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She Hates Numbers

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Why I Hate You, a poem

illustration why i hate you

Why I Hate You

You know why I hate you?  You’re a weak vine, needing to be propped up, needing more comfort than a baby.  You imagine bugs, crawling up the walls, down your hair.  Their wings whir in the night like soft sobs.

I hate you because you’re ugly — a slob, a slut, a sucker.  Because you saw your mother passed out on the carpet in front of the television, one too many times, but you didn’t kill her the way she wanted to be killed.  You didn’t help when she needed you.  Because you let yourself be unimportant for so many years and did nothing to help yourself until it was too late, until you’d already lost the war.  Peace came on unfavorable terms, the enemy couldn’t be placated.

I hate you because you’re afraid of the dark.  When you’re with a man, you lean on the solidity of his body, the real beat of his heart, you listen to his rhythmic breathing, and you’re not afraid anymore, but you start to get antsy.  His body sounds so much stronger than yours.  They don’t cry the way you do.  Does that mean they don’t feel?  Why do they want to be with the likes of you?  You don’t have the slightest idea what you want from them.  Late at night is the worst.  The stars unfold ahead of you, and you can’t find your way to the future, stupid bitch.

That’s when I hate you the most.  You’re utterly without honor.  You imagine your ex-husband, fat and happy in his bed, eating candy.  He doesn’t suffer like you do, he has already forgotten why he married you in the first place.  He is perfect.  He is way above you in the cosmos, he is light, reason.  Your life is insignificant, ignorant and small, and won’t leave a shadow.

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Baby Chicks and Free Speech, a short story

illustration baby chicks and free speech free_speech

Baby Chicks and Free Speech, a short story

Here I am, sitting on the long, narrow side patio of “Ye Olde Neighborhood Coffee Parlor” listening to yet another, tiresome & self-aggrandizing, homeless guy tell some adoring young female his “war stories.” So this one night, under this bridge… they usually begin, as does this one.

And then they arrive as quickly as possible (as does this one) at the “no one dares to call the police on me anymore,” stage, or is it no one dares call the state troopers, or the FBI, or the CIA, or the NSA? Whatever. Boils down to the fact that some dangerous, or just plain, old, drug-addled sociopath, is trying to pick up a drunk, defenseless-seeming chick (and I do mean chick – even her hair is fluffy like a newly hatched & dried chicken’s) on the side porch at “Ye Olde Neighborhood Coffee Parlor.” Then I hear the magic words: crazy bitch! Bingo!

So, to cut a long, boring, pointless ordeal short, I let him have it in the face with both barrels. Told him from where I sat, not even lifting my head to look, or my pencil from page of the blank composition book I was writing in, that if he could call someone a “crazy bitch” loud enough for me to hear him all the way at the opposite end of the uncovered concrete patio, then I could call him a “stupid, fucking sociopathic, prick asshole” as loud as I wanted to, from my end of the patio.

“Yes,” he said, “that’s your right of free speech.” And then he went inside to have the management call the cops on me. Ooh, he just trotted back out to tell me he works at the College of Law — he’s real important!

The poor, homeless chick I was afraid was going to end up as a body dumped by him somewhere along the nearest exit of the nearest interstate is not going with him now, she’s clutching her head and moaning how she was “just on my way to the lake, man!” She sounds like Janis Joplin after a shot of heroin and half a bottle of whiskey. I just kept telling her I loved her, over and over and over. And that he most definitely did NOT love her. Or have her best interests at heart.

I gave him a fucking piece of my mind. Maybe I didn’t save her life, but I definitely saved her poor, little, skinny ass from a predatory, muscle-bound hunk of steroidal ego-maniac-ism. With a tanning booth tan, or maybe it’s a spray tan, who gives a fuck. I think the other patrons inside this place just told him to get the hell out of here. We’re all here, some of us twice a day, almost like clockwork – since this is the first time I’ve ever seen him, I doubt he is a “regular.”

Oh, but the poor, unjustly accused, wee man-child protests plaintively he was “just trying to do somebody a favor, buying a homeless person a cup of coffee.” The “crazy bitch” he referred to outside on the patio was, drum roll please… his mother! Wow, there’s a shocker. What sociopath/serial killer/manipulator/user/con man/misogynist/racist/violent/physically or emotionally or financially abusive A-hole doesn’t blame their “crazy bitch” of a mother for everything they’ve brought on to themselves!

I told him she must really love him, his mom, especially when he calls her “crazy bitch” to her face on Mother’s Day! I thought his head would explode right there, all over the rusty, rickety, nasty tables the owner is too cheap to replace. Why I keep coming back here, I’ll never know. My nephew says it’s haunted… maybe the spirits are trying to get me here so they can tell me something I desperately need to know. What if I don’t want to listen to them? And I don’t! Not the bad ones, anyway. So I generally try to ignore them all, altogether, because trying to sort the good spirits from the bad spirits seems like tempting fate.

Miss “Chicken Little/Little Chicken/My Little Chickadee” would have paid handsomely for that “free” iced coffee drink with a priceless piece of her tiny, bony ass. Look on the bright side: maybe she would have left him with a little something infectious and/or potentially itchy to remember her by. Of course, if she had gotten pregnant, he would have denied everything, including ever having met her. And pity the poor child born of such a freak-o-zoid union!

Now the musclebound sociopath is gone, back on his expensive racing bike, continuing on his way to the neighborhood weightlifting “meat market” joint three blocks down the road, where he can peacock his spray-tanned asshole-ry around for all the other macho/macha bodybuilders. College of Law employee? We’ll just see about that. Yeah, that’s what I thought… nobody on the staff possesses his distinctive face. How considerate of the College of Law to have its own mini-facebook thing! Legal Sociopath Dude vacated the premises, and quickly. Thank you, all good spirits haunting “Ye Olde Neighborhood Coffee Parlor!”

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Leslie Gaines, purported “filmmaker”

leslie the asshole

Leslie Gaines is a criminal, a con man and an artistic failure.  He stole business assets from me personally, to the tune of six figures.  Yes:  $$$,$$$  He has left a bloody trail of many other duped & broken former “partners” behind him.  I pity anyone who trusts him with their priceless time, credit rating, camera equipment, or vehicles.  In addition to those crimes, he invaded my home and physically assaulted me.  He is currently hiding out in Montana, plotting his next big con job.  Warning:  do not ever, under any circumstances, believe one word this man utters.

He is a pathological liar.  He never speaks truth.  He sheds crocodile tears.  He is a bad actor.  He is a bad “filmmaker.”  He is a hypocrite, a racist, and a descendant of General Gaines, one of the foremost murderers of native Americans in this country’s history.  He, himself, is quite literally cursed by the Seminole and the Miccosuccee tribes — they have judgments against him for millions:  $,$$$,$$$, and he will never be able to own property in his own name as long as he lives. I believe he is suffering from early onset Alzheimer’s, or some other form of dementia.  Or, just as likely, he has just rotted his brain with too much drinking & drugging.

He abuses women, uses & emotionally abuses everyone he meets, and continues to steal & abuse me emotionally by using my deceased brother’s name as a credit on his illegally obtained footage!  I pray that he doesn’t harm anyone else.  Look at his face and run from it, should you see him.  Forewarned is forearmed.  I owe the world this warning, both as a human being and a fourth generation attorney.

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from my folder: defense lawyer’s greed: my lawyer made me do it, by steven lubet

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MY LAWYER MADE ME DO IT

Steven Lubet

05‑01‑2003

Sooner or later, nearly every lawyer has to confront some variant on the dilemma of zealous representation. How do we justify representing clients whose goals are morally questionable or even flatly offensive? The standard answer is that lawyers serve society by facilitating client autonomy, allowing individuals and corporations to make informed decisions about their legal rights. As Samuel Johnson explained nearly 250 years ago, “A lawyer is to do for his client all that his client might fairly do for himself.” Thus, corporate counsel (following each new accounting fraud) and public defenders (in almost every case) deliver the same ready reply to a relentlessly familiar question: How can you defend those people? Well, it isn’t always easy, but we are just doing our job.

Lawyers have come to expect skepticism, if not outright scorn, when representing, say, polluters or criminals. But until recently, it was a safe bet that no one had to be embarrassed about a client like the Catholic Archdiocese of Boston. In recent months, however, the litigation over clergy abuse has become so acrimonious that many parishioners are openly questioning the basic decency of the church’s legal strategy, going so far as to accuse the defense of inflicting new trauma on the abuse victims. Representatives of the archdiocese responded by blaming it all on their counsel ‑‑ “Our lawyers made us do it” ‑‑ as though the church has no control over the tactics employed in its name.

 More than 500 civil cases have been filed against the Boston archdiocese, alleging sexual abuse by priests and a decades‑long cover‑up by the local hierarchy. Last December, amid charges of stonewalling and complicity, Cardinal Bernard Law was forced to resign, replaced temporarily by an apostolic administrator, Bishop Richard Lennon. From the beginning, Bishop Lennon promised a new tone of reconciliation and healing. He announced his intention to settle the outstanding litigation, and promised to make therapy available to every victim who comes forward.

In the meantime, however, the church continued to mount a forceful defense in court, engaging in a level of trench warfare that would make Johnnie Cochran proud. For example, defense lawyers filed a breathtaking motion to dismiss all 500 cases on First Amendment grounds, arguing that the civil authorities could not interfere with the “bishop‑priest relationship.” It was claimed that the constant reassignment of known child molesters was beyond the reach of the law, because the supervision of priests was exclusively an ecclesiastical matter.

Predictably, the motion was denied, but not before Bishop Lennon explained that his attorneys had insisted on the hardball tactic because “failure to do this could very well result in the insurance companies walking away from us, saying that we have not exercised all of our avenues of defense.”

It was barely noticed at the time, but Bishop Lennon had actually adopted the classic lawyer’s excuse. Absolving himself of any moral responsibility for the maneuver ‑‑ much less the cost and anxiety it imposed on the injured plaintiffs ‑‑ he invoked the nature of the legal process as justification for an outrageous ploy. Attorneys routinely seek to escape the consequences of their actions by deferring to their clients’ instructions, but this was an entirely new twist on an old theme. The apostolic administrator washed his hands of his own decision, blaming the insurers and lawyers instead.

It gets much worse.

In January 2003 the church’s defense team began serving deposition subpoenas on plaintiffs’ psychotherapists, including some who had actually been hired by the archdiocese itself to provide treatment to abuse survivors. From a legal perspective, of course, this was not particularly out of the ordinary. The psychotherapist privilege is waived when a plaintiff claims damages for emotional trauma.

From a moral perspective, however, it was a disaster. The church had encouraged victims to come forward and had even set up a special Office of Healing and Assistance to facilitate therapy, as part of Bishop Lennon’s announced preference for settlement over litigation. Then the archdiocese turned around and insisted on invading the patient‑therapist relationship in a way that many victims regarded as jeopardizing their recovery.

The reaction was furious. A coalition of psychologists and victims’ rights activists denounced the depositions as “revictimization” and “reabuse” of patients who were “already broken members” of the church’s flock. Without disputing the church’s legal right to take the depositions, the group complained that the tactic was inconsistent with Lennon’s professed commitment to justice and healing. The victims’ therapy, they said, would be “permanently harmed by the intrusion of the legal system.”

One prominent psychotherapist, who had previously been invited to address the United States Conference of Catholic Bishops, put it even more bluntly: “I think that this is very despicable and deceitful. To say [that] ‘the church loves you’ and ‘we want to help you’ and then to invade your treatment is really just wrong. It may be legally okay, but it’s wrong.”

In response, an archdiocesan spokeswoman declared that the depositions were lawful and necessary: “If the victims choose to sue … we feel that we’re obligated to defend ourselves.”

Maintaining that the archdiocese still supported therapy for survivors, she insisted that the support stood “separate and distinct from the litigation process.” And lest there be any mistake, another church official remarked, “It’s a very tragic set of circumstances, but when you get to the litigation stage, there are certain things lawyers insist on doing to protect their clients.”

Thus, the Boston archdiocese inverted the very premise of the attorney‑client relationship, relying on the purported demands of counsel to justify its own moral blundering. Lawyers naturally recommend strategies that enhance the likelihood of success in litigation. To those who see themselves as legal technicians, the human toll is irrelevant so long as the tactic is lawful. The autonomous client is entitled to zealous representation, and the attorney is helpless to refuse.

But that same stricture never applies to the clients themselves. There is no conception of litigation in which a client can decline to be an independent moral actor. In fact, the American Bar Association’s Model Rules of Professional Conduct specifically call upon lawyers to “defer to the client” in regard to other “persons who might be adversely affected” by litigation. While any good lawyer would urge the archdiocese to authorize the depositions of victims’ therapists, no lawyer could compel it. That is why we call it “advice of counsel.”

The basic purpose of taking a therapist’s deposition, after all, is to undermine the plaintiff’s monetary claim for emotional distress. A good transcript ‑‑ filled with artfully extracted admissions and potential impeachment ‑‑ becomes a useful weapon in negotiation or at trial. An early deposition in the midst of settlement talks is an unmistakably aggressive move, especially in the case of a vulnerable plaintiff who has suffered clergy abuse. (In several hundred cases, all discovery has been stayed for 90 days pursuant to a “stand‑down” order intended to facilitate settlement; in other cases, however, the contentious litigation continues unabated, as the archdiocese recently moved for the entry of a gag order against a lead attorney for plaintiffs.)

The leaders of the Boston archdiocese may opt for compromise and settlement, or they may choose to litigate to the bitter end. As an outsider, I would defend their legal right to make either choice. But no client has the moral right to raise the flag of reconciliation while instructing counsel to scorch the earth.

Steven Lubet is a professor of law at Northwestern University. His most recent book is “Nothing but the Truth: Why Trial Lawyers Don’t, Can’t and Shouldn’t Have to Tell the Whole Truth.” E‑mail: slubet@law.northwestern.edu.

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