Author Archives: Zachary Klein

Flintstones Mobile

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Thought I’d be back this Monday but turns out I’m on the bench for one last week.  So Sherri Frank Mazzotta has kindly filled the breach and is batting 4th.  Thanks, Sherri.  Will see everyone next Monday.

 

I never learned how to drive.  Not formally, at least:  No driver’s ed.  No practice rides in parking lots.  When I was 17, Dad pulled into the A&P and said, “Okay, you drive.”  So we switched places.  I got behind the wheel of his big-ass Lincoln Town car.  This was back in the early ’80s, before they’d shrunk the Lincoln and all cars down to environmentally friendly versions.  The hood stretched two-lanes wide.  The pedals seemed far away.  “Which one is the gas?” I asked, just to be sure.  Then I adjusted the rear-view mirror, clutched the wheel, and off we went.

We took back roads that had corn fields on both sides.  Cows and horses in pastures.   It was August and sunny and I was scared to death, wincing at oncoming cars, hoping the road was wide enough for both of us. But I was driving.

“Go easy on the brakes,” Dad said.   Every time I touched them, we’d both pitch forward toward the windshield.  This was before people wore seatbelts too.

By the time we hit the highway, I was feeling more confident.  I put my elbow on the arm rest, the way Dad always did.   “I’m doing pretty good, aren’t I?” I asked.  He just shook his head and told me, “Keep both hands on the wheel.”

I drove for an hour.  I was trembling but exhilarated by the time I got out of the car.   Dad let me drive on the way home, too.  All went fine until I stopped hard at a light.  He lurched out of his seat, grabbed the dashboard, and hit his head on the sun visor.  “That’s it,” he said.  “I’m driving.”

And that was the end of my driving lessons.

Still, I got my license on the first try, though I failed the parallel parking part of the test.  I guess parallel parking isn’t that important in New Jersey, where every house has a driveway and every store a parking lot.

Soon afterwards, I took Mom’s Mustang to the mall.  It was dark and raining when my sister and I finished shopping.   I got confused trying to find the entrance to Route 80, and somehow headed up an off ramp.  I managed to turn around, but as I made a second turn, a car rammed into our passenger-side door.

That was the end of driving Mom’s car, too.

After that, I became terrified to drive.  Not because of the accident, but because I never got enough practice.  My friends picked me up and dropped me off on endless trips to the movies, Burger King, and the mall.  It’s true, there wasn’t much to do in Jersey.  My older sister got up early to drive me to work.  My brother took me to play rehearsal.   I became a perpetual passenger, carted around like a sack of laundry.  Dependent on others to get where I was going–which I resented.

At night, I dreamed I was trying to drive but the car wouldn’t move unless I ran with it, like Fred in his Flintstones mobile.  Even then, I couldn’t keep it going for very long.  My legs got tired.  The car stalled.  Others speeded by, but I was stuck.

Then I moved to Boston and didn’t need a car.  I could get most places by bus or subway.   My friends drove, so I could also get to the beach–but only when they wanted to go.  I hated that Volkswagen commercial with the tag line, “Drivers wanted.”  It implied that drivers were bold, fun-loving people.  And passengers were just dullards, relegated to reading maps and scraping up change for tolls.

Then I moved to Boston and didn’t need a car.  I could get most places by bus or subway.   My friends drove, so I could also get to the beach–but only when they wanted to go.  I hated that Volkswagen commercial with the tag line, “Drivers wanted.”  It implied that drivers were bold, fun-loving people.  And passengers were just dullards, relegated to reading maps and scraping up change for tolls.

I was also ashamed I couldn’t drive.  It was my deep dark secret, hidden the way some people hide the fact that they can’t read.   To me, it meant I wasn’t an adult.  I wasn’t in control of my life, which was difficult to accept.

When I got a job opportunity in Sudbury, I rented a car for the interview.  Sure, I’d rented cars before, but each time felt like the first time:  Sweating.  Trembling.  Sleepless a week in advance.  After I got the job, I borrowed money to buy a car.  Maybe I was motivated by the prospect of a new situation.  Or maybe I was just tired of waiting on rides.  But suddenly I owned a car and I was a driver.  I was breathing the sweet scent of gasoline on a regular basis, and it felt good.

It took years to feel comfortable behind the wheel.  Now, I drive all the time:  At night, in the rain, in the snow.   Between Massachusetts and New Jersey.  On one of those trips, an 18-wheeler ran my car off of Route 84, and I ended up in the gully between lanes.  My husband jolted awake in the passenger seat, cursing.  But the car was fine.  We were fine.  So I just pulled up onto the road again and kept driving.  Sure, I was shaken.  But I knew how important it was to get back in the saddle.  Or in this case, back in the bucket seat.

Others may be proud of their golf scores or their cooking skills, but driving is still one of my biggest accomplishments.  Every time I merge onto Route 128 without being hit by a truck, it feels like a victory.  I take my place on the highway and smile, knowing that I’ve moved far beyond my Flintstones mobile.

“If everything seems under control, you’re just not going fast enough.” – Mario Andretti

BY THIS LAWYER’S LIGHT

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This is the third and final week of guest columnists.  Batting today is a return visit  by Harry K.

 

Representation of a divorce client: $20,000

Representation of a large company in a contractual dispute: $200,000

Representation of a poor person accused of a crime: Priceless.

 

I’m  often  asked, “How can you represent someone you know is guilty?” and “Why do it when it doesn’t even make you rich?”  For the record, I am very rich, rich in the incalculable rewards that come from representing the very poor.

There have been times that I haven’t had enough change in my pocket to buy coffee.  But I always knew there was going to be more money coming.  Those of us who always had a roof over our heads cannot imagine the skills, the resourcefulness, the tenacity, the sheer will that it takes to survive POOR.  When medical, mental health, or addiction problems are added to the picture, some of us might become judgmental.  But when you meet a real human being, when you touch, smell, hear, listen and talk to them, it’s impossible not to want to translate your brief moments together into an opportunity for them to make a life better than the one they are living.

It’s really all about power.  Maybe you’ve felt the powerlessness of being unable to relieve a loved one’s pain, or not being believed when telling the truth.  Now imagine that you had the power to relieve that pain or to persuade that doubter.  That’s what it feels like to represent a poor person.

Take my Haitian immigrant client in the lockup last week.  The mother of his two kids claimed that he’d pushed and choked her after having too much to drink.  He got arrested and she got a restraining order, so he had to scramble for another place to live. When he sent her a text to see if he could visit the kids, she called the police and he was arrested again for violating the restraining order.  Time passed, the kids clamored to see their dad, so she invited him over.  They argued again, she called the police again, and he got arrested again.  I’m seeing him in the lockup because his bail has been revoked.

He’s been brought to court for trial about the pushing and choking that started it all.  He is in the U.S. legally, but could suffer any number of immigration consequences if found guilty.

Some might think: he shouldn’t have put his hands on her, or what an idiot he was to have texted her and gone over there.  Some people think, send him back to Haiti.

But I think about him in jail.  He can’t see or call his kids.  The only pictures he has of them are on the phone that was confiscated.  He can make only collect calls, and only to those people whose numbers he actually remembers–a job his phone used to do.  If his cellmate is a screamer, there’s no spare room.  He has lost the hourly rate paying job that took him months to find.  He is powerless.  I am the only force in the world that can help him change his situation.

So I do.  Will he stop drinking too much?  Will he be able to spend more time with his kids?  Will he control his anger?  Will he get another job?  These questions are his to answer, but at least I can help him to regain the possibility of power over his future.

Are some of my clients guilty?  Of course.  And some are not.  John Adams once said: “It is more important that innocence be protected than it is that guilt be punished, for guilt and crimes are so frequent in this world that they cannot all be punished.  But if innocence itself is brought to the bar and condemned, perhaps to die, then the citizen will say, ‘whether I do good or whether I do evil is immaterial, for innocence itself is no protection,’ and if such an idea as that were to take hold in the mind of the citizen that would be the end of security whatsoever.”

Guilty or innocent, my clients are people with problems on a scale that most of us cannot understand.  Imagine wondering how you’re going to find a place to sleep for the night.  Every night.  Imagine being branded a sex offender for the rest of your life for having sex with a fifteen year old girl when you were eighteen and her parents involved the police.  Imagine seeing the look in people’s eyes who believe you to be a criminal because of your skin color.  Imagine being presumed to be guilty.

There are injustices to right, and power to be kept balanced.  That’s why I look forward to seeing my clients every day.

“Power must never be trusted without a check.” ― John Adams

I.M. WITH MOM

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Next up during my recovery month (which is going well) is Harry K.  Enjoy!

 

K.: I just met with a career prostitute.

M: Oh my goodness!

K.: She talked to me for three hours about her experiences.

M: Another chapter for your “chick lawyer” book?

K.: Probably. I’ve been thinking about chapter headings. Maybe one could be, “Harry, what should I wear to Court?”

M: I remember thinking it needed more chapters.

K.: Or another, “Harry, will you buy me some cigarettes?”

M: Good…! Keep thinking!

K.: “Harry, am I going to jail?”

M: Yes!

K.: These are the common questions and many anecdotes flow from these.

M: I can only imagine.

K.: The prostitute’s stories were amazing.

M: Yes, I’ll bet, and think of the ones she did NOT tell you.

K.: She was arrested for indecent exposure once because she was wearing a very tight cat suit. She represented herself.

M: Did she win?

K.: She stood up at her arraignment and said to the judge,…

M: Male or female judge?

K.: Male. So she said…

M: Suspense is killing me!

K.: “Your honor, you see anything indecent about me?”

M: Lol.

K.: She also told the judge, “I’m from New York, and this is how we dress, and when I drove over the border, I saw a sign about not having any guns, but I didn’t see nuthin ’bout no dress code!!”

M: ROFL!

K.: Yea, I liked that one a lot. She won, too. Case dismissed at arraignment.

M: Good for her.

K.: She stabbed a guy once, too.

M: Such talent…wasted on johns.

K.: Apparently the cops knew her well enough to know that she was justified.

M: Self defense?

K.:  Yea.

M: What else have you been up to?

K.: Well, I went to the jail to visit a couple of my guys recently.

M: I bet they’re not as interesting.

K.: They have some amazing stories too, but that prostitute was pretty remarkable.

M: Yes, I can tell.

K.: One of my guys has a tendency to use a lot of malapropisms. He said he had a “pleflora” of papers.

M: Not a malapropism exactly.

K.: No, but cute. Another time he said something about “racial epitaphs.” And he said that the cab of his truck vibrated and “cogitated like a washer/dryer.”

M: I see that for all intensive porpoises he was still able to get his point across…

K.: Despite the flaw in his ointment…

M: Did you insure him that you would profligate him through the lecherous waters of the system?

K.: Yes, yes! He’s been hanging around in libido for so long that any progress will make him extantic! The prosecutor is venomously opposed to a dismal of the case!

M: Stop stop!! Lol!

K.: By the way, he injured his onus.

M: ROFL!

K.: Anyway, back to the jail. I was surprised by the number of unsupervised children playing just outside the doors. It was dark out.

M: How old were they?

K.: Well, I’m no good with that, not having had any myself….

M: Yes. Big disappointment.

K.: Sigh. I’d say they were maybe eight or nine years old.

M: Were the guards watching them?

K.: No, not even the guards seemed to notice them. It was downright Dickensian.

M: Did the kids notice you?

K.: Yes, they immediately stopped sliding down the rails and running in circles to rush up to me to say hello!

M: Cute!

K.: Yes, but weird. Anyway, I had some serious trouble with the metal detector.

K.: Yes, but weird. Anyway, I had some serious trouble with the metal detector.

K.: I did get in finally – I’ve gotten pretty good at navigating the process – getting the right clipboard of forms – lining up the grooves in the locker tokens with the nubs in the locks – -figuring out how to switch off between walking shoes and high heeled shoes and such.

M: So what happened with the metal detector?

K.: The underwire bra phenomenon!

M: Oh dear.

K.: Yea, no visible metal on me anywhere – rings, off; glasses off; watch, off. Annoying buzz nevertheless.

M: How did you figure out it was your bra?

K.: The dreaded WAND detector! Silent over the legs, silent down the arms, silent over the back, BEEP BEEP BEEP over the breasts!  Cripes.

M: Well, you know, you don’t really need to wear a bra…

K.: Yes, Mother.

M: We’ll have to figure a way to work it into the chick lawyer book.

K.: That should be easy. If I ever get around to writing it…

M: How is music going? Are you going to start your own band some time?

K.: Nah.

M: Even go on the road?

K.: Nah.

M: You could get preggers!

K.: Sigh.

M: Well, Em, I really don’t know how you do it all [admire, admire]. I’m glad to know it’s my daughter who is being one of the GOOD ones, giving lawyers a GOOD name for a change.

K.: Awww, thanks, Mom. I love you!

M: I love you, too.

K.: Later.

M: Later.

I MADE IT ‘TIL 10

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I’d planned to watch the show until the bitter end while sifting through the #OSCAR tweets for today’s post.  Well, I still plan to sift and winnow-but it won’t be ’til the bitter end.  My head would have exploded and then you’d get no tweets and I wouldn’t have a column.  So, these tweets finish after Christopher Plummer’s Award.  I really did try

 

THE RUNWAY:

@Ethan_Anderton: “Let the next five hours crawl by!”

@tinch: “We’re still here with people entering a building.”

@lizzwinstead: “As bad as these red carpet questions are, they are better than John King during the debates.”

@dustinj: “The best dressed at our house tonight will be our 3 kids in clean pajamas after bath time.”

@james_priya: “Here is Sacha Baron Cohen as The Dictator spilling Kim Jong-il’s “ashes” on Ryan Seacrest.”

@shutupbuck: “That awkward moment when Melanie Griffin tries to snort ashes off Ryan Seacrest’s jacket.”

@GailPennington: “Big mushroom buns on top of women’s heads. No.”

@michael_epps: “All of these borrowed jewels. Not impressed. Elizabeth Taylor, and the old Hollywood stars rocked their own bling.”

@swish: “Why is a Brit doing Red Carpet interviews on ABC? Brits should steal our difficult acting roles, not superficial small talk roles.”

@waitwait: “Colin Firth’s wife’s dress looks like it was designed to catch food that falls out of your mouth. This is a dress we need.”

@barbarachai: “Nick Nolte kills me. “If I knew what you said, I’d be able to answer you.””

Capricecrane: “The only thing sadder than being 2nd choice host tonight is everyone’s telling Billy Crystal to break a “hip” instead of a “leg.””

@pourmecoffee: “Billy Crystal may be a little late. He’s coming all the way from the 80’s.”

Josh Hara @yoyoha: “who’s that?” – best follow up question to “who are you wearing?”

@LizB: “My first outfit change! eberjey pajamas, purple with pink trim. the 2010 collection.”

@LouisPeitzman: “Really grateful to Glenn Close for bringing matronly chic back.”

Imogen Lloyd Webber@illoydwebber: “Nothing like a “red carpet” show to remind one that actors need writers.”

@DamienFahey: “Every Oscars red carpet interview is as graceful as running into someone you kind of know at the supermarket.”

@SteveHuff: “We’ll all be happy children in the sun again when this is over, right? “I was lying in a burned-out basement…””

 

THE OSCARS:

@BorowitzReport: “If a black-and-white silent film wins Best Picture it will give hope to surveillance cameras everywhere.”

@seanoconnz: “Billy Crystal is sitting through a power point presentation about who now works in Hollywood since he stopped working 13 years ago.”

@hulu: “Take a drink if you’ve got Sammy Davis Jr. and Justin Bieber making a Hitler joke in your Oscars drinking game.”

@alyssabereznak: I don’t think it’s a coincidence that the music is drowning out billy crystal’s voice.”

@slackmistress: “Oscar gift bags this year include a week-long trip to the Catskills, a Viagra prescription and a selection of hard candies.”

@Zap2itRick (about the winner): “I did not know Gregg Allman had a second career as a cinematographer.”

@SteveDahlShow (about the winner): “I bet that cinematographer gets REALLY good pot!”

@DougBenson: “Billy Crystal is at Octavia Spencer’s seat, begging her to do some one armed push-ups when she wins.”

@tohoscope: “Is it me or is Billy Crystal looking more and more like Bela Lugosi?”

@StevenAmiri: “In case you were wondering, Billy Crystal is old and Jewish.”

@lizzwinstead: “Guess Jennifer Lopez thought this was The Golden Globes.”

CJ Werleman@rationalists: “I can see Jennifer Lopez’s nipples. They taste like TV screen.”

@chrisburlingame: “A film from Iran just won an Academy Award as Rick Santorum throws together some ill-conceived talking points.”

@dbrauer: “Think any Republican presidential candidate will rip the Academy for the Iranian film beating the Israeli one?”

@NotBillWalton: “Responsibilities of Oscar volunteers: Fill empty seats, direct traffic in the aisles, and remind Nick Nolte that he’s still on Earth.”

@DamienFahey: “If you miss the Oscars, catch up on the show by heading to the nearest Home Depot and staring at a beige paint swatch for 3 hours.”

@MarinaGipps: “Every year I’ve watched #oscars i kind of felt like these people were gollum & whatever unlikely award was “my precious”…”

@AntDeRosa@KeithOlbermann: “This is the WORST EPISODE of Downton Abbey EVER.”

@DeathAndTaxes: “Is Cirque Du Soliel what it’s like to be French and on acid at the same time?”

@brentalfloss: “And that’s what you do when you fall off of another man’s upside-down-feet on live national television.”

@LaurelSnyder: “This is the part where they dangle Chris Rock in front of us, and we laugh, before we trudge back to Billy Crystal.”

@JillMorris: “I think Hollywood is still too depressed about Heath Ledger to focus.”

@PhilCokesBrain: “People introducing the people who introduce people to make a speech makes Tony LaRussa’s bullpen usage seem normal.”

@bengreenman: “If Hugo picks up some major awards along with this tech-award sweep, will the headline be “Huge-O”?”

@vulture: “You’re only two years older than me, darling. Where have you been all my life?” Plummer to his Oscar.

@DougBenson: “I have a plumber named Christopher Actor.”

Life is not measured by the number of breaths we take, but by the moments that take our breath away.- George Carlin

 

 

 

THE EYES HAVE IT

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When I first sat down to write this post a number of ideas flashed through my mind, but I just didn’t feel like heavy this week.  So I’m doing what a ton of bloggers get shit about.  That is, writing about what they had for breakfast.

But I’m not gonna write about breakfast.

When I got my new eye prescription, I put the lenses into a pair of frames I’d been using for years.  I like them, but it was also time for something different.  Really different.  Then a Groupon coupon that would save me some serious shekels sealed the deal.  I committed myself to a store where I’d seen odd and wild frames in their window.  Hey, spring is just around the corner.  The greening of Zach.

This “new image” idea actually began a few years ago when I spent a week with Sue’s relatives in an Adirondack cabin where Calvin Coolidge used to summer.  Twelve year old Bella had blue frames that I adored.  Problem was, I worked with lawyers then and spent a fair amount of time in court.  I always removed my earrings, but still played fast and loose with turtlenecks rather than shirts and ties.  But blue glasses…way out of bounds.  I’d hate to have any jury affected by my questionable fashion sense.

But I don’t go to court anymore.  Which made it time to stretch.  To find those blue frames, or their 2012 equivalent.  Sue graciously accepted my invitation to come along.  Perhaps it was a defensive move.  In other, similar, circumstances she had let me shop alone, then greeted me and the results with a sadly shaking head. (I never brought home a leisure suit, I swear.)

You gotta love Harvard Square.  Hell, if we melted down all the silver and gold attached to the bodies we’d all be rich, though I’m not one to cast aspersions given my earrings and bracelets.  The young women in the eyeglass store were also loaded with facial (and I’d guess body) piercings, still, they looked at me funny when I said I wanted something a little outrageous.  Couldn’t blame them–I was a sixty-three year old in a store meant for twenty-somethings.

After those initial glances, the two youngsters took me on. I guess there’s enough strange in Harvard Square to allow for mine.  Along with Sue, they cheerfully pitched in.  I felt like I had three personal shoppers all bringing me frames to try on.  Which was incredibly helpful.  Despite my vision of blue, I had no real idea about what I was looking for.

Odd how often that happens.  I knew I wanted something different, but when it came right down to it, I felt like I’d walked into a room to get something, but was stopped cold in my tracks upon arrival.  I was there for a reason–hell, I could taste it–but for the life of me couldn’t figure out what.

Here, it was did I want round fronts?  Go for a 1950s look with dark on top of the lens that fades to grey as it circles the bottom?  Was I interested in a return to the 70s with “aviators?”  So many questions and a whole lot of choices.

Went through the blues (surprise, surprise), but either they weren’t the shade I wanted or were the wrong shape for my face.  Moved on to green, purple, and even mustard.  Same problems.  Either the color or shape didn’t quite cut it.  I was beginning to think my quest was gonna end in disappointment.

Sue and the clerks saw the beginning of my funk and suggested I slowly, methodically go shelf by shelf instead of taking the kid in a candy store approach I’d adopted as soon as we’d walked in.  Off I went, this time looking carefully at each frame.  Wouldn’t you know it–about halfway around the track, an oversized fuchsia caught my eye and found its way onto my face.  I liked them, liked them as much as Sally Fields believed the members of the Academy liked her.  I thought I had finally found my frames until the younger and more metallized of the women slid next to me.  Aware that I was beaming and also aware that Sue had simply shrugged, she carefully chose her words.

“It seems you like this pair.”

“I do, actually.”

“They are pink, you know.”

The pink was what had attracted me.  And I was old enough to be secure of my sexuality.

“I know,” I replied.

“The shape works, but they really look Elton John.  Want to try them in tortoise shell?”

I shook my head, watching the color catch the light.

“And I think I have a pair you’ll like better.  Wait here and I’ll get them.”

Wait here?  Of course I was going to wait here.  Wait and think about whether I wanted to look like Elton. “I’m not the man they think I am at home. Oh no no no, I’m a rocket man.”  Hadn’t he been recently honored at the Kennedy Center Lifetime Achievement Awards?

The young lady returned and fidgeted.  “I would feel like a used car salesman if I let you buy that pair of frames,” she said earnestly.

“Rocket man burning out his fuse up here alone…”

She handed me a pair of absolutely clear, round frames and suggested I try them on.  Truth was, they fit my face perfectly.  And their clearness was definitely outside my normal groove.  Still, with the pink, I could be Rocket man.

As I stared hard into the mirror it eventually dawned.  I wasn’t Elton John, was never gonna be Elton John, and I don’t really enjoy burning out my fuse alone.  Plus, I never even cared about Lady Di.

But I was the reflection I saw behind those clear frames and knew it.  I guess pink, blue, green, purple, and mustard are just going to have to wait.  Maybe when I’m 64.

The Boy Wondering:  “I’m at an age where I only use the word ‘hip’ to describe an ongoing medical condition.”