Chapter 26 in An American Lawyer
Practicing law isn’t easy. No one said it should be. I always had the belief that a lawyer should give his or her heart and soul when representing a client, especially in a criminal matter. I picked that up from watching lawyers like Patrick O’Doherty, Peter Angelos, and many others whom I respected. Weirdly, Jim was also on that list. He didn’t have any real methodology of preparing for a case, but he had the type of mind that could convince jurors that his client was innocent. He also had something I will call an innate ability to fight. In many ways, he loved to argue and discuss issues. He could have been a much better lawyer if he would have taken the time to do his homework in preparation for cases instead of believing he could wing it in many situations.
His attitude was very much like the old criminal defense lawyers who had a chip on their shoulders. He didn’t trust the prosecutors. Out of all the underlying issues that he had in his own life, one of his redeeming qualities was that he honestly believed in fighting “tooth and nail” for the underdog. I saw this all my life. I observed a lot about Jim that was confusing to me as a kid. He could have a kind heart at times, but there were other times that he was cold as ice to the people around him. That “stone-cold” attitude usually involved alcohol and, in his later days, drugs.
I picked up that “chip” that he had on his shoulder, and I ceremoniously placed it on mine. Most good trial lawyers have that
chip and never let it go.
I’ve been told that I’m a half actor and half dramatist. That is certainly true when you’re trying to convince a jury to look the other way when the evidence against your client may be obvious. I also picked up on the anger that my father had. Many good trial lawyers sometimes use anger that comes out in the courtroom during a trial. Sometimes it is justified, and sometimes it is not. I tend to justify it when I’m cross-examining someone, especially someone in authority such as a police officer, agent, or detective who I know is either lying or not being 100 percent transparent.
I took the advice that I received from many lawyers who were much older than me when I first started practicing. Let’s call them the “old school.” There’s no question that my personality comes out during a trial. It doesn’t have to be a criminal trial; it can be a civil matter or any other contested type of scenario. I honestly believe that I am doing what I’m supposed to do by standing up for my client, the person sitting next to me at the trial table.
It’s a daunting task to feel like you have to be someone who has to perform at a high level almost every day of your life. I equate a trial lawyer to a gladiator or someone who is hired to defend an issue, an ideology, or movement. More often than not, it’s an individual who has been accused of doing something heinous. There is a long-standing glorious principle tucked away deep within our judicial system. That is, the opposing party—which could be the state or federal government—must be made to prove each and every element of the statute and alleged crime in order to convict a defendant. My job is to push as hard as I can against that entity trying to prove these elements.
Many people have said to me over the years, how can you represent someone who has committed a crime such as murder, rape, or even child molestation? The answer I give to them is somewhat canned in our legal process. It’s not that I agree with or even like what a particular person has done or allegedly has done. When we are talking about a criminal matter, this principle is essential because it’s the backbone of our system. The “duty” I have as a defense attorney is to defend the United States Constitution and the Maryland Declaration of Rights to the utmost of my ability, notwithstanding what the crime involves. I have to numb my personal feelings and beliefs. They make no difference. A good test for an authentic defense attorney is to defend someone whom you may diametrically oppose in principle to thought and belief, but still, give it your “all” to defend them according to the law. Not just winging it… I mean to bust your butt to get it done. That’s a true defense attorney and what our country was built upon.
If the state or federal government is not held to this high standard in even the smallest case or the most heinous case, then the entire system falls apart. This was the basic thinking of the framers of the Constitution.
They didn’t invent it. Great Britain and other Anglo-Saxon countries have had jury trial rituals and rights throughout the centuries. What’s important is how the framers of this country set up the judicial system so that the jurors who determine a person’s guilt or innocence are chosen from their “peers.”
That’s somewhat of a different philosophy than most Western civilization countries. Historically, “peers” were not the sole judges of criminality or civil liberty. Judges who were appointed to the bench were the sole arbiters. Our system believes that a jury of our “peers”—not individuals who are employed by the government or hold a lofty position because of wealth, but simple citizens situated just like the defendant or plaintiff in a civil matter—should be the ones to determine guilt or innocence.
I take my duty as an officer of the court very seriously. One of the jobs of a trial attorney is to get to the truth. The truth is not always obvious. It’s hidden. It’s slippery. A trial lawyer must learn the skill of cross-examination as a primary skill. Without it, it’s like a soldier in battle without a weapon.
I think sometimes I may have taken it too far. I remember years ago I had a domestic case where I represented a client who was married and had a couple of children. One thing led to the other, and the couple was bound for divorce. There came a time when the situation evolved into a trial. I tried to resolve the scenario before we went into court, but nothing was
finalized. I don’t even think it was the result that mattered to the opposing party; I think he simply wanted to exact a pound of flesh from her.
I sat in the courtroom while his lawyer examined my client about all the alleged activities she had done to wrong him. After his lawyer finished examining my client’s husband, it was my turn to do the question asking. The first question I asked him was, “You’re under oath, do you understand that?”
I knew he had lied because I had a plethora of evidence in my hand that I was ready to go to war with and try to help my client and his kids. The second question I asked was, “Was everything you just testified to here today in open court truthful?”
He looked me dead in the eyes and said, “Of course, Mr. Crawford. I don’t lie.”
By this time in my legal career, I had become extremely comfortable in the courtroom. My cross-examination skills are among the best around. That’s not just my opinion but something I’ve been told by many others. Honing these skills took years of experience and observation of others, specifically the old-school lawyers whom I had the privilege of seeing in action when I was growing up. I turned back to look at this witness. I knew I would slowly dissect each and every part of his testimony to show this judge that he was, in fact, lying, and it was purposeful and with intent. The full cross-examination of this person lasted almost four hours. He was becoming extremely angry and arrogant at the very thought that I would question his truthfulness. I slowly applied the pressure to expose his misstatements and lies. Each time I caught him in a lie, he would twist and squirm to try to change the prior testimony.
After a couple of hours, I caught him in so many lies that it was becoming ridiculous. But I wouldn’t stop. I continued. I pushed and pushed and pushed to the point where I could see in his eyes that he had given up and he needed to retreat. But there was no escape for him. I was relentless, and I wasn’t going to stop until every point was made. It was at that point that he began to feign a heart attack. He followed through to the extent that he complained he could no longer speak.
Obviously, the judge quickly stopped the examination, and an ambulance was called. Although the case was not concluded that day, within the next couple of weeks, I was able to settle the matter with his counsel very quickly. I wanted to get him back on the stand… He didn’t want any part of that. So, the case was resolved.
I often think back about my courtroom time in situations like that. Was I too hard? Did I cause damage to others emotionally? What did it do to me emotionally? More importantly, was my conduct beneficial to my client, and did I adhere to the code of conduct required by all lawyers who were playing by the rules in the adversarial scenario? I think I did, and I did well, but there were times when I realized that a toll had to be paid. I’m not necessarily proud of that.
There is no doubt that my years as a child of an alcoholic helped create that perfect storm for me. The anger I felt inside, and the chip on my shoulder, served me well for many years when I had to do my job. The problem was that it had a devastating effect on my psyche and personal life. My inability to open up and relate by showing emotion was slowly chipping away at my entire soul.
From as early as I can remember as a little kid, I was taught not to show emotion, but the funny thing was that I could show emotion in a courtroom. I could literally bring a jury to tears as well as create anger and justification. I would throw things across the trial table. I would lie on the ground and kick my feet. I would call people liars to their faces in front of the jury—all to make a point.
I was being an intense advocate, and I still believe at times that is necessary when you have a person’s life in your hands. But where did that put me emotionally after living that lifestyle for many years? I knew I would find out sooner or later.
