me, let me guess; you got remarried." They nodded in affirmance. I congratulated them and said, "Well, you guys are adults, so I presume you know what you're doing. I hope it works out". In my mind, I gave them 6 months. They didn't even make it that far.

I didn't see my mother again until the year I turned 30. By then, I had been in the PD's office for a couple of years, Dolores and I had been dating for almost the same amount of time, and things were good. I was looking forward to turning 30, and I was in a good place in my life. But, the one loose end was my mom. I still felt poorly about how things had ended between us, and I wanted to apologize. So, I went to Costa Mesa, to the last place I knew where she worked. She was still working there, and I was directed to her. She was blown away to see me, and we chatted for a few minutes. She got permission to leave work early, and we drove to her apartment. I caught her up on my life, and invited her to dinner. At dinner, we continued talking about my college and law school years, and what I was doing in the PD's office. Finally, I told her that I was apologizing for the way I had treated her 11 years prior. I told her that, at 30, I had a much better understanding about why the marriage fell apart, and that I felt that she did the best job she could under the circumstances. She appreciated the apology. Then, I told her, that although I've let all of the past go, I had been without a mother for so long that there really was no place for her in my life. I had no interest in trying to fake a relationship that simply didn't exist. So, it was very unlikely that I would ever contact her again. She didn't like hearing that, but offered no resistance. I drove her home and said goodbye.

That was 12 years ago. As I write this, I have no idea if she is alive or not. I have no idea where she is. And Mother's Day is tomorrow. So, I hope all of you have a great Mother's Day, but please forgive me if I sit this one out, OK?

Thursday, May 7, 2009

Night driving in LA

Last night, I had gone to a charity theatre event put on by the Soroptimist's Club of Whittier. The event wrapped up a little after 9:30, and I wended my way thru the streets of Whittier, to get to the freeway. I was about 25 minutes from my house via the 605 and the 10 freeways.

At that time of the night, I was doing 75, flying down the freeway, with my iPod blasting at a pretty high volume. And I started thinking, this is really great, and why don't I do this more often?

I remember when I was in college; I used to drive at night all of the time. My freshman year in college, I was driving every Friday to see my high school girlfriend at Pomona College, which was about 60 miles from UCLA, where I was residing in the dorms. I'd leave Pomona really early in the morning, and I would have the freeway to myself, while I'm speeding like a maniac, listening to loud music. I used to love that; the speed, the music, simply driving. When I had first moved into the dorms, I knew nothing about LA County, having spent my whole life behind the Orange curtain. So, I bought a Thomas Guide and proceeded to systematically learn the county in the only method possible; by driving thru it. I started close by, driving on the Westside; Pico, Wilshire, Lincoln, Sepulveda. Then I expanded to MidTown and Hollywood; Melrose, Santa Monica, La Brea, La Cienega, Hollywood, Sunset. I learned Downtown, Silver Lake, Griffith Park, the South Bay and the Valleys, both San Fernando and San Gabriel.

And I would drive at night. I had this one friend, Monique. She's still my friend all these years later, although we don't talk all that often. We would go to dinner, go see a horror movie, and then I would drive for hours, while we were talking and listening to music. We used to have a joke, every time Monique got in the car, my engine would groan, because it knew it was in for a long night.

Of course, I knew all the places to drive at night, PCH up by Malibu, or maybe Mulholland Drive, with all of the makeout spots, Hollywood and Downtown, with all of the lights. This city looks different at night, especially when you're flying past it at 70 miles an hour. I used to love it so; if I was sitting in my apartment, and was in a bad mood, I just got in the car and drove. Never with any destination in mind. I'd just drive. I discovered so many places that way. It was therapy for me; a way to clear out my mind.

Which brings me to last night. Driving home, flying down the freeway, blasting music. I wasn't particularly troubled, but I found myself just losing myself in the drive. My left hand on the wheel, my right hand on the gear shift (5 speed, don't you know. I've never owned a car that didn't have a clutch). The music blasting. The city flying past me in a blur of lights and signs. I got home around 10. My wife was inside, and I had work to go to in the morning. I had all the responsibilities of a 41 year old professional male waiting for me in that house. And although I embrace those, and enjoy my life, there was a part of me that thought for a moment about backing the car out of the driveway, getting back on the freeway and flying thru the city.

But, I didn't.

Monday, May 4, 2009

Why I still miss Paul Hester.

A little over 4 years ago, Crowded House drummer Paul Hester committed suicide in his native Melbourne, Australia.

I've been playing some Crowded House of late. They're probably my favorite band, after the Police. Have all of their CD's, plus the DVD of their farewell show in 1996. They have since reformed, with Matt Sherrod replacing Paul in the lineup. They've released a new album, and I saw them tour in 2007.

I've seen them several times since their debut in 1986. I saw every tour that came thru LA. A Crowded House show was unlike any other; the bandmates would switch instruments, or run into the crowd while performing, or just act silly on stage. The audience also had a role at a Crowdies show; certain songs were to be sung along to. To be in a crowd of thousands, singing the chorus to "Don't Dream It's Over" or "Better Be Home Soon" was always a moment that stirred one's soul; all of us in the audience were connected in those moments. Such is the power of music.

For those of us that love music, our lives have a soundtrack. Certain songs remind you of certain things. For me, Crowded House was such an integral part of my life that those songs bring me back to where I was in life; the debut album takes me back to college; "Together Alone" reminds me of law school and a new relationship with a woman who would later become my fiancee. And the new album, "Time on Earth", brings me to the present, when I could take my wife to see the band of my youth, the band that I love.

And seeing them on stage, 2 years ago, minus Paul, who was the humorist, the crazy drummer who could beat the crap out of a drum kit with his sticks, or play so softly with the brushes, only served to remind me that I wasn't a young, impetuous student anymore. I was 40. And seeing Neil Finn's graying hair, Mark Hart in glasses, and Nick Seymour's wrinkles reminded me that I was closer to 50 than to 20. That, from here on out, I will go to more funerals than weddings. That this part of life is about loss, and how you react and deal with it. I still wake up every morning, and my mind feels so young and vibrant. But when I hop out of bed, my body reminds me of the passage of time.

That's why I love my music as much as ever; its power to restore, its power to bring back memory, and most importantly, its power to heal. When I read that Paul died, my first reaction was that Crowded House could never reform. And yet, they have, and they can still move my soul. And when I listen to "Better Be Home Soon", it becomes an elegy for Paul. At the Greek Theatre 2 years ago, singing

"and I know I'm right,
for the first time in my life"
that's why I tell you,
you better be home soon"

with 10,000 others, along with Neil, Mark, Nick, and Matt, we were all mourning Paul's loss, and believing in the future. Since I discovered Crowded House 23 years ago, I've found other musicians whose music touches my heart in so many ways, Neko Case, Peter Gabriel, E, and others. But none like those guys from New Zealand and Australia. All of us have a band of our youth. Crowded House was mine. And I thank Paul Hester from the bottom of my heart. RIP, man, and I hope you're still drumming.

Friday, May 1, 2009

French Efficiency

Today's tale of woe comes from our trip to Paris in February, 2004. Dolores and I were spending a week in a flat in the Montmartre district. Our flat was about 100 meters from the Sacre Coeur Cathedral, and we had a great time on the trip.

However, there was one glitch, and it is that glitch that I will discuss. It was a Sunday, and we had just arrived in Paris the day before. It was around 3pm, which, at that time of the year, meant that the sun was going to set soon. We were on the Left Bank, and walking along Boulevard St. Germain, which is a main thoroughfare in the Left Bank. I needed to use a restroom, as did Dolores. I figured we would just stop in a cafe, but as we were walking, we saw one of those standalone toilet kiosks on a street corner. An example is pictured nearby. I had read about these things, that they were selfcleaning and pretty slick. I figured, that'll work for us. We'd give it a shot.

Dolores went first; if I remember correctly, you put in a 50 Eurocent coin to open the door. She went in. She came back out a couple of minutes later, and said that it was kind of weird, but it worked perfectly. So I went in. I needed to urinate; I did what I needed to do, and then proceeded to the sink. There were instructions posted on the mirror, and pictures were supplied. What you were supposed to do was the following; run your hands under the faucet to get your hands wet. Then put your hands under a soap dispenser for a little drop of soap. After scrubbing your hands, you put your hands back under the faucet to rinse them. Then, you put your hands in a recess in the wall, where a dryer would dry them. A paperless system, and everything worked on laser detectors.

So, I put my hands under the faucet, and got a tablespoon of water on my hands. I tried again, and got no water. Then, I went for the soap. And got several tablespoons of soap on them. My hands were full of this pink, soapy goo, that was the consistency of cold honey, because, remember, it's Paris in February; it's 50 degrees at best outside. So, now my hands are coated in cold pink goop, and I put them under the faucet. Again, a tablespoon or two of water. This left my hands still very pink and gloppy. And, since this was an automated, "green" system, there were no paper towels. I looked for the toilet paper; it was behind a sliding door and completely inaccessible. So, let's review; my hands are cold and covered with cold, sticky soap; I can't get water on them, and I have nothing to wipe them off on.

So, with no other alternative, and ready to destroy this kiosk with my bare hands, I stalked outside. Somehow, I was able to explain my predicament to Dolores with a modicum of grace and equanimity, which did nothing for my gloppy hands. I finally had to resort to wiping them down on my socks, which caused Dolores to just about collapse in laughter. As we resumed walking towards our goal, the Eiffel Tower, everytime I would look at Dolores, she would start laughing all over again.

For the rest of the trip, everytime we saw a kiosk, she would laugh, and I would curse. Not too long ago, we were walking thru Downtown Los Angeles, and we noticed a couple of those kiosks. Dolores asked me if I'd go in one. I told her no fucking way....

Wednesday, April 29, 2009

The Mexican Hindu

Just for the record, I'm 3/4 Mexican, 1/4 Portuguese. Why do I mention this? Because, for the bulk of my adult life, people assume that I'm Indian. Indian as in the subcontinent, not Indian as in I'm a part owner of a casino.

It's not that big a deal; when I lived in the dorms at UCLA, I was known as "Gandhi". Whenever I travel, if I run into an Indian family, I always get "the look"; they stare at me, trying to guess what caste I am, and whether or not I'm truly a member of the tribe.

I've had some fun with this. I have a slight gift for mimicry; I can produce a pretty passable Indian accent, along with French and Russian. So, whenever I'm asked if I'm Indian, I respond in a 7-11 quality Indian accent, and talk about how I moved here from Calcutta, because I think white women are really hot. That's usually good for a laugh.

I'm married to a woman who is half-Hispanic, but looks white as a ghost. So, we get interesting looks from time to time. Especially from Indian people, who stare at the striking white redhead walking with me thru the airport.

I have two stories that illustrate how much fun this is;

First was when I was a baby PD in South Gate. I was doing misdemeanors, which means you have a ton of clients every day. So, most of my clients were in custody, and I'd interview them in the big lockup cell in the back. I was done with my interviews and was back in the courtroom taking notes. An interpreter came up to me and, while laughing hysterically, told me that one of my clients wanted to talk to me again. I asked what was so funny about that. He said "The guy told me to get his lawyer. I asked him which lawyer to get. The guy said, 'I don't know his name; it's the Indian guy with glasses. El Hindu' "

So the interpreter said, "'El Hindu'. That's you, Camacho!" and kept laughing.

"El Hindu"; Spanish for "The Hindu". To this day, some colleagues still call me that.

The second story takes place in Hong Kong. My then girlfriend, and now wife, Dolores, and I were taking our first vacation together. We had started in Singapore and were now in Hong Kong for a few days before flying home. We went to the Hard Rock Cafe in Kowloon for lunch. After lunch, I had to go to the gift shop to get a shirt. Dolores and I go to the gift shop, and there are two Indian girls working the counter. Dolores and I were the only customers in the place, and while we were checking out the shirts, the girls were talking to each other in Hindi, Urdu, or some other language. And they were pointing at me. They weren't even trying to hide it. To my amusement, I watched them from the corner of my eye, and it was obvious what they were saying. "Where's he from? What's he doing with the white woman? Is he from the States? He speaks English! Is he rich?", etc.

We picked out our shirts, and I made to pay for them with a credit card. They both took the card, saw the last name "Camacho", and were shocked. They were talking, still, and this time it was "Camacho; that's not an Indian name. What's the deal with this?" I signed the receipt, took my card and bag, and as I walked out, I said "Thank you and come again" in an Indian accent. As I walked down the street, Dolores walked behind me and was silent. I turned around, and saw that she was furious. I started laughing, which is never a good thing to do when the woman you're with is pissed at you. I said, with all the innocence I could muster, "What's the matter?"

"You know..."
"No, really, I don't. Tell me"
"You know those girls were checking you out"
"Really, I hadn't noticed." I now admit, 12 years after the fact, that THIS was a blatant lie.
"Bullshit, you didn't notice!"

I admitted that I had, and pointed out their puzzlement that I wasn't Indian. To this day, Dolores doesn't find this story as funny as I do.....

So, why do I tell the story? Because today I had an Indian client come in with his father. It was a minor matter, and easily handled. But I got "the look" from Dad. He made a point to ask my name, and I could see the surprise when I said "Camacho".

It never ends.

Monday, April 27, 2009

Welcome back!

So, I had put away the blog for several long months. Finding motivation to write something every couple of days was just too daunting. However, a couple of months ago, a cousin turned me onto Facebook, and I find myself writing little things on FB every day. So, I thought that if I could do that, maybe I can return to the blog.

So, today's story comes from my life as a PD.

I had a client last week; female, charged with possession of methamphetamine for sale. What we in the business refer to as a "slinger". She was out on 20 grand bail, and was supposed to be in court on Thursday. She was a no-show, so the bench warrant went out, and the bond was forfeited. Her dad was in court, and wanted to know what happened. He spoke only Spanish, so I used an interpreter to explain that she didn't show up, and so a warrant for her arrest has been issued. He said that she was in transport from Oregon, where she was in child custody proceedings. I told him that, if you don't make your court date, this is what happens.

She comes in the next day, Friday. She explains that she's not guilty; co-arrestees are lying, and that she lost her children due to the arrest. I explain that she may have a defense, but first, I gotta get the warrant recalled and see if the judge will keep her out of custody. Even though the DA objected really loudly, the judge let my client go on her own recognizance (OR), but told her to come in today, with reassumption papers from the bonding agency, so she could be placed on the same bail that was originally posted. If the bonding agency wouldn't do that, then she would be held on the original bail amount. I gave her specific instructions as to what to do, and I told her to be in court promptly at 9am with those papers, otherwise she was going into custody.

So what happens? Today, at 9am, no client. She saunters in at 9:45am. I ask her where's the papers? She says that the agency won't give them. I told her she's going into custody. We spend the next half an hour arguing this; that she needs to be out for her kids, that she is innocent, that I'm doing nothing to help her, and I'm just trying to fuck her like everyone else. Pissed at this point, I remind her that I got her sprung last week, and it was her responsibility to take care of the bond, and if she feels persecuted, leave me out of that. She says that she paid the money for the bail, and has the receipt. Her dad is right there, arguing on her behalf, in Spanish. I tell them both that I need the reassumption papers. I call the agency, who tell me they won't issue them b/c my client still owes them money. So, at 10:30, I tell them to come into the court so she can go into custody. She's still in the hallway, on the phone negotiating with the agency. I tell her to come in, and walk into the courtroom and wait. I see Dad walk in two minutes later, grab my client's sweater from the seats, and go back out. 5 minutes later, the hallway is empty. I told the court, and the bench warrant went out.

So at 10 minutes til noon, I'm summoned to the front desk. My client, in her wisdom, left court, drove her dad to the bond company in Downtown LA and got the papers. I told her it's too late; there's a no bail bench warrant now and she'll have to appear at 1:30 to get taken into custody. We argue for 10 minutes; she claims that she got the papers, so everything is OK. I tell her she's 3 hours too late, and she left court. She calls the bond agent to get advice, and on the phone says, "and can you recommend a real attorney, because this one isn't helping". At that point, I said, "See you at 1:30".

So, at 1:30, I gave the judge the reassumption papers and asked for the warrant to be recalled and bond to be reinstated. The DA pointed out that the client insists on doing things her own way and has no respect for court proceedings. The judge doubled the bail. Dad was pissed. He says that I should've gotten her released. I told him she should've taken care of what she needed to get taken care of. He looks at me and says that if I had kids, I'd understand. As if, by virtue of having no children, I am incapable of any fucking understanding about parents and children. I told him if he knew the law, he'd understand. He asks how much is bail? I tell him. I ask him if he'd like to know when his daughter has to return to court if he bails her out. He waves me off, and says that he'll just pay to get his daughter out. I tell him that if he doesn't know when to come back to court, there'll be another bench warrant. He dismisses me and says "I'll just pay for her to get out". I gave up beating my head against the wall. I told him to have a nice day.