My Fellow Americans

Glancing out over the 30 or so persons seated in the crowd it seemed an odd bunch.
A twenty something brown haired mother with pale skin, accompanied by her child. She wore thick makeup which cloaked her face a lighter hue than the tan on her neck, and her deep red lips were littered tiny specks of chunked deep-red lipstick. Her eylashes were heavily dowsed with black mascara, bordered by subtle crows feet deepening upon an otherwise young face. She wore large red heels, a blouse and tight knee length skirt. Her boy was probably 6 or 7 .

Next, it was hard to miss the tall clean cut, close-shaven twenty something blond guy. He's the type that rich girls from suburban Sandy like to date. He looked sharp. Ironed and starched collered white short sleeve button up shirt and pressed tan slacks--the type of clothes typical for yuppy college preppies. No doubt he carried either at Nordstroms or Abercrombie credit card. He had blue eyes and, had it not been for curl of his locks drifting just to the collar in the back, one could easily see him in the CougarEat cafeteria on BYU's campus. He sat behind the first lady, alone.

Next to him sat a latino kid, probably 18 but could have passed for sixteen. His black hair was buzzed short, chin baby smooth and chin postured upward as if in defiance. The deep dark lines of the top of a large tattoo broached the line above his collar climbing halfway up his neck. His baggy pants and T-shirt were too big for him. He held the hand of a similarly aged girl--maybe his uptown girlfriend. She was latino too. Her skin was smooth and unblemished by ink. Her makeup a bit heavy but not overdone. Her most striking feature was her almond shaped eyes--they were a soft brown.

On the other side of the aisle sat a primped woman, probably in her early thirties. Her thick long curly blond hair fell down the back of a stylish dark brown suit jacket. She also wore a matching skirt. Her nails were long, perfectly smooth and a reddish chocolate color. Similarly, her meticulous makeup was conservative and tasteful. She could have been a real estate agent selling homes, a legal secretary for an upscale firm or perhaps just a professional you meet after hours at a nice restaraunt.

In the row in front of her sat a middle aged lady, probably in her late 40s. She also must have shopped in Nordstroms--maybe she saw the preppy blond boy there - maybe she knows his mom. Or perhaps she was just a savvy Target customer? Either way, she seemed like the type who would have been the preppy college boy's mom; or a relief society counselor. Her hair was dark reddish blond, short and curled--like many mothers wear. She dressed conservatively in a flowered dress cut like one you'd see in church. A thin expensive gold necklace with a pearl pendant adorned her neck. Her makeup was expensive and perfectly done, to hide deeping lines upon the brow and around the lips. Her shoes were short black heels and wore sunglasses and carried a tissue.

There was an old weathered guy in faded jeans, a long sleeved red button up plaid shirt and dressy cowboy boots. He stood in the back next to the door, as if ready to leave. His calloused and gnarled hands rubbed one another in nervousness. He could have been sixty. But with farmers it is hard to tell.

There were many more, in the audience and I looked over all of them in wonder. No patterns, no predictability. They were everywhere and anyone.

"All rise" said the bailiff in the corner. He was a stout balding man dressed in a sheriff's uniform.
"Be seated. Bring the first one in--Morales."
The attorneys at both tables shuffled papers. The public defender, who could not yet be thirty years of age with trendy long hair past his ears and a dark brown tweed coat leaned over the defense counsel's table--back to the judge--and stated without turning around, "Didn't come Judge. Jail said she refused."
"Alright, we'll move it to 24th. Is she done with evaluation?" said the black cloaked judge, seated behing a high podium.
"I don't know. I'll talk to her later." Said the Public defender.
"Campbell?" asked the judge.
"She's here" said the prosecutor.
The bailiff walked out of the room through a heavy reinforced steel door located on the far wall. He shortly re-emerged, escorting a dirty freckled 20-something kid with, reddish hair and tattoos running up and down his arms. His prisoner's uniform was peach.
"Chase, this is disappointing, you got picked up for possession" said the judge from above as Prisoner Chase Campbell shuffled to the speakers podium in front of the judge.
"It wasssnt mine. It was innabag uh friend gave me...uh...I-dinno." stammered the the young man...never looking up from the floor.
"90 days. Drug Court is a no tolerance program - if you are telling the truth--you need new friends. See you in 90 days." said the Judge sternly.
"Yes Judge, thanks." the young man said, refusing to let the tears roll down his cheeks. "uh. Sorry." he never looked up from the floor.
"You can't give up, this is just part of it. Be good." said the judge, as the kid was escorted out.

"Alright, 3rd phasers?" asked the judge.
A large group in the crowd rose and walked forward, through the gates which separate the audience from the court and onto the courtroom floor in front of the judge. There were eight. Each picked a folded red square of paper from a plastic jar and took thier place in the circle.
"Ok, James you start." said the judge, nodding his head to the tall blonde Abercrombie college boy who had walked up with the rest of the group.
James unfolded the little red paper and held it up and read loudly and quickly,"The only one who fails is the one who falls and fails to get up again."
"You back in college?" asked the Judge.
"Yeah, they said I can graduate this spring" replied the James. He stood erect, shoulders square and looked up at the judge.
"Good, everything else going good?"
"Sure, I'm applying for a job, no dirties, no dilutes and haven't missed for a long time." replied James.
"Well, I know you've been clean because you've made every drug test and passed them all for several months. How many days?" asked the judge.
"147 days Meth. 77 alcohol." Everyone in the room clapped, including the judge, including me.

It continued until each group member had finished reading thier paper and announcing the number of days they'd been clean. Some also read personal letters out loud expressing how grateful they were to participate in drug court and the difference it was making. When the last finished, a large girl with a dirty t-shirt the judge excused them and they filed out of the court.


"Martinez. Maria Martinez?"spoke the judge.
"Here. The pretty girl sitting next to the young latino kid rose and walked to the podium."
"Ms. Martinez, you got a dirty." said the judge sternly.
"I know, I know, my sister had her little boy and I had a few beers and well, it came up on the test." her voice was steady and calm, but tears flooded down her cheeks.
"3 days." said the Judge. The bailiff walked over turned Maria around and handcuffed her arms behind her back.
"Judge?", said her inked boyfriend. He was now standing in the audience. "Judge? I need her keys, we parked out front." said the boyfriend.
The girl awkwardly tried to get the keys out of her jeans pocket, the large balding bailiff, even more awkwardly tried to help. Finally he walked the keys over to the separating gate, where the boyfriend was waiting and handed them over. The boyfriend looked Maria in the eyes and nodded. He turned and walked out the courtroom doors. Maria turned toward the steel door, not making a sound, her face a mess of tears. Again, awkward as the bailiff tried to help her by wiping her tears with a tissue.
"You're doing good Maria. This is only a small thing. You're doing real good. I'll see you soon." said the judge compassionately.
Maria nodded as she was escorted through the thick steel door. It closed behind her.

One by one members of the audience were called up in front of the judge. One by one they admitted, denied or explained thier drug related infractions. Some left out the courtroom doors, others through the steel door on the side.

The professional looking thirty year old woman had an addiction to painkillers and anti-depressants and her doctor disagreed with the Courts order of abstinence, arguing through a note that she needed to gradually wean off. The judge responded to the note by asking her if she would like to opt out of drug court, because he understood the doctor's point, but drug court was a court of abstinence. She declined opting out, instead asking to stay and expressing appreciation for drug court. She'd entered through the courtroom doors, she left through the steel one.

The relief society counselor--looking lady is a mother of 3 and addicted to prescription medications relating to depression. She had been convicted of felony possession with an intent to distribute. In order to secretly fund her habit she'd sold the extra anti depressants to neighbor, who had been caught and turned her in. She was accepted into drug court just weeks ago, and if she completes it successfully the drug court the felony charge will be dropped.

And on it went. Person by person.

Last was a young 21-year old girl. Beautiful generic blond. Cute face, prettily shaped body with a trendy pink purse. She'd been sitting with her dad. She was really hot. I had to remind myself that there might exist dumber things than picking up on girls called into drug court...but not many. She'd been convicted of felony DUI. She was just beginning drug court. She must have already exhausted all of her tears because her face was stone the entire time she spoke with the judge.

Week in Review September 16

1. Friday: Traveling home through the flat unobstructed desert of Wendover, a rest stop sign reminded me that tingle below my tummy was nothing more than the desire to pee. The rest stop door was locked. So I began peeing on the far wall of the building—out of sight from the highway—suddenly none other than a bona fide sheep turned the corner near me, startling us both and making a mess. He must have enjoyed the green lawn of the rest stop…and then I rudely interrupted it.

2. Saturday: So I study for two months to successfully pass a two day test, which, among other things, qualifies me to be paid for my legal work instead of pay tuition to do pretend legal work. Yay.

3. Tuesday: Sallie and Brandon are moving into a new house. So they asked that I remove the shrubs, small trees and miscellaneous cement and crap from their backyard with the trackhoe. I spent a day building a giant pile of debris—then wondered how I was going to move it to the front yard and into the dump truck.

4. Wed. Bouk bet me $1 that he could back the 2 ton 1960s-era dump truck through the alleyway between Brandon’s house and the neighbors fence and into the backyard so I could load the debris from the pile directly into the dump truck. Bouk saving me a day’s work cost $1.

5. Thursday. While dumping the first load of trees and shrubs at the dump, I was reminded that the tailgate of the old dump truck can open in two ways. It may either open from the top, hinged from the bottom,--like a regular truck bed. Or it may open at the bottom, hinged from the top. Given the two options, there is a right answer. I chose the other.
By leaving the top hinge intact and allowing the tailgate to open from the bottom, I created a top constraint for my trees and shrubs to wedge and get stuck into.
So I stood there at the dump for two hours with the truckbed fully vertical with a bunch of branches, trees, and shrubbery stuffed half crapped-out of the back. I saw many construction demolition trucks come and go-their drivers’ laughing. I saw some twice. Finally, I drove up the steepest hillside I could find, raised the bed so that it was upside-down and the shrubbery fell out the back. Yay…I was on my way. One more load.

6. Unfortunately, as I backed the truck into the backyard I heard an ominous hissing sound. Yep…flat tire on the dump truck. $500, two hours and a whole bunch of rust flakes later, the tire was changed…probably for the first time since 1965.

7. By the time I finished loading the final pile of debris into the dumptruck, it was 4pm. After loading it, I endeavored to cover it with a tarp, as required by law. The truck was positioned against the neighbor’s fence. I stood upon the cab cover part of the dump bed, 13 feet off of the ground, seeking to pull the tarp free of a snag. As you might guess, I pulled too hard, the snag freed, and I lost my balance—atop the dump truck—with nothing to steady myself.
As I fell, I honestly thought to myself, “This is gonna be bad”, I tried to turn, so as to meet the ground facedown, but a branch from the neighbors tree knocked me back so that I continued to fall, with my face to the sky. My calves struck the top of the neighbor fence with such force that it broke the fenceboard. Now, I was falling with my feet pitched above my head…falling…9 feet,…8 feet,…7…..crack, crack SMACK! I’d landed safely in the fork of the neighbor’s plumb tree. My pants torn at the calf and all of the way across the buttocks, by my calf and buttocks intact. “That ended about as well as it could have!” I exclaimed out loud. The neighbor’s English Bulldog whined in agreement.

8. The fall from the top of the dump truck into the safe embrace of the neighbor’s plumb tree made my day. How lucky was that? How badly would a trip to the hospital with broken ribs and a fractured cranium have cramped my schedule? Truly, the plumb tree made my day…..until I discovered that I’d lost my car keys. (Thereafter found where I left them...in the gascap)

9. A day or two later I drove to the ranch towing the trackhoe and sod. I arrived at the Ranch and helped the landscaper, Kirk Wilcox, and his help lay the sod. You may not know this, but hunting season for elk has already started for bow hunters. Some family friends were staying at the ranch and one of them, named Davis, had already bagged a 5-point elk. Unfortunately for him, nobody else had and Davis needed to head home on Friday. Davis was driving home in a Jetta. It is rather difficult to get a full 5-point elk rack to fit into a Jetta—in fact it is impossible. So Davis was forced to—I kid you not—strap the Elk head/rack to the roof of his Jetta and drive home. Hilarious. (One imagines the many Full sized Dodge/Ford/Chevy trucks pulling trailers full of camoflauged ATVs and driven by the ‘hardcore’ Idaho hunters, watching some flea in a Jetta steam by with Utah plates and a trophy head tied to the roof).

The Bar results are in:



I passed.

Republican Convention

In my opinion:
Palin Rocks. Loved her speech. Gutsy move from McCain is paying off. Reflects well on McCain's judgment and guts.

As for McCain's Speech:
Did anyone gather that he was a war prisoner of some sort?

The Humble submission of the not-so-mighty

I have marched to the top of bar-exam-hill, seen the beauty of the valley called 'Esquire & Income' spread lushly before me; and it is good.

Unfortunately, the powers-that-be keep me suspended upon that perilous perch between success and failure, wobbling for another month between the sexy beauty of income in front of me, or back into the coal-black abyss of bar failure behind--where the howls of the previously unsuccessful move even the hardest of lawyer hearts.

I will know the results of the Exam at the beginning of October. For those who are curious about my success I advice the ol' adage: "Don't call us, we'll call you".
And don't ask me about jobs either... cause I won't know till the Bar-Gods tell me whether I suck or not.

In the meantime I am fishing--For Jobs. Nobody wants a pre-bar admitted-could-be-lawyer so everyone says: "Call when you've got your bar results".

After 7 years of paying people to tell me what the book says, I'm a bit impatient for people to pay me to tell them what those same books say...in the meantime, anyone need a gardner?