A Nice Compliment

So I'm calling Department of Child Support Services today because we have a little hearing tomorrow morning and I subb'd the employment records of the other side, records the court received, said they were going to copy and give to me, and never have. So I have to continue the case until I get those records so I can look them over.

Anyway, the receptionist on the phone says, "Are you the Bruce who represented the rapist?" Which is a rather peculiar question, but the statutory rape case was in all the papers, so I figured she was just another curious member of the public.

"He didn't think of himself as a rapist," I said, "but yes, I did that trial."

"I was a juror on that case," she said, "and I have to tell you, I was very impressed by your questioning. It was very deep and intelligent."

The jury, by the way, found the young man guilty after three days of deliberation. But I didn't feel it important to point this out.

"Thanks for the compliment," I said, and then was connected to the lawyer I called.

Well, another fan.

You know, folks, there are days when I feel like I should just chuck it all, sell the Little Yellow House and live off my $2000 per month from the County of Orange. There are plenty of apartments around here for less than $1000, and if I got a part time job at, say, Starbuck's, I'd have a little left over at the end of the month, medical coverage and profit sharing, and I wouldn't have to worry at night about whether I'd filed this paper, or how was I going to cross examine that person. I could get up late, read books, write, and live a quiet, if somewhat limited life. There are days.

Other days--like when a former juror feels compelled to tell me what a wonderful job I did, even if she didn't find my guy innocent--well, other days I think I just might have what it takes to make it in this rough and tumble world.

Oh well, oh well. Saturday I went to the Oyster festival with a friend, and was treated to two beers and a host of oysters. I'm not usually a fan of the shellish beast, but these little creatures had been cooked with garlic, or pineapple, or barbecue, or some hot confection that was a step from orgasm. And it's been so long since I've been intimate with anyone, that the oyster orgasm was a welcome sensation.

Father's Day I was treated to a nice homemade chicken dinner by my son's mother, who appreciates the fact that I kept the promise made all those years ago that I'd be a major part of the boy's life. She and I are pretty good friends now, enough so that I keep encouraging her to find some nice young man to make her happy. It's hard to believe that she'll be 50 next year. I've always thought of her as much younger than me. I really do, BTW, hope she finds some man who can make her happy. Heaven knows, I never have. But I put the blame squarely where it sits--on the Heavens, who made us too much opposite persons to be able to live peacefully under the same roof.

As for the fruit of that brief union, he's in the other room right now pounding on the piano. He's excited because he's going to be playing drums for the College of the Redwoods big band next semester. He's been practicing quite a bit. The old man is pretty excited, too, to think that he's finally going to be returning to the drums after a three year hiatus. That boy was born to play the drum set. It's what will make God happy.

As for what I am born for, heaven knows. And if heaven does know, it's been pretty secretive about it. For now I'll just muddle on as a lawyer, hope for a few more opportunities to show my brilliance, and hope for the best. What the hell. It would be hard to sell the Little Yellow House anyway. And I'd miss it terribly. I'm just getting used to the stains Adam put in the carpet...