MORE BAD NEWS

 More bad news struck today. The email at 9:36 a.m., apparently official...The PDs Holiday party is officially CANCELED

 From Carlos Martinez: 

This was a tough call to make as we are reminded every day of how much personal contact we have lost during the past few months. I am personally disappointed that we will not be able to express our gratitude in person to you. But we need to prioritize everyone's health and safety.

Well done Mr. Martinez. This is what leaders do. They make tough and unpopular decisions regardless of the political consequences.  

Bear (and bare) with us as we reminisce a bit. 

It used to be the party of the year. We are not talking about the teens or the 00's or the 90s. But the late 70's and early 80's. Those were PD parties with a capital P that rhymes with pool and the party was cool. 

Intoxicating substances, some of which the possession of which violated certain sections of chapter 893, flowed freely. Court reporters dressed to (and some undressed) to impress. It was a time and a place that depending on the evening and the company, you could - and we are stealing a Woody Allen joke from Annie Hall- do to a judge or a prosecutor what they did to your client in court. (See the clip below). 

Alcohol was consumed and inhibitions were left at the door. It was Miami's own piece of Vegas for a Friday night/Saturday morning- what happened at the PD party stayed at the PD party. 

Yes, those were the days. And now, sigh, we stay isolated, contacting the world digitally via Zoom and Facetime and texting. The Chateauneuf de Pape (try and get 2005,2006, 2007, 2009 or 2010) is consumed alone, with maybe some KC and the Sunshine Band playing softly in the background. 

But Mr. Martinez is right. Better safe than sorry. Reports are that 20 million Americans could be infected with the virus before the end of the year. A vaccine is on the horizon and we will have a bang-up blow-out party next year, and maybe, just maybe, Rumpole will do something he hasn't done since we had a President whose middle name was Jefferson- attend the PD party. 

Until then, we raise a glass of wine to those days when life was carefree and the only virus that was deadly was transmitted when the parties were in pari delicto nec revelabis turpitudinem.

COMING UP: What Rumpole is Thankful for. (And shockingly, more than one judge made the list!). 

The Joke we are referencing starts at 2:18 in the clip. 

PARTY PARTY PARTY

EPISODE THREE: A NEW COLD WAR 

Yes three parties in the title. Because on the day when triskaidekaphobia runs rampant, Friday December 13, the SAO, RC3 and the PDS all had their holiday soiree. 

Can't we all just get along? 

A long time ago, in a galaxy far far away, there was a day when the PD party was the only game in town. When PDs, judges, and ASAs gathered for drunken bacchanalias that entered into lore of the REGJB- "did you see the judge and the court-reporter? Aren't they both married?" 

But those days have faded faster than a sideways lingering and longing glance in the #metoo movement. 

Now our State Attorney frowns upon fraternization between her droid-assistants and Mr. Martinez's ragtag band of heroic defenders. 

What is she worried about? That prosecutors will get drunk enough to admit "the whole we have to do what the victim wants stuff is crap, but if I don't do it I'll get fired." 
Or that a prosecutor will engage in a liason that will end with pillow talk "we really don't turn over everything we are supposed to in discovery, but don't tell anyone." 

In any event, gone are the days Ronald Regan would have a late night scotch with Tip Oneill and talk about the days events without partisan politics. And gone are the days when a PD and ASA could sit in bar and discuss the results of a trial without their colleagues whispering behind their back with recriminations about the company they keep. 

So now each legal office, whose lawyers hold the fates of hundreds if not thousands of Miamians every year in the decisions they make and their ability to communicate and influence the other side,  are separated by  a new cold war- one fostered by the "chiefs" in their office who are too young to understand the value in being able to pick up the phone and call the other side or sit down over a Cuban sandwich at a small Cafe and settle a case. 

No, in their world of Starbucks  and binge-watching Netflix, they send cold texts  between bites of their Postmate-delivered burrito while pausing a movie on the DVR: "I cannot offer you a plea to anything other than the Max because that's what the victim wants". 

Comity is a word they have to Google because it wasn't on their SATs, LSATs, or the bar exam. And going to the other-side's party could result in their termination (via text from their HR department). 

Sad.