Power of Attorney (12 page)

“Oh, changing it up a little,” Judge Baker said with a smile.

“Hmmm,” Agnes replied.

“We dispute the charges,” I spoke up.

“I figured you would,” the judge replied. “Let’s hear the facts, Mr. Branson.” Turning to me she added, “As the prosecution views them.”

“On or about November 16
^th
, our fine city was honored to welcome a delegation from the sovereign nation of Uzbekistan. The delegates were being treated to a specially guided tour led by Mr. Stanley Thompson, head of the tourist bureau and Councilman Jackson, whose wife is 1/8 Uzbekistani.” I glanced over to my left and at the beleaguered Councilman Jackson who was looking like he had a bad case of indigestion.

“And this tour apparently included,” the judge looked down at paper in front of her, “Ah, the Liberty Bell this time. Go on.”

“As Your Honor is aware,” Branson continued, “Ms
.
Fishbine is not a fan of Councilman Jackson’s.  Just as the Uzbekistani delegates arrived at the national landmark, which had been temporarily closed off to the public, Ms. Fishbine appeared suddenly from a place where she had concealed herself.” Appeared
suddenly
? She was 88. How
sudden
could her movements be? This time,
I
fought an eye roll. The judge and I were apparently on the same wavelength.

“Are we, perhaps, being a little melodramatic, Counselor?” the judge asked skeptically.  “The woman has a walker. Are you sure she was
concealing
herself?”

“She had been lying in wait behind some
shrubbery
, Your Honor!” As an aside, I think that every Monty Python fan in that courtroom wanted to double over with laughter when he said “shrubbery.”

“Oh okay,” Jude Baker responded,
not
suppressing an eye roll.

“Ms. Fishbine was dressed only in a red, white and blue hula skirt with ... pasties affixed to her breasts.” He said the word “pasties” the way someone would say “genital warts” or “chronic diarrhea.” I had a feeling that Mr. Branson was a Republican.

“Must have been chilly,” Judge Baker noted pragmatically. I noted that mentally, as potential evidence to refute the “lying in wait in shrubbery” characterization.

“Brrr,” Agnes agreed.

“The pasties had bells affixed to them incidentally, as did Ms. Fishbine’s walker.”

“Appropriate,” the Judge said. “Where’s the obscenity charge?”

“Ms. Fishbine extended her middle finger in an obscene gesture aimed at Councilman Jackson and cried out “Fuck you, you senior citizen hating motherfucker!”

“I see,” the judge said calmly. “And I can also see what your argument is going to be Ms. Roth, so go ahead and make it for the record.”

“As Your Honor,” I threw a scathing look at my opponent, “
and
Mr. Branson both know, Ms. Fishbine’s gesture is not ‘obscene’ under the law unless it was intended to invoke a sexual response in Councilman Jackson.” I glanced his way and saw him wince. That man had to be in therapy. “I can call Councilman Jackson to the stand ...”

“That won’t be necessary, Ms. Roth,” the judge said glancing at the politician with a slight look of concern. “Mr. Branson, you have actually heard of the First Amendment, haven’t you?”

“Your Honor, how long does this have to go on? Mrs. Fishbine ...”

“Ms.” I reminded him.

“
Ms.
Fishbine,” he threw me an angry glare, “is harassing a public servant.”

“The key word there is ‘public,’ Your Honor,” I retorted.  “Councilman Jackson voluntarily ran for office so that he could enter
public
service. By doing so, he invited the
public
to disagree with his politics by exercising their First Amendment rights.”

“Politics?!” Branson spit out incredulously.  “Exactly what political message does ‘Fuck you, motherfucker” espouse?”

“It was ‘fuck you,
senior citizen hating
, motherfucker,’ Counselor,” I shot back. “It was a statement about the councilman’s support of policies that adversely affect the elderly residents of this city.”

“Yeah!” Agnes jumped in.

“Let your lawyer handle this, Ms. Fishbine,” Judge Baker warned.

“Ms. Fishbine was making a legitimate political statement, that was protected by the First Amendment, and unless her gesture was aimed at getting Councilman Jackson sexually aroused, it was not legally obscene.” Councilman Jackson was starting to look a bit green in the face.

“The indecent exposure on federal land is because her attire was suggestive?” Judge Baker asked.  She was starting to look a bit tired. It was 11:30 AM.

“Suggestive?” Branson looked apoplectic.  “Your Honor, she was clad only in a hula skirt and pasties. She’s 88.” Both the judge and I, along every woman in the room over 45, immediately tensed up and Branson realized, too late, what he had just implied.

“What does her age have to do with anything, Mr. Branson?” Judge Baker asked with a dangerous note in her voice. “Surely you’re not suggesting that if she were younger, her outfit would have met with your approval?”

“Of course not, Your Honor ...”

“So, it would still have been indecent exposure, if say, she had perkier breasts?”

“Your Honor, I didn’t mean ...”

“Ah,
huh
. What about the trespass charge Ms. Roth,” the judge cut him off.

“Your Honor, my client had already been on the grounds when they temporarily closed it off. She didn’t even see that they had done it.  It was only supposed to be closed for ten minutes, so they didn’t put up barricades or announce in advance that the area would be shut to the public. In fact, we can call Mr. Thompson if you like to verify this, but it’s my understanding that he decided to close it off right there on the spot.”

“Is that true, Mr. Thompson?” the judge asked the Tourist Bureau guy, who was seated in the spectator gallery.

“Yes, Your Honor,” he admitted sounding beaten.

“Let the record reflect that Mr. Thompson answered in the affirmative. Any argument on the indecency charge, Ms. Roth?”

“Your Honor, while her fashion taste may be questionable, technically, she was covered, and her breasts were not fully exposed.”

“Any final argument from the United States, Mr. Branson?”

“Your Honor, once again, Ms. Roth may have skirted within the bounds of the law, but as a matter of public policy, we simply can’t have elderly citizens wearing pasties making ... obnoxious ... gestures to politicians in public. There are groups of children visiting the Liberty Bell every day. They don’t need to see that.
Nobody
needs to see that.” He didn’t sound beaten like the Tourist Bureau guy and he didn’t seem physically ill like Councilman Jackson. He was seething with rage. He probably would have liked to give Agnes and I the finger at that moment.

“Harrumph,” was Agnes’ response.

“Ms. Fishbine,” Judge Baker said patiently addressing Agnes, Mr. Branson does have a point. Lots of children visit these historical sites. I know you don’t like Councilman Jackson’s politics. And you
do
have a right to express that dislike. I suggest, though, that you use all of this energy and passion that you have in a more productive way.  Why don’t you join his opponent’s campaign effort?  You
also
have the right to vote, as do all of your friends. I’m dismissing the charges, but think about what I said.”

“Hmm,” Agnes replied with a nod, looking thoughtful. It occurred to me that Judge Baker should be on the Supreme Court.

I escorted Agnes out immediately before Branson could slap her with some other charge. I had a feeling it was now his mission in life to convict Agnes Fishbine of
something
. When I got to the curb, I realized that I had forgotten to get a copy of the order dismissing the charges, so I headed back to the courtroom.

When I got there, I encountered Jacob arguing a case against a defense attorney whom I didn’t particularly like. He was one of those guys who wanted nothing more than to see society return to something that resembled
Mad Men
and who considered Gloria Steinem to be the anti-Christ. He had once called me “babe” just before a legal argument. I kicked his ass across the courtroom.

I sat down toward the back of the courtroom to watch unobtrusively. I was feeling a little anxiety about Jacob, to be honest. After that fun and sexy interlude in his office, and the meeting afterward, we had gone our separate ways.  I had sort expected him to call or at least text me. After all, we had this case together, and he had made me
gush
, you know?  But then, there hadn’t really been any new developments yet, and we had decided that
this
was only a physical thing, so maybe it wasn’t such a big deal. I mean
this
wasn’t
that
or anything.

I had done “just physical” relationships before with casual friends and
those
had been fine.
This
would be fine too. Even though
this
already felt different than
those
. I sighed. I couldn’t really figure it out. I’m a self-assured woman. I feel good about myself as a person and I feel attractive. While, I have my share of insecurities like anyone else, they have never been a major source of anxiety before.  But then, guys had always called or texted within a week after some sexy time together. 

For the first time, the evil demons of self-doubt were coming to haunt me. For the past three nights, I lay in bed at night trying to drift off while “What if he was just playing me?” was kicking me in the ribs and “What if he’s lost interest already?” beat me over the head with a baseball bat.

Seeing him there in court, arguing so brilliantly and confidently didn’t help. I was torn between a desire to get closer because I found him fascinating and an instinct to distance myself because he might not find
me
fascinating. I ordered myself to stop it. If there was one thing I did know about this guy, it was that he was busy. And a week could fly by without him noticing. But then a third demon came strolling along. “It only takes a second to text a smiley face emoticon” kicked me in the shin.

He won the argument, of course, and the judge adjourned for lunch. I went up to the records clerk to get a copy of the Order, heart beating quickly as I wondered if Jacob would come over to talk. I sensed him come up a moment later and to my horror, I felt my cheeks getting hot.  He was making me blush?  WTF. 

“Hey,” he said and tapped me on the arm.

“Oh, hey!” I replied, trying to sound casual, but managing to sound like I was about to diffuse a bomb instead.

“You okay?” he asked furrowing his brow. “You look flushed.”

“Yeah, it’s just ... warm.” I fanned myself with the Court Order.

“I would invite you to grab a bite to eat, but I have a lunch meeting I have to get to.” He looked like he genuinely regretted it, which made me feel a little more confident.

“No worries. I have plenty to do too. Um, any developments on the DocuKeep case?” I asked, trying to find something safe to discuss, so that I wouldn’t break down and ask why he hadn’t called or texted in a week.

“We think we may have an idea about what might have been tampered with on our end.  It involves confidential information, though, so I can’t really discuss it.”

“Oh, I understand.” I nodded.

“The good news is that it looks like your client is off the hook.”

“Oh. Right. That’s great.” I swallowed. So, I guess that meant we wouldn’t have reason to be working together anymore. I wondered if that meant that we wouldn’t be seeing each other.  His phone buzzed at that moment and he took it out and glanced at it. 

“Damn. I have to go.  I’ll talk to you soon.” With that he turned and rushed out and then I felt not only anxious, but weirdly sad too.

I
found myself at my desk at ten that night rather than home with Ally.  There were a couple of reasons, one good, and one ... I wasn’t sure yet.  First of all, while the Silver Cougars may have been zany, most of my cases weren’t.  They involved genuine Civil Rights issues that were important to me. 

My Grandpa Roth had been an attorney as well, and he had been one of the many northern Jewish lawyers who risked his own safety to sign up black voters in the south during the Civil Rights Movement. My brother, Adam, and I, who were the legal practitioners of this generation of the Roth family, admired him tremendously. Adam worked for a legal nonprofit that represented poor individuals wrongly convicted of crimes, and now, I too, was finally doing something that would have made Grandpa Roth proud. The fact that my work interested me and made feel fulfilled made working late much more tolerable. That was the good reason.

The other reason I was there late, was that I kept getting distracted.  I would take a short break between cases and find my mind drifting to Jacob.  I would think about kissing him, and think about doing more than kissing him. That was fine. We had a physical relationship and I was fantasizing about physical things. 

The only problem was, that I
wasn’t
just thinking about physical things.  I was remembering something funny he said, or I was remembering something intelligent he said and I was wishing that I could talk to him. Just talk. And then, at one point, something
really
disturbing happened. I had been reviewing a case that wasn’t as interesting as some of the others, and I glanced up at the clock. It was 7 pm and before I knew it, I found myself wondering what he was doing ... when I should have been doing something else.  Sound familiar? 
Uh oh.

I decided to pack it in at 10:30 and just as I was about to toss my phone in my purse, I paused. Why couldn’t I just text him? What was this 1915? I couldn’t reach out and contact a hot guy I liked? I sat back down at my desk and thought for a moment. Then I opened up my texting app and typed.

“I was just thinking about you. By the way, I like what you’ve done with the ceiling above your desk.” ;) I pushed send and popped my phone into my purse with a slightly guilty smile.  A few seconds later there was a telltale “ping” sound and my tummy got the flutter. I sat back down again and opened my purse. Taking out my phone I saw his reply.