Tales from the Old Days

From time to time, I'm reminded of a funny story from my days at the District Attorney's Office and I think that they might make for a decent blog post.  I was reminded of one of those moments this morning by former-HCDA investigator Steve Januhowski on Facebook, so I thought I'd share.

Back when I was a new-ish prosecutor, a group of prosecutors routinely got together on Wednesdays after work for Steak Night at the Little Woodrow's on W. Alabama (sadly, it has since been demolished).  I coordinated Steak Night and I was pretty religious about attendance.  We usually had anywhere between ten to thirty people show up.

I never missed.  If I didn't leave early from work, I was out the door at 5:00 sharp on Wednesdays.

During my tenure as the Chief of County Court at Law #5, my secretary was the one and only Barbara Eaglin, who was a true institution of the Office.  She had been around for decades, if not centuries and was well known for her good-natured battles with the smart ass baby prosecutors that came through the misdemeanor.  In addition, if a thought entered Barbara's mind, it immediately came right out of her mouth, and it came out loudly.

One Wednesday, my godfather, Jim Cox, called the Office looking for me.  Jim was an older attorney, who was probably in his mid-to-late-60s when this happened.  He didn't practice criminal law and he didn't know Barbara, nor did she have any clue on earth who she was talking to when she answered the phone.  As he would tell me later that the phone call went something like this.

BARBARA:  District Attorney's Office.

JIM:  May I speak to Murray Newman?

BARBARA:  No, he's gone for the day.

JIM:  Oh, that's right.  It's Wednesday.  He must have left early for steak night.

BARBARA:  No.  He left early because it's raining outside and shit floats.

She then hung up the phone.

August 16, 1999

L-R:  John Jordan, Peter DeLeef, Adam Brown, Earl Musick, Brad Hart, 

Bill Exley, Robert Summerlin, & Me

It's hard to fathom that 18 years ago today I first entered the Harris County Criminal Justice arena.  I remember it like it was yesterday.

I was 26 years old.  Engaged to a girl named Lisa who, two months later, would become the first in a series of wives.

Although I had attended law school in Houston, I had moved back to Bryan/College Station after taking the February Bar Exam because I didn't have a job lined up.  I worked as a paid intern (for $6 an hour!) at the Brazos CountyAttorney's Office while I waited on the Bar results.  When I passed, I got invited to apply with Harris County, and I moved back to Houston the week before I started.

Chance Bolton, a childhood friend of mine, had recently gotten out of the Navy and was going to school in Houston.  He and Lisa and I moved into an old house I was renting in Timbergrove.  None of us had any money.  At the time, I was the only one who had a job lined up.

I was incredibly nervous getting ready for work that first morning.  I didn't really know anyone that worked there. I don't think I even knew where I was supposed to park.  The D.A.'s Office was still in the old building at 201 Fannin.  As I headed out the front door of the house towards my car, I heard the door open behind me.  It was Chance.

"Hey Newman," he said, strolling out into the front yard.  He extended his hand.  "I just wanted to wish you good luck on your first day as a prosecutor."

It was both an awkward and sweet moment between good friends.  Mainly it was awkward because he was only wearing his boxer shorts.  I thanked him and then implored him to go back inside before any neighbors got the wrong idea about our relationship.

I got to the D.A.'s Office and met with Renee Magee, who was the Deputy Dawg of Misdemeanor at the time.  I had done an academic internship with her after my second year of law school in Judge McSpadden's court and she had put me in touch with the Office once I passed the Bar.  Although I was starting out working in the Justice of the Peace Division, Renee took me over to see how the county courts worked.

I remember an attorney coming up to me in court and asking me, "Are you the attorney of the day?" Not familiar with the local terminology, I thought he was making some sort of crack about the longevity of young prosecutors.  I gave him a dirty look and he walked away, confused.

That afternoon, I had my first exciting JP docket in front of Judge David Patronella.  I got lost getting there, and when I first arrived, Adam Brown was already talking to people on the docket.  I introduced myself to him and then I sat down.  I looked at the huge bucket of speeding tickets and other traffic violations and I realized I had absolutely no idea what I was supposed to do.

"Um, hey," I said to Adam.  "What am I supposed to be doing?"

"You'll have to figure it out," he said.  "That's why they pay you the big bucks."

I thought Adam was maybe the biggest asshole I'd ever met in my life.  Luckily, the clerks helped me, because I had no clue.  I was miserable.

It was a terrible first day.  I remember going home, consoling myself with the plan that I was going to honor my 3-year commitment to the Office and then go back home to Brazos County and hopefully run for District Attorney there someday.

My, how plans change.

Over the next few days, I'd meet the other guys in JP.  I met Bill Exley, who sternly warned me to never jaywalk, because Mr. Holmes would fire you if he ever caught you doing that.  I met Robert Summerlin, who would become my practical joking arch-nemesis for years to come.  Peter Deleef was the congenial and very odd guy from South Africa.  John Jordan, who bore a striking resemblance to NASCAR racer Jeff Gordon, yet was the slowest driver I had ever seen in my life.  Earl Musick, the retired HPD cop, who entertained us with stories of the old days.  And my first chief, now-Judge Brad Hart.

Over the next months, the seven of us and our chief became an extremely tight-knit group (even Adam).  Earl came up with the nickname of The Magnificent Seven, which ultimately got shortened to The Seven.  We all thought we were awesome.  I'm pretty sure the rest of the Office thought we were arrogant jackasses.  I feel that way because a lot of other prosecutors told us we were a bunch of arrogant jackasses.

But man, we loved being prosecutors.

L-R:  Me, Adam, Bill, Peter, John & Brad at one of my 

many bachelor parties.

It's funny how quickly time goes by.  It doesn't seem like it was 18 years ago when I first started, but so much has changed. I never talk to my friend Chance anymore. I got divorced from that first wife.  Remarried.  Had a kid.  Divorced again.  Remarried again. (Hopefully, I'm holding steady on that front.) Had another kid. (Hopefully holding steady on that front, too.)

Eventually, the majority of "the Seven" left the D.A.'s Office.  The only one of us still working there is John.  Brad is Judge Hart now, and the rest of us all went on to private practice.  I saw Exley yesterday in court, and I told him he looks a year older every time I see him -- although I knew I wasn't really one to talk about aging poorly.

Every once in awhile I'll get asked if I would ever go back to prosecuting.  I say I don't really miss the job itself, but I miss the camaraderie.  I'm always glad when I see younger prosecutors hanging out with each other these days because it reminds me that no matter how many times the regime changes, that camaraderie is still there.  

There have been a lot of ups and downs over the last 18 years, but, man, I wouldn't have missed it for the world.  Those early years were some of the best.

Hell, I even enjoyed hanging out with that asshole Adam Brown.

Me and Adam in New Orleans - October 2002

War Stories

Earlier this week, I had the chance to grab a drink with Troy McKinney and a couple of other lawyers.  During the course of the evening, Troy and I started swapping some of our favorite War Stories that have come out of being in the Criminal Law arena, and it occurred to me that some of those lesser known stories don't get told enough.

In the midst of our jobs as prosecutors or defense attorneys, the subject matter can often be depressing, gory, and stressful.  We can have anyone from the Judge to the D.A. to our clients to the media breathing down our necks and second guessing our every moves.

But there are moments of levity and downright laugh-out-loud humor that happens every day in the courthouse as well, and those are what I define as a War Story.  One that is much more likely to have everyone laughing at your missteps than praising your successes.

Criminal lawyers have some of the best War Stories (with the possible exception of cops).  Face facts, if you're at a social event, how often do you see someone asking an accountant to tell them more about what he or she does every day?

So, in an effort to encourage the lesser known side of the courthouse, I'm encouraging you all to share your War Stories with the blog.  You can post them in the comments, or you can e-mail me off-list.  (NOTE:  If you e-mail me off list, I will gladly keep you anonymous if you want.  The point of this is to entertain. Just keep in mind that war stories are usually funnier when you know who is telling the story and the people involved.)

So, to start off, I'll tell one of my favorite War Stories, involving me and now-Judicial candidate Joe Vinas in a trial case.

Back then, I was the Misdemeanor Chief in County Court at Law # 5 under Judge Janice Law (which is a War Story all on its own).  Joe was a brand new Misdemeanor Three.  The policy then was that when a Misdemeanor Chief came back down from the Felony Division that they wanted them to try at least one jury trial so that their younger prosecutors could observe.

So I was lead counsel on a case with Joe as my second chair.

The facts of the case were that police had been called out to a domestic disturbance.  When they got to the home, the Defendant was in his bed, pretending to be asleep.  When the police went in and tried to wake him up, he reached toward a pistol, which the cops quickly knocked out of his reach.  He then began reaching for a freaking Bowie knife, which they also knocked out of his reach.  The Defendant then went reaching for (no joke) a tomahawk.

The police got all three weapons away from him and arrested him after a short struggle.

During the course of the trial, Joe and I were fascinated by the Bowie knife.  The police had tagged it into evidence, and during breaks in the trial, we played with it.  I mean, we played with it a lot.  We mimicked as if we were going to throw it.  We walked around the courtroom with it.  I think at one point, I even acted like I was shaving my face with it.

There was no harm in that, right?  It wasn't like it had been used in a murder or an assault case or anything like that.

So, Joe and I present our case, and the defense attorney, Frumencio Reyes, calls his client to the stand.  I can't remember the Defendant's name, but let's just say he was very much on the heavy side and not really all that into personal hygiene.

Through question and answer, his client begins calmly explaining each of the weapons that the police had recovered from him -- starting with the gun.

"That wasn't really a gun.  It used to be, but it was broken since the day I got it.  It was an antique and the kids played with it.  If you look in the barrel, there's a crayon stuck in it."

Sure enough, the gun was an antique, and you could see the red wax of a crayon jammed into the barrel.

So, Frumencio moved onto talking about the Bowie knife.

"Well yeah," the Defendant admitted.  "That's a real knife, but I didn't have it because I wanted it as a weapon."

"Then why did you have it in your bed?" Frumencio asked.

"Well," the Defendant said.  "I've got this really nasty rash on my leg, and when I go to bed, I just use the blade of that knife to scratch it."

Joe and I had to call a recess.  Moments later, we were in the men's room scrubbing down like we were preparing for surgery.

To this day, its probably a miracle that we didn't just vomit in the courtroom.

And neither Joe nor I have forgiven Frumencio to this day.