Beautiful Illusions by Annie Jocoby Read Free Book Online Page B

checking my mailbox for weeks at a time. Nothing ever came in the mail that was important, I reasoned. But it was still a pain in the ass to have to make the special trip to the time-sucking vortex known as the post office, and wait in line while the one or two postmasters take an eternity with each and every one of the fifty customers. I briefly considered just never getting the mail, but decided that was unwise. You never know – the one time you decide to completely blow off the mail is the one time that you will miss something really important.
    And, of course, the threatening sky chose to dump on me at just that moment. It wasn’t just any rain, but it was a cloudburst. The wind whipped up to about 70 MPH, and, all at once, I was completely saturated. I trudged home, not even hurrying to get out of the downpour.
    It was like that all that week. Dragging myself to work, trying not to snap at clients, barking at opposing counsel, writing ever nastier letters to them.
    “Your client better get her ass off that couch and stop sponging off my client,” read one letter .
    “Tell your client to get off the crack and bong hits and take care of the kid, or we are going to get a modification agreement faster than you than you can read this” read another .
    I was on an “ass” kick, in that I was loving that word. I wanted to use it is some fashion in every letter I wrote. I refrained myself when writing my motions to the judge, however. But even these motions were more aggressive than usual, although not quite as blunt as the letters to opposing counsel.
    And one client, in part icular, sent me into Defcon 1. He showed up to plead for a DWI, and, when he arrived at the courthouse, the smell of alcohol on his breath nearly knocked me over. It was fresh alcohol, too, because it actually smelled like vodka, as opposed to smelling slightly sweet, which is what vodka smells like on a person's breath after a period of time.
    “What the fuck?” I asked him. The alcohol was not only strong on his breath, but his eyes were bloodshot. He looked a mess.
    “What?” he asked.
    “Oh, no you didn't. I know that you didn't booze it up before seeing the judge about your DWI charge.”
    “I’m going to jail,” he slurred. “I wanted to have one last hurrah with my friends.”
    “What did I say that made you think you were going to jail today? I told you that you’re gonna get probation.” I was apoplectic. “Well, probably not now. That judge will take one look at you and one smell of you, and throw you in the clink for sure. And that would serve you goddamned right.” I shook my head. “You aren't paying me enough for this bullshit. You couldn't pay me enough for this bullshit.”
    Then I looked around. The guy was there by himself. “Where’s your ride?” I demanded.
    “Uh, I couldn't find a ride.”
    “Then where’s your bus pass?”
    He looked at the floor and said nothing.
    I was stunned. “Oh.my.god. You drove drunk to the courthouse to answer your drunk driving charge?”
    He hung his head and continued to say nothing.
    “Well, fuck this noise. I’m withdrawing from your case.”
    “What? You can't do that!”
    “Oh, can't I? Where’s the rest of the money you promised me?”
    “I’ll send it to you when I get paid.”
    “Bullshit. I’m withdrawing.”
    When the judge called my client's name, about an hour and a half into the docket, I stood up before him.
    “I request a move to withdraw your honor.”
    “Why is that, counselor?”
    “Rule one violation, your honor.” Every attorney knows the rule number one for clients – always pay your attorney. Bastard paid me $250, owed me another $1,000, then drove drunk to the courthouse. You can't make this shit up. Nobody would ever believe me if I told them.
    “Motion granted.” Turning to my client, he said “Now, young man, your new court date is August 20 th . You must have new counsel by then. Do you understand?”
    My client nodded mutely.
    “Oh,