LEWISBURG CREW

PURPOSE STATEMENT

[No one was injured during the making of this video]

(... after viewing it I take that back, I think my ego was bruised...)

JUNK BOMB

     "Hey Ma." "Hello Son" " What's Up?"  "Your father and I are in Washington for Cousin Reese's funeral."  "Oh yeah, I forgot.  Sorry they wouldn't let me out for that."  Reese, who was quite a bit older and like my 10th Cousin had risen to a top government position and recently died of a gum infection.   "Your Cousin was a brilliant man, you know that.  They are having a huge ceremony down here for him."   "Yeah, he was a real genius.  But Ma, I still can't understand why he just couldn't have brushed his teeth?"

     I remember, as a young boy Reese would excuse himself early from the holiday dinner table, returning to his room to study.  "See that,” my father would say, "it's that kind of hard work and dedication to the books that you’re going to need if you ever hope to amount to anything." These words stuck with me on that long road through higher education.  But my most vivid memory of Reese was the time when I'd finished stuffing myself and walked into his bedroom unannounced to find him hunched over a magazine with a bottle of lotion in one hand and all his hard work in the other.

      "Will you fit into a 44 regular."  "Why are you whispering Ma, where are you?"  "In your cousin’s closet.  He has all these expensive suits.  It would be a sin to let them go to waste."  "... Sure, I'm a 44 short but that’s close enough.  How many can you stuff in your suitcase?   Did you check the pockets yet?  When are you guys coming home?"  "Our plane comes in at 3:00 Sunday afternoon."  "Good.  I'll still be home on a weekend pass."  "Great honey, how is everything else going."  ”? Ok... but I’m a little bummed out, do you remember my friend Jimmy Petrocelli?  He left Lewisburg for the halfway house the same day I was released."  "Is he the one you said looks like Shrek?  And his Cousin Tony just got picked up again for extortion?" (My mother is almost 72 and sharp as the frigging day is long).  "Yup, that's him.  He just told me they got him on a hot urine for coke.  He's going back."  "Oh my God, didn't he do the RDAP with you?"  "Yeah and the Feds don't play with that, if you did the drug program it's zero tolerance.  Imagine doing nine months, 500 hours on top of his ten year sentence and going back for a couple of lines."  "That's terrible.  Jimmy you... you don't get tempted like that do you?"  "Come on Ma, are you kidding – no - not a chance."  "Well what makes him go back to that stuff after all he's been through?"  "You know Ma, because he is a Junkie.  An honest to god, life long, junk bomb.  People don't understand how hard it is to beat."  "Well I'm going to pray for him."  "No Ma, your not!  Just keep praying for me."  "You know I already do that."  "Yes but Ma there are only so many hour in a day and when your praying for Petrocelli, I’m not covered.  Listen, the lord gave you one son, and it is not Jimmy Petrocelli!   So Ma, please, concentrate on praying for me, your flesh and blood, your first born only son and undeniably favorite child and let Mrs. Petrocelli worry about her junk-bomb!"

Postscript: My mother is not only a Saint; she's a sneak.  I have no doubt she prayed for JP behind my back because as of this writing he is miraculously still in the halfway house.

UPDATE:  On Tuesday of this week Jimmy’s brother died of cancer.  He requested to go to the wake.  His request was denied.  Last night, three days before Christmas, Federal Marshals ascended on the 1/2 way house in Boston to bring him back to prison.  "Ok Ma, go ahead, Jimmy needs your prayers now more than I do."

COMBUSTION

     “That case is a slam dunk - they caught the guy coming out of his house with a bloody mattress for godssake - you’d have to be asleep… or retarded to loose.”  “Listen, I even heard the defendant was on the phone from lock-up and admitted he just lost it - on a taped line!”  Yeah it’s one of those cases where there’s so much evidence if you win well so what – how could you loose, but if you loose then good luck finding a new profession.”  “You’re right, you’d never out live that loss.”  “ And now it’s Tamagini’s problem.”  “Ha, ha, ha…” “Ha, ha, ha…”

 “ Hey fellas, what’s my problem?”  I’d paused outside the office law library, my hands balled tight, taking this in.  “Umm, there’s no problem…”   “ - Yeah, no problem – we were just saying how you’ll have no problem putting that bastard from Reading away for the rest of his life.”

     I’d been walking into awkward behind-my-backs like that in the office and courthouses in both Lowell and Cambridge since discovering Elaine’s body.  A missing persons case was one thing, but giving me a high profile murder prosecution didn’t sit well with some who’d been prosecutors much longer than I had.   The truth was they were right; being the underdog carried a lot less pressure.

     In my first homicide the defendant ran over the victim while she crossed Market Street eating cheese curls.  Mark Russell was charged with causing the death of Deborah Jean Sweeny negligently while drunk driving.  It was a strong case that if left alone would have ended in a guilty plea, but I didn’t leave it alone.   While out chatting up servers trying to figure out just how plastered Russell was that night I stumbled upon a bartender who mentioned Russell and Sweeny in the same sentence. “Wait a minute, they were in here together?”  “Well Deborah Jean was at one end of the bar and Mark was at the other snarling...”  “Snarling?”  “Yeah, well maybe sneering, Debbie used to go out with his uncle you know, who over-dosed on heroin a while back, and they blamed her so there was a lot of animosity…” - wait a second; how often do you accidently run someone over who you know?

     More leg-work turned up a witness who’d seen Russell drive pass Sweeny, bang a u-turn up on the sidewalk striking her, sending the cheese curls flying, before driving off and another who saw Russell return and attempt to throw Sweeny’s body in the trunk before the cops arrived.  In the interest of full disclosure I should tell you these witnesses were not without credibility issues; one had recently beat a murder charge for setting a homeless man on fire and the other had a long record but lets face it I’m not going to find civic leaders and parish priests hanging out in front of the Olympia after two in the morning.

     Because of my snooping instead of a simple motor vehicle homicide I now had a complicated second- degree murder case, but next to no pressure.  The facts were clustered, the witness list looked like America’s Most Wanted and more tumble weeds than mourner blew through Debora Jean’s funeral.  No one cared if I won, and the Vega’s odds were ten to one against a win, but when the verdict came back guilty Mark caught life with the possibility for parole in fifteen and I had to catch a ride back to the office after leaving court to find my car smashed up.  I was wrong; someone did care if I won.

     Another low-expectation case was one where a pipe bomb was found under the car of the boyfriend of a local fireman’s daughter.  Rumor had it Daddy was unhappy with his teenager princess’s unplanned pregnancy.  But rumors and an undetonated pipe bomb don’t get prosecutors lining up outside their supervisor’s office for assignment of the case.  I’m uncertain how many older ADAs handled this investigation with little success before it landed on my desk but I do know the last one was O’Malley, Kelly’s best friend and the prosecutor who lost the case against my witness in the Russell homicide who charred the homeless man to a crisp.  Again it took some legwork but armed with a picture of the bomb, which I thrust under the nose of as many of the daughter’s friends as I could find, and a few threats of perjury and each kid independently admitted seeing what we called an “infernal machine” in various phases of construction in the fireman’s basement workshop while they were downstairs visiting his daughter and playing pool.  This was enough to get an indictment but I give credit for the conviction to the defendant himself who took the witness stand and tried blowing so much smoke up the jury’s ass they smelt a four-alarm fire, saddling him with a ten piece in state prison.

     These are but two examples of my cases that went to trial state courts.  Unlike the feds who have the luxury of a 97% conviction rate because they only indict ironclad cases we handled whatever garbage the local and state cops come up with.  Otherwise the scumbags would run rampant on our streets.   The defense only goes to trial when they believe they can win, otherwise they workout a plea deal.  First-degree murder cases are the exception because even a plea gets you life in prison.  Donohue was admitting he murdered his wife but asserting he suffered from a dissociative disorder causing him to lack the substantial capacity to conform his behavior to the requirements of the law. This was a lot of mumbo jumbo that translated to nothing but a boatload of pressure for me.

LAST DAY ON THE COMPOUND

GOOD BY USP LEWISBURG

IT'S OFFICIAL

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Name Register # Age-Race-Sex Release Date Location 1. JAMES TAMAGINI 03569-049 47-White-M 04-12-2011 RELEASED

ACTUAL COURT TRANSCRIPT

 
Dr. Ablow testified to the following:  “[W]hat happens is on that morning he tells me his wife had worked until about [7 P.M.] the night before, had gone to bed at eight.   She was sleeping a little bit late.   He usually rises early.   He was getting the kids ready for school and did so.“They left.   He walked past his office.   In the office he noticed a bat.   He went in, he picked up the bat.   He walked upstairs, standing outside the bedroom.   His wife was inside sleeping, in the bedroom.“He says that for thirty minutes to an hour he stood outside the room with the impulse, you have to do it, the strong thought, the impulse, you have to do it, seizing him at the same time as he responded, you can't do it.   You have to do it, you can't do it.“This builds, and he stands there for thirty minutes.   He then goes numb.   Hits the wife with the bat, is surprised not only by the event but how much damage he has caused, how bloody it is, says, ‘I could not have done that,’ to himself, ‘I could not have done that’ and then in a sequence separated perhaps by ten or fifteen minutes, cleans the bat and noticing that his wife is suffering, he delivers an additional or additional blows in order, he says, for her suffering to end.   And he prays to God to take his wife.   And that's what he says happened.”

LATENT MALICE

  “She was defenseless,” I reminded them,  “ Elaine was sleeping soundly when her husband killed her…  consider the force with which he swung the bat, striking her head repeatedly; casting blood in an arc across the ceiling and walls behind him… the sound it must have made… Attorney Kelly would have you believe that only a mentally incompetent man could be capable of such atrocity with his children sleeping feet away in their rooms but you know otherwise. You know beyond any doubt that the defendant’s actions were calculated, performed with a full appreciation of their wrongfulness.  The evidence has proven this to you…”

     No one blinked.  They sat on the edges of their seats without moving.  I took this as a good sign.  I’d lost juries that looked away when I made a salient point or their eyes told me: “nice suit buddy but it’s not your day.”   In the past nine years I’d waited on hundreds of verdicts; for hours, some took days, and from them collectively I learned the trick to guessing what a jury will do is very simple: never try.  No matter how good I felt, this one was no different

     The afternoon I met Donahue we were investigating the disappearance of Elaine.  He reported her missing after she failed to return from her night shift as a delivery room nurse at a local hospital.  All her belongings seemed to be in place, credit cards and bank accounts remained inactive, friends and extended family hadn’t heard a word from her.  The couple’s three children were at school while myself, two State Police Detectives and a third from the town of Reading sat in the Donahue’s kitchen listening to Ed drone on about the strength of their marriage.

     Honestly, I wasn’t into it.  Either Elaine took off or Ed here killed her.  At the moment it was a coin toss.  This had the trappings for being an enormous case and I was using every fiber of my being to focus but the truth was I had something I simply couldn’t get off my mind; I thought I might be in love.

     This is embarrassing, but I suppose the fact it’s bothersome speaks volumes about me: I met the girl of my dreams the night of a “Best Chest” contest at the Blue Shamrock.  It was my first time visiting Lowell’s hot, new establishment.   When I arrived attendance was at capacity.  The stereo system blared early 90’s top forty. Conversation was difficult over Goldfinger’s Mable.  I’d gone out that evening with a couple of off duty Lowell cops.  One bought a round of shots and the moment he reached out with mine I saw her through the crowd.  She was one of the four females tending bar.  I’ve been accused of exaggeration but can assert with clear conscience this quartette would’ve rivaled the beauty found behind the bar of any watering hole on the planet.  Paralyzed, the glass slipped through my fingers, bouncing with a thud off the hardwood floor.  Praying she didn’t notice my clumsiness I unclenched my eyelids to see her smile.

     I’d seen that smile before, in Boston, at a nightclub.  From the balcony I watched her and her friends with every intention of approaching to offer a drink or to dance.  Those with her were attention seekers, putting on airs, while she seemed to dance for the sake of it, for herself.  When a high roller invaded their circle, the way she handled his intrusion, with tact and a shoulder, made me smile.  And when another approached to offer them drinks and a table in the VIP section, with a sweeping hand she took charge: “No – thank you, but we’re having too much fun dancing!”

     She seemed to possess a confidence so unique I couldn’t pinpoint its origin; extreme beauty, magnetic personality and an air of independence seemingly impossible to tame.  Watching her I felt more alive than I could recall… and intimidated.   Four feet is as close as I could get before sweat slicked my palms and I felt like I swallowed a golf ball.   Talking to strangers is what I did for a living but this felt like waiting in line for a firing squad.  Finding her working here tonight provided the miracle of a second chance.

     Dropping the shot wasn’t the source of my embarrassed, and neither was unexpectedly seeing her, it was because I came in second in the contest.   Not to make excuses but I was unaware of the event prior to venturing out so I went in cold: no fluid restriction, carbohydrate loading or pumping up.   In case you haven’t picked up on it, back then I didn’t conceal my narcissism.  When you’re successful everyone pretends to love you regardless.   She was the first to cripple my confidence this way but I vowed to get beyond this fear.

     The contest presented an additional dilemma; I might see half the intoxicated revelers in attendance the following morning in court.  When you hold a position of authority people tend to take you less seriously after seeing you half naked.  Placing this concern aside and throwing caution off the stage with my Diesel tee shirt I entered in a desperate attempt to capture her attention.  Whether or not I succeeded remained a mystery until much later. 

     The cops I’d come with knew the owner who allowed us to stay past closing.  By this time my confidence had risen in line with my blood alcohol level.  Introducing myself as she exited the ladies room, I’d already learned her name was Michelle from another waitress.  “Didn’t I see you at the Roxy a few weeks ago,” was my smooth icebreaker. “  She gave me a peculiar look and acknowledged she might have been there.  Then against every rule of non-pursuit I’d relied on to that point in my life I told her how beautiful she was, gave her my card from the DA’s office, and told her:  “I really hope you will call and let me take you out sometime… somewhere nice.”

     An hour and a half later I was home clumsily executing a search warrant on the refrigerator when a call came in.  “Hello?”  “If you really saw me at the Roxy two weeks ago what was I wearing?”  “…  You had on a black dress, short just above the knees - sleeveless with platinum sparkles… black pumps, high enough to accentuate your calves but not outrageous so you could dance.  Your hair was up… and your hoop earrings matched the sparkles on your dress… your watch, bracelet and clutch bag…” The pauses were all bullshit, for effect.  The image had played so many times in my head I recognized it like my refection.

     “R-r-r-ring… r-r-ring…” the sound interrupted Ed’s monolog and tossed a wet blanket on my daydream.  “R-r-r-ring… r-r-ring…”  “Aren’t you gonna get that?”  I asked,  “It might be her.” In another room the answering machine clicked on before Ed could reach it.  His lack of interest caused curious looks between the investigators and myself.  Quietly listening we could hear the caller was one of his relatives with nothing new to report.   Free from Ed’s watchful eye I rose for a look around.   The sink was full of breakfast dishes on top of others crusted with last night’s dinner; open counter space was limited by a cereal boxes, crumpled homework, crayons, artwork and then like a swollen thumb piles of smaller papers sat neatly stacked against the wall.   Hearing Ed’s muffled voice two rooms away inflated my balls enough to start shuffling through what were dozens of scratch, keno and lottery tickets.  Seeing they’d been purchased yesterday, last night and that morning produced an involuntary shiver that left me as fast as it came, taking with it any chance I would meet Mrs. Donahue.

      The prospect of this becoming a murder investigation was tremendous.  There was no honor higher in my office than being assigned a homicide.  But frankly it was something I didn’t deserve and would have never been considered for if anyone in had a glimpse into my private life, and I’m speaking now of the legal aspects.

     Lately I’d placed lunch with Michelle over anything to do with work.  On this day it wasn’t quite noon when I walked into the Shamrock.  The lunch crowd had yet to emerge from the surrounding office and municipal buildings.  At first the place looked empty, then I saw a little kid.  She had pulled out all the chairs and was playing underneath a table.  Michelle must be in the kitchen and the child’s parent is in the bathroom was as far as I’d thought when a rubber ball landed at my feet causing me to react, snatching it out of the air.  Slightly less than half the size of a baseball, one of the mysteries of my childhood remains how I could have lost a ball just likes it down Nana’s cellar.  Looking up into her breathless anticipation, it took some nerve to through it to a strange guy in a suit; my return throw unleashed joyous laughter and took sound coordination for her not to miss.  “Wanna play?” she asked without moving from her hiding spot.  “Well I thought I already was.”

     I was terrible at placing kids ages but if I had to guess I’d say she was about two; gorgeous, with blond pigtails and blue eyes that sparkled.

     Down on one knee I felt I could better gauge both velocity and trajectory, yet after a dozen or so tosses one took an awkward bounce off an uneven board sending her giggling back toward the kitchen.  I took this opportunity to stand and stretch and that’s when the train struck me.   Pushing through the swigging doors, it swept the kid off her feet and continued on in my direction. “ But Momma we’re playing!” 

      Recognizing the angles before they were revealed was my area of expertise.   Anticipating the unexpected, in or outside the courtroom, is how I made a living.  If I misses something important it could cost me a case, or in some situations much more.  This one got right passed.  The kid was so beautiful how did I miss it? 

     In those seconds I wondered how long Michelle had watched us from the kitchen and at the same time understood the source of her confidence and strength.  When She introduced Kyera as her daughter Michelle brimmed with pride but I could sense hyper-extended nerves.  The meaning of the introduction knocked the wind from me.  Blood and embarrassment filled my cheeks.  Have you lost your mind!  This is a little too big an issue to keep from me don’t you think?  You were that confident in our relationship… at this point, to spring it on me here today, likes this?   How did you know I wouldn’t take off out those doors? -  She didn’t, that was the point.   Accomplishing this feat required extraordinary effort, a number of accomplices and what I recognized above all else, decisive purpose.  Michelle had pulled it off masterfully.

     “Hi Kyera, I’m Jimmy.”  She looked back with a coy expression as though she knew exactly who I was.   Michelle put Kyera down and rose to meet me with a kiss.  I pulled her close and felt a racing heart slow beneath melting anxiety.   She released to check my expression and it must have provided assurance she’d done the right thing all these weeks.  Her lips curled to a smile and for the first time I saw dampness swell in her eyes.  I glanced down at Kyera who was staring straight up at us.  The shimmer in her eyes and the breadth of her smile had doubled.  In that instant my mind expanded and it all came together.  Going forward the three of us would be together and I couldn’t comprehend of anything changing this.

     By now Elaine had been missing for weeks without a sign.   I continued to plod along with investigators trying to turn up leads while Ed led marches, candlelight vigils and held news conferences pleading for his wife to come home.  Then one morning I dropped by the house with a Town Detective to pick up some life insurance information from Ed and saw something that changed everything.   He was seeing his three young children off to school when we pulled up.   They had stopped in the front walkway to hold hands in a circle and pray.  We watched for a moment then exited the car as Ed finished the prayer:  “and please God, keep Mommy safe and send her home to us unharmed very soon.”  To manage my sanity I tried to never let anything I saw or experienced on the job get to me, but the maliciousness underlying this scene clung to me.

     Without one solid piece of anything to implicate Donahue we refused to confirm to the media he wasn’t a suspect.  This angered him because it cast a shadow over all his efforts to appear as the grieving, abandoned spouse.  Finally the suggestion was made that if we were allowed to conduct a thorough search of his home using forensics and State Police Search Dogs we would go on record with our findings, and if there was nothing incriminating, he would be officially ruled out.  “But you searched the house the first day you were there,” was Ed’s initial objection.  “That wasn’t a search, we just walked through,” he was told.  “Nothing was touched, there was no one present from Crime Scene Services and certainly no dogs.”  “Well the kids are allergic to dogs,” came objection number two.  But Ed’s burning desire to be able to carry on in front of the cameras, out from under the cloud of suspicion, led him to reconsider and on a Tuesday he told us we could search the premises that Friday after the kids had left for school.

     From that moment Ed and his home were placed under surveillance, a task that turned out to be difficult to accomplish without being detected during the day.   Under the cover of darkness however, members of the State Police were able to take up positions in the woods behind the Donahue home without being noticed.  And the night before our scheduled search Ed did not disappoint.  Through the rear windows he was observed busily moving from one room to another, then carrying objects between the first and second floors and the basement.   Just passed midnight the door up to the backyard from the cellar opened and out he came with a large mattress.  Across the yard, over the three-foot stonewall and into the woods Ed labored; half carrying, half dragging until startled by the sharp glare of  State Police Maglites.  “Halt!  Lets see your hands!”  In complete shocked Ed dropped the bedding right where he stood.  Moving closer to examine troopers could clearly see it was heavily stained in a dark red substance later confirmed to be coagulated blood.

     After being paged with the news I raced through the night to the Donahue residence thinking the same thing as every investigator; things would coast down hill from here: draft a search warrant, get it signed by a judge, find Elaine, lock up Mr. Donahue.  As it turned out we could not have been more mistaken.

     By the following afternoon Ed was still walking around a free man.  He and his children had gone to stay with relatives while every branch of the Local and State Police had gone to work on his house.  Once the cops have their hands on a warrant forget about the place being searched ever looking the same.  When I arrived floors were being ripped up and walls torn down.  Front, rear and side doors remained propped open to accommodate the endless parade of crime scene personnel.  The dogs had searched the interior and were now working outside.  By late afternoon news helicopters flew overhead broadcasting pictures of the scene that answered the question on everyone’s mind; if investigators were digging up the back yard, no one had found Elaine Donahue.

   Those close to the investigation had more insight.   At one point the crime scene analysts called me upstairs.  We’d been given a tour of the second floor the first afternoon we visited Ed and noticed nothing unusual.    Using a chemical procedure, members of the forensics unit now revealed latent blood splatters all over the ceiling and wall of the master bedroom.   Nevertheless, blood splatters and a missing wife didn’t make a strong case for murder.  The question was did it make one at all?  “Looks like we may have a ‘Webster’ situation on our hands.”   These were the first words I recall the District Attorney personally directing towards me besides cursory pleasantries while passing in a hallway.   “I suggest you get to some research so we can evaluate our options and varying strength of grand jury indictments.”  It was he and I and his deputy first assistant standing in the street outside the Donahue house and I remember asking myself what in the world he just said.  “ Sure, yes, of course sir, I’ll get right on it and report back to you with my findings.”

    Commonwealth v. John Webster, was an 1850 Massachusetts murder case in which investigators never found the body, just some body parts.  So far all we had was blood, and the prospect of finding more was beginning to look bleak.   I was driving to the law library and gotten all the way to the parking garage when my cell phone rang:  “Come on back – you won’t believe this,” the detective on the other end was so out of breath I could barely understand him.  “Tucked in a small pocket of Ed’s brief case we found three receipts for consecutive purchases made earlier this week: a department store for a padlock, a home goods store for a fifty gallon rubber container and one for a rental unit at E-Z Mini Storage yards from the office where he’s been working.”

     It took a few hours to draft an addendum to the search warrant, assemble everyone and get up to the storage facility.  When they severed the lock with bolt cutters and rolled up the garage door it was dark.  Not just outside where we looked into the unit using flashlights, but being in the presence of an act that was purely evil darkens your spirit.  The rancid stench; the sight of another person who I’d seen in pictures as beautiful and vibrant wrapped and stuffed as though melting into a rubber box.... the children.  True horror, you swear it won’t but just  being exposed to it changes something already hidden in you.
    Arresting Ed was the next priority.  Angered, terrified, but mostly confused by what I’d seen of all the things that’d changed in me maturity wasn’t one of them.  Making sure I was front and center when the State Troopers knocked on his brother’s front door, Ed appeared and they asked him to step out side.  Quietly he complied and was met by Miranda and handcuffs.  Conversely, I couldn’t resist: “That was the last step you will ever take as a free man,” I told him summonsing my most formidable tone.  But for the first time since I’d met him Ed remained silent, appearing unmoved by my words.  Frozen on the steps I looked on as they stuffed him in the rear of the cruiser and drove away.   Above everything else I remember standing there not feeling the least bit better.

"What is this I'm reading," you ask?   While I was in prison I spent a great deal of time writing.  In fact seven months of my bid was spent in solitary confinement where I did little else.  Ask anyone I was with in general population and they will tell you 90% of the time I was writing there as well.   I wrote about my past and present life, stories of others I met and the things going on around me.  When I arrived  home, and was editing in my spare time, I began posting portions of the manuscript on the advise of  my literary agent.   If you like what your reading let me know and I'll keep posting.  If you have questions about anything you read ask and I will answer.  If you like it tell others to spread the word.  The future looks bright and when I am published I will not forget those followers who were with me at he beginning.  Thanks for your support.   

100% Proof

Hellyestheyservebeerinprison began as a tongue-and-cheek name, a humorous way to trump the pathetic Tucker Max in the search engine wars.  However, recently with your help, I've come to see it as something more: true.  A follower of this blog and old friend from Lowell recently sent me this article from an Irish news paper:

The Irish have always had their partying down to a science but it says something special about a nationality when drinking and gambling are considered such inalienable rights that they provide social clubs in prison.  If this Department of Justice probe falls through, and they throw in brothels, count me in on the next Air Ireland flight to Dublin.

One way!  Until then I'll just kick back and read BEERINPRISON below.

(Disclaimer: to all supervising federal and state probation offices the above is for entertainment purposes, I would never, under any circumstances consider going to a brothel with out prior written approval)

CATATONIC CLARITY

     “Mr. Tamagini, Mr. Kelly, is there anything else we need to discuss before I bring the jury in for closing arguments?”  Rising, I respond to Judge Hughes: “No your honor,” then drop back to my seat like a jack – in –the- box.”  I expect the same from Attorney Kelly; a sneaky, loud mouth, low life, scumbag of a high profile public defender whose talent has tarnished leaving him to intimidate opponents and attempt to manipulate members of the bench who he’s known for years, but for some reason Kelly says nothing.

     Last year, during my first trial against him, Kelly spent an obscene amount of time at side bar discussing the Red Sox with Judge Rollins as though I wasn’t there.   The jurors waited patiently across the courtroom believing we were discussing some important aspect of the case while I stood silently astonished the Judge entertained this conversation.  His Honor was a harmless old timer who meant no offense.  Conversely, Kelly used this tactic to exploit my inexperience and tout his relationship with the judge.  Then, while we walked back to our tables, he shielded his mouth with a legal pad and dropped all subtleties:  “I am going to kick your fucking ass all over this courtroom,” he spat venomously under his breath.  “First I’m going to embarrassed you, then I’m going to slap that stupid look of your fucking face.”   Three years of law school and I struggled to recall a single course on bullying.

     Kelly knew his tactic would derail my train of thought.  Under the weight of every eye in the courtroom the witness awaited my next question but like a freshman fighter, taunted in the ring by an older opponent, my game plan began to unravel.  Beyond public embarrassment what Kelly wanted most was for me to bring this to the Judge, making me look mentally unstable as he shrugged behind my back with raised palms and rolled eyeballs.  The result would label me as a rat who cracked under pressure, something that would live in courthouse infamy for the rest of my career.

     Returning to the podium I swallowing hard, pausing for a long moment under the pretense of thought gathering, then I managed to squeeze out the next question. Thoughts of the victim and her family carried me.  Hour preparing in the presence of the photo placed giving up beyond consideration.  Disturbing as it was I forced my eyes to study it, not to become used to it or make it less real but never to forget. Propped up on my desk I worked with it there from months.  From the other side of no one knew.  At night I locked it in my draw then put it back the next day.  Taken on arrival in emergency the a slab of torn flesh looked more like a butcher’s choice cut than the elegant hand of a sixteen-year-old.  What Kelly couldn’t understand was this went much deeper than me.  Perhaps I was delusional or having a pinnacle moment of clarity but I felt like an instrument of justice.  And despise him as I did, Kelly taught me a valuable lesson: no one else can control my emotions.  My initial silence however, was indeed a catatonia induced by the shock of his words.

     Sitting in silence, with Kelly and his client directly behind me at the defense table, I continued waiting for his response to Judge Hughes.  When finally I heard him stand a few more uncomfortable seconds passed, causing me to braced myself for the worst.  Dishonest to his core I knew Kelly’s capacity for cunning, but what came next was pure evil.  

     “Your Honor, there is one thing.  Last year I tried a case with Mr. Tamagini, the Woburn Bombing, where a young woman suffered a horrific injury leaving her maimed and disfigured.  During his closing argument Mr. Tamagini became emotional, to the point of tears in front of the jury…”

   These words triggered a spike of cold fluid to shoot up my spine, ringing a bell at the base of my skull; any hair the esthetician missed during my last back waxing stood straight on end, and it was the first time I can honestly say not being armed with a hand gun saved me from life in prison.

 “ …  And should Mr. Tamagini shed a tear here today judge, I want to put the court on notice I will be requesting an immediate mistrial.”

     The gallery was shoulder to shoulder with spectators including my parents, fiancé’ Michelle and network television cameramen.   With each syllable Kelly spewed the tension grew more palpable.  Even Judge Hughes, who took great pride in controlling his courtroom, didn’t anticipate this ambush.   I felt a sliver of fear rise in my stomach with the threat of pulling me into that catatonic state.

     Inaction was the easy road.  No witness stood waiting for a question, my back was to everyone except the Judge, and there wasn’t time to consider the consequences: write-ups in the papers, highlights on the news, what people would say about me.   Kelly’s stinging remarks required no response, allowing me to opt for silence.  It was a defining moment in my career.  One I was born to fail at.
-STAY TUNED-

CATATONIC CLARITY II

My brain had not come from the factory wired for quick thought or action.  Emotionally introverted, physically uncoordinated and socially inept, I spent more time on my back in one semester of elementary school than Jenna Jamison did in her entire career.  Only they weren’t called bullies back then.  I was being beaten up by jocks and top students who gained maturity in the year or two their parents held them back.  They were kickball team captains who refused to pick me for their team because I tripped over my own feet, and student hall monitors who cut me in line and took my lunch money because they could.

     Intellectually I was somewhere between challenged and lazy.   However, being labeled dyslexic was something I never bought into; considering the diagnosis a cunning move by my parents to keep me away from the trouble I’d consistently found in public school.  There had been disciplinary action for the altercations with other students and little things I didn’t see the harm in like looking up the teacher’s skirt.  But the exploding locker was the final straw.  It took a parent teacher meeting to unearth the mystery of how I could be failing every class without a single paper arriving home.  Thank goodness father was too busy to attend.  My teacher suggested beginning with a warrantless locker search.   My poor Mother’s face registered pure terror when the door finally came unwedged.  Both educator and parent were forced back by the landslide.  And when the few papers that floated upward gently came to rest, each and every one prominently displayed a failing grade.

     This led to the tests, and when the results were in I was sentenced to two years in a special needs school.   My parents will tell you this helped me tremendously and I find it difficult to argue because it was there I discovered weed and Ritalin, two tools that helped me stay focused.

     “Through prayer things will work out and your path will be clear,” my Mother would say towards the end of junior high, and I couldn’t have agreed more.  By then I’d begun praying for female companionship and the two-to-one ratio of girls to boys at my new Christian High School kept my truancy low and my new found love for partying on the rise.

     College was more of the same.  In Vermont the drinking age was eighteen, a fact that helped rank Saint Michael’s one of the top party schools in the country.   But by sophomore year I’d given up drinking and late nights to pursue a passion for bodybuilding.  Astonished?  You won’t be if you consider there was no better activity to feed my budding egotistic narcissism.

     Law school became the next logical step.   Is there any other profession whose practitioners are almost as full of them as they are of shit?  “But what about getting in; the grades, LSAT scores and work ethic?”  I told you I’d found ways to focus and by this time had developed into a better than decent student, yet for me this required twice the amount of study time than most of my peers.   Foolishly I had not given adequate consideration to the public speaking requirements.  There was no way I could talk intelligently in front of a group.  Concepts that played eloquently in my head hit an impenetrable roadblock at my larynx.   Classroom and lecture hall time was spent hyperventilating under the terrifying burden of being called on by the professor.   The only way I could avoid complete embarrassment was to spend hundreds of extra hours outlining the outcome of every case assigned, summarizing court opinions into concise answers I could covertly read if called upon.  In a lecture hall filled with over three hundred students being chosen was infrequent, yet inevitable.  I felt like a frightened fish in a stocked pond.

     Under this backdrop any suggestion of a career as a trial attorney could only be a sick joke.  The fact that it came to be, that I would find myself here at the top of the profession trying a murder case, required unusual happenings beginning with my willingness to escape the confines of the classroom.

     Boston College Law School offered internships working in the field for course credit.  Second year I interned at the legal assistance bureau an entire semester working on a landlord tenant matter that ended up settling.  Third year’s clinical study was in criminal law.  My first inclination was to join the public defenders office.  Criminal thinking was something I had experience with.  I’d spent much of my life behind a mask, always heavily armed.  I craved violence; pistol wiping uncooperative branch managers, threatening open safes with intimidation and when necessary, torturing by means of extreme atrocity and cruelty.  I didn’t spare hostages.  When we put together a crew I never chose to be a good guy.  I was perpetually the fugitive during recess, after school play, and weekend recreation. 

     With this early degree in criminology I prepared the intern application from the defender’s office for submission.  That’s when my father pulled me aside for a little chat: “The prosecution is the one with the resources. They have the best training.  If you want to learn how to keep people out of jail, it’s best to know everything there is about putting them in.”  I couldn’t have received better advice.  The problem was I didn’t see the sense in listening when I thought I already knew everything.  Still, I ended up throwing out the defenders application and submitting one to the DA’s office for a reason a thought made perfect sense: a girl.

    Sitting in my first law school lecture I looked around the arc of auditorium seating and spotted her instantly.  Auburn curls reflected overhead lighting off angelic features.  I had to have her and I was not alone.  Her father was Chief of Police in a suburban town and her brother a federal prosecutor.  Her career path was predestined.  She possessed oratory fearlessness while I spasmed epileptically at the thought of public speaking.  It was a miracle I ever got a word out.  Despite my fears when she signed on for the DA’s internship I followed in an effort to impress her.  So whether or not she understood then or realized it years later when I was on Court TV, despite the extent of our drunken lust lasting one night, she was my initial inspiration.

     No other law office was going to give an insecure, inexperienced newcomer an armload of files, point him in the direction of the courthouse and say:  “Go!”   The reason the DA’s Office did was Assistants were severely overworked and underpaid. The reason they could get away with it was prosecutorial immunity.  If the prosecution lost a case and the accused went home there is no one to sue, period.

 Under Massachusetts’s Law second and third year students were allowed to practice in court as long as a lawyer from our office sat with us.  Eventually I was assigned to Lowell District, one of the state’s most active courts, where they seemed to expand SJC Rule 3:03 to allow interns to practice as long as someone from the office was on the same planet. 

     With my head stretched like an giraffe to see over the files in my arms I pushed opened the swinging doors of the First Session Court Room, moved slowly through the crowd, and “passed the bar” separating the lawyers from the surrounding scum.  It was my first good look around and for a second I thought I’d walked into a refugee camp.  There were a multitude of ethnicities from South America to Asia crammed in among the strained faces of black and white.  If I were to spend every day here I’d have to brush up on Spanish, Vietnamese, Khmer Cracker and Ebonics.  The number of bodies startled me almost as much as the stench hovering in the unventilated space.  

     The Clerk began calling the list of arraignments alphabetically with Commonwealth v. Jose Alvarez.   A bustle of activity came from several different areas of the room before three men joined to make their way down the left isle. “No!” the Clerk shouted, halting them in their tracks. “The Jose Alverez charged with stabbing his brother last night.”  All three looked perplexed until the Clerk continued, this time in Spanish.  This turned one of the men around leaving the others to continue to the bench and sort the mess out.

     Unlike the chaste arena of the classroom the courthouse seethed immorality. Each case called alleged crimes of robbery, rape, prostitution, pedophilia, assault, narcotics and homicide.   Dense fumes of chaos waft through the air; stirred by lawyers frantically running from one session to the next; all far too busy to notice whether I stuttered, stammered, sweat, puked or passed-out.  And because I was no longer under a microscope, I didn’t.

     At one point the object of my affection, the reason I got into this in the first place, was transferred to a different court.   Unexpectedly I felt relief.  What started as a way to be near her and get out of the classroom began shaping into a portal to my future career.

     It didn’t happen all at once, but I began conquering anxiety.  The key was winning.   Winning gave me a sense of accomplishment that overrode everything else.  It had nothing to do with the cases, at this point most were low-level misdemeanors where I’d recommend probation anyway.  It had everything to do with how people perceived and treated me.  And there was a definitive secret to my eventual success.  It was called de novo.  

     A Latin expression meaning  “afresh,” “a new,” “starting over,” de novo was a trial system that gave defendants two bites at the apple.  Generally a defendant could have a bench trial before a judge or a jury trial decided by six persons from the community.   Under de novo if the accused went before a judge first and was convicted he could appeal and have a fresh trial before a jury.  This meant two chances for alleged criminals, twice the business for defense attorneys, and double the workload for the courts.   For me it was the opportunity of a lifetime, a chance for unlimited trial experience.

     Pushing forward I gained an assignment in the Six-Person Jury Session and the attention of its presiding Judge.   An Italian from the old school Judge Constantino ran the District Court Jury Session in Lowell with his long time friend Judge Hunter.  Taking me under his wing, Constantino must have seen something in me that reminded him of himself as a young lawyer.

    During one memorable trial I recall cross-examining a witness:  “ So you arrived at the party at 8:00 P.M, isn’t that correct Mr. Johnson?”   “This is ridiculous,” Johnson yelled back at me from the witness stand. “I have shoes older than you, and I’m wearing them!  Just because you went to law school, and your mother bought you a new suit your birthday, doesn’t give you the right to ask me squat!“

     How did he know my mother bought me this suit?   His outburst caught me off guard, making me mad as the Hulk and proving I was just as green.   Doesn’t he have to listen to me? Do what I say? Answer my questions?   What could possibly compound this tragedy?   I could have sworn I caught Judge Constantino smirk from behind the open hand covering his mouth. 

      “Your Honor, please, can you instruct the witness to answer the question?”  With a curious tilt of his head Constantino adjusted the Mr. Magoo thick glasses on the bridge of his Jimmy Durante nose and let go an exasperated breath before replying:  “Well counsel, it was your decision to become Perry Mason, so I guess you’re on your own.”

     With this I began to melt down.  “On my own;” what the fuck is he talking about?  Struggling, I tried to approach the subject from another angle, yet no matter how I phrased the question Johnson came back with his own:  “How much did you have to drink at this party Mr. Johnson?”  “ You don’t live around here, do you kid?  Did you ever think you might be better off in a court closer to home.”  Having lost all control, I ended the examination.  The defense smelt blood in the water.   My incompetence resonated with the jury.  There was no salvaging a verdict.

     Back in chambers I was furious, which served to amuse the judges.  “What did you want him to do?” chuckled Judge Hunter after hearing the recap.   “The witnesses don’t have to listen to us either.“  “Half these people are screwballs to begin with,” Constantino said in his own defense,  “throw in alcohol and drugs, ma-don!  If we give them an order we better be sure they’re going to listen or be prepared to hold them in contempt, which means a mistrial, delays and more work for everyone.  Nobody wants that.  Plus, when we have to get involved the jury thinks you can’t handle yourself.”  “ So what am I supposed to do?”   “Ask the question again.”  Constantino continued,  “Look the witness in the eye and ask it again.  Make him the bad guy for holding everything up.  Stand there like you own the courtroom and ask the same thing the same way.  The jury will side with a composed, controlled you.  Then pose leading questions that give the answers you want – ‘so you got there at eight and started drinking and you drank non-stop straight through the night until it was time to leave.  That’s when you crawled behind the wheel of your car and drove off isn’t it Mr. Jonson’ –- it won’t matter what he says- don’t even give him a chance to talk - made your point on cross and sit down.”

     I absorbed every word like a parched sponge.  Each morning and every afternoon we’d hang out and drink coffee while the judges critiqued my performance and told war stories from the days when they were ADAs and public defenders.  Hunter and I became close but none of this would have been possible if not for Constantino.  I was his protégé.  He openly mocked the incompetence of other ADAs from my office.  They were never allowed in his chambers unless it was for a formal lobby conference with opposing counsel.   Rather than gloat over my good fortune, I should have seen the angle and diffused their jealousy.  This could have prevented trouble years later.

     During the month of April the other Assistant DA assigned to the jury session was out with Mono.  Having me to run ragged brought so much visible joy to Constantino and Hunter one might have thought it was Christmas.  They would have me try and OUI in the morning, a drug case in the afternoon and when I thought the day was over I’d be summons back to choose a jury on a barroom melee, ensuring an early start to the following day.  Not once did I complained; I knew that seeing me crack, even a little, would make them ecstatic.

      Whatever case happened to be at bar always got my full attention before moving on to the next.  The pace and volume caused time to blur.  “It’s already the end of the month,” my secretary Barbara informed me while hacking through phlegm and mucus from across our tiny office.  Chain-smoking her tenth cigarette of the morning, the smoke swirled up to a black spot on the sealing tile above her desk that made the Exxon Valdez oil spill appear miniscule.  “And I know you don’t keep track but you haven’t lost a case all month.  I don’t want to jinx you but after today it’ll be forty-two in a row.”  I always considered Barb a good luck charm, but that day one of the juries came back with a not guilt.  Before we left for the evening we shared a good laugh over her timing.  Well, I laughed while Barbara coughed up what was left of her lung.

     By the end of the year I was promoted to Superior Court.  Not long after that Judge Hunter passed away, Constantino retired and in an effort towards fiscal conservatism and judicial reform the Massachusetts Legislature abolished de novo in 1992.  Personally,  I could never place a value on what I learned in Lowell District’s Jury Session.  An opportunity was created there that no one could have planned and would never be duplicated.  It transformed me.

     The second Kelly finished you could have heard a piece of lint drop in 12B.  Like a gated greyhound waiting for the rabbit to be released I sat on the balls of my feet with taunt, coiled legs.   Kelly’s ass hitting his seat sounded the bell catapulting me upward:  “Your honor I solemnly swear the only tears that will be shed here will be those of Mr. Kelly and his client when the jury returns a verdict of murder in the first degree."

     A burst of muffled laughter erupted behind me followed by the sound of bodies readjusting in their seats.  Forced to face forward, I could only read the judge who couldn’t conceal a glimmer of amusement before assuming his game face and instructing Officer Morrison to summons the jurors for closing arguments.

THERAPUTIC

  My therapist tells me my problems stem from being molested as a young boy by a Catholic school nun.  I nod my head listening intently.  Instinctively my eyes clamp shut as my blood pressure climbs.  Unseen, a top layer of lead fillings are being ground to a rancid tasting powder; I can hardly bear hearing this again.  Torn between tears and laughter I grip the seat beside my thighs and hang on for the ride.

     Therapy was never something I thought I’d enjoy.  My initial resistance came because it was mandatory, ordered by the court as a segment of substance abuse treatment.  Now I view the sessions much like my time in prison: priceless entertainment.

     “When we left off you were describing how you arrived at work feeling a sharp pain deep in your rectum.”  I squirm in my seat as Ms. Sophia turns a page in her notes.  “Upon further investigation there was incessant bleeding from your anus.  Reflecting on the hazy events of the prior evening you call home and speak with your wife who confesses to drugging and invading you with her dildo.  Knowing this, what she is capable of, how does it make you feel?”

      I truly like Ms. Sophia.  She is sixty-four, was born in Jamaica and lived most of her life in the United States.  Her accent is present, however now that I’ve become accustom its hardly noticeable and somehow soothing.  During our sessions she does one of several things: asks a question then fights to keep her eyes open - blaming the condition on her eye drops; gulps coffee while scribing copious notes; or relays personal details of her life or… someone else’s case.

     “I’m not positive,” I interrupt, “but I think the nun situation is Mr. Catalano… and the dildo penetration… I’m almost certain that’s Zamperelli.”

    Ordinarily I would have let her go as long as possible but today, with the ass-play, I was compelled to cut her short...   
-STAY TUNED-

WINNING

Parts I & II of The Fighter are below

THE FIGHTER (Wrestling With Your Conscience)

“Who’s Dicky Eklund?"  "Why he’s the pride of Lowell that’s who.”  “Did you know he went the distance with Sugar Ray Leonard?”  “Yup, knocked Ray down and stepped right the-fuck-over his body!”  “Yeah he’s guta wicked jab!” “The best we ever had up here in Lowell.”  “And his half brother Micky Ward is no slouch either.”  “That's For sure, Micky’s coming up fast. “  “You ain’t kiddin, that kid hits like a sledgehammer!”

In the early 1990’s I was new to Lowell.   As an intern in the District Attorney’s Office I’d been getting around the city and hearing the stories.  I had yet to meet the men behind them.  I was about to.

“Mr. Tamagini?”   “Yes Cynthia, I’m back here.”  “Oh, you were due in District Court five minutes ago.”   Shit…  “OK, I’m on my way, thanks.”

 I was beginning to wonder if taking this job was a mistake.  You’d think I would be happy since in the last hour I learned I’d passed the Bar Exam on my first attempt and was offered a position as an ADA.  So why the long face?  First of all no one was going to see it over this pile.  I had to stretch like an ostridge just to make eye contact with my secretary.   Second, when our other intern found out she hadn’t passed they dumped her cases for next week on my desk.  Right now I had to run, but if I stopped,  I would have realized it was her demise that secured my position.

Three years ago if anyone told me I would end up in this job I'd have said they were crazy.  Those who really knew me would say I was born to be on the dark side.  I spent my life behind the mask, always heavily armed.  I craved violence; pistol wiping uncooperative branch managers; threatening open safes through intimidation; torture by means of extreme atrocity and cruelty.  I didn’t spare hostages.  When we put together a crew I never chose to be a good guy.  I was perpetually the fugitive during recess, after school play and weekend recreation.  Wearing the white hat would be an altogether new experience for me.

My first inclination when seeking an internship was to represent the accused in the Public Defender's Office.  However, my father informed me: “The government is the one with all the resources. They will provide the best training.  If you want to learn how to keep’em out of jail, you’ve got to know how to put them in.”  This advice could not have been sounder.  But who listens to their father when they know everything.  If you really want the scoop on why I went after the job the answer is: a girl.

My first day at BC Law, looking around the arc of auditorium seating at my classmates, it took all of 30 seconds to spot her.  Auburn curls reflected overhead lighting off angelic features.  I had to have her and I was not alone.  Her father was a Chief of Police, her brother a prosecutor.  Her career path was predestined.  She possessed an oratory fearlessness where I spasmed epileptically at the thought of speaking in public.  It was a miracle I ever got a word out.  Yet in an effort to impress her I did.  So whether or not she knew it then or realized it years later when I was on Court TV and trying homicide cases in Superior Court, despite our relationship lasting one night, she was my initial inspiration.

Today I was going in green as Gumby.

 Speed walking across Church Street I had to go up on my toes every third step to see over the files in my arms.   Even at this stage I realized one thing: it was nearly impossible to discern the cases that would go to trial from those which would plea out or get continued.  This made preparation a game of Russian roulette.  But for my first day I had an advantage:  The pride of Lowell.

“HBO’s doing a special on my comeback,” was the first thing he told me.  “But now I’m fucked! How’em I gonna fight again with this cut?  It could open up too easy.  The kid that did this gutta pay.  Jimmy, you gutta make him fuckin pay.” 

I’d felt intimidated at that first meeting.  Dicky had shown up forty-five minutes late with two friends, Boo Boo and Brenda.  The three of them never sat still.  Dicky was missing most of his teeth and it was clear his career had taken a toll on his health.  The other two also looked rough…  they were all fighting something.   Together the group was a hat trick of flailing arms and raised voices walking in circles around my tiny office.  For an hour they didn’t stop and still we never reviewed the file between talk of: “HBO” this, “Comeback” that, and something about, “suing the little prick after win the criminal case.”

The facts were clear from the police report.  There was a bar fight, in the midst of which the defendant sucker punched Dicky with a set of keys cutting him above the eye.  What else did I need to know?  Eklund had a professional record of 19 wins and 10 losses, four of the wins by KO.  There was no doubt the defendant came out of nowhere during the brawl and hit Dicky when he wasn’t looking.  “Jimmy, I was in the wrong place at the wrong time and that’s all there really is to it. Now you gutta win this for me kid, ok?”   “Don’t worry Mr. Eklund, I don’t see any problem.”

Judge Neil Walker was slated to preside over bench trials upstairs in the Third Session Court Room.  Eklund’s case would be a priority. You couldn’t have asked for a nicer Judge.  He lived in my hometown and had gone to grammar school with my mother.  I felt confident.  The courtroom would be packed with spectators. I really don’t know why I was feeling sorry for myself before.  Who would have expected they’d assign me such a notable case for my first trial.  It was truly an honor.

The defendant’s name was Michael Walsh.  He was in his late twenties and worked for a Computer Company inside the Wang Towers.  Dressed in Dockers, Kakis, Polo shirt and sweater he appeared out of place among most of the defendants who’d slept in their cloths.  His family sat in the first row behind defense counsel’s table. By all indications Walsh was financially well off, which was spilt blood in the water of Dicky Eklund’s ocean.

Dicky entered the courtroom as though we’d already won.  He was a lunatic, bouncing around being loud and shadow boxing with Court Office Williams.  The fact he’d brought his friends for support did nothing to ease my anxiety.  The courtroom was at capacity as expected.  On one hand I was nervous but thought: this must be how Dicky always acts.  Everyone knows him.  Lowell loves him.  His boisterous, flamboyant manner is part persona, and a partial side effect of being wacked too many times is the noggin.

On the witness stand he was a train wreck.  When I posed the simple question: “What happened next?”  We were treated to a rambling, unintelligible narrative.  It’s a good thing I didn’t pursue boxing as a career. The head trauma really fries your brain.  Spectators in the gallery fought to contain their laughter while I struggled to remain focused, doing my best to redirect Dicky to the point where he was struck over the eye.  “And do you see the person who hit you in the courtroom now Mr. Eklund?”  “Yeah, I sure do.”  Could you please point him out and describe an article of clothing he is wearing for the record.”  “He’s right there.” He said pointing, “Dressed like a fag with the sweater over his shoulders.”

By the time Judge Walker had restored order I knew it was time to cut my losses and keep moving. The medical records proved his injury. The responding officer testified to the defendant’s original identification, apprehension and confiscation of the dangerous weapon, a set of keys.  Once chain of custody was established the keys were admitted in to evidence and the prosecution rested.

Certainly every case is unique.  However, as a general rule the defendant shouldn’t testify. There is not much he can say to help compared to the world of damage his own words can cause when up against a skilled cross-examiner.  The criminal trial is a game.  Broken down into its simplest form either the prosecution proves it’s case beyond a reasonable doubt to a moral certainty or the defendant goes home.  Period.  Most often your better off letting your lawyer break down the foundation of the government’s case, exposing that doubt.  Nevertheless, it’s tough keeping the accused off the stand; especially when he has an attitude and an ax to grind.  Walsh had both.

“While I was sitting at the bar this woman caught my eye.  She came over and sat and we began talking.”  “Do you see that woman in court right now?”  When Walsh’s lawyer asked the question you could have heard a piece of lint hit the courtroom floor.  When his client aimed towards the back of the courtroom I thought I snapped my neck turning.  Brenda?  “ We talked for I while and she seemed really into me and said we should get some coke and go back to her apartment and party.”  “When you say ‘coke,’ Mr. Walsh, are you referring to the drug cocaine?”  His lawyer asked trying to appear in control.  “Yes sir, cocaine.” “What happened next Mr. Walsh?”  “Well we went out to my car and got in and out of no where the rear door opened on the passenger side and he jumped in.”  “He, who?”  The lawyer asked, holding back a grin.  Then Walsh pointed directly at Eklund.  And I didn’t know if my bowels would release or my eyes popped out of my skull, when Judge Walker let out a spontaneous chuckle from the bench.

“She told me this was her brother and he’d help us score the cocaine.  I felt a little nervous but she put her hand on my knee and said not to worry everything was cool.  Then she gave me directions to a cluster of brick tenements. When I parked she told me to give her brother $300.00 so he could go in and buy an eight ball.  The brother hadn’t shut up the whole drive.  He said how he wanted to do a few lines with us for his trouble... trying to be friendly with me.  I reached in my jeans, pulled out my wallet and that’s the last thing I remember.  When I came to I had a welt the size of a plum on my temple.  I don’t know how long I was out but my wallet was gone with all my ID cards.  I had about $600.00 in cash but it was my ID for work and my driver license I had to get back.   Even though I felt woozy I started driving, trying to make my way to the bar.”  “Did you contemplate going to the police and reporting this robbery Mr. Walsh?”  “At that point I was a bit scared to talk about the coke… I was just hoping to find my IDs… figured he’d just toss them out and take the cash anyway.”  “What happened next?”  “It took a long time but I finally found the bar and as soon as I went in through the doors I practically walked into him.  Now he seemed different, lit up, really wasted, more than booze, he could hardly walk straight.  I tried asking where my wallet was but he took a swing at me; a wild haymaker that caught all air.  We locked up - I wrestled in college - others from the bar jumped in.  I was carrying my keys the whole time so maybe in the fray he got cut but… but I thought they were going to kill me – it was self defense…”  “Then what happened Mr. Walsh?”  “The bartender must have called the cops… I tried to explain but they wouldn’t listen.  I was dizzy, and beaten up, and he… he, was bleeding all over the place.  When I found out who he was - Jesus I could have gotten killed!”
Walker had the perfect temperament for judicial service.  But Lowell was one or our state’s busiest courts.   He had no time to waste and that’s what this matter had turned out to be.  His verdict of acquittal was handed down quick enough to give me hope Dicky had missed it.  Apparently he didn’t.  While he and his cohorts began acting up the clerk saved me by announcing: “Mr. Tamagini, Judge Grasso is holding you for trial down in the second session.”  Scooping up my files the slick exit I prayed for,  got as far as the swinging double doors.  “What am I supposed to do now?  You gutta appeal! That little puke hasta pay for this!”  There was no time to give Dicky a criminal procedure lesson outlining why there was no appeal of the not guilty verdict.  “Calm down Mr. Eklund I have another trial right now but we can discuss this later, ok?”  Without awaiting his response I kept moving, thankful Court Officer Williams followed in behind me.  “Lets go Tamagini, Judge Grasso’s waiting!”

There could not possibly have been a more disastrous way to begin my trial career.  Now they expected me to suck it up and go again?   Without so much as a clue which case it was or time to collect myself?  Fortunately I took the time to look them all over last night...   I guess it didn’t mater, regardless it couldn’t be worse than what just happened.  I was beginning to wonder if everyone knew what a mess Dicky Eklund had become?  Was that why the case landed on my desk?  Of course not – HBO is doing a documentary of his comeback.

Judge Grasso possessed a much shorter fuse than Walker.  He was stern, strict on the law yet generally impartial.  If anything he favored the prosecution.  He had a difficult time hiding the fact he loathed Lowell’s scum.  He wanted the prosecution to prove their case but if you didn’t he wouldn’t hesitate to flush it down the toilet. Moreover, he cared not if he embarrassed the shit out of you in the process.  He demanded the lawyers that came before him be prepared.  For these reasons I was thrilled the clerk called Commonwealth v. Cheryl Lynn Heath.

Ms. Heath was arrested in the parking lot of a place called the Blue Moon in Tyngsboro for distribution of a Class D substance to wit: Marijuana.  The arresting officer observed her from a surveillance position inside his undercover van to sell a sixteenth of an ounce of grass to a gentleman from out of her motor vehicle.  This man was arrested for simple possession.  His case was still pending making him unavailable to me as a witness.  Even so, the case was a slam-dunk.  It was impossible to loose.   Melting ice at the equator would require more effort.  Did I feel guilty for this?  Not in the least.   After that fucking fiasco with Dicky this is just what the doctor ordered to revive my expiring confidence.

During my direct examination the Officer’s testimony was introduced without the slightest difficulty.   Before Heath’s attorney began cross I caught myself wondering why in the world he let his client go to trial?  Then he delivered his first question:  “Isn’t it true Officer that your wife is a stripper at the Blue Moon and my client is the top tip earner at that establishment?”  - Complete silence -  “ And by arresting Ms. Heath, you and your wife have in effect conspired to get rid of the competition?”  This time I did shit my pants.  “Aren’t you going to object?”  Yelled the cop from the stand.  “Objection!”  I yelled.  “Overruled, it goes to bias, answer the question Officer!”  Yelled Grasso. “… Well… yes, part time… but she has nothing to do with this!”

Apparently Judge Grasso disagreed because when the crucifixion ended he threw out the case almost as fast as the Officer flew off the witness stand to confront the defense attorney.  The Court Officers rushed in to separate the men while I, still dazed from being sacked from the blindside twice in one day, figured this was a good time to make my exit.

I won’t tell anyone, I decided.  When friends and family ask: “Well James, how was your first day as a lawyer?”  I will summons all my powers of deceit and tell them: “It was tremendous,” steering the conversation away from any details. Yeah, that’ll work…  I am the king of positive thinking.  Tomorrow can only get better now that today is behind me.   Next I would go over to First Session and retrieve my jacket, drop these files off at the office and get the hell out of there.  With full arms I pushed the Second Session door open with my shoulder, rounded the corner and there was Dick Eklund and the future Junior Welter Weight Champion of the World “Irish” Micky Ward waiting for me in the lobby.

To Be Continued.,,