Message left on my work voicemail, received this morning:
"Um, hello? This is xxxxx. I was walking around Lake Harriet and it looks like a car was broken into or something... I'm not sure... But, there are clothes everywhere, a nice pair of designer sunglasses, a bus card... And I found your business card. My number is xxx-xxx-xxxx. Please call me if these are your things."
Well, they are not my things. But, I figure it has to be one of two scenarios. ONE: one of my friends or clients was robbed. TWO: a current or former client jacked someone and dropped their bus card and my business card.
What do you think happened?
Either way, if you're missing some stuff and are a card carrying Mariam-member, let me know... I put you in contact with xxxxx.
When I woke up this Monday morning, I was feeling hopeful. The start of a new week! I switched on the MPR, put on my suit, made some coffee and put it in my adorable "University of Wisconsin Law" travel mug, strapped on the ipod and moseyed to work. But, as soon as I walked into my office, the shit hit the proverbial fan.
The minute I got to my desk, the cap popped off my coffee mug and spewed hot coffee all over my *white* shirt. My Tide pen, although awesome, couldn't quite manage the vastness of the stain - probably would have been better off pouring coffee over my entire shirt and making it brown. I scrounged through my desk drawers and could only find one shirt - a turquoise t-shirt that was faded and purchased from urban outfitters about 5 years ago. Desperate to not go topless to court, I slipped it on and went to my first court appearance of the day.
After having to wait for clients in two courtrooms - one of whom did not show - I finally made it back to the office. I opened a letter from the State Board of Public Defense... Due to budget cuts, they will have to prepare to cut fifty full-time public defender positions statewide. As my eyes scanned the letter, I got a frantic call from a fellow State PD. "Dude! The Adult Team leader is going to the newer attorneys offices and telling them they might get sacked in June!" Thank God for turnover, because at 3 years senority, I think I may have avoided the chopping block. I think.
After lunch, I rechecked my to-do lists for my upcoming trials. One serious felony set every Monday in the month of May. May 5 - 1st Degree Drug Possession. May 12 - Criminal Sexual Conduct in the 1st Degree. May 19 - 1st Degree Aggravated Robbery. May 27 - Attempted Murder in the 2nd Degree. Sigh. I went through the files to see what had been done and what needed to be done.
That afternoon I had an office meeting to prepare a trial with a Spanish speaking client. She came in with her best friend, and interpretor, and looking into her earnest and hopeful eyes, I realized I have an innocent client. A victim of circumstance. Knowing my client is innocent always leaves a gnawing feeling in my stomach, as if to say: you can't lose this one!
I decided to hit the gym, to try and relieve some stress. After I was done, I went back to the office and prepared the files for my appearances tomorrow, then responded to a few emails and phone calls. I closed up my computer and hit the streets to walk home. Half-way home, I noticed the sky was growing dark. The air had that perfect humidity and I could smell it... Rain. Before I could even look to the sky, the drops began to fall. Sweet. I booked it home, and of course as soon as I got inside, the rain stopped. Of course.
Feeling stressed and dejected, I sat myself on the couch and flipped on the Food Network. I noticed my camera sitting on the table and turned it on and found this:
Nothing like a video of your friend dancing in a giant penis suit at the end of a stressful day to make you smile. But to put things in perspective, out of the blue my sister sent me the following words of wisdom via text message:
"When God hands you a lemon, put it in your underpants" -Meatwad
Truer words have never been spoken. Thank you, Melorine.
Last week, I returned from my 7-day excursion to Seattle and Vancouver with Imran, Betsey, and Sarah. While in Vancouver, we went to the Aquarium. I loved looking into the mammal tanks and seeing dolphins jumping, otters playing, and beluga whales gliding beneath the water's surface.
But the seal tank is where I had my most memorable experience. While standing on a ledge and leaning over the glass (smart, I know), I almost fell into the tank when a seal came out onto a rock right in front of me and did this:
I was born and raised in a small town in SE Minnesota. It's conservative, clean, upper-middle class, and mostly Scandanavian and German. Although there were a couple other Persian girls my age, most of the girls I grew up with had that All-American look, straight out of the chorus of a Beach Boys song. I was short, dark-eyed, olive skinned, with a mop of short unruly curls framing my decidedly non-Anglo face.
During the 1980's and 90's, the formidable years of my youth, I was surrounded by the Molly Ringwalds, Debbie Gibsons, Winona Riders, and all the other girls that I was supposed to look up to and admire. There were the models in the magazines, with their assless stick-skinny bodies, almond-shaped eyes, and straight hair. I would look at the pictures and think, these women are what is considered beautiful, and I look nothing like them.
As I got into high school, the differences became even more apparent. The girls who all the boys wanted to date looked so different from me. They were all so slim figured, and my body went in and out in what I thought were all the wrong places. I often wondered what I'd look like with straight hair or a smaller nose. I'd see my backside in the mirror, how it was wider than my waist and stuck out in the back and wrinkle my nose. Why can't I look more like everyone else? Even the clothes worked seemed to work against me.
I graduated high school and started college - of course at a Sweedish Lutheran school. The differences were even more pronounced. The girls were blonde, the strangest shade of tannish-orange, and once again I was the odd person out. Then in 1998 I saw a movie that started to change my viewpoint. It was Out of Sight, starring eternal sexyman George Clooney and newcomer Jennifer Lopez. She was beautiful, strong, and sweet god, she had major assage!
Over the next few years, I noticed a change on film and the magazines. Brazilian models, with their famous curves, were taking over fashion. Jennifer Lopez's ass became legendary. Beyonce, Shakira, and other women emerged as sexy icons and they looked more like me! The magazines started changing their beauty tips. How to look more bootylicious! Hairstyles for every type of hair! Make-up for all skin tones! Men started telling me I was attractive. Slowly, I began to think maybe I wasn't so odd looking afterall...
Even though Jennifer Lopez married that walking-corpse and allowed him to impregnate her with his demon seed, I will always be fond of her. Because she showed me, and probably a lot of other young girls, that beauty has a broader definition. And just because you look different than everyone else around you doesn't mean that you aren't beautiful. So, thank you, JLo. You will always rock to me.
Imagine this... You are an elderly woman. A woman with a severe leg condition that requires surgery. You put your trust in the team of surgeons gearing up to help you. The anesthesiologist injects you with one drug and places a plastic mask over your face. He tells you to count backwards. 10-9-8-7... And you drift into a paralyzed slumber, anticipating how much better your life will be once you wake up...
And then you wake up. A hospital bed in the recovery room. You are more groggy than anything, but you feel like something is wrong. A strange sensation you can't put your finger on. As you start to clear the sleep from your mind, you start pinpointing the sensation. Your leg feels like nothing happened to it. But, strangely enough, your backside feels swollen and is throbbing. What happened to me?! You think. As the nurses come in to change your dressings, you discover... THEY GAVE ME AN ANUS TRANSPLANT!
Well, today was another first. This morning, from 9:30 a.m. to about 10:05 a.m. I was suited up and arguing my pants off in front of the Minnesota Court of Appeals.
I've lived with this case for months. I have seen this case from it's first appearance, through the motion briefing, through the motion to re-consider briefing, the appellate briefing, and now culminating in my appellate arguing. I have reviewed the law for this case so many times, and for so many different purposes, that I probably cry out about the relevant Minnesota law for search warrants in my sleep.
So last night, when faced with the eve of my first oral argument, I could hardly get the words "May it please the court" out of my mouth before I was sick of practicing. In an effort to curb the nerves, and beat the daylight-savings lag I've been carrying the past few days, I had a glass of wine, perused the notes one more time, then headed to bed.
Fast-forward to 4:30 a.m. - my eyes shot open and I was completely, and irretrievably, awake. I decided to embrace the nerves that accompany performance and I rolled out of bed to start the day. I started talking about different aspects of the case as I picked out my suit (navy) accompanying shirt (bright yellow - power color, you know), made my coffee, and carefully inserted my contact lenses. I placed my carefully typed outline in my enormous binder filled with relevant case law. As I drove to St. Paul, I continued talking to myself, even fielding imaginary questions the court might propose. "I respectfully disagree, Your Honor!" I said instead of honking at some jackass who cut me off.
The parking for the Court of Appeals is all metered. An entirely metered ramp - only payable in quarters. Yes, quarters. But, I came prepared! With a trusty $10 roll of quarters in my hand, I made my way to the meter machine. I put in my space number and put in a quarter. The machine reacted with a "$0.25". I put in another and another and another - the machine continued to read "$0.25". Crap! The damn machine was broken! I made Siv, my 9-month pregnant friend, go stand in an open metered spot on the street while I pulled my car around (smart, eh?). I finally parked, and after a wasted $2 in quarters, I was courtroom bound.
I took the elevator to the 2nd floor where I saw I was the first argument dujour. I took my things to the attorney workroom adjacent to the courtroom where I promptly took out all my paperwork and refused to look at it. I could feel my tummy gurgling - whether from the coffee or the nerves I couldn't be sure. Siv, the glowing future mom that she is, was talking about her impending delivery and showing me pictures of her son's ultrasounded genitalia. Impressive , I assure you. Opposing counsel showed, and we small-talked until the time came to head into the courtroom. Appellant on the left, Respondent (me) on the right. As soon as we were seated, the Marshall asked if we were ready. "Yes!" we cried in unison.
In a few moments there came a knock and the Marshall banged the gavel while crying "All rise!" And I rose handsbehindback no handsclaspedinfront. The three judges came in, sat, and stared down at us from the height of the bench. Appellant up first - she rose and gave her argument. About halfway through I realized the court was completely harping on one specific issue. I wrote down a few responsive comments.
In 15-minutes, it was my turn. I gathered my things and I felt my cheeks grow hot. Donttalktoofastdonttalktoofastdonttalktoofast. I saw the light on the podium flip to green (15:00, 14:59...). "May it please the Court..." I began. I went through the formalities, then simply said, "I had this whole outline to share with you today, but since I see there's one specific issue of interest here today, I shall go directly to that." Only because my secret lover has been the facts of this case for the past 6-months was I able to completely shoot from the hip. Totally not where I thought the argument would ultimately end up. And man did they not agree with me -which felt weird coming from Respondent's side. I just wanted to scream, "But, don't you get it? I won at the lower court level. We never win!" But I realized I had failed to obtain the appropriate case law to back up that proposition. Damn. Before I knew it, the light went from green to yellow to red. I was done.
The appellant had no rebuttal. I was done. Pink-cheeked and wide-eyed, I turned to Siv in the back of the courtroom who mouthed "Good job!" I had my doubts about that one. But it was done, I was done, and now I await the decision.
It came to my attention today that the Minnesota County Attorneys Association has introduced a bill to the House that would require prosecutoral consent to waive a jury trial. The bill is currently is set to be heard on Thursday, March 6, 2008 at 12:30 p.m. in the House Public Safety and Civil Law Committee.
The proposed bill states:
H.F. No. 1218
1.2 relating to crimes; requiring defendant waiver of jury trial to be consented by the
1.3 prosecutor; proposing coding for new law in Minnesota Statutes, chapter 631.
1.4 BE IT ENACTED BY THE LEGISLATURE OF THE STATE OF MINNESOTA: 1.5 Section 1. [631.015] TRIAL BY JURY; WAIVER; COURT APPROVAL; 1.6 PROSECUTOR CONSENT.
1.7 The defendant may waive jury trial on the issue of guilt with the approval of the 1.8 court and the consent of the prosecutor.
Since when does a prosecutor have a right to a trial? Or any trial at all? Trial rights should fall in the hands of the defendant. I already have a problem with the Minnesota law requiring prosecutoral consent to waive sequestration of a jury. Defendants waive a jury for many reasons - for example: press creating bias in the jury pool or facts that could confuse a jury. In those cases, a judge could better weigh the evidence in a manner more fair to the defendant whose liberty is at stake. Prosecutors have no liberty interest, so I am confused as to why it is even being entertained that they have a say in who decides the defendant's fate! The choice whether to have a jury trial is that of the accused - whether he chooses to waive the jury at trial or to plead guilty. That right should not be stripped from him.
