going to disclose her name at the press conference.”
“No, Daddy, don’t do that. Everybody will get on your case.”
“I can’t help that. Rendi has convinced me that I owe it to Campbell. We can’t afford to blow any opportunity to get information
on Dowling.”
“You mean dirt, Daddy, don’t you?”
“If there’s dirt out there, and its relevant, yes, I mean dirt. As a defense attorney, that’s my job. I’m in the dirt business.”
“Daddy, you hate when the press digs up dirt on people. You’re being inconsistent.”
“No, I’m not,” Abe said with a hint of defensiveness. “I’m not a journalist. I’m a lawyer representing a client. I have no
choice but to do everything I can to help my client.”
“Everything?” Emma asked skeptically.
“As long as it’s legal and ethical. Remember the puppet case? You even helped me make Pepe’ out of papier-mâché.”
“What puppet case?” Jon asked. “Emma never told me about a puppet case.”
Abe and Emma both smiled as Abe recounted one of his favorite cases, which had become part of his repertoire of war stories.
There was a bizarre judge named Crosby in southern Texas who sat on the bench with a hand puppet. Whenever he had a tough
decision to make, he would take out his puppet and ask him how he should rule. Abe had been briefed by a Texas lawyer about
this character and his puppet, named “Pedro,” and asked how a buffoon like that could be reelected. The Texas lawyer replied,
“Well, I guess the folks around here like the way Pedro rules.”
The case involved a well-known entertainer in a drug bust, and Abe’s only chance was to get the search declared unconstitutional.
At the conclusion of the hearing, Judge Crosby pulled out his puppet and asked him, “How should I rule?” Before Pedro could
answer, however, Abe stood up and asked whether “local counsel” could briefly address Pedro. The judge happily agreed, and
Abe pulled out his own hand puppet, named “Pepe,” who made an eloquent argument to Pedro.
Judge Crosby had such a good laugh that he—or rather Pedro—ruled in favor of Abe’s—or rather Pepe’s—client.
As they left the courtroom, the Texas lawyer couldn’t get over Abe’s audacity. “No one around here ever thought of doing that.”
“It’s nothing special,” Abe replied. “Every trial lawyer knows that when you have a woman judge, it’s often better to have
a woman argue. Same for a black or Hispanic judge. I just took it to its logical conclusion.”
Jon and Emma laughed when Abe finished his story, then Emma grew serious again. “Daddy, that case was different. It involved
drugs. This one involves rape.”
“Alleged rape, my dear, alleged. And by disclosing the accuser’s name, it may help us prove that the allegation is false.
Sorry, Emma, I’ve got to do it.”
Abe began calling his media contacts, telling each one of them that he wanted to respond to the interview. “Tomorrow morning,
eleven o’clock, my office. I’m answering Puccio. It will be a good story.” Within fifteen minutes he had an impromptu press
meeting set up. Abe was accessible to the media—most of the time. He had spent years building these relationships because
that was how the legal system worked—for better or for worse, press coverage was part of the game, and spin was the first
rule.
Abe had another rule—this one about dinner at home. No matter how important the case on which he was working, there was no
discussion of it during dinner. During breakfast, fine. During lunch, okay. But never during dinner. There were no exceptions,
not even for the Campbell case. Emma hated “the rule,” much as she hated other arbitrary restrictions.
“It’s a rule for children, not for grownups,” she had complained.
“You’re right,” Abe had responded. “But it’s
me
who’s the child, not you. I
need
an arbitrary restriction, or else I would never get off my
“No, Daddy, don’t do that. Everybody will get on your case.”
“I can’t help that. Rendi has convinced me that I owe it to Campbell. We can’t afford to blow any opportunity to get information
on Dowling.”
“You mean dirt, Daddy, don’t you?”
“If there’s dirt out there, and its relevant, yes, I mean dirt. As a defense attorney, that’s my job. I’m in the dirt business.”
“Daddy, you hate when the press digs up dirt on people. You’re being inconsistent.”
“No, I’m not,” Abe said with a hint of defensiveness. “I’m not a journalist. I’m a lawyer representing a client. I have no
choice but to do everything I can to help my client.”
“Everything?” Emma asked skeptically.
“As long as it’s legal and ethical. Remember the puppet case? You even helped me make Pepe’ out of papier-mâché.”
“What puppet case?” Jon asked. “Emma never told me about a puppet case.”
Abe and Emma both smiled as Abe recounted one of his favorite cases, which had become part of his repertoire of war stories.
There was a bizarre judge named Crosby in southern Texas who sat on the bench with a hand puppet. Whenever he had a tough
decision to make, he would take out his puppet and ask him how he should rule. Abe had been briefed by a Texas lawyer about
this character and his puppet, named “Pedro,” and asked how a buffoon like that could be reelected. The Texas lawyer replied,
“Well, I guess the folks around here like the way Pedro rules.”
The case involved a well-known entertainer in a drug bust, and Abe’s only chance was to get the search declared unconstitutional.
At the conclusion of the hearing, Judge Crosby pulled out his puppet and asked him, “How should I rule?” Before Pedro could
answer, however, Abe stood up and asked whether “local counsel” could briefly address Pedro. The judge happily agreed, and
Abe pulled out his own hand puppet, named “Pepe,” who made an eloquent argument to Pedro.
Judge Crosby had such a good laugh that he—or rather Pedro—ruled in favor of Abe’s—or rather Pepe’s—client.
As they left the courtroom, the Texas lawyer couldn’t get over Abe’s audacity. “No one around here ever thought of doing that.”
“It’s nothing special,” Abe replied. “Every trial lawyer knows that when you have a woman judge, it’s often better to have
a woman argue. Same for a black or Hispanic judge. I just took it to its logical conclusion.”
Jon and Emma laughed when Abe finished his story, then Emma grew serious again. “Daddy, that case was different. It involved
drugs. This one involves rape.”
“Alleged rape, my dear, alleged. And by disclosing the accuser’s name, it may help us prove that the allegation is false.
Sorry, Emma, I’ve got to do it.”
Abe began calling his media contacts, telling each one of them that he wanted to respond to the interview. “Tomorrow morning,
eleven o’clock, my office. I’m answering Puccio. It will be a good story.” Within fifteen minutes he had an impromptu press
meeting set up. Abe was accessible to the media—most of the time. He had spent years building these relationships because
that was how the legal system worked—for better or for worse, press coverage was part of the game, and spin was the first
rule.
Abe had another rule—this one about dinner at home. No matter how important the case on which he was working, there was no
discussion of it during dinner. During breakfast, fine. During lunch, okay. But never during dinner. There were no exceptions,
not even for the Campbell case. Emma hated “the rule,” much as she hated other arbitrary restrictions.
“It’s a rule for children, not for grownups,” she had complained.
“You’re right,” Abe had responded. “But it’s
me
who’s the child, not you. I
need
an arbitrary restriction, or else I would never get off my
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