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This post started out as something else. A case I was involved in came to a sudden, dreadful end, in the form of a murder/suicide. As originally written, it detailed some of what happened, and what had happened in the case up until that point. After only a few minutes, though, I took it down. It didn’t seem right, for a variety of reasons. Mostly, it seemed to me that the details, which were necessarily sketchy, were not the important thing. There are two dead men, one of whom I knew about as well as any lawyer can know a client, but there are also dazed and traumatized survivors, including children. But it wasn’t until this evening that I could begin to understand the true significance of what had happened, of what terrible things like this mean to us, as a wisp of scripture came to mind.
Ye have heard that it was said by them of old time, Thou shalt not kill; and whosoever shall kill shall be in danger of the judgment: But I say unto you, That whosoever is angry with his brother without a cause shall be in danger of the judgment: and whosoever shall say to his brother, Raca, shall be in danger of the council: but whosoever shall say, Thou fool, shall be in danger of hell fire.
Mt 5:21-22
When things like this happen, we are aghast, and our first impulse, usually almost unconscious, is to distance ourselves from the act. The sheer horror of it allows us to reassure ourselves that something like that could not happen in our safe world, even as we sympathize with the victim. Yet from a spiritual perspective, these crimes are years in the making, even if perpetrator and victim become acquainted only at that last fateful moment. It is not that we are inherently depraved, as the Calvinists would argue, nor is it always the direct result of demons, although they have a role and love to see blood shed. Instead, we each drag around after us chains, huge shambling piles of them, the first links of which are forged in our cradles, and new ones added every day. Our passions are both the result and cause of the shackles we wear. Pride, anger, lust, vainglory, fear…you name it, and it can be found in the heart of bruised and wounded people.
Each and every person in this tragedy — each and every one of us — bears the scars of life. In a line that only God can truly trace, there are years and years of slights, indifferences, resentments, misunderstandings. Needs are not met, and a cycle of petty cruelties ensues. Even when the end result is not so spectacular as in this case, the quiet toll is just as devastating. Here is the truth: however we may meet our physical demise, we all die spiritually in the same way. Not in one thrust of the enemy, but in the moral version of death by a thousand cuts. A tiny slice here, another there. We scarcely feel each individual cut, but the cumulative effect of slights and hurts, of disappointment and rejection, leads us to destruction. And we not only bear our own chains. We forge the chains of others.
Do you see? This tragedy began in infancy, it blossomed during adolesence, it bore a poisonous fruit in a marriage, and it was harvested on a quiet winter’s day. But you and I cannot segregate this from our own life. Jesus teaches us that we commit spiritual crimes with each cruel word, each deliberate slight, each crime of the heart. We are each the man, wounded almost to death, who was rescued by the Samaritan. But we are also each the robber, and we assault each other behind polite words and smiling masks, leaving loved ones and strangers alike lying helpless and damaged.
No wonder the second great commandment is to love our neighbor as ourselves! If we ourselves do not break the cycle of pain and hurt being suffered by those around us, by those who bear the very image of God, then who will? What Christ calls us to do is struggle past our own wounds, to offer oil and wine for the hurts of others. We must see within ourselves the potential for murder, of the spiritual variety if nothing else, and the crimes that we commit every day.
After feeling like Jimmy Cagney all weekend (”Come and get me, you dirty coppers!”), I am happy to announce that the State of North Carolina has corrected my driving record and reinstated my license. I made them promise that they would never again print a citation with my license number on it.
But I was still very, very careful driving to our vesperal liturgy tonight for the Entry of the Theotokos. Just in case Georgia hadn’t yet gotten the word.
We always hear about people who have been caught in some web of confused identity. Certainly that is happening more and more often these days, as a result of identity theft and such. Sometimes, though, it happens the good old fashioned way — through simple error.
This afternoon I was sitting at my desk working when my wife called. She sounded stressed.
“There were three letters for you today, from the Department of Motor Vehicles. I went ahead and opened one of them.” She stopped.
“What did it say?” I asked. I was picturing some kind of insurance snafu. That has happened before.
“Your license is suspended for impaired driving,” she said. There was a pause. “Is there something I should know?”
“What..what…what?” was the best reply I could offer. My wife said she would bring them to my office.
My first thought was identity theft. The only thing on my driving record is a parking ticket I got in Wilmington, North Carolina, back in the late 90s, although I confess that I was once let off the hook in 1980 for running a stop sign at 2:00 a.m. on the campus of Wake Forest University. I was delivering pizzas — my part time law school job — and was in a hurry to get back to the shop. Campus security was very nice. I certainly had never been charged with, much less convicted of, impaired driving. I was at a loss as to how to proceed.
Fortunately, even though I no longer do criminal law, I know the people at the DA’s office. I called and asked a friend to get on the computer and try to find out what was up. My friend agreed, although not before laughing uproariously, and calling the news out to her co-workers. I am widely known for being boring, and I think the entire scenario amused her.
In any event, she got onto the system, and discovered that the suspension came out of a conviction of a 17 year old in a county in eastern North Carolina, several hundred miles from here. I am definitely not 17 years old. His name was nothing like mine, and the whole thing was apparently a clerical error. Ironically, on the date the offense was committed last February, I was in classes at Johnstown.
My friend suggested I call the Clerk’s office in the county where the case had been. I took her advice, and talked to a very nice lady named Joanne. I explained my problem.
At first she sounded a little doubtful. Clerks hear all kinds of stories, but she dutifully brought the information up on her computer. There was a moment of silence.
“Oh, my God,” I heard her say softly. More silence. Keys softly tapped. “Oh, my God,” she repeated.
I was anxious to get in on what was prompting this response, so I asked her what she had found.
“This is definitely not you,” she said. As we talked more, it became apparent that the citation number for the ticket that was written matched my drivers license number. When the conviction was reported to Raleigh, the citation number had been entered for the license number, and hence my interesting mail day. She told me she would call DMV, and get back to me.
It was only a few minutes later when she called again. She said that DMV had looked at it, and acknowledged that the error was theirs. It was, she said, safe to drive home.
At least I hope it is. I would feel better knowing that the records on the computer had already been changed. Sunday, I drive two hours into a different state to go to church. What if I get stopped at a checkpoint? Will the records that the police pull up still show that my license is suspended?
At this point there is no way of knowing. On Monday I can have my friend at the DA’s office check my record again, but until I know for sure, I may just be a marked man.
Even beyond that, this could be very much a mess. For example, the erroneous information has almost certainly been forwarded to my insurance company. Or, if all databases are not corrected, it could continue to be a problem for some time. Theoretically, I could fly into Pittsburgh on my Johnstown trip and be unable to get a rental car. The possibilities are not encouraging. Your prayer is coveted.
There was a fax — a new fax — on my desk this morning when I got in. It was from the husband of one of my clients, an elderly lady suffering from Parkinson’s disease. She has detailed some very serious accusations about what her husband has done to her in her largely helpless state. The husband was put out of the house, and nowadays I hear more from him than from his lawyer. He has a different theory every week to explain what happened to her. Drug interactions, interference by her son, a rich fantasy life — all of these have crossed my desk. This week’s theory was more interesting, although like the others it fails to explain things like abrasions.
He had talked to a neurologist somewhere, who told him that people with Parkinson’s have a very active dream life. He suggested that she had dreamed these events, as a result of her disease. The notion was at least interesting, and suggested that I should look at some of the literature. I found, in the first instance, nothing about such dreams in Parkinson’s, although I did find that some researchers believe there is a link between a sleep disorder involving active dreaming and the subsequent development of Parkinsons. That was more or less the reverse of the original suggestion.
But I did find a vaguely related notion, which made me sit up in interest, for a variety of reasons. There are studies that suggest that a fairly common feature of the disorder is hallucinations. And not just simple hallucinations either.
Essentially, some studies find that roughly a third of sufferers will have hallucinations, which a French study divided into three categories: presence hallucinations, passage hallucinations and auditory hallucinations. All three of them raised the hair on my neck.
Presence hallucinations are those where the patient perceives…something…in the room with them. Sometimes the presence is in back of them and cannot be seen, but is acutely felt. Other times they are visible, and may be reported as demons, guardian angels or deceased relatives. Passage hallucinations are those where something simply passes in front of the person, much like the fairly common experience of sensing something passing a doorway, just in the corner of one’s eye. For Parkinson’s sufferers, these are more explicit. A surprising number are reported as cats or dogs, commonly deceased pets. Other times, they are the same kind of thing reported as presence hallucinations. Finally, auditory hallucinations involve not just simple sounds, but often messages, usually from deceased relatives. For all of these the content is variable. At times, it is a living relative who is seen, although someone who is ordinarily very far away.
The French study noted that the hallucinations occurred both in people who were taking drugs prescribed for the disease and in those who were not taking medication. This was apparently directed at a theory that the visions were a side effect of drugs that are commonly prescribed to people with Parkinson’s.
I am a fairly rational kind of guy, but I always keep an eye open for the unnatural. Who can read the Desert Fathers without a healthy respect for the unseen world? What Saint’s vita does not include visions, an interface with the world which invisibly surrounds us?
So my first thought on reading about the unfortunate position of these people is this: does disease sometimes open the doors of perception? Not in the Aldous Huxley sense of pursuing experiences through drugs or whatnot, but by tearing the veil that hides that world from us? As Orthodox Christians, we share a recognition that there is much around us: angels and demons, and the saints that constitute that great cloud of witnesses. In our daily life we do not see these things, but there are those among us who do, those of great sanctity or equally great evil. And, perhaps, sometimes those who are simply vulnerable: the mentally ill, those suffering from Alzheimers, maybe those with Parkinson’s?
The idea opens up that whole arena that modern psychology and medicine are supposed to have closed. Sure, sometimes a disorder is just a disorder, and a disease is just a disease. But sometimes, just sometimes, might it not be something more? Something that demands our prayers, and our patience, and our love?
I have spent the last couple of weeks trying to prepare for an unusually stormy term of court, which will open on Monday. In my rural area, we have a term of civil court every four to six weeks. I will ordinarily have somewhere between six and ten cases on any given calendar. That is enough to keep me busy, and still have the judge happy to see me leave when I finish.
Next week, though, is different: twenty two cases on the calendar for a four day term. This astonishing and unprecedented number is the result of a confluence of events: some past continuances, a flood of new cases that are all maturing at about the same time, and an unusually high number of emergency orders signed over the last month or two, all of which are coming in for return hearing. As might be expected, there is no possible way for all twenty two cases to be heard but, on the other hand, there is no way of knowing which ones the judge will call for trial. The only alternative is to prepare for every case, knowing full well that by the end of the week I likely will have disposed of no more than five or six. Bummer. At least I know of two that will be tried: returns on emergency orders. One I obtained over a highly dysfunctional visitation situation. The other is the only one I am looking forward to trying. I represent a young mom who, on the one occasion that she had ever had a gun in the house, hidden under clothes in her dresser, was shot by her three year old son who thought it was a toy. The dad, of course, took the boy, but refused any contact between her and the child, not even after she got out of intensive care a month later. Indeed, there is reason to believe that the child was led to believe that Mom was dead, killed at his own hand. Only since I got into the case several weeks ago has the child been allowed to talk to the mom over the phone, although even then dad limited it to once a week for ten minutes. In a case like that there is absolutely nothing to lose, and I look forward to that trial. By this time next week, I guarantee you that mother and son will be in each others arms.
So, in any event, since returning from Johnstown I have worked like I did twenty years ago, before I figured out life. I used to work sixty and seventy hours a week because I thought I had to – I am a lawyer, after all – but then realized that I was missing the best parts of life. Believe me, once I get past this term of court, I am returning to my moderately slothful ways.
Well, whine, whine, whine. The great thing about God’s providence is that time really does exist on earth. Difficult times come, but then, by golly, they go. As I get older, that has become an ever greater comfort to me. Otherwise, one may as well adopt the view of Lemony Snicket:
Perhaps if we saw what was ahead of us, and glimpsed the crimes, follies and misfortunes that would befall us later on, we would all stay in our mother’s wombs, and then there would be nobody in the world but a great number of very fat, very irritated women.
I don’t know if women find that funny, but I think it is hilarious.
Or not.
A frantic week culminated in a half hour hearing this morning, concerning one of the most unusual issues I had ever run across. At issue in this custody case was whether technology had been used to circumvent the provisions of a court order. Representing the mom, I only entered the case late last week, a johnny-come-lately in a dispute that had exploded sporadically over the last seven years.
The last order was entered in February. At that time, Dad was for the first time awarded unsupervised visitation with the child of the parties, conditioned on and within the framework of a series of scheduled hair follicle drug tests. Drug use had been a burning issue in the case from day one, and Dad convinced the judge in February that he had straightened up. Since then, in accordance with the order, he had produced two drug test results, showing him to be drug free. All seemed to be in order.
Except…it didn’t. There were strange behavioral anomalies that suggested problems. We found a 911 call to the residence to break up a fairly serious domestic incident. Mom heard rumors that Dad was still using. And the test results themselves seemed odd, in an indefinable and vague way. They looked pretty normal, but there was something about the way they looked that seemed a bit unlike other drug tests I had seen. Something we couldn’t put a finger on, but disturbing nonetheless. There was also a sense that the chain of custody of the test results was not what you would like. Unfortunately, the February order did not provide for the results to be sent directly to Mom’s attorney. Instead, Dad picked them up, then took them to his lawyer, who then forwarded it to Mom’s lawyer. There was a whisper on the street that the results were being altered. Could it be true?
So her previous lawyer sent a subpoena to the local hospital for the drug test results. Predictably, they refused. Every hospital is terrified of HIPPA these days, and they insisted that they needed a court order or the Dad’s consent to release the records. HIPPA is one of the banes of my existence. Intended to protect the privacy of medical records, it does exactly that amazingly well. The funny thing about that, of course, is that there is nothing people like to talk about more than their aches and pains. If you run into somebody that has just gotten out of the hospital you know that you will spend the next hour or so hearing all about it. Still, there you are. Everybody has to live with HIPPA.
So I turned to the task of wresting the records from the hospital. First, I asked nicely. I pointed out that the Dad had not objected to the subpoena, so that must mean he consented to the release. Just as nicely — and predictably — the hospital declined. Then I faxed them a copy of the February order, and suggested that it gave us the right to get those documents anyway. This time hospital counsel declined.
It was time for a judge, and just by luck I had one in town this morning. Not just any judge either. This one was a judge with a keen interest in the technological side of things. I knew he would be intrigued by the notion that these reports had been photoshopped, and would understand completely how such a thing was possible. So I got his permission to have it heard before he opened court this morning, told the medical records lady to seal those puppies up and come to court and notified opposing counsel of the plan. It goes without saying that she was thrilled.
When we gathered this morning, the first and biggest argument was whether or not I was entitled to the reports. I argued that it was logically inconsistent, and actually suspect, for the Dad to resist. After all, if the hospital copies matched what he had provided, all of this was then over. It would be the end of the story. We weren’t asking for anything except what we were entitled to anyway. Dad’s lawyer, putting up a valiant fight, argued that I had to give more notice, that under the rules in our state he had the right to have the subpoena quashed. I argued in turn that only the hospital could do that, since they were the ones under subpoena. They had not filed a motion to quash, and were asking only for an order requiring them to hand over the records.
The judge nodded in agreement and signed my order. I went down the hall to the Clerk’s office, filed it and headed back. As I was entering his chambers, I crossed myself and prayed for good repentance if I was wrong in all this. Frankly, I was a bit nervous. The effectiveness of any lawyer rests on his or her credibility. Once a judge decides that you can’t be trusted, you may as well hang it up. If I was wrong in this, it might make a judge less likely to listen to me sometime in the future.
I walked in, handed a copy of the filed order to the hospital person, who handed the sealed envelope to the judge. He grinned. “Are we ready for the reveal?” he quipped. He broke the seal, took out the three pieces of paper and we all stood at his desk and looked at them.
Test number one: initially reported as positive for marijuana, but clean for everything else. The real results: positive for multiple substances.
Test number two: reported as clean across the board. The real results: positive for multiple substances.
Test number three: results not yet reported to us. Positive for multiple substances.
Both of the test results that had been provided had been altered. The judge told me to bring him an order stopping unsupervised visitation, and setting the case for hearing in October.
I still can scarcely believe what happened. Never let it be said that computers are not wonderful things. It is just that they are also wonderful for some things we might not wish for. I also feel bad for Dad’s lawyer. She is put in a terrible spot by this. She put up the fight she had to put up, but that is to be expected. If I had been handed altered documents, I would not be a happy camper at all. I can sympathize with what she must be feeling now.
Occasionally, I like to lay off the heavy stuff for a few days and read books about contemporary saints. Being in a period of frolic and gambol — my final exam having winged its way north — this seems like a good time for that. So I have picked up Elder Paisios of the Holy Mountain to re-read. This is one of those books I like to go back to from time to time, and I have written a bit about it in the past. Like almost all books translated from Greek into English, it is a little awkward in places, but I am always amazed by the wisdom shown by these “simple” monks.
One section that caught my interest was on justice, and specifically on human justice as opposed to divine justice. We like to think that justice is a constant, but the Elder is clear that one is better than the other. He gives an illustration:
Suppose two men are sitting at the table to eat. In front of them, there is a plate with ten peaches. If one of them greedily eats seven peaches, leaving three for his friend, he is being unfair to him. That is injustice.
Instead, if he says: “well, we are two and the peaches are ten. So each of us is entitled to eat five peaches.” If he eats the five peaches and leaves the other five for his friend, then he applied human justice.
However, if he understands that his friend likes peaches very much, he can pretend that he is not fond of them and eat only one, and then says to him: “Please eat the rest of the peaches, as I really don’t like them; besides, my stomach aches and I should not eat anymore.” That person has divine justice; he prefers to be unfair to himself by human standards and will be rewarded for his sacrifice by God’s grace, which he will abundantly receive.
This is a hard lesson to learn, yet if we take the bold step of sacrifice, we immediately learn that it is right. Still, clearly I at least often fail to take the lesson to heart. Yet consider — what would our society look like if we followed the attributes of divine justice?
He was a man with impressive tattoos. He came as close as I have ever seen to being a walking canvas. I had known him for several years, having represented him on a few odds and ends of court appointed cases. Nothing particularly serious, but he had a knack for getting caught when others would probably just slide by. Even then, the pride of his life was his wife and their three kids. Not exactly the most functional family you ever saw, but they managed to hold things together well enough. There had been some previous trouble with Social Services, but I had gotten the kids sent back home, and everything seemed to be settling down.
This time was different. He was in prison — taking the rap for his wife, he said — and the the wife had disappeared, leaving the kids back in foster care. There was no patience left among the authorities. They almost immediately got an order excusing them from making reasonable efforts to reunite the family. It would have been hard to anyway, what with Dad in the Department of Corrections. He finally got out in the summer of 2003, one month after the Department filed a petition to terminate his parental rights in the kids. That’s when I was appointed to represent him in the termination case.
As I said, my guy had always loved the kids. He had not made very good choices, but he always loved them, and in prison some things had happened which helped open his eyes. He enrolled in some parenting classes there, as well as some classes through the local community college in ethics, and how to make good choices. When he was released, he was more focused than I had ever seen him, and when he came into my office, his first words were: “I want to get them back.”
“It will be an uphill battle,” I told him. I make it a point to never sugarcoat anything with the people I represent. “I’ll do the best I can, but there is a lot you need to do.” We talked about it. Even though the Department was not going to let him see the kids, he needed to keep asking, or else they would testify at trial that he never said anything about seeing them. He had to pay support for them. He needed to write them cards and letters, and get them gifts for birthdays and holidays. “But what if they don’t give the presents to them?” he asked. “Makes no difference,” I told him. “For right now the important thing will be that you did it.”
He sighed deeply. “OK,” he said, and got up to leave. I stopped him. “Here’s the most important thing: never give up. It will be a long, long road, but if you won’t gve up, I won’t give up.” He shook my hand. “I won’t,” he said, “and God bless you, man.”
Almost immediately a terrible thing happened. Prompted by something the Mom had said, the Department obtained DNA samples to test for the paternity of the children. My guy just laughed. He knew his wife, and he knew his kids. He had no doubt he was the dad.
He was wrong. The DNA test said he was not the dad for two of the three kids, incuding the one that bore his name. Only the youngest one was his. After he was told, he came and saw me. I had never seen him looking so bad.
“I don’t know who she was with,” he said, “although I’d be lying if I said I didn’t care. But I’m the kids’ dad. I still want them.”
“Then I’ll keep working,” I told him. “Hang in there.”
“I will,” he said, the hurt still evident in his voice. “God bless you, man.”
My guy remarried, this time to a kind, stable woman, and they proved a good match. Everytime there was court or a meeting or anything having to do with the case, she was with him, not saying a lot, but holding his hand tightly. He held down a job, and he and his wife started attending one of the little Baptist churches around here. They were there every time the door opened. He called the social workers every week, asking to see his children, and every week they turned him down. Every birthday, every Christmas, every Easter, every Valentine’s Day, every time a gift was called for, he took gifts for the children to the Department, where they were put in a closet. The case dragged. I kept noticing it in for hearing, and it kept getting continued. It was a stalemate.
Then the middle child began exhibiting severe behavioral problems, so bad that he was moved to a therapeutic group home several hours from here. The therapist at the group home called the Department, and told them that the boy was lost, that they could do nothing for him…except. “He needs his dad,” the therapist said. “we have to get the Dad involved.” “But he’s not the dad,” the worker said. “I don’t care,” said the therapist, “if he’s the King of Siam. He’s the boy’s only hope.”
The Department called me. “He doesn’t care about genetics,” I told them. “Tell him when to be there and he’ll be there.”
So my guy started driving to the group home once, sometimes twice a week to see the boy that carried his name, but not his genes. The very first time, they told him that he had to tell the boy that he was not his father. The kids had not been told. Later the therapist from the group home told me it was one of the hardest things she had ever seen, that the boy and the man just held each other and cried. Then they started talking, and the dad told the boy he loved him and would always love him, and would always be there.
For three months my guy ran the roads between here and there, and finally the boy was stable. A miracle, said the people at the group home. They wanted the boy to go home to his dad, right then.
The Department refused. They did allow some visits, and then the next bad thing happened. My guy got into an argument with his stepdaughter, and the police were called. No charges were filed, but it was enough for the Department. No more visits.
I talked to my guy. I told him that we were not yet dead, if he hung in there. I told him to go take anger management classes and get a substance abuse assessment. “We know what they are going to say,” I told him. “Go and fix any possible problem now, so it won’t be an issue later. I know you don’t do drugs or drink anymore, but go get all of that done.”
“OK,” he said. “I’ll do it as soon as I get home. God bless you, man.”
He continued to send presents, write cards and letters, make phone calls. He saw just about every counsellor in three counties, and they all gave him a clean bill of health. He waited and waited, and the pile of presents in the Department closet kept getting bigger and bigger. I managed to get the termination petition dismissed, and then was appointed to replace his lawyer in the underlying juvenile cases, who had been hurt in an accident. There was still no visitation. We needed one more hearing, a permanency planning hearing, to force the Department to start visitation and reunification.
Then the youngest child, the only one that was really his, began acting out badly, and was kicked out of his foster home. The worker called to tell me. “He needs his dad,” I said. “You know that he does.” The boy’s therapist agreed, and again my guy began the painful process of reconnecting with a son who thought that his dad had just disappeared off the face of the earth. They met in the therapist’s office, and they cried and cried. When it was time to go, I was told, they walked hand in hand to the parking lot, and people watching thought they would never let go of each other.
Today we finally got the hearing. Last night, when I was about to go home, my guy came by the office. He was frightened. He knew that this hearing was the last one. Everything hinged on what happened there. If we lost it, he would never see the kids again. We also talked about the oldest boy, a teenager. He had bonded deeply with his foster family, and said in no uncertain terms that he wanted to be adopted by them. My guy said he understood that, and would respect his wishes, but that he hoped that all the boys could maintain contact with each other.
This morning, we showed up for the hearing. The judge asked for a pretrial conference, and asked the lawyers what the case was about. Nobody spoke for a moment, and then I took the plunge.
I told her about cards and letters, about phone calls. I told her about presents gathering dust in closets and about nights spent in prayer. I told her about long drives to group homes, and tearful reunions with desperate children. I told her about a wife’s unfaithfulness and a dad’s faithfulness. I told her that the older boy didn’t want to come, and we respected his maturity and his decision. I told her that the two younger boys had to go home, that their dad desperately wanted them, and that I believed that if we wanted them to grow up as decent and respectful young men, then they needed their dad more than any of us could ever put into words. I told her that those two boys were sitting in the Department across the street, that I had obtained an order for the Department to produce them, and that the boys would tell her how much they wanted to go home to their dad.
I finished and all was silent. “Is there a problem with what Seraphim says?” she asked. Someone spoke up. “He’s not the father of one of the boys.” The judge exploded. “What, you mean he’s not the sperm donor! By God, that’s not a Dad. A dad is the one who stays around after that. Are you telling me he’s not that dad?”
No one told her that.
I walked into the courtroom and gestured to my client to meet me in the back. He and his wife came back, still holding hands. He was almost distraught from worry and fear.
“They’re coming home,” I said.
My guy dissolved in tears and grabbed me in a bear hug, and for several minutes we stood there, me slapping his back, him sobbing, and — to be honest – me not completely dry eyed. Finally we broke, and I told him the plan. Visitation in his home starts on Saturday, and if all goes well, they will move in full time with him when Christmas break starts. He said he understood.
I shook his hand, and he grabbed me again. “God bless you, man. God bless you,” he said. I stopped him. “I want to thank you for your prayers over these years,” I told him. “But your prayers have gotten you this: God has blessed you.”
Those of you who read yesterday’s post have doubtless been holding your breath waiting for the answer to the really important question posed this week in the blog. Forget that stuff about the Decalogue, and coveting what and all that business. No — this is a blog for lovers, and so everyone has been wondering all day what the answer is to this question: is the way to a woman’s heart found in hiding under her porch with some beer, an ipod and a machete? Oh…and a dozen roses.
Before giving the answer, I have to say that I am disappointed that my readers of the feminine persuasion did not leap into the breach and answer this for us. I know I have women readers — I can hear you breathing, you know — yet apparently they are not sufficiently caring to lend us males a little guidance. O fickle women of Orthodoxy! Do you not know that the men who stand next to you on Sunday are sensitive and caring, thinking of little but romance and affairs of the heart? When we get together for some manly talk you hear nothing but fears and insecurities — does she love me? Am I sufficiently sacrificial? Besides wearing a cassock, what else can I do to rev the engine of this relationship? Truly, I say to you, O Orthodox women, that in Orthodox men you see romance personified, caring developed to an art form, heart on the hoof, if you will. See you how important this is to us? Even I, widely acknowledged as the King of Romance, was agog with anticipation: would some beer, a machete, an ipod and some time under the porch make Mrs. S swoon?
Now, since I represented the woman in this pas de deux I knew that she had not been impressed. She had swooned, but not in a good way. But I am also a fair minded person, who knew that my client might be outside the mainstream. Would all women be negative about this experience? So this afternoon we tried the case. My client spoke directly about the porch happening, and was plain that she had not been impressed in a heart pitty patty kind of way. Then the Defendant got up to testify. He had not been under the porch, he insisted. He had been beside the porch. I glanced at my client, and saw her roll her eyes. Clearly the exact location was irrelevant to her. In the end, the judge agreed with her and held the Defendant too unstable to have unsupervised visits, at least for the time being, with their two year old child.
So there you have it. It appears to be official: this is not the height of romance. Of course, I’m glad I won the case, and I can see that it was not a great idea. But still: how will I ever impress Mrs. S?
I know, I can’t believe it either. I post an annoyingly specious question, as if promising an answer, and then promptly disappear. Honest, I meant to answer. It has just been one of those weeks. In my small county it was a week of domestic relations court, and I weighed in with thirteen cases on the calendar. And, by golly, except for the two which I will do tomorrow there has been no case left untouched. Not that there has not been high drama which did not involve me. I went back to the courtroom once to get an order signed and found myself listening to a case so full of drama, so overladen with lust and obsession, so utterly…Jerry Springerish!…that I was almost overcome by a compulsion to shave my head, don a t-shirt and stand between the parties, ready to do my duty as a bouncer. Sometimes I can only stand, jaw dropping, as I listen to what people are doing. Not, I suppose, that I haven’t done silly things, but for Pete’s sake — what were they thinking? Even now, two days later, parts of the exchange are seared in my memory:
“I told you to leave me alone, but you sent me forty text messages. I was terrified!”
“Oh yeah! Then why did you come to my house that night just wearing saran wrap?”
“It was to shut you up, that’s why! Believe me, I didn’t want to…”
Anyway, back to the question. How do the two versions of the Ten Commandments differ? Of course, they vary a bit in language and what not, but here is the interesting one. The commandment against covetousness, as set forth in Exodus 20:17, says that you shall not covet your neighbor’s house, followed by his wife and then assorted stragglers. At the end of Moses’ life, during his sermon set out in Deuteronomy 5:21, the order is changed and the wife is now in first place, followed by the house.
Father Bachofsky, lecturing at my seminary class, suggested in passing that the reversal had something to do with the changing status of women. I wrote that in my notes, but I now know that the true explanation is simpler. Moses dropped in on family court one day, and the experience, seared in his memory, caused the change.
At least that’s what I think.
Anyway, tomorrow, I will discover the answer to the question we are all asking: what could be more romantic than hiding under your ex-girlfriend’s porch overnight with an ipod, a dozen roses and a machete? I’ll be sure to let you know, but I’ll tip you off that it is the Defendant’s argument that it melts a girl’s heart everytime.
Ancient Church 