Cursed Tongue: Adventures in Jurisimprudence: Bearing Witless, Part 2

Posted by CursedTongue on July 3, 2008

On last week’s episode we left Jessica, Lisa and young Britney in the kitchen with a crazed and hostile Clint who has a gun that is in a glove, a holster or uncovered, depending on who was testifying.  The 911 operator is waiting for Susan to return with an address.

Clint was the last witness on the stand.  The 40ish man took a cane from under the table, and slowly limped his way to the stand, to be sure that no juror missed it.  Which is funny, because I totally did.  There was no one on the stand, so my mind was on holiday–in the South of France, I think–and I vaguely realized the holiday had been a little long when the prosecutor began questioning the necessity of the cane.  According to the defendant, he always used the cane.  After ten minutes of questions and objections and rephrasing, Clint admitted that he didn’t always use the cane.

Up to this point I had tried not to ponder the character of the defendant.  My available information being scant and mostly consisting of the fact that Clint was in police custody for domestic violence, the glaring absence of any mention of a job before departing on his own little holiday at the Forth Avenue Jail, and a prior mystery conviction.  He claimed that Marge, owner and operator of a .38 special, mistook his <i>Raiders Football Phone</i> for the butt of a gun.  I wouldn’t be able to tell a Smith &Wesson from a Glock.  But I would be able to tell if someone was peeing on my leg, no matter how much they insisted it was raining.  He was obviously freebasing drain cleaner in jail, if he thought that anyone would believe that NRA Marge could mistake a football phone for a gun.

I was absolutely certain that if this lout told any more lies his pink underwear would spontaneously combust.  Although, it would seem that Sheriff Joe equips his guests with flame-retardant pink underwear because the defendant did not ignite and the lies just kept coming.

Then Clint testified that he had been invited to Jessica’s house to see Britney.  While he was speaking of his affection for her, he smiled to reveal a gold tooth with a diamond chip in it.  He explained to the jury that he was busy moving, and in this day and age of mobile telephony he could not find a communications device with which to contact his stepdaughter and tell her that he was running late.  It was 10 p.m., and Clint had made a promise that he would see Brit-Brit and by gosh he was going to keep it.  Even though she was 7 and 9 p.m. is bedtime.  So, the conscientious father figure, admitted to violating the restraining order.  And further admitted that there were angry words exchanged, but, scout’s honor, he didn’t touch either Lisa or Jessica.

Apparently, they had no reason to flee to the neighbor’s house, beating on the door, until a woman who barely spoke English let them in.  Apparently, they had no reason to call 911; nor to discuss the lump forming on Jessica’s head in whispers as the 911 operator logged their call.  And evidently, Clint bolted from the neighborhood and parked his purple pimpmobile in the bushes at a nearby hotel to obscure the license plate for fun.  How could a man with a cane, a purple car and a gold tooth possibly be violent to women?

Police Officer Trainee Lee arrived at the scene with a partner whose apparent responsibility was presenting the best fast food joints.  Trainee Lee neglects to tape interviews with any of the parties involved.  He neglects to photograph any injuries or damage.  The officer supposedly training Lee must have been engaged in some serious nose hockey.  The case is passed onto Detective Fulbright.  Her legwork consisted of brief phone interviews and a fruitful search for Clint’s purple pimpmobile and an unsuccessful search for the gun.

The three women in the house were not organized enough to fabricate the entire incident as the defense implied.  But the absence of a gun, and all of the many and varied stories about it, I thought it could have been a toy or broken and therefore couldn’t find him guilty of the endangerment charges that he was being prosecuted with.

According to testimony of the officers called to the stand, procedure for domestic violence cases was not followed.  The moral of the story, Dear Readers, is Justice is blind and lost her digital camera.  Don’t trust the cops to properly document your case.  Especially trainee cops still high on post-Thanksgiving tryptophan.  We had to let the violent, morally bankrupt defendant waltz right out of the custody of Sheriff Joe.

But the good news is that now I’m sufficiently soured on the U. S. Justice System so that no defense attorney in their right mind would want me as a juror.

- Sarah Letnes

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Tags: humor, jury duty

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