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.

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.

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.

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?

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?

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.

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.

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....