UPDATE: A protest is planned tomorrow at the Torch of Friendship in downtown Miami from 10am to 1pm
Protest what? Something good we are sure. So if you want to fight the power, put on your tie-dyed shirt, take a gummie, and go march for social justice, in support of immigrants, preserving the Last Carrot in Coconut grove (being sold to a condo developer 😠) unfair parlay lines on the Hard Rock betting app, the Dolphins in general ( Hey hey Cluck Cluck don't you know the dolphins suck?) , the Supreme Court's secret "We Are For Trump" docket, or any other cause that seems appropriate.
We live in an age of plea bargains, Zoom Hearings, and prosecutors who call a 36-month offer a “gift.” But once upon a time—and still, on the rare good day—there walked among us trial lawyers. Real ones. The kind who smelled of sweat, stale coffee, courtroom adrenaline, and Paco Raban. The kind who could talk a jury into seeing light where the government swore there was only darkness.
They walk into a courtroom alone, carrying a
battered brief case filled with legal pads that had undecipherable notes and
proceed to destroy the prosecution’s case. When needy clients called, they
growled “before they get to you they have to get through me” and then hung up
the phone.
The poet of the Dream Team “If it doesn’t fit, you
must acquit” should be engraved on the wall of every law school—and maybe
tattooed on the arm of every defense lawyer who forgets the power of rhythm and
rhyme in a closing. Cochran turned persuasion into performance art. He had the
trial of the century, and he won it- enough said. But he was no one trick Pony.
He made his bones suing the LAPD for brutality and became the lawyer they
feared most.
While the men were chasing cameras, Clarke was saving
lives. Unabomber, Eric Rudolph, Jared Loughner. Boston Marathon bomber. Her
genius wasn’t in “not guilty,” it was in "life-not death". A master of mitigation who
could find humanity where others only saw evil.
The killer from Brooklyn. Defended mobsters,
politicians, and moguls with surgical precision. His opening statements were
symphonies; his crosses, scalpel work. When Shargel stood, prosecutors felt a
sudden chill and jurors paid close attention.
The New York street fighter who could argue a mob case
before breakfast and a celebrity scandal before lunch. He convinced a Manhattan
jury that Sean Combs wasn’t packing heat in that club and made the DSK
case evaporate. Swagger, intellect, and timing—he has it all.
This is our guy. The silver-haired California samurai who cross-examined Michael Jackson’s accusers into oblivion in 2005. A man who
could charm a jury while slicing witnesses like sushi. Always the outsider,
never the showboat, yet the show inevitably belonged to him. He became the
center of attention in every courtroom he walked into- and he knew what to do with
that attention.
We lived through the golden age of criminal defense attorneys. A time we fear is gone with harsher penalties and the trial tax that prosecutors and judges swear does not exist, but the rest of us know it does. "Take five or risk thirty" is proving to be the death of the Sixth Amendment which is dying a slow-one plea at a time- death.
And now, even the best of us are no longer lone wolfs, showing up alone in some out-of-town courthouse in Missouri, New Mexico, or Delaware. Now we are accompanied by a team of twenty-somethings setting up our laptops to access the thousands of files on the terabytes of discovery turned over.
One of the lawyers in our top five showed up in a Miami Courtroom in the 70's, unknown to the local feds, defending a client, and had a celebrity sitting in the front row- driving prosecutors to complain, and causing the judge to chuckle at their discomfort. Then he proceeded to smash their case like a boat crashing into a jetty. Those days are gone, and we are the worse for it.
2 comments:
I’d say Michele Borchew is #1.
Maybe she will be. 5-1 tomorrow? Or should we wait for Monday?
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