Not Your Lawyer
the Court room stands ready for the Arguments
Disclaimer
I am not your lawyer. Period. I have never been your lawyer, nor will
I ever be your lawyer or
condescend to give you legal advice. How do I know this? Because all of
my past clients have
either been incarcerated for the rest of their natural lives, died of a
drug overdose, been killed
by a jealous spouse, been living in a half-way house for the criminally
perverted and insane,
are in the hospital for kidney dialysis for that drinking problem they exacerbated
at the Lot,
the Country Club, or the Beach Club, been killed in the line-up at their
favorite surf spot, killed
themselves with the pistolero that has made the rounds of La Jolla,
or, hope against hope,
finally attained the age of succession with respect to the family trust
so that they can afford
the high-priced attorney with the low-quality ability to represent their
interests in squandering the
myriad and diverse assets of their family estate.
the Defense rests outside the Santa Barbara Superior Courthouse
This is my mugshot. If you think that you have seen me before, than you
are admitting to a past
residency in either the San Diego County Jail, the Metropolitan Correctional
Center, or the Donovan State
Prison on Otay Mesa at the foot of the mountains inhabited by the human
coyotes.
This is my present facial expression and you and your ilk are responsible
for it. When someone
tells me that I look quite similiar to how I appeared twenty years ago,
this outward expression fails
to reflect the inner turmoil and anger. Why? Because I had thought that
in my early adult years
I had a countenance well-pleasing----not this jaded mask that you see before
you----and to be told that this
is the way I have always been seen by the outside world is a shock to the
ego of this middle-aged man.
You and your brethern or sistern and your antics and tricks and pasttimes
for which I was paid, and often
not compensated, for my legal shenanigans in trying to extricate you from
your idiocy, are responsible
for my thinning gray-hair, bleary-eyes, rickety-gait, frail-bones and shriveled
up private member.
To think that I would ever again speak to you of legal matters for your
reliance upon my advice,
is an indication of how you continue to delude yourself with your idea that
your father's and mother's
intelligence and creativity and perseverance in moving to La Jolla somehow
passed to you as a latent
gene that will eventually reveal itself in your person and impel you to
put away your surfboard, graduate
from Midway Continuation Adult High School at age thirty, and actually make
yourself useful to the world.
Therefore, the following stories are told only for your entertainment,
not your reliance, solely for
your edification, not your devotion:
Fistfight of Autumn, 1980 WindanSea Beach
My last Criminal Trial--the Sex Offender