A Walk in the Woods

Lately I been thinkin’ too much lately…. ---David Allan Coe

Late last Saturday afternoon, just before dark on a cool, cloudless afternoon, I took one of my yellow labs and walked across Little Sandy Creek into the 30 acres of woods behind my house. I wanted to see the dogwoods, I told myself. As Spring elbows its way into the East Feliciana countryside, the dogwoods awake from their slumber like first responders called to a place of need and bloom amid the dormant thickets, their solitary colors intermittently visible through the thick brown woods. The sight is striking, as if Someone shook a paint brush here and there, smattering dots of white and pink to catch and hold the eye.

You can see a blooming dogwood hundreds of feet back into the latent woods. Lord, they are pretty…which, I feel the need to observe, is a sentiment coming from a guy who’s never been a “Hey, let’s stop and look at the flowers….” sorta fella. With these dogwoods, though, it’s as if Someone is saying: Excuse me, son…..I need your attention a sec. Just look at me. I am dawning life amid the winter’s toll. Feel me? I’m not a “hearing voices” sorta fella either, so any routine thought of wandering off into the woods to look at stuff that I usually ignore and listen to things I never hear is as foreign to me as Sanskrit. Lately, though, I haven’t really been myself and I’ve decided that some type of internal evolution might not be an entirely negative development.

So, I took whatever it is percolating under my skin into my woods for a test drive.

Liberated from her electric fence collar, Abigail bounded with delight through the scrub and into the hard woods, circling back every few minutes to see what was taking me so long to match her canter. When I never altered my pace, she seemed to understand that I wasn’t in a hurry … that I just needed to be out of sight of the world for a bit. Settling into a ranging series of circles that more or less matched my forward progress, Abby gave me some space.

We crossed my bridge over Little Sandy and walked up the old logging road that was once a winding approach to Neville Plantation, formerly situated 200 yards over my north property line on a knoll surrounded then and now by sweeping pecan trees. It burned to the ground in 1927 and presently only the pecan trees and the knoll are left, dotted ‘round with dozens of now-wild gladiolas and lilies of various types and colors.

As I walk past a deer feeder I see hidden on one of the bluffs overlooking my creek, I reflect on the history beneath my feet. Angling toward dogwoods, I meander in my mind.

The older, unmarried daughter of Neville’s owner had caused a scandal back in the days after Reconstruction by takin’ up with the Hired Man at adjacent Wildwood Plantation. Even now when the subject came up, as it still does in these parts, they say she married “beneath” herself. Apparently spurning convention (as the old story is now somewhat misty), she maybe married the Hired Man for love or maybe married him because he was her last chance. Anyway, what everyone remembers is that it was in opposition to her father’s wishes. There seemed to have been some vibrant but short-lived “family trouble” over the evolving relationship -- tension ended only by a timely passing. When the master of Neville Plantation died, she and the Hired Man moved in. The newly minted husband went from being hired help at Wildwood to the Master of Neville and the Lady of the House apparently took to planting a multitude of bulbed flowers. Untended since before Coolidge was in the White House, her plants still explode into life every spring even some 100 years later.

I always take her side in the discussions that roam around the issue down at the Port Hudson Mobil Station where I trade. She sounds like my kind of dame.

And, you can still feel her presence. Around Easter, a short hike to the old home-site is a treat. Scarlett gladiolas or white lilies and something-or-other bright yellow carpet what used to be the Neville Plantation yard. Some years before she died in 2004, I took my 81 year-old-grandmother on my 4-wheeler out to the site one Easter, just to show her. As we rode into the proliferation of color, “Babee” rattled off the names of the plants without hesitation. I regret that I’ve forgotten them now.

Of course, all of this drama took place decades after the area was decimated by the sharp fighting between General Banks’ Union Army and General Gardner’s Confederate detachment. A series of violent collisions between the armies resulted in the backing of Gardner’s vastly outnumbered rebel forces into their works at Port Hudson. In the end they were cornered along a broad semi-circle facing east, with the Mississippi River at their backs. Americans in 2 different armies fought desperately amid the stretches of these now placid woods. On the nearby Mississippi River, the Union Navy tried to run past the rebel guns on the Port Hudson bluffs and received a shellacking for their trouble. The United States battleship USS Mississippi, the vessel Commodore Mathew Perry used as his flagship when he had opened up trade with Japan, was forced aground by cannon fire and destroyed by the deadly accurate Confederate gunners.

And, I know the movie Glory proclaimed that African-American troops were first used in offensive U.S. Army operations at Fort Wagner up in the Carolinas.

Not true.

The 1st and 2nd Louisiana Native Guards were employed during the desperate assaults on the rebel fortifications here at Port Hudson a full year before the Fort Wagner attack. They were brutally and callously squandered here at Port Hudson at a place the men came to know as The Devil's Elbow…but….that, as they say, is another story.

It’s odd how all of this happened throughout my woods and over to the nearby river. Abby skitters around, chasing whatever she scares out of the undergrowth as I adjust my battered LSU hat for warmth and zip up my windbreaker. Spring isn’t fully here yet I perceive as we continue our trek up the logging road.

If you haul out my metal detector, you can quickly find civil war era bullets and mortar fragments still peppered within the soil. I have a box full of them. One of the Union soldiers shot down during the killing and left to die in these woods was buried on the plantation until after the war, when his family came and got him. John St. Paul Lanius, the 83-year-old gentleman from whom I bought my home and acreage (and who I called “Mr. John,” in the southern way), took me for a walk one day and showed me where he thought the grave had been, based upon what he'd been told as a boy, speaking about the episode as if it had all happened last summer. But, sadly, the details of this poigniant event are all lost now. I wonder idly if the plantation rebels said any words over Billy Yank as they lowered him into his initial grave in a cool, shaded hollow adjacent to Little Sandy and behind the main house. I wonder if they bowed their heads and asked God to bless his enemy, Yankee soul. Surely they must have. How peculiar that must have been, as was the rebels' marking and tending of Billy Yank's grave in the subsequent months and years, until a still-grieving family came to fetch him sometime after Appomattox.

The siege of Port Hudson lasted for months, culminating with the surrender of the beleaguered, starving Confederate position. Banks was never able to force it, but--- after Vicksburg fell--- the last fortified Confederate bastion on the river was no longer defensible. So, on the 9th of July, 1863, Gardner spiked his guns, hauled down his colors and stacked arms. The entire legth of the Mississippi River was thereafter in Federal hands. I always thought it was odd that this defender of the last Confederate position on the Mississippi –-a rebel general officer wholly devoted to The Cause--- was a New Yorker and a West Point graduate, Class of 1843. Gardner finished at The Point 4 places ahead of U.S. Grant. I have rambled for years about how I would like to do a biography of this obviously conflicted man…however…who has time for that?

As Abby and I reach my north fence line we slide out of the woods and into open pasture. The grass needs bush-hogging and the fence needs work. Between the hard winter and Hurricane Gustav last fall, there is plenty crying for attention. If I didn’t have to practice law, I could spend all my days just tending to this 30 acre patch of ground. I whistle for Abigail and we turn west along the fence and again into the woods. In the late afternoon sunlight, we find dogwoods adjacent to a small, hidden pond where the wood ducks trying to finish the day shift whistle in through the Spanish moss-laden branches, surprised to find a trespasser and his mutt mucking around their roosts. Miffed, they chatter to themselves and zip on through without stopping.

Dogwoods are small trees in general, fighting for survival here among much larger brothers. The legend is that the dainty dogwood once grew as large as the biggest oaks and that the Romans fashioned Christ’s cross of that dogwood. After that unpleasantness, however, it never grew large enough ever again to serve as crucifixion material. Thereafter, they say, its flowers appeared over time in a cross-shaped fashion, with bloodstains on the petals and nail holes on the petal ends and a crown of thorns in its center. I really don’t know about all that stuff but that’s what they claim. Legends aside, the flowers are lovely and I stare at them a long time while Abby laps water from the duck pond. I don’t really see blood and nail holes and what not, but I guess you could if you wanted to.

Which is sort of the point, I reckon.

Sometimes you can see whatever you need to see, depending upon your point of view.

I lose track of the time a little and failing light prods me to slap my leg for Abby, She hustles back from the far side of the water, gratified for some attention. In an instant she is by my side.

Come on, ole girl, I tell her, running a hand along the side of her neck. Let’s head back.

Casting a last look at the small but lovely dogwood and its pond, I wonder idly if exhausted cavalry mounts once watered here and if those troopers had been struck by the ancestors of the blooms now absorbing may attention. Did they find them incongruous amid the fighting? And, what about the lady of Neville Plantation? She obviously loved plants. What did she make of them? The battles around Port Hudson took place in the Spring. Did she collect and lay dogwoods on Billy Yank's grave? I wonder if those who come after me will stop and enjoy these first responders by this pond. How long will they grow and bloom here?

The wood ducks make another pass around the forested point, confirming my departure from their pond area so that they can finally angle at speed into their woodland and call it a day. Abby and I head again for the logging road and home, striding steadily into the glimmering last light of the retreating afternoon.

--- J.R.

Jared

Ever had one of those unexpected moments where you enter the heartbeat of another human being?

I had one of those today.

I was at "The General" this afternoon for pre-surgical admit. My nurse was Kathy and it took me about 3 minutes to size her up as an Old School pro -- a demeanor which is totally sympatico with this grand dame joint, a hospital built in the days when we knew how to show a little marble on the walls and on the stairs. Not sheetrock or fake wood, mind you, but beautiful, burnished, dark marble lined with silvers and blacks and dark greens and worn in a majestic sort of way by decades of service.

And yes.....STAIRS. You gotta love a hospital where you can still find some marble stairs. I felt like I was at The Biltmore.

I reported to Kathy in Same Day Surgery after checking in with the bright, smiling African-American ladies in Admissions, who I think got me warmed up to receive the little moment that would arrive a bit later. One laughed at my jokes during the intricate administrative preliminaries while her occupied co-worker at the next station quietly hummed an old spiritual. "Oh, what a blessedness, oh what a peace is mine, leaning on the everlasting arms.... "

Before they sent me on my way to the 3rd floor, and as I signed the last of the insurance paperwork, one of them cocked her head and secured my attention.

Oooo....you got Dr. Dupont, honey.

Yes, ma'am. I do.

He's gooood, she reported.

Sho' is, yes indeed, said her friend, interrupting her humming and looking at me with pert eyes over her glasses. EVERYbody say THAT.

Well, that's a good thing, I guess.

Oh, yes, honey, the first lady agrees, pounding a loud staple through my documents. You don't have a THING to worry 'bout. Now, you take these with you to the 3rd floor and have a blessed day.

I leave....and, forsaking the stairs for the elevator, I can hardly help but wander off into a hum myself: "What have I to dread? What have I to fear, leaning on the everlasting arms?.....leeeeaning.....leeeeaning......leaning on the everlasting arms....."

Kathy meets me just outside the elevators. She's younger than me, has taken good care of herself and is pretty -- like your best friend's Momma was pretty back when you were a kid. It's the sort of pretty you're not sure what to do with. She was squared away in dark blue scrubs with a stethoscope hanging around her neck---covered in part by a colorful "scrunchy." Her ID tag was simple and heralded her only as: KATHY, RN As I approach her, she looks up from her clipboard and says:

Mr. Clary, is it?

What's left of him.

Oh, now it can't be THAT bad. Come with me and we'll get you all ready for Monday. This thing's gonna be a snap. Don't worry. Dr. Dupont is great.

That's what I hear.

Once we get into the surgical area, she goes through all of the checklists and forms like a pro. No allergies. No current medical problems. (Well, except for the cancer. There's that. Beyond that little blip on the radar, everything is peachy.) No tobacco use. No booze. We relive some of my prior medical adventures and she's unimpressed. She tells me confidentially that she will need urine, as if I might need some time to prepare for such a daunting, extemporaneous task. I tell her I'm pushin' 54 and, consequently, I can pee at the drop of a hat -- no sweat. As a matter of fact, the only time I don't have to pee is while I'm actually peeing. Just to show her she's not dealin' with some piker, I immediately take the cup and report to the bathroom. I'm back in less than 2 minutes with all the pee one could reasonably use --- safely and warmly ensconced in my little screw-top vial.

She doesn't say anything, but I can tell she's impressed.

Then, she says she needs to take blood, so I present an arm. Kathy unwraps all the sterile stuff a RN needs to find a vein and remove some of that magic mix. I am steeling myself not to flinch when she inserts the needle because I want her to know she's dealing with a tough guy. She fiddles with her kit and ---after a moment or 2--- I sort of get the odd impression that she's dithering about a bit.

You live on Highway 68. Kathy says. It's a declarative statement, but seems unfinished somehow.

Sure do, 68.

Then your house is near the National Cemetery at Port Hudson, isn't it?

Yes, ma'am....that's right. I answer, wondering why we're returning to the preliminaries. We'd already covered all this, even before I had passed my urine test. But, I continue the conversation, sensing somehow that we're not really talking about my address. I'm about a half mile from the cemetery....a little closer to the battlefield park.

Your date of birth is the 6th of October, I see.

Yup. That's right.

That was my son's birthday, she says, taking my arm in one hand and swabbing the targeted vein with the other. The past tense within her sentence hangs in the air along with the smell of rubbing alcohol.

It was? I finally reply quietly.

Yes. He was killed in Iraq almost 2 years ago.

Awwww, kiddo....is all I can think to say. Bless his heart.

I take my other hand and bring it to cover hers, resting both on my exposed forearm. The alcohol is cool on my skin. Her fingers feel warm to me, even within her latex glove. We stay like that for a bit.

He's buried over in the Port Hudson National Cemetery right near your house.

I know it well, I say. I've been there many times.

My mind's eye conjures the rows and rows of graves at Port Hudson, studded with identical white marble markers. Hundreds of them are Civil War casualties. Many come from The War to End All Wars, and then plenty hail from the wars that came after that.

Her eyes meet mine and there are no tears.

I sure am proud to meet you, Kathy. And I would've been honored to meet your son. Could you tell me his name?

Jared......Jared Crouch. He was a corporal in a Stryker Brigade and he was doing what he always wanted to do.

Jared Crouch, I repeat, patting her hand softly. I'm going to remember that name, Kathy. I promise you that. I thank you for sharing Jared with me today.

It was just seeing your birth date....she says, trailing off. She starts to busy herself with the alcohol swab again and I move my hand away.

Of course, kiddo. I understand.

You'll feel a little stick, Kathy tells me, all business again and moving the needle in for the strike.

But, I never felt it.

--J.R.


Zachary Native Killed in Iraq

By The Associated Press -- June 4, 2007


ZACHARY, La. — A Zachary native who joined the Army his senior year in high school was killed Saturday in Hadid, Iraq when a roadside bomb exploded near his vehicle, the Army said.

Cpl. William Jared Crouch, 21, had only been stationed in Iraq for a little more than a month, his mother, Kathy Rushing, said in a newspaper interview. She was informed of his death Saturday night by casualty assistance soldiers from Fort Polk.

The Defense Department said Crouch was a cavalry scout assigned to the 2nd Squadron, 1st Cavalry Regiment, 4th Brigade, 2nd Infantry Division, Fort Lewis, Wash.

Rushing said her younger son, John Crouch, a reservist with a maintenance company stationed in Iraq, would try to join his brother’s body on the flight back to the U.S.

“We’re hoping he’ll be able to bring his brother home,” said Rushing.

She said both sons had always felt the need to serve. Jared Crouch, who graduated from Starkey Academy in Central in 2004, wanted to be “in the thick of things ... on the front lines,” his mother said.

She said he got his desire to serve from his father, James Crouch, a Baton Rouge policeman who died of natural causes when Crouch was 13. James Crouch, had wanted to serve in the military but never got the opportunity, Rushing said.

News From the Sawbones

Dr. Benton Dupont's office is next to the venerable Baton Rouge General Hospital, which was a state-of-the art facility when it opened WAAAY back before we could say: "If we can put a man on the moon...." etc. When it was built the country was still 3 or 4 years away from electing a young, dynamic President whose brutal appointment in Dallas could not even be envisioned. So, its of a different era. And, it looks it, too. Different from the gabled, flashy, Hilton-like hospitals on lakes that you see nowadays, "The General" squats within our slightly sketchy mid-city area like a aging professional wrestler.

I dig it.

Over the decades this white-bricked heavyweight has endured numerous renovations and updates, but you can still hear the theme from Ben Casey whenever it heaves into view. Now it's part of the LSU HealthCare System, which means it's part of the LSU Medical School hydra and, consequently, whenever you see Benton, he is trailed by an impossibly young human being wearing a tailored, starched white lab coat. This person is called a resident and I am told he is a graduate of some medical school somewhere but is probably like I was when I graduated from law school: I had a sheepskin but I didn't know dick. If he is as I was, then he's learning on me. I'm a teaching tool. Oddly enough, this leaves me feeling worthy as opposed to bothered.

In order to visit with Dr. Dupont, as I did on Monday of this week, you walk through the shiny doors of the new Physicians' Complex recently constructed next to the old hospital -- an incongruous pairing, really... like a pair of new Cole-Hahn shoes worn with an old, slightly frayed suit. The glass adjacent to his 4th Floor office door --through which you can see the halt and the lame sitting in his waiting room-- says: General Surgery -- Oncological Surgery.

Once you enter, you are struck by how relaxed everyone is pretending to be while--just below the visible surface--the room hums with nervous tension.

Anyway, I arrived for my latest once-over determined to explain why my next cancer surgery should be set for late April as opposed to the scheduling Dr. Dupont was suggesting, which was immediately or yesterday, if possible. After all, I had tons of stuff to do at work and I desperately wanted to accept my TLC Staff Assignment to the Regional in Seattle on the last weekend in March and I didn't want to be gimped up for that. I explained all of this to Benton, in great detail, who just stared at me. He's a taciturn guy. A riveting, eye contact listener.

When I was done he called for his nurse, Jane, and said: When's my next surgical opening?

March 18, Jane replied.

How's the 18th? Benton inquired.

Uhhhh.....well....had no one listened to my speech? That's a little quicker than I was hoping for, Doc, I said, further explaining the conflict I had on that particular day.

How about the 23rd? Jane asked.

Yes, that will do fine, I heard Dr. Dupont say.

Then, he riveted those eyes of his on me.

Jim, listen to what I am saying to you. You can't help your clients if you're dead. Right? You have an active malignancy which we failed to remove the first time. I really thought we'd gotten it all. We didn't. We didn't because it has spread farther and deeper than we had hoped. If we don't get it in the next bite---and I think I can, don't get me wrong---but, if we don't, it's a game changer. Hear what I am saying. Every day is important. We do not delay this sort of thing. We do it NOW. Not April. NOW. Understand me? And, you will not be able to travel for awhile after we do this. Believe me, you won't even feel like it. This is not something we can argue about or discuss. If it's not the 18th, it's the 23rd. OK?

After a short period of silence, while the resident stared at the lawyer lab rat to see how he would digest such a speech, I finally allowed as how---really, when you thought about it--the 23rd was a lovely day for a surgery.

And so it is.

--J.R.

Deposition Daydreaming

I'm a week post-op and sitting in a crowded conference room full of lawyers, a court reporter and a deponent, all of us crammed into a room on the 2nd floor of a Savings & Loan in St. Tammany Parish. We wangled a conference room billed as sufficient to accommodate all of us and coincidentally situated close to the witnesses. As I wonder whether or not I'm bleeding through my bandage and my Kenneth Gordon button-down, it's easy to perceive that the air conditioning isn't keeping up. As the temperature creeps over 80, I find myself thinking that the room ain't livin' up to its billing.

There are 7 defense lawyers in this trailer explosion death case and, since they set this deposition, I will not get a chance to examine the witness for quite awhile yet. So, still a little gimped up and sore, I sit and take dutiful notes on my yellow pad. I already know what this witness will say as I’ve talked with him before. He has important insights to share but the line of questioning currently pursued has nothing to do with those insights. It has nothing to do with anything, really.

The drone of irrelevant questions and dutiful answers therefore allows my mind to drift and—soon—I am...well...daydreaming, I guess you would call it.

The morning of Wednesday, April 12, 2006 dawned clear and cool on Ulloa Street in Slidell, Louisiana. Linda and Johnny Meyer stirred to wakefulness, shoehorned with their few remaining belongings into the FEMA camper-trailer now providing the only shelter on their residential lot since the Katrina-induced flooding destroyed their longtime home the previous August. Johnny got the bedroom because he snored. Linda took the couch, located on the camper “slide-out” adjacent to the tiny trailer kitchen.

There was nothing about this morning to foreshadow that it would be the last morning Johnny and Linda would ever spend together.

Slipping quietly out of bed and likely still surfacing toward consciousness, Johnny padded by Linda on the couch, traversing the length of their small castle to the single, Spartan bathroom on the other end. Linda sensed him pass, but did not open her eyes. She heard him enter the bathroom and assumed he was going in there to smoke as he tended to his morning ablutions. That was their agreement. No smoking inside the living area of the trailer – only outside or in the bathroom with the fan on.

Linda heard the bathroom door close. There was a pause. She heard the exhaust fan in the bathroom come on.

Then....fearful madness.

From behind Linda and Johnny’s camper, on the adjacent lot sharing their rear property line, Bobby Zito and his wife, Tammy, were just starting their first cup of coffee in their own cramped FEMA trailer. Tammy was taking hers outside as she liked being in their rural residential neighborhood yard while it was still quiet and peaceful. Bobby sat at his miniature “dining room” table and watched the steam from his hot cup of Community Dark Roast combine with the curling white smoke wafting about him from his first pull on a Marlboro. All of his windows were propped open with staves and he remembered watching the steam and smoke mix and migrate out through the open camper window.

He felt the explosion before he heard it. But, he also heard it soon enough.

PA-WHUMP!

Bobby’s camper rolled back and forth as his coffee sloshed out of his cup and into the saucer underneath. Simultaneously, the windows all slammed shut, the staves knocked from their resting positions by the force of whatever the hell had just gone up with a sickening crunch. Gathering himself quickly, Zito hit the door on a run, flicked the Marlboro toward the street and headed into the yard. Tammy caught his eye – she was scrambling atop some cinder blocks stacked against their rear fence so that she could see into Linda and Johnny’s yard, where smoke was rising. He headed her way, saw her reach the top of the fence, look over and freeze, transfixed on the scene shielded from his view. In a few steps he was to the blocks himself and in a couple more he stood beside his wife and—in that moment—he saw, as well.

The Meyer trailer was split into several pieces, all of which jutted at crazy angles. The slide-out had been blown completely out of the camper and Bobby could see Linda struggling beneath her blanket to get out of the slide-out rubble, now tilted so precipitously that Linda was trapped in the “V” of the small trailer couch. He saw smoke rising, flames trickling along exposed surfaces and heard Linda's screams for help. Absorbing this surreal view, Bobby perceived the front door of the Meyer trailer was still shut and –if it was jammed—maybe no one else would get out.

Help them, Tammy, he told his wife. Hurry. I’m bringing the truck over.

Turning, he hopped off of the blocks and headed toward his pickup. Behind him, Tammy did the same but peeled off to run around the end of the fence and into Linda and Johnny’s yard. There was a chain and grappling hook in the bed of his Ford, he thought to himself as he fished for his keys with one hand and dialed 911 on his cell phone with the other. During the years he had operated a wrecker, he had used the hook-and-chains many times and he was about to use them again. That camper door was coming off the hinges one way or the other.

Linda struggled to understand what had occurred. She seemed pinned into the sofa as she fought to get out from beneath her blanket. When she was able to get her head free of the linens, she was astonished to see she was outside in their yard…..in a hunk of debris from their camper….and the rest of the camper was before her, split asunder four ways from Sunday. In the interior she could see flames as Johnny came out of the bathroom and into the fire. She watched him as he paused in his boxers looking for his pants. Finding them finally, he started to put them on.

For God’s sake, Johnny! Linda screamed, Get out! Get OUT of there! Forget about those jeans, Johnny, GET OUT!

Complying, he went toward the front door, but Linda told him to escape out through the now opened trailer side where the slide-out had been blown from the camper. Come out THIS way, Johnny! she bellowed, as she herself finally made it out of the slide-out to stand in their yard. Jeans half on, Johnny stumbled out of the inferno and into the yard to stand next to Linda, who was clad only in a man’s button-up shirt. Smoke wafted off of Johnny. Most of his hair was burned away. His full beard was burned away. The skin on his chest, face and arms sagged ominously as he pulled up his jeans. Together, they took a few steps away from their smoking camper as the flames subsided a bit…..and then started to grow anew.

Tammy ran up but, as she looked at her neighbors, there was little she could think to say. Within seconds, Bobby’s truck roared into the yard and slid to a stop. Zito jumped out, grabbed his hook and chains and headed toward the smoking hulk, stopping as he came abreast of Linda and Johnny.

Everybody out? he asked, winded.

Yes, somebody said.

Bobby took in the scene of the devastated camper and his badly burned neighbors. He had worked bad wrecks before back in the day and he knew trouble when he saw it. He was looking at big-time trouble.

Johnny needs help, Linda murmured as she looked at Johnny, reaching toward him as he slowly crumpled to a sitting position.

My arms hurt, Johnny stated flatly as he surveyed the strips of cooked skin hanging from his forearms. That was the damage they could see. What they couldn’t see was Johnny’s scorched trachea and seared lungs. The inhalation of superheated air following the initial flash of the accumulated gas had registered frightful damage. Those terrible internal burns would make their presence known soon enough.

I called 911, Johnny. Bobby said as he dropped his chains and removed his shirt. Help will be here in just a second, bud. We’re all gonna be OK. Just, take ‘er easy, pardner.

Bobby wrapped his shirt around Linda’s naked bottom and Tammy then helped her secure it. Sirens could be heard approaching. As they waited for help to arrive, they watched the trailer --- containing all they had left--- burn.

6 days later, losing a little ground each nursing shift, Johnny would die in the Baton Rouge General Hospital Critical Care Burn Unit and Linda would be on her own. They had lost almost everything during The Storm but ---as they would sometimes say--- at least they still had each other. Now, that was gone too.

And, without ever having left my seat, I am back. You would never know I’d been anywhere, unless you were watching me very closely. No one is, thankfully. My eyes are stinging and I blink back the burning sensation. My recent surgery and the one on the drawing board have me a little emotional these days for some weird reason. I resume taking notes on my pad, calculating from my watch that I was “gone” for only a minute or so.

The lawyer for the trailer manufacturer is continuing his line of questions. He’s young, sharp and driven. As the manufacturer of the “thing” which included all the legally problematic devices, he knows he’s got what we call “exposure.” So, I’m sure he feels he must ask those questions about the Meyers’ 2 week separation 13 years ago. He must ask about Linda’s marijuana arrest during the 1970’s. He’s gotta inquire about Johnny’s “motorcycle club” membership and ask whether they were into gun-running and drug sales, like the Hell’s Angels and other motorcycle clubs he learned about in the movies. Johnny's Motorcycle Club is called The Fugawes. Fugawe....as in "Where the fug are we?" Oh, yes. These are some desperadoes, alright.

The lawyer for the LP gas detector manufacturer that never went off is next. He’s putting yellow “stickies” on a series of photographs which depict his gas detector in the trailer rubble. He’s well known to me, a past State Bar President and a hale-fellow-well-met. His device is supposed to sound an alarm if there is an accumulation of LP gas amounting to 20% of what it would take to be combustible, a point called the LEL – the Lower Explosive Limit. His detector remained mute and silent on that day of fearsome madness. Later, pursuant to a set of laboriously crafted protocols, we removed it from the Meyer’s trailer debris and ran tests on it. It powered up beautifully –nice green lights and what-not---but it never, EVER sniffed ANY gas. It NEVER sounded an alarm, even when we laid a hissing propane nozzle against it. It was worthless. Now this ole boy has a theory that the water from the fire hoses must have adversely affected the detector’s calibration and he’s lately trying to sell that bill of goods. Has a fancy expert and everything. Of course….his detector failed to perform even before the fire trucks left the station, much less before they arrived at the Meyer's destroyed camper, much less before the hoses were unspooled. But, hey, I haven’t the heart to tell him that. His theory means so much to him and, after all, I like the guy.

The lawyers for the company that got the government FEMA contract to deliver the trailer without providing appropriate orientation procedures or delivering operational manuals or checking to make sure the safety equipment worked are pow-wowing quietly. They sent 2 guys. TWO! What’s up with THAT? They say that their people did everything they were supposed to do. Just take a look at their forms, they say, all neatly and uniformly checked. There’s only one little hitch: No one who ever received a FEMA trailer from this outfit can ever recall them DOING any of the stuff that’s checked off as having been accomplished. I hate to judge, but a fella might sort of get the idea that those forms got all neatly filled out back in the office and away from the hubbub of the field, filled out perfunctorily to satisfy FEMA and the local regulators. That’s a lot easier than actually DOING what’s required to make sure folks are safely housed. These guys always like to remind me that—after all—they were very busy delivering trailers to people who desperately needed shelter after a terrible natural disaster. Thus, their point seems to be that the relaxation of the ordinary rules has to be understood. I just nod, although I have inquired about how much they were paid for the delivery of all those trailers. I will never have access to enough wheelbarrows to carry off the loot their client cleared….loot that was paid PER TRAILER delivered. You know, somebody back in the home office might have thought that, if you could breeze through those forms a little more smartly, you could deliver more units for more do-re-mi. But, as I say, I really don’t want to judge.

The manufacturer of the admittedly leaking gas camper stove has its lawyer in from Atlanta – maybe the most dangerous defense counsel in the room: Smart, polite, courtly southern manners and immensely likable. Our post explosion tests show that his stove leaks gas when all the burners are supposed to be off. His main defense to this discovery during testing is: Well, yes there may have been a gas leak in the stove…but….it wasn’t really a BAD leak. I never know what to say when he tells me that. So, I just smile and reply: I hear what you’re sayin', pal.

Then there’s the guy for the electrical system manufacturer that may have allowed power to fail to critical safety systems and the guy for the company which effected repairs on the Meyer trailer in the week before the LP gas explosion. Somehow during those repairs a 15 amp fuse got inserted in a place where a tag reads: DO NOT USE MORE THAN 10 AMP FUSE HERE.

I kid you not.

And then, of course, there’s me --- gimped up, bandaged and a little off my feed.

These boys are gonna need some more help, I think to myself as the deposition drones on.

Battin' .500

I'm batting .500, apparently.

In the Majors, I'd get a sweet paycheck for that type of power hitting. In the world of personal health, though, .500 hitting just gets you a little less shit in your life. Since I've stumbled into a sort of unexpected health issue, I am just posting this quickly to bring the whole thing up-to-date. I'm sure it'll be a laugh riot to read back over all this years from now.

First, the good news: The lymph nodes removed from my right axillary and tested were free and clear of any cancer. So, that's some VERY sweet 411.

Second, the bad news: Unfortunately, the tissue removed from around my melanoma site showed signs of active malignancy up to the peripheral margins. This means that there was active cancer in the meat they removed from me up to the very edges of all they took. Of course, this means that the cancer extended beyond what they plucked off of my right rear shoulder. Consequently, there is still active melanoma on my bod which must be excised.

Given this, I have another surgery in my immediate future.

This time, they are going to take a more invasive hunk of meat -- so much that it cannot be simply "sewed up." They are going to have to harvest some skin off my thigh or ass to graft over the surgery site and so the Recovery will be a bit more involved.

Anyway, it's great that all scans were clear and the lymph nodes were free of disease. That's sweet, of course.

As for the other.....not so much.

I'm a little bummed that I have to go back under the knife....but....waddayagonnado? I'm told that it's good Dr. Dupont was conservative to start--taking only what he thought he needed. If it turned out more excision was required, the cutter can always go back and get it. Start by being as non-invasive as you can -- that's the protocol. Following good protocols shows you're getting A-1 care

Well.....OK. But, now that I know I gotta go back for more surgical fun, I wish they had dug around in there with an ice cream scoop and taken a shitload the first time.

But, that isn't the way it's done.

Anyway, we must let the current incision heal up and they need to knock out a little infection present there before the team can slice-and-dice anew, so I'm on some antibiotics. I am scheduled to return to see the sawbones next week and--at that time--he will tell me precisely what we are going to do and when and where.

If you would've asked me a few weeks ago if my blog was going to become some type of boring report on my "cancer situation," I would've just laughed.

I ain't laughin' much now and, anyway....this stuff is what's on my mind for the moment.

-- J.R.

My Bulletproof Days Are Over, I Guess

By the time 2008 ended, my practice was moving along the tracks under a full head of steam. 2009 glimmered before me, promising to evolve into the best financial year of my professional life. As I reviewed the firm's Business Plan, I was able to anticipate growth that would eclipse the bitter, lean years just past, when we struggled so hard to stay underway, to just maintain the hope of forward momentum.

Business was very good, revenue receipts were unprecedented, we were opening more quality files than ever and some of the 7-digit cases I had ardently pursued for 2 or 3 years were starting to resolve, which changed the financial statement considerably. Amidst a flush of optimism and success, all in my professional life seemed to be coming together and running like a Tag Hauer.

Then, as if the Universe needed to balance its books, I received a malignant cancer diagnosis.

And life sort of stuttered and paused.

The journey from normal to "diagnosed" began with a simple presence on my right shoulder blade during the summer of 2008 -- a dark mole which started to catch my eye as I stripped after a workout or toweled off after a shower. At first, the observation of the dark spot didn't really register in any conscious way. After all, it was only the size of a dull pencil point when it first floated into view. Slowly, though, I started to hear myself say: "Hmmm....what the hell IS that thing? I don't remember that mole."

Then, I would shrug, dress and go on with life. There were battles to fight and dragons to slay.

The presence on my shoulder did the same thing. It marched forward too, with its own agenda. It grew.

By December of last year it was the size of a small pencil eraser -- still floating into view every now and then and still buffeting me with an awareness that prompted the unspoken query: "What IS that thing?" Up until that point, my contemplation of the presence amounted only to idle, fleeting curiosity. Nothing more.

My friend, Lee, who is in Med School, saw it over the holidays and was the first person to stop me, catch my attention and state unequivocally that the presence on my shoulder was new, apparently growing and potentially deadly. "You are going to have that looked at," he said to me. " Not in a month, Jim. Now."

And so, to mollify Lee, I made an appointment with a skin mechanic. In due course, therefore, I found myself standing in my dermatologist's office during early January checking out the charts on the walls showing what can happen to unaddressed skin cancers. Trust me. It ain't pretty. What happened to the nice, soothing art doctors used to have on their walls, anyway?

As soon as I peeled my t-shirt off and Dr. Mary Dobson saw the mole, she moaned.

I was pretty sure that was probably not a good thing.

"Oooo...." she said. "I do NOT like the looks of THAT thing, Jim."

She removed it in 90 seconds and sent it off to the pathologists, who reported their findings back promptly: It was a malignant melanoma, Dr. Dobson explained when she called me at work 4 days later to discuss the results. "OK," I said. "Well, so? That's only a skin cancer, right? You scraped it off, right? We're done, right? I'll drop by every couple of years and you can make sure we don't have anymore of those popping up......right?"

Not exactly.

As opposed to the simple, neat resolution cultivated in my head, I was instead trundled off to the surgeon, who explained what would occur: First, they would do a nuclear bone scan -- just to make sure there was no "activity" in the bones. That's what they call it -- "activity." What they mean by "activity" is metastasized cancer. If they find THAT type of "activity" in the bones, you will then have to "weigh your treatment options." That's how they explain it, but what they mean is you are a fucked duck -- mainly because there are no real radiation or chemotherapy options for melanoma. There are immunotherapy options but nothing real promising. Anyway, after the bone scan, they'll do CT scans of the abdomen and chest w/ contrast, Dr. Benton Dupont relates casually, which is how they search for irregular masses or tumors, he explains further. If they find any of those, you get to "weigh your treatment options" again, although--in truth--you are a screwed pooch. Dr. Dupont's explanation is a bit more professional, of course. Once all that's done, they then intend to inject the melanoma site with radioactive isotopes. In that way, they can "light up" the lymph nodes through which that portion of the rear right shoulder drains inside my bod.

At that point in the narrative, blinking stupidly, I ask: "Why do you want to light up my lymph nodes?"

"So we'll know which ones to remove."

"Remove my lymph nodes? Don't I need those? I mean....after all....this 1955 model CAME with those as standard equipment. Won't I pull to the right or something if we yank 'em out?"

"Nah. We'll only take a few....like 2 or 3. After we excise tissue from beneath the melanoma site, we need to take the nodes too. Gotta check both."

"Tissue? Your carving out tissue? Like....a hunk of meat?"

"Well, yes. Both the tissue and the nodes need to be removed and biopsied, Jim. That's the bad news. The good news is--if those come back clear--then you're all good. No problem. You just have to see your dermatologist every 6 months and make sure that we have no reoccurrence of the melanoma -- on the right shoulder or anywhere else."

After laying all this out matter-of-factly, Dr. Dupont hands me off to his nurse, who sets up all the testing, which I dutifully attend over the next 2 weeks.

All the tests come back normal -- no "activity." No masses or tumors. Nothing that makes the sawbones raise his eyebrows. All of this is lauded as good news by Dr. Dupont, who--being a surgeon--reminds me that SURGERY is NEXT.

Very quickly, surgery is scheduled, which I also dutifully attend, going under general anesthesia on Wednesday, February 25, 2009 so that Dr. Dupont can hack off some meat from my right shoulder and scoop out 3 lymph nodes under my right arm, which are (I blindly trust) the "lit up" nodes identified as "draining" the area of my melanoma site. After an early morning 90 minute surgery, I spend the day in the hospital, absolutely gassed on Lortab. My sobriety date is April 19, 1993 so I haven't been drunk in a long time, for which I am thankful. However, on this day, I am as shitfaced as a waltzin' pissant. I am wholly cognizant of my drug-induced debilitation --even through the ache of the surgery sites-- and hate it. I used to drink alcohol in order to feel this way, I reflect to myself, even while stumbling around in my disordered mind. What a moron I was. I'd rather slam my dick in the car door than feel the heavy loopiness which has me alternately slurring or nodding off.

OK, well....maybe that's an exaggeration.

Perhaps just a good country ass-whippin'.

In any event, during the late afternoon I am released in a wheelchair because actually trying to walk would be a joke. Tooled out into the light of a waning day by a chatty orderly, I am dumped from the wheelchair into my car to be driven home by my Dad and a friend, while everyone speaks about you as if you are not present. You think you'd like to say a few words and I may have even tried, however I believe I merely drooled.

Finally delivered home, I worked in a quick puke from the anesthesia, crashed and slept for 12 hours.

When I got up, still a little the worse for wear, I bathed, stretched a little like an old dog and hit the door for the office. I'm bouncing back from the surgery, although I can neither run nor hit the gym for a couple of weeks, which is drivin' me batshit. However, at night, I tussle with the dawning thought that I've just endured the first real "health alarm" of my life. I will get the results of my tests next week and we'll find out whether I'm "clear" or whether it's time to "weigh my treatment options."

We'll see.

Up til now I've pretty much assumed I was bulletproof. Apparently, I'm not.

The words of Billy Crystal's character (Mitch Robbins) from the 1991 movie "City Slickers" echos in my mind, a speech he gives to his son's elementary school class:

Value this time in your life kids, because this is the time in your life when you still have your choices, and it goes by so quickly. When you're a teenager you think you can do anything, and you do. Your twenties are a blur. Your thirties, you raise your family, you make a little money and you think to yourself, "What happened to my twenties?" Your forties, you grow a little pot belly you grow another chin. The music starts to get too loud and one of your old girlfriends from high school becomes a grandmother. Your fifties you have a minor surgery. You'll call it a procedure, but it's a surgery. Your sixties you have a major surgery, the music is still loud but it doesn't matter because you can't hear it anyway. Seventies, you and the wife retire to Fort Lauderdale, you start eating dinner at two, lunch around ten, breakfast the night before. And you spend most of your time wandering around malls looking for the ultimate in soft yogurt and muttering "how come the kids don't call?" By your eighties, you've had a major stroke, and you end up babbling to some Jamaican nurse who your wife can't stand but who you call mama. Any questions?

So, J.R. .... any questions?

VIGILANCE

The courthouse in Greensberg, Louisiana is an art deco, monolithic concrete structure plopped atop the high ground in the center of this St. Helena Parish seat. I would say it is situated in the center of town but, over the decades since this structure was erected during The Great Depression's darkest days, the town sort of picked up most of its belongings and quietly wandered away. Thus, I'm not sure we could say it still has a "center." Walking up the long set of concrete steps toward the main entrance to this temple of justice, a single, sans serif word chiseled deeply in the concrete above the front door strikes your gaze: "VIGILANCE."

St. Helena Parish has the distinction of having more elected Sheriffs serving time in the penitentiary than any other Louisiana Parish, incidentally. Currently, the last 2 sheriffs --one of whom was simply known by his nickname, "Gun"-- are serving long sentences for an impressive array of throwback, "old school" crimes which makes it easy to understand why this rural corner of the state, tucked under where the laces to the boot would be, is often referred to as "The Wild West." It looks wild, too. You drive north for 90 minutes out of Baton Rouge and the last 45 minutes of that trip meanders over rolling hills and through dark, thick woods or vacant "cut-over" property stretching for acres and acres. Then, bang, suddenly there's a REDUCE SPEED sign, sleepy Greensberg pops up along 2-lane LA Hwy. 10 and you're there.

Vigilantly, I park, grab my briefcase and stroll beneath an umbrella through the rainy February chill, past the Confederate Memorial, and angle toward the courthouse. This is my sixth trip to Greensberg in 4 months, an unexpected series of journeys that began in my Baton Rouge office the summer before when Mattie Johnson arrived in my waiting room with a couple of daughters and her grandson, Rodney, in tow. She had called the day before to schedule the appointment because, as she explained to my secretary, "those people" were "doing my grandson wrong and I need to see Mr. James."

"Mr. James" is me.

To me, Mattie Johnson --a client I've represented for over 20 years-- is"Miss Mattie."

They arrive early and FILL up the waiting room because these African-American ladies may be of very modest means but they are redoubtable in the extreme. Rodney, on the other hand, is a thin, dark, bashful whippet, withdrawn and quiet for a 17-year-old. Given this, the gold "grill" blazing into view when he smiles is a bit of a surprise. As I usher this entourage into my conference room --my office is too small for this troupe-- I size Rodney up and notice that his "grill" is FUBAR. Two teeth are missing, for one thing. It's a bit askew in general, for another. Apparently these issues are gauged as minor deficiencies because the "grill" remains proudly in place.

Miss Mattie and her family live up the road a piece from Greensberg, in the even smaller town of Independence. Struggling African-American families predominate in these areas but the political system, as well as the police departments, are run in the main by white folks. All of the judges are white. The elected D.A., the A.D.A. involved in Rodney's matter and the entire courtroom staff are all white. Given that it has been signaled that someone is "doing my grandson wrong," I expect to hear a tale of unfairness involving, I assume, Rodney and a brush with the law.

I don't, though. Not exactly anyway.

We situate ourselves and Miss Mattie does the talking.

On a recent July evening, Rodney and Brandy, a female friend, stop at a Greensberg convenience store so that they can pop in for a moment and visit with one of Rodney's female cousins who works there. They park Rodney's Jeep Laredo (which Miss Mattie helped him buy) and zip into the store. After visiting briefly with the cousin, Rodney and Brandy depart. In the parking lot are 4 other young African-American men: The Doughty brothers, Josh and James; along with James Griffin and Desmond Franklin. For no reason Rodney can understand, they accost him as he walks to his car. Before Rodney can even really process what it is they want, words suddenly evolve into punches and the buzzsaw of blows from all 4 men knock out 2 teeth, blacken an eye and jam Rodney into the front quarter-panel of his Jeep, causing a dent that would take $827.36 to repair, which is hard to do when your State Farm deductible for property damage is $1,000. They leave Rodney stunned on the ground alongside his Jeep while they pile into Josh's old Impala and speed away. The police are summoned. Rodney knows the men casually and gives their names, but cannot explain why they attacked him. Brandy supports Rodney's story. The cops, perhaps feeling they are not getting "the full story," say they will "look into it." After making his report to the police, Rodney leaves for a $1,600 Emergency Room visit, assuming dejectedly that he will likely hear no more about the matter and no doubt wondering about the future of his "grill.".

For Miss Mattie, that sort of uncertainty is scarcely sufficient. She is in my office, she reports, because she wants justice. She has been raising sand down at City Hall and, finally, the lads perpetrating this attack on Rodney were arrested. Their arraignment dates are coming up and she wants a lawyer to help her secure restitution for the $827.36 property damage, the $1,600 Emergency Room bill and the $3,150 dental bill received for Rodney's restorative dental work. After she recites all of this to me, ticking off on her fingers each of the costs imposed upon her grandson, she finishes and sits back, chin up, staring at me through her large eyeglasses.

I make a show of writing down all the figures very carefully. Inside, I'm calculating what it will cost me to make a trip to Greensberg to seek restitution because that trip will shoot a full day all to hell. I find myself also remembering that--10 days before--I was locked in a tall building with 9 defense lawyers and a mediator 'til nearly midnight negotiating what evolved into a multi-million dollar personal injury settlement with 2 of the 3 primary defendants. And now, from those dizzying heights, I'm in my conference room with Miss Mattie, who is waiting for me to reveal the plan through which justice will rain down upon her grandson like manna from heaven.

"Well, Miss Mattie," I say, "For me to drive all the way to Greensberg and take a day to make the restitution demand will be too expensive for y'all. Maybe we can just call the District Attorney and tell him what we need. Or, we can let the Judge know of the expenses Rodney has incurred. She'll make restitution a part of the sentence. The law requires it. I can write a letter and that should take care of it. I won't even have to charge you for that, see?"

"Hmph." Mattie responds, shaking her head and looking at me with the kind indulgence one shows toward imbeciles. "Mr. James, you can make all the calls or write all the letters you please, but when we get to Court (pronounced "coat") they won't remember nothin' you said. Now I'm just gonna tell you that. You gots to BE there and they needs to KNOW you there. Then, you can make those folks do right. What would you charge me to go?"

Our eyes meet and I figure--for old time's sake--I can make one trek to Greensberg. I cut my fee in half in my head and then cut it again. I like Miss Mattie and I do want to help.

"Well, I'll need a thousand dollars, Mattie. That's a lot of money," I say...but not nearly what I'll be out-of-pocket on this errand for a day, I think....but don't say.

"Pay Mr. James." Mattie instructs one of her daughters, who dutifully reaches into a purse that could easily hold a small child and pulls out 10 $100 bills. As my fee is peeled from the stash, I see I cut my rate a bit too much. However, a deal's a deal.

And, so I am hired and, being retained, I go.

On my first visit to what I assumed would be the only hearing, Miss Mattie, her daughters, Rodney and Brandy are sitting in the courtroom, waiting for me. I exchange pleasantries with them and then excuse myself to approach the courtroom staff and obtain justice, as Miss Mattie has directed. To my surprise I learn the 4 defendants were all arrested at different times. Thus, they are assigned to different divisions. This means each defendant has a different judge. Each judge holds court on different days. In order to make certain the restitution request is addressed in each case, I will have to make multiple appearances. Today, only one of the defendants is scheduled to appear.

I meet with the Assistant D.A. before the arraignment of the first defendant up at bat, an ADA to whom I had previously mailed, scanned and emailed and faxed a letter outlining in detail what occurred and with which I transmitted all of Rodney's bills, the dentist report, the dental bills, the hospital record, all statements and invoices, Rodney's car insurance dec-page showing the $1,000 deductible and a photograph of the dented quarter panel, along with a sworn statement I had gotten from Brandy, the witness. He has none of it. It is not in any file. He doesn't remember seeing it. I have additional copies and provide those to him. He leafs through them and tells me: "You know, Jim, a lot of these medical bills are paid by Medicare. You can't make defendants pay anything that's paid by Medicare."

I meet his eyes and wonder if I should give any voice whatsoever to the buzz I hear in my head. I wonder if I should mention that I'm representing a victim here and why would the attorney for The People be first concerned with limiting the victim's restitution rights? And, no, the fact that Medicare has paid some of the benefits does NOT limit the victim's right to recover, just like it doesn't lessen the defendant's duty to pay, although Medicare may need to be reimbursed. Why aren't you giving me a hand in consolidating the victim's evidence, I think to myself, so that what is presented at one hearing can suffice as a presentation for the hearings assigned for the other 3 defendants, thereby saving the victim and their attorney the costs and expense of multiple appearances? Why aren't we all concerned with making damn certain the victim gets a full measure of justice?

But, I don't say any of that. Instead, I say: "Right. If you'll look at the statements provided we are only seeking reimbursement for those sums Medicare did not pay and for which the medical creditors are still dunning Mr. Davis."

He looks. Closely. I am correct.

Then he scans the property damage estimate and, after a moment of reflection, says: "We won't make the defendants pay property damage, Jim. The defendants aren't charged with damage to property, they're charged with battery. So, medical bills maybe.....but what's your guy trying to pull with this property damage claim?"

My head buzzes again and I think of several things to reply, all of which start with: "Are you fuckin' kiddin' me?"

Instead, I point to the witness' sworn statement wherein it is confirmed that the 4 defendants rammed Rodney's head into the driver-side front quarter panel of the Laredo, slicing his eyebrow so that 6 stitches were required and making the dent which is the subject of the photo and the estimate. "The law mandates restitution for all damage related to the crime," I say. "I think we can agree this damage was related to the crime, huh?"

He looks at the photograph for a moment and just shrugs. "I dunno...." he says. "Maybe."

We thereafter go into Court. They call up our guy's case first and we both go forward. I introduce myself and my client, explaining I am there to advance a restitution claim on behalf of Rodney Davis. The Judge is Beth Wolfe, a fine trial judge, and I've appeared in front of her many times before. She knows me and is polite. The defendant is called forward and, after a reading of the charge, the guy pleads not guilty. I seek permission to introduce our restitution evidence but the D.A.'s office points out that such a request is technically premature. First, the defendant's guilt must be established. THEN, a requirement of restitution can be imposed by the Court, after a proper showing it is warranted. THEN, Mr. Davis can submit his evidence, giving the defendant an opportunity to accept or reject the restitution evidence. If the defendant objects, THEN a restitution hearing is ordered. Once that process is completed, THEN a specific restitution amount and plan can be imposed upon the defendants.

Given the D.A's position, the Judge reluctantly agrees and apologizes, setting a trial date.

A bit nonplussed at the difficulty in fishing for justice in these waters, I secure an agreement from the D.A. to advance our restitution request in EVERY OTHER prosecution of the remaining defendants and I confirm his agreement in a later letter. Maybe I can get away with making one final trip to wrap things up. However, at the next arraignment of defendant #2, an arraignment I miss based upon my confirmed agreement with the State, a guilty plea is entered and the issue of restitution is totally overlooked, even though Rodney and Miss Mattie are present in Court, quietly watching from the back row as justice snoozes and the defendant is sentenced with NO restitution ordered. They call me from a cell phone once the are back to their car and report the occurrence. "I hates to say it Mr. James, but you gotta watch these people over here in the country."

I vow never to miss another appearance for any defendant and I do not. I never ask for another dime from the client either. I decide to stick it out to the bitter end come hell or high water.

All defendants end up admitting their guilt and none have any excuse or explanation for why they attacked Rodney so viciously on that warm July evening. They merely stare blankly when asked why they did it.

By Friday the 13th in February, I am on Greensberg Visit No. 6, like I was sayin' at the beginning, and am on a first name basis with all the Court personnel, who never fail to cheerily ask me on EVERY appearance: "So, what brings you to God's Country, Mr. Clary?"

Every appearance I re-explain anew my search for restitution and resubmit all of the documentation supporting Rodney's request to be made whole. Each time it is received as something wonderful and totally new. You don't have to be Nostradamus to deduce what would've happened to Miss Mattie and Rodney without counsel.

At the conclusion of this appearance, as we walk out of the Courthouse under umbrellas into the misty rain, I mention casually that I had no idea I would be making this many trips to Greensberg when I agreed to undertake Rodney's representation -- a comment I make almost to myself. Miss Mattie hears it, though. She walks up to me and pats my arm. "Lord God, child, but it's a good thing you did." she reports as if confirming what every infant of tender years should know. "Now, here's a little gas money and you know we thank you kindly."

She slips a $20 bill into my suit coat breast pocket, gives me a satisfied look, pats me on the arm again and departs, leading her platoon to their next destination under brightly colored umbrellas. I watch them leave and return the wave I get from Rodney, who turns back to give me a bashful smile. As I start to shuffle off through the damp to my car, my eye again travels up to the stark admonition above Courthouse door, which stops me:

VIGILANCE

"Man, you ain't shittin'," I whisper to myself, as the rain lightly taps against my umbrella.