Stop Asking Where I'm From

So I joined a gym for the first time ever.

Written By: humarashid - May• 12•13

You guys.

I joined a gym.

An actual gym.

Not like that fake gym that I joined that got raided by the FBI a week later.

@BobBlahBlawg STILL hasn’t let me live that down.

No, no, this is a real, legit gym. With treadmills and weird stair machines and more weight machines than I’ve ever seen in my life. And that works out really well, because I’m lifting weights.

Yup! Your little Hoomie is lifting weights and totally bulking up. BEEFCAKE!

Beefcake.

Anyway, I’m pretty fancy now, you guys. I mean, I don’t want to alarm any of you, but, really, I’m pretty damn fancy now. I have joined a legit gym and I have a personal trainer (who doesn’t mock me for being flabby and incompetent), and I have a nutritionist. Ugh. I’m going to get so ripped.

BEEFCA- Eh, you guys know the drill by now.

Anyway, joining a gym was something I’d been meaning to do for quite some time, but nothing really felt right. And then I found a gym in my area that’s a little different from the others, and I found that I really liked the atmosphere there and then I got a Groupon for it and everything came up Milhouse.

I’ve never, ever belonged to a gym before. I did hot yoga for a month, so I had to actually join a studio for that, but that was the only time I was ever in any kind of actual workout environment. Before that, I’d done yoga on my own, but nothing regular. Kind of whenever I felt like it and that feeling outweighed my feeling that I’d really enjoy falling asleep on the couch.

As BobBlahBlawg can well attest, my workouts are a little … odd. Basically, I pick out one of the many workout DVDs I own. It could be cardio, it could be something more intense like P90X or the Shred, it could be a dance-based workout, it could be pilates or body-strength-training. I’ll pick something out. I’ll change into my super adorable workout clothes. I’ll drag out my pink yoga mat. I’ll put the DVD into my PS3. I’ll sit on my yoga mat and watch the DVD. I’ll fall asleep on my cushy yoga mat. And then I’ll wake up when the DVD has ended and is just replaying the menu music in an annoying loop. Then I will get up, eject the DVD, change out of my workout clothes, and consider it mission accomplished.

THAT has basically always been what my workout consisted of.

During law school, it would piss BobBlahBlawg the hell off. He is a very disciplined and body-conscious man, you guys. He was always drinking like 96 oz of water a day and popping glucosamine pills and hitting the gym and doing P90x and running six miles a night and stuff.

He’d come to school and be like, yeah, I ran twelve miles last night and found Jesus. And I’d be like, …I watched a gentleman run real fast in a commercial and I broke out in a bit of a sweat so I decided to take the rest of the night off.

And he’d have to valiantly fight the urge to throw me out the window.

But the thing was, as awful as this sounds, I never really felt like I needed it. I know that doesn’t make sense. We all need to work out and be healthy. But there wasn’t anything wrong with me. I could climb five flights of stairs without feeling winded. I could do five unmodified push-ups. I could chase a puppy down the street without losing my breath until said puppy was being snuggled against my chest.

Plus, as far as clothing sizes go, I wear size 0 dress pants, size 00P blazers, and my jeans usually come from the little girls’ department. So I wasn’t all that concerned about losing weight.

And then, post law school, while I was studying for the Bar, I gained 5lbs. A little odd, especially since I had spent 2000-2011 weighing exactly 101.5lbs. A little odd, but not too terrifying.

Then, when I passed the Bar and was sworn in, I had gained another 5lbs. And then by the time I was hired at my current job, I’d packed on another 5lbs.

So that was pretty terrifying. Especially for someone who’s always been able to eat whatever she wanted in whatever quantity without gaining weight. To be fair, I can still eat whatever I want in whatever quantity – but I can’t really get off the 114lb mark. And I know that’s a healthy weight for someone who’s only 5’1″. I know that. That was the first thing my nutritionist said, actually. She was like, I don’t want you losing any weight unless you truly feel uncomfortable at 114.

But anyway, that weight gain has kind of been on my mind and was part of what spurred me into seriously considering a gym membership.

Another thing is that I’m pretty weak. I have the muscle definition of overcooked linguini. On the many occasions that I do my damnedest to beat BobBlahBlawg up because he is terrible, he just laughs because it tickles. So, that’s pretty weak, you guys.

So I wanted to build some muscle, too. I wanted to lift weights because strength training + cardio helps melt the pounds, sure, but strength training builds muscle. And I’m not worried about it at all, or even at all cautious about it, because I know that women don’t bulk up like men do, not unless they REALLY try specifically to achieve that look. So all those “but if you lift weight you’ll look masculine!” comments kind of slide off my back. (Also they’re pretty stupid in general. And what’s wrong with a masculine-looking woman? Nothing! How about we let women look any damn way they please?)

So I wanted to build a little muscle because I obviously wanted more of a toned look. I know I don’t look like it, but I’m pretty flabby. I’m a very flabby sort of super-skinny. It’s weird, it really is, because you can’t tell. But I can feel it, and I wanted to change that.

Also, there was another thing that kind of pushed me into the gym. It’s related to the building of lean muscles – but it’s focused on their use.

This is something I don’t really talk about, but it affects me more than I would like it to.

When I’m leaving various courthouses in Cook County and the outlying counties, I get followed to my car.

A lot.

I get followed to my car by asshole men trying to holler.

And it terrifies the living shit out of me.

It never happens at 26th & Cali. Partly because there is a separate garage for attorneys, and the street is always crawling with cops who try to keep people moving, so there’s really very little opportunity for some asswipe to try something. Also, I’ve never been at 26th & Cali by myself – I’m always with my boss, and he always parks in that garage, too, obviously, so we always walk together. No one tries to look at me cross-eyed when I’m with my boss.

It was the same way back in law school, actually. I went to John Marshall, in the Loop, and I’d frequently head out during the day for little errands or to get lunch or to meet friends at nearby DePaul, whatever. And I was taking the train, so there was a morning walk from Union and an evening walk to Union.

And I noticed that every damn time I went out on my own, just wandering about the Loop, I’d get cat-called or touched or harassed in some way. Like, every damn time.

But whenever I stepped out with BobBlahBlawg – which was a lot, since we were basically inseparable – no one ever did a damn thing. Which made sense. BobBlahBlawg was, at the time, a 6’3″ bearded Scottish dude. (He’s still 6’3″ and from what I hear, he’s still Scottish, but he’s no longer bearded.) Anyway, he’s a tall, shiny building of a man. He kept creepers away from me.

But I often find myself walking around alone these days, even if I’m just walking from the courthouse doors to the parking lot. And I get followed to my car a LOT.

And, as embarrassing as this is to admit, it triggers panic attacks.

It’s absolutely terrifying.

My thoughts always tangle in a crazy jumble: will this guy go away if I ignore him? Oh, no, he’s just trying to get closer. Is he going to touch me? Fuck, he keeps asking me a question. He sounds angrier since I’m not answering him. I better answer him. Crap. I was nice but dismissive and he’s not taking the hint. Ok, I’m walking faster. DAMN IT SO IS HE. Can I be rude to him? Will he hit me? Chase me? How far away is my car? Why didn’t I wear flats today? I can’t run in heels! What if he grabs me before I can get in my car? Ok, just a few more steps, almost there. WHY WON’T HE GO AWAY. Ok, I’m going to tell him to please leave me alone. Pleasedontfreakoutatmepleasedontfreakoutatme. There’s my car. Few more steps. I can make it. UNLOCK, MOTHERFUCKER. Go away, go away. Oh, thank God, he’s gone.

And by that point, I’m basically sprinting to my car, diving in and almost closing the door on my leg, and sitting there, breathing hard and resting my head on the wheel and trying not to cry.

Like, a lot of the time, there is ostensibly no reason to be as terrified as I am in that moment. It’s always broad daylight. It’s always a packed lot. There’s always at least one or two other people walking either toward or away from the courthouse. Only men who WANT to get caught would actually try something here.

But try telling me that. For whatever reason, this basically triggers a panic attack every damn time. Maybe it’s not so much the situation itself, but the knowledge that if I were in a different place, a little more isolated, a little darker, and this guy DID try something, I probably wouldn’t be able to fight him off. Because I’m small and alone and, as I said earlier, pretty weak.

So I had more of those little panic attacks than I care to admit, and then I was like, no, fuck it, I’m joining a gym. I’m getting stronger. And almost as importantly, I’m gaining some confidence – the confidence that comes from knowing that if, God forbid, naudhubillah, if something like this were to happen, I would have a pretty good chance of being able to defend myself.

So I joined a gym.

And now I’m learning how to lift weights and even though it’s only been a few sessions, I can see myself getting stronger. My upper arms that were a touch on the flabby side, enough to make me just a wee tiny bit self-conscious when I shucked my blazer? They’re more toned now. The pronounced flab isn’t there, at least.

I can feel my metabolism revving up again, as weird as that sounds. Slowly, but I can feel it anyway. I’m generally pretty in tune with these little changes that take place in my body. I’m not back to where I used to be, that’s for sure, but I can feel the subtle changes in my metabolism. I need to start consistently taking the supplements I was told to take, and I’m sure I’ll start to see even more of a difference in my general health. (Although supplements tend to take longer to manifest any sort of difference, I’ve noticed. Especially omega-3s; I have to take a lot of those consistently for a few weeks before I can actually point to some tangible difference.)

That’s been pretty cool. I’ve always known, just based on years of watching my body do its thing, that I’m the kind of person that can lose fat pretty easily. I’ve stayed petite all these years without even really trying, and now that I’ve packed on a few pounds and have started actually doing something to whittle them down, it’s just nice to be met with success.

(And I’m very, very grateful that I can usually see results pretty quickly. I know how fortunate I am that my body works that way. I’m very grateful for it.)

So, yeah.

Another benefit I’ve noticed is that it seems to be a great way to get my endorphins up and force my stress levels down.

Now, I love my job. More than anything. I’m living my dream every single day. It’s a pleasure. But I’d be lying if I said it wasn’t stressful. It’s a good kind of stress, and I’m fortunate to be experiencing the stress that accompanies something I love this much, but still. It’s stress.

And while I’m VERY good at managing stress, and have developed several very strong coping skills over the years that I use fairly consistently and successfully to keep my stress levels down, I’m always open to new tactics. I mean, if my only coping skill when it came to stress was to sit and sip my tea, that would get kind of boring after a while. So I like to mix things up, and that’s always worked well for me.

Going to the gym is just another stress relief tool for me, and I really appreciate it as such because it’s a double win: I get to lower my stress levels, AND get healthier (and, let’s not lie, even hotter than I obviously already am). Heh. I usually just start up an audiobook on my Overdrive app and get to work. An hour later, I’m relaxed (and sweating) and happy and heading home to a hot bath with epsom salt. It’s great.

I was concerned at first that I might not have enough time. I’ve been with my boss for more than five months, and in that time I’ve been responsible for more and more work. Obviously. That’s not a complaint; it’s just a statement. So my concern was that, with juggling all the awesome stuff I get to do at work, would I have time to make two sessions a week with my trainer, plus the one or two “homework” workouts I’m supposed to be doing?

But I’ve found that when something is important to me, I make time for it. Or the time just kind of seems to be there. However you want to frame that.

And I’ve had several sessions so far, while trying to juggle social commitments, random little work emergencies, and an ass-ton of motions. It’s been fine. It’s been great, actually.

(Plus, my self-satisfaction at being fancy and being able to handle all this rampaging adult-ness is pretty through the roof, you guys. Not gonna lie.)

So that’s what I’ve been up to lately. I identified a little problem in my life, realized that I could correct that problem while reaping benefits in other areas of my life, and I took the plunge. I was resistant to the idea for several months, as I’ve mentioned, but I’ve kind of always found that if I was resistant to something, it was a pretty good indication that I just needed to do it.

;)

So now, when random workout-minded bros ask me, “You work out? Ugh, do you even lift?” I can be like YEAH BITCH I LIFT.

That’s basically exactly what I look like when I lift, too.

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Impostor Syndrome – Anyone Else Have It?

Written By: humarashid - Apr• 19•13

No, I’m seriously asking: does anyone else suffer from Impostor Syndrome? Because I have a feeling a lot of us do. I know I do, and if any of y’all have any tips as to how to deal with it, I’m all ears.

Now, obviously, we all carry around baggage, and this isn’t going to devolve into some Woe is I post about how I’m such a special snowflake and I need to be wrapped up in cotton and protected from the world. (If anything, with my rabid wounded bird tendencies, I’m far more likely to wrap someone ELSE up in cotton and protect them from the world!)

But I’m honestly asking, because I suffer greatly from Impostor Syndrome and I’m hoping it’s something I’ll grow out of.

I think a big part of it is that I’m a South Asian Muslim girl (hah, notice how I still refer to myself as a girl? Calling myself a woman just seems … weird and inauthentic). I’m the daughter of traditional South Asians and fairly conservative Muslims.

And South Asian culture, at least what I’ve seen and experienced all my life, seems to demand an almost … infantilization of girls. We’re the ones that are most often sheltered and protected from all the unpleasant aspects of life – protected by our fathers, who then transfer that responsibility to our husbands.

I mean, ideally, that’s how our cultural norms would have it. The reality of the situation often doesn’t play out that way because South Asian girls tend to have, you know, agency and ideas and individuality. Troublesome, pesky little things like that.

But I’ve had to deal with that pretty much all my life. Anything that was even slightly unpleasant or slightly resembling work, my dad wanted to do it, or he made my brother do it. And obviously, that’s very sweet and it was helpful, too, because I got to focus on things I wanted to do, like school or reading or writing or any of my other pursuits.

However, I’m sure I don’t need to get into all the ways that such treatment is intensely problematic. The biggest reason for me, personally, is that being treated that way puts me in a position where the big decisions in my life are made by someone else, and the unpleasant things are dealt with by someone else. So when I had to make a big decision, I didn’t necessarily have all the tools and life experience to do so. And when I had to deal with something unpleasant, from being rear-ended on the way to school or being followed to my car by some jackass who didn’t understand how NOT into him I was, I didn’t always know how to handle it.

Which leads me back to the idea of infantilization, which in this case meant that I felt like an Impostor Adult for a very long time after I legally became an adult. And I still feel like that, but I’m much better now.

But screw that, because no one cares about my personal life. That’s boring. Anyway, I have this same dilemma professionally.

As devotees will remember, I’m a criminal defense attorney. I represent people accused of crimes – some not to so terrible, and some pretty damn terrible. And in every case, the plaintiff is the State (or the federal government). And that means that I’m the one basically keeping someone else’s ass out of jail. And sometimes I can’t, and I’ve had that happen, in which case I just try to get them out of jail as soon as possible.

But that’s basically what I do.

So what I’m saying is, the stakes are pretty high. I’ve had a client taken into custody right before me. It’s hard, even though you prepare for it and you prepare the client for it as a possibility. I’ve sat across a small table from a man and watched him sign away the next thirty years of his life.

The stakes are fucking high.

And it’s generally not a good idea for me to have to deal with a bout of Impostor Syndrome when all this is going on and when I’m trying to stay focused.

Impostor Syndrome is exactly what it sounds like. It’s when you walk into a room, prepared and ready to do your job and deal with whatever curveballs are flung at you, and all of a sudden some little voice in your head decides to be an asshole.

What are you doing here? This little voice wants to know. Who do you think you’re fooling? You don’t belong here. You might look the part, in your dresses and blazers and heels, but you’re just a child playing dress up. Look at the rest of the people here – the men in their suits with their silk ties, the women with their briefcases and neatly pulled back hair. They’re the ones who actually know what they’re doing. You? What do you know? You probably wrote your motion in crayon, didn’t you? You don’t belong here. You’re just faking. Faker!

The voice sounds a lot like Lucille Bluth, you guys.

Anyway, I hear this voice every single damn time I walk into court. Which is dumb. Because I even hear this voice when literally all I have to do is walk up to the podium, state my name and the fact that my client is in custody or out on bond, and ask for a date.

Like, damn. That’s not normal! What in the world is wrong with me?!

You’d think that after having done this for a while, and loving my job and (according to my boss, because what do I know) doing well at it, I’d have developed a little bit of self confidence. At least, enough of it that I can tell that little voice to piss off, because I’m awesome and competent and know things, dammit.

You’d think so, but no. Not even the angry!Doctor can inspire that sort of confidence with his all his yelling about cleverness.

Oddly, it rarely happens at the office. When I sit and type out long, detailed motions, I’m in my element. I’m fine. I know what I’m doing (generally) and I know that no matter what, even if I mess up, my boss will nudge me in the right direction and then send me along on my merry way to fix it. So that’s fine.

But get me in court, or hanging out with other attorneys, and I’m convinced that I’ve got the legal know-how of a 3yo.

I’m convinced I’m not the only one that feels this way.

I have friends that are doing their residency and stuff right now, and I’m pretty sure that they get up there in front of an actual patient and think, AAA IT SHOULD BE A CRIME FOR ME TO EVEN TOUCH THIS PERSON I WILL PROBABLY ACCIDENTALLY GIVE THEM EBOLA RETROVIRUS HERPES AND A BROKEN LEG. I have friends that are journalists and writers, and the very first time someone ‘in the industry’ took on one of their pieces, they’d quietly flip out, too, suddenly convinced that their well-thought out and researched stories were on par with See Spot Run.

I’m positive we’ve all been there in one way or another.

I guess I’m just wondering if it gets easier. I’ve been making court appearances for months now, and even when it’s something a trained monkey could do, I second-guess myself. I always get a handle on it before I even step out of my car, to be honest, but still. It’s odd and disconcerting that the little voice is even there – on the small things. I can understand it being there if I’m doing something huge and complicated and totally out of my league.

Whatever.

Like with everything else in my life, I have a game plan to defeat this. I think. Because that’s how I am: I identify problems and then I figure out ways to conquer them. I kind of obsess about it until I am able to figure something out, which works well but makes me a little neurotic, I think.

My game plan is simple.

I’m going to keep learning everything I can by watching other attorneys (namely by boss, who is a rock star, and Andrea Lyon, on those occasions when I’m fortunate enough to be within a ten foot radius of her), and by reading whatever I can get my hands on. And I’m definitely going to keep practicing and stretching my limits and figuring out what I can do, and getting help when I need it.
I’m going to tell the little voice to STFU.
…
Profit?
No, no, kidding. That won’t work.
Damn it, I wish that would work.
What was I talking about?
Oh, yes, keep learning and keep reading and keep watching and asking for help.
Keep the hell out of my own head. If I’m truly focusing on the case at hand, then, really, I shouldn’t be able to focus on that stupid Lucille Bluth voice about how I’m a faker. If I’m truly focused, I need to be just that: truly focused. And that means thinking about the case and my client and possible curveballs, and staying out of my own head in any way that’s not productive.
Every time I leave court, or a similar place where the little voice often invites itself, I need to take a few minutes to just sit in my car and review what happened. I need to take those few minutes to let myself focus on how well I did my job just moments ago, and how nothing terrible happened. And even if something terrible happened, I was able to handle it. (That happened, too, in the past, but that’s a post for another time.) That kind of positive, self-affirming Monday morning quarter-backing can potentially be really helpful, I think, and can go a long way toward getting rid of that jerk voice.
Every time that voice pops up, I’m just going to remember sitting in my car, patting myself on the back for little victories. Before long, that little voice should fade away.

One of the first things my boss told me when I joined his firm was to savor the little victories. Because as defense attorneys, we don’t get many of those. I wish I’d taken that advice to heart right away, because it would have saved me some stress and heartache and fear and tears. But at the same time, I don’t know that I could have taken that advice to heart without having gotten my teeth kicked in by a judge, or having had the fear of God put into me by whatever curveballs were whipped right at my head, you know?

Sometimes, you just have to live through shit before you can truly understand the advice someone gave you about it all.

But I did live through some stressful incidents like that, and I had my small victories even in those cases. And my boss’s words came back to me: you have to savor the little victories. And not only that, but he said that sometimes you have to create victories from things you might otherwise have thought were losses.

I remember the very first time I was sent alone on a case and it was something terribly simple that went terribly awry, and I handled it and managed to avoid having my client taken into custody by desperately, strenuously prying a date from the Judge’s vice-like grip on his packed calendar.

I remember standing on the courthouse steps on that cold January morning, and calling my boss. I was breathless and convinced I’d bungled it all up somehow. (Even though, objectively, I hadn’t. Objectively, I’d done a kick-ass job, but I couldn’t see it at that point.) He was in federal court in Indiana that morning, gearing up for a change of plea that was to happen in literally less than 15 minutes, and he still took the time to listen to me and calm me down and get me off my ledge.

And he said something that I won’t soon forget – something that comes back to me when I’m having trouble seeing the small victories I’ve created.

He said, “Huma, breathe. I know you’re stressed. I know this was a bad situation, but remember, we knew there was a chance – a very small one, but still – that this could happen. And you dealt with it. He’s not in jail. He walked out of the courthouse with you. We still have some ways to fight this. I know you’re feeling upset because it’s not the outcome you’d hoped for, but remember: any time you can set a date, any time you can just get some time to take a fucking breath, that’s a win. That’s a win!”

Any time you can set a date, it’s a win.

Even when the situation feels like this.

And I’ll tell you, when my boss put it that way, it clicked in my head. Any time you can set a date and breathe, it’s a win.

I mean, I didn’t get it right away. I was still upset. I drove to a nearby McDonalds, bought a bunch of cookies, and ate them in my car. So yeah. Not a proud moment for your friendly neighborhood Hoomster.

But when I sat down and evaluated the situation (and geared up for the next stage of the fight), it did click. He was right. I bought my guy another week of freedom. And I got the Judge down from 40 days straight in prison, to 20 days, which meant, since they’d be served day-for-day, that he’d spend 10 days in jail. So even though the Judge was angling for jail time, I’d go into sentencing next time knowing that I’d at least gotten the Judge down from what he was considering giving my client. Sure, he could pull a 180 on me and go back to the 40 straight, and that would totally be within his discretion, but even though he wasn’t keen on my defense position, I had a gut feeling that this Judge was the kind that would remember what he said to me and would abide by it. He just struck me as that type.

In, like, the brief (10-15 minutes?) time that I spent up there, talking to him.

Still.

(And I was right. So there’s that.)

But that “little victories” thing my boss tried to drum into my head is absolutely on the money, and I think it’s a good way to deal with Impostor Syndrome. So every time that voice pops up, I’m going to take it as a sign that I’m not FULLY focused on my case, because if I was, I wouldn’t register that voice. And after I’m done with my court call, I’m going to sit in my car and review it and think about everything I did right, and how I handled the unexpected. And whenever that voice pops up again, I’m going to remember my little victories and force it back.

Because I’ve got to stop walking into court like this:

And start walking into court like this:

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Excuse me while I have the fuzzies.

Written By: humarashid - Apr• 10•13

Ugh. You guys. You’re going to have to bear with me, because I’m feeling kind of good right now. I have the warm fuzzies.

Well, either that, or I need to start wearing diapers.

Anyway.

This is going to be one of those posts where I ramble on about something that most people would probably rightfully consider small and meaningless. (So, basically, it’s like every other post on this blog.)

We have this one client who is currently in custody. He’s the one I’m really excited about – the federal trial in the Northern District of Indiana. Man, I’m so stoked.

My boss has been working this case for a while. He wasn’t the first (private) attorney on the case, but he stepped in to “negotiate” a plea agreement. I put “negotiate” in quotes because from what I’ve seen as I’ve worked this case with him is that there isn’t much negotiation going on in the Northern District of Indiana. At all. It’s the government’s way or the highway.

And it reminds me of what my boss told me once, on a prior occasion and unrelated to this case: “Your greatest power as a defense attorney comes from five little words: Fuck you, I’m trying it.”

So, we’re trying it.

But this client is … interesting.

He’s incredibly smart, and he’s familiar with a good deal of the procedural steps that have affected his case and their implications. He’s like-able and he’s shrewd and he just “gets it” really quickly. With some clients we have to sit there forever and explain everything to them over and over before it clicks. (Which is fine. There’s nothing wrong with that.)

This client, let’s call him Thomas O’Malley, is not like that. He gets it right away, and that makes for great discussions when we’re sitting with him in a freezing contact room at the detention center, working on our theory of defense.

Now, Thomas O’Malley is accused of some really awful sex crimes. Probably the worst you could imagine, if you’re just an average person reading this blog.

(Why are you even reading this blog. What is wrong with you. Why are you wasting your life. You sicken me.)

A big chunk of our practice right now is sex crimes. I have no problem with that. People always assume that it bothers me, because I’m a girl and I’m pretty outspoken about things like rape, misogyny, patriarchy, and so on. But I have no problem with it, and I work very hard on all of these cases, regardless of how awful the facts might be.

But that’s a post for another time.

The thing is, many of our clients that are accused of sex crimes, including sex crimes that I don’t personally think of as sex crimes, like possession/distribution of child pornography, well … they’re kind of uncomfortable around me.

Sometimes, they’re just overtly uncomfortable in every way – and we have a couple of those. In those cases, they’re just so unnerved by my mere presence that my boss meets with them one-on-one, because I guess they don’t feel as awkward discussing their alleged predilection for child porn with a man.

Whatever.

But sometimes it’s a more subtle kind of discomfort. Sometimes, when we’re all talking about something sensitive, something that most men don’t want to discuss in front of most women, they’ll start fidgeting, or looking away, or rubbing their face or their eyes, or clearing their throats repeatedly, or just piling on euphemisms in a way that indicates that they REALLY want to be talking about something else.

My boss usually diffuses the tension in those moments by saying something crude. If I had a nickel for every time the word “butt-fuck” has been bandied around, well, I could afford yet another pair of shiny court shoes.

And it works pretty well. I never blink when he says something like that – mainly because it doesn’t faze me. Whatever. And the client will very often pick up on the fact that not only is my boss willing to say crude, vulgar, graphic stuff like that in front of me, but that it doesn’t bother me one bit.

So that usually diffuses some of the tension and that’s important, because then at least the client feels that he can speak a little more frankly and doesn’t need to come out of his skin over the fact that he has to discuss with a woman the child porn that might have been found on his computer, or the person he might have sexually assaulted or violated, etc.

OMG. I almost typed out this small aside that I thought was pretty funny, but as I was typing it, I’m looking at it and I’m like OMG THIS IS AWFUL WHY DID I EVER THINK THAT THIS WAS THE KIND OF THING I COULD SHARE WITH GOOD DECENT NORMAL GOD-FEARING PEOPLE.

I have problems, you guys.

Anyway, consider yourselves spared.

But then there are the other clients.

These clients don’t get so bashful that they want me excluded from the meetings. These clients don’t get awkward during sensitive parts of the meetings.

These clients test me.

And Thomas O’Malley was one of them.

God, that was awesome.

The first time I tagged along with my boss to meet with Thomas O’Malley, he decided to test me a little. I was bright-eyed and bushy-tailed and not only that, but it was my first visit to any sort of detention facility.

So I’m sitting across the table from him and he’s talking about a certain aspect of the chain of events that the government alleges led to his arrest and subsequent incarceration, and the next thing I know, he’s talking about anal sex.

Specifically, his anal sex encounters.

Yeah.

Now, if I had been in my normal state of mind, ie, that of a wildly sexually repressed Muslim girl, I would have stared at him tearfully like, but, but, why are you telling me these awful things regarding the whereabouts of your dick when all I want to do is protect you from the world? Why are you doing this to me?

And he did it just to test me, to see what I could do.

Because as he talked about those things, he’d sneak a glance toward me, really quick. My boss noticed it, too, but didn’t say anything and didn’t stop him or change the subject. (Not that I needed him to.)

But what Thomas O’Malley the Alley Cat didn’t know was that I had spent the entire week prior to our visit – probably more than that – up to my eyeballs in nasty-ass porn.

Yup.

I was writing a monster motion at the time for one of our other child porn cases, and I’d basically been living in our secure evidence locker. I’d spent that entire week, and possibly two weeks, just buried under stacks of pornographic contraband and also explicit narratives focusing very strongly on themes of incest and bestiality.

Very strongly, you guys.

I’d gone through that shit with a fine-tooth comb, because I had to regurgitate it into the body of my motion. Speaking of which, I hit my first square on Litigator Bingo that day by using the word “fuck” in a motion. Repeatedly. In a vile, vile context. YAY ME.

(Coincidentally, I hit another square on Litigator Bingo just yesterday, when I made a special prosecutor from the Sex Crimes unit blush like a teenage boy. YAY ME.)

So, when Thomas O’Malley was describing some very tame acts of anal penetration, I was sitting there like,

Minus the weird lip twitch, but yes.

Because whatever he was trying to pull, it wasn’t working. I wasn’t shocked or scandalized or near tears. I was thinking, “Wait, anal sex between two consenting adults who aren’t biologically related? Pfff. Call me when one of you is livestock.”

And when he failed to get a reaction from me (my boss was so proud of me, seriously), he moved on.

But this client is just … a little strange in that way.

I always get the feeling that he’s testing me, that he’s not sure why I’m here, that he doesn’t fully trust me. His handshakes felt dismissive for a very long time – he’d clasp my hand and let go, as if to just barely acknowledge my presence, rather than my agency.

I’ve visited him often enough, though, and I’ve realized that slowly, very slowly, I had made progress. He was starting to take me a little more seriously. He’d direct some of his questions toward me. He’d crack jokes with me. He’d accept my sympathy. He’d listen when I spoke to him.

And I visited him again very recently. And this time, like every other time, when we wrapped up the meeting and he got up to go back to his room, I offered him my hand.

My handshakes are always strong and direct, and I like to think, warm. I’m not overpowering, but I’m assertive and enthusiastic enough. I hate weak handshakes, I hate hand-clasping, and I don’t do that.

And this time, unlike every other time, when he shook my hand, he squeezed it for just a moment.

And I know that’s something that sounds … unremarkable. It was a tiny gesture, something easily lost, easily written off as inconsequential, meaningless. But after getting used to his weak, dismissive handshakes, let me tell you, I felt that squeeze. And it felt like a turning point.

So, yes. That’s what I wanted to talk about today.

I mean, I can’t very well talk actual details about a crime as vile and off-putting as child pornography, either in terms of the substantive crime or the details of my client’s case. So I’ll just talk about something vague and tiny that happened and doesn’t bear heavily on the actual case at all.

;)

I’ll save all the real, juicy details for the salacious, filthy memoir I will probably write when I retire and don’t give a shit about anything or anyone.

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“Hey! It’s great to see you out of that orange jumpsuit!”

Written By: humarashid - Apr• 09•13

That was what I really wanted to say when one of our clients, a defendant in a federal case, came to visit us at the office recently. But, you know, you can’t really say that to people. It’s awkward and unappreciated and weird. But my intentions are good, I swear!

This client is kind of special to us. This was a case that fell in our lap and came to a head really quickly. We were retained on the eve of a detention hearing, and with my boss out of the office that day, I was the one frantically trying to create and e-file a federal appearance through Pacer and get our ducks in a row with the clerk and the AUSA in the time span of, like, an hour.

That was … interesting.

(I hate Pacer. But I love clerks. They are always so sweet and helpful. So shit evens out.)

Once we filed the appearance, I was able to get the courtroom clerk and the AUSA on the line, and they could actually talk to us about the details since the paperwork was in the file. My boss asked for the detention hearing to be pushed out a few days to give us some time to prepare and warm up to the client and his family and everything.

So when the detention hearing rolled around, we showed up in court not all that optimistic about our chances. Our client was brought into the room in his orange jumpsuit and hand/leg shackles, and the hearing was underway. And as you already know, we won and our client was released on bond.

And we walked out of the courtroom like this,

I’m joking, I’m joking.

(But in our minds, we walked out like that.)

At the time, we were aware that it was quite a big deal to win one like that, because federal judges tend to be very cautious and keep defendants in custody rather than fussing about with PreTrial Services and bond conditions and custodians and all of that.

But we didn’t really understand yet just how big a deal it was.

We currently have two federal cases pending in this district. For the other one, I had been talking to one of the Federal Defenders in that district because I needed some help with a discovery letter I was writing. I had a rough draft in hand, but I wanted one that was local so I could get a better feel for the culture there and how the local defenders practiced, what they asked for, what the conventions were, etc.

(That’s one of the things my boss really stresses when he puts me on these projects: the importance of learning the local culture, even if that means something as simple as showing up to the courtroom early and watching the in-room PDs deal with the ASAs.)

So I’d been talking to this FD, and my boss had been as well, because this FD was actually the initial attorney for the client in our newest case. And he mentioned that he’d been there that day for the hearing, and that we were the talk of the courthouse.

This took us a bit by surprise, and the FD explained that the judge in question never let anyone out on bond. Ever. It was just kind of an understood thing there: if you get this judge, your boy is staying in custody. Even when the government and the defense agreed that releasing the defendant on bond would be appropriate, it was always nixed.

And so when we got our client out that day (he wasn’t released officially until two weeks later), it was big, big news. Because it just wasn’t done.

So that was pretty cool. And hearing it from one of the federal defenders was awesome. We were just like,

So, I don’t want to alarm anyone, but we’re kind of a big deal in that courthouse now.

But anyway, our client was finally released, and we needed him to come to the office (with his custodians, obviously, as a condition of bond) and sign a waiver of the 30 day period for charging by information or indictment. That pushes the arraignment date out until some point in May, which works better for everyone.

We have some time to breathe, and focus on some other cases that are in trial posture, and the AUSA gets some time to get the forensics back and analyze the case a bit more. Plus, the timing and the procedural stuff that still needs to be done will affect how the case is positioned. So I’m looking forward to working more on that and seeing how it all develops.

But we had the client come in with his family to discuss the case and the waiver and what it meant and give him a chance to figure it all out. It was our first time seeing him out of prison, because our previous meetings with him had either been in the detention center or in the courtroom, where he was dressed in that awful jumpsuit and wearing those awful shackles.

And the first thing I noticed when he walked in was how much … better he looked.

I know that’s kind of a “duh” moment. I know it sounds dumb of me to say that.

But really, that was what I noticed, and what I was just blown away by. He looked alive. He had color. His eyes sparkled. His movements were freer, easier. When he was in prison, he looked … dead.

I don’t mean that to be disrespectful, I swear. Or insensitive. But he looked like a mere shadow of himself, almost to the point that it was unnerving.

He was so pale, basically sickly looking. His eyes were dull. His movements were restrained (obviously) but more than that, listless. When he was seated close to my side in the courtroom in that glaring jumpsuit and cold shackles, he seemed really, really small.

Guys. I’m small. I am. I’m 5’1″. I’m a small person.

But when I was with him, he felt just as small as I am. He looked that small. I thought he was that small, just because it felt that way.

And that, of course, triggered my near-rabid protective instincts. I seriously need to get a grip. But it was kind of funny, the comic alacrity with which both AUSAs turned and stared at me when, as my boss got up to move to the podium for direct, I scooted my chair right next to my client and settled my hand on his armrest. I’d also occasionally lean over to murmur something to him throughout the course of the hearing. \

The judge noticed my Mother Hen tendencies, too, which, hey, we caught all the right edges to get him out, so maybe that was one of them. (The judge actually commented on it in his ruling, too, which I thought was kind of cool.)

But when our client showed up in our office, seriously, it was like a completely different man had walked in. His color was good, he’d looked to have gained a little weight back, he was actually talking and smiling, and holy crap, you guys, the boy is tall.

I don’t think I even come up to his shoulder. He’s tall.

And that’s why it kind of makes me laugh and shake my head when I think back on how small I thought he was. And that’s why I comment on the difference of seeing him in prison and out on bond – because it really is a huge difference! For God’s sake, I could have sworn to you that our client was short and slight, when in reality he’s tall and broad-shouldered.

Gah.

Man, did that mess with my sense of perception.

Prison is weird, you guys.

It’s like this place where order and reality are suspended.

I just … I don’t know.

Prison is weird.

I’ve been in jails and lock-up and detention centers and prisons and any other name you can think of for places where people are incarcerated and … it’s like it never gets any easier.

It’s not like it’s hard to go there. It’s not like it’s difficult for me to set foot through those doors.

But it’s surreal, almost. Every time I go, it’s just surreal. It’s this place so far removed from my own life and my own experiences, and even the experiences of everyone I know.

I wonder if it’ll ever not be surreal.

Frankly, I doubt it.

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My interactions with prosecutors are always so butt-paralyzingly awkward.

Written By: humarashid - Apr• 08•13

I mean, I’m awkward in general. I’m so incredibly awkward. If I’m talking to women, I’m much better, and can be myself a bit more easily. But when I’m talking to men … forget about it. I’m insanely awkward, and I can’t read between the lines of what they’re saying, and so many times I just plain miss social cues that would be obvious to anyone else, and our interactions come off stilted and awkward and confused and I just want to crawl into a hole and die afterward.

Accurate.

And generally, the vast majority of prosecutors I have to deal with are men. There are a couple women, but obviously, the relationship, while civil and cordial, isn’t an overly friendly one, so I’m generally just as awkward with the ladies as well.

There are basically only three prosecutors (a special, an AAG, and an AUSA, all of whom are coincidentally on a handful of our child porn cases) that I can have normal, friendly conversations with and not want to stab myself afterwards. Three in, like, dozens. Dozens and dozens and dozens.

Ugh. I’m a trainwreck.

ANYWAY.

So that’s the lead-in to this little story about how awkward my life is, and how I should basically not be allowed out in public. I don’t think I’ve shared this one. It happened quite a while ago, but trust me, severe social awkwardness must come with some kind of muscle memory because I still wince a little when I remember it.

So I was out somewhere, in some county where I rarely appear, and I was handling one of our misdemeanors.

This courthouse was kind of in the sticks, and I’d never been there before, so I had no idea what the local culture was like. I’d talked to some of the PDs down there and they told me that it was a little laid back and the focus was on moving the cases along, and the prosecutors and PDs generally got along pretty well because they worked with that mindset.

(Now, I don’t know if that means that the focus was just on pleading people out in order to move things along, which I don’t like, but whatever. You should never just plead your guy out to something because you want to get the call done quickly or dispose of the case so you can work on your bigger ones or because the client isn’t paying you on schedule or because you’re working for the bond or whatever.)

Still, that didn’t tell me everything I needed to know, you know? So when I got a hold of the prosecutor on the case, I asked him if he’d mind stepping into the hall with me, and I started talking. I explained who I was and why I was there, and then I like to do a quick bio of my client with the most important (and mitigating) details. Short and sweet. The prosecutor stopped me and was like, yeah, I’m not going to jam you, this is what I’m offering. I worked him down on the fine by way of compromise, since I couldn’t get the dude to budge on the time period of supervision (and he’d already given me what I wanted, which was non-reporting and appearance waived on the date of termination), and we called the case.

Later, I’m out in the parking lot, standing by car and looking at my calendar as I tried to organize the flow of the rest of my day and also figure out where I could get the biggest sandwich known to man.

And who should I see walk past me down the long row of cars in the lot but the ASA on the case I had just wrapped up. He was on the phone and wearing an ugly knit hat, and he didn’t notice me as he strode by.

“Yeah, I just got done with the morning call,” he was saying to whoever was on the other end. “Thought I’d get some coffee. There was this one attorney from up in Chicago who was here and she drags me out into the hall and gives me this whole schpiel about how her client was stressed out or something and it was just an unfortunate mistake and I’m listening to her and I’m thinking, ugh, fuck me, I don’t want to talk to anyone…”

That was all I heard before he was out of earshot, and I remember just staring after him, not fully convinced that I had heard that.

Um.

A whole schpiel? I probably talked for sixty seconds, tops, before we launched into the terms. And I didn’t say my client was stressed – I said, “clinically depressed.” And the “unfortunate mistake” thing, yeah, that was accurate.

But he didn’t have to say it like that.

But twenty seconds after he’d walked off to get that cup of coffee, I started to laugh.

I mean, I kind of had to laugh about it, you guys.

It was kind of adorable. I “dragged him into the hall,” and I gave him “a whole long schpiel” and he didn’t “want to talk to anyone.”

I just had to laugh.

And then I got in my car and wondered, for the millionth time, why I was so incapable of having interactions with men that didn’t turn out to be gallopingly awkward.

Ah, well.

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I need to get over my Wounded Bird tendencies.

Written By: humarashid - Apr• 04•13

Gah. You guys. I really do. I need to get over my Wounded Bird tendencies, because they’ll probably definitely hinder my performance as an attorney. And, you know, they’ll cause me to stress out way more than I should in an already supremely stressful career.

I really do have Wounded Bird tendencies. Anytime I see anyone in trouble, or anyone that’s hurt, or anyone that’s just down, I want to wrap my arms around them and protect them from the world and fix everything.

And yes, part of that is why being a criminal defense attorney appeals to me as much as it does. (Which is a shit-ton. If we’re being specific and quantitatively measuring this, that would be “a metric shit-ton.” That’s how much being a CDL appeals to me on a daily, hourly, minute-ly basis.)

As a CDL, I get to protect people. I get to be their advocate. I get to listen to their problems and stick by them regardless of how serious and heinous those problems are. (You have to remember, a lot of the time, these folks’ family members aren’t even willing to do that.)

And I get to do my best to pull their fat from the fire, so to speak.

I get to be ragingly awesome, is what I’m basically saying.

You know, I feel like a lot of CDLs start out this way. A lot of us probably have bleeding hearts. A lot of us probably have Wounded Bird tendencies. A lot of us are probably Lost Kitten Chasers. (More on this in another blog post. Spoiler alert: I’m an even bigger trainwreck than any of you ever imagined.)

A lot of us – not all of us – probably started out this way: ready to save the world and protect the people because fuck the police and stick it to the man and viva la revolucion and we are legion, we do not forgive, we do not forget, expect us. All of that rolled up in one complicated ball, located in the hearts and minds of a group of very complicated people who do what we do for a living.

That’s probably pretty naive. I don’t know. I don’t care.

I want to save the world, obviously, but that means different things to different people, and I have a very specific idea as to what it means for me. And yeah, being a CDL does fit into my vision of saving the world. It’s a part of it. I’m not sure how big a part, but it’s a part of it. And it’s definitely a part of my daily struggle – my jihad, and this is literally what true jihad is – to be a better person.

Being a CDL helps me keep my own problems in perspective. It helps me learn compassion, and teaches me patience and understanding. It helps me learn tolerance, and how to force myself not to judge people as harshly as I might if I didn’t do this sort of work. It helps drive me and give me purpose.

I know this sounds incredibly starry-eyed to some of you reading it. That’s fine. I can understand that. But it’s my truth right now. It’s the reality of how I am experiencing my job at this point in my life. I have plenty of time to become jaded; I’ll be bushy-tailed for as long as I possibly can.

CATCH MY ENTHUSIASM YOU GUYS.

But all of this good stuff aside, I feel like I really need to get a grip when it comes to my Wounded Bird tendencies.

If you’re not familiar with Wounded Bird tendencies, well, I’m not exactly sure that they’re a thing. That’s just what I call my very immediate, very visceral, and very strong urge to protect and shelter people that I think of as “wounded birds.” These tend to be people in trouble. People who have been abused or victimized, as some of our clients have. People that are scared. People that have no one left to turn to (aside from people they pay, like me).

And I get very protective.

Which would be fine, if I only got protective when it came to their substantive case. Like, if I was so protective of my client that I motioned up every damn thing I could think of and worked every damn angle possible and assisted my boss in negotiations in any way I possibly could. And I absolutely do that.

But I get protective beyond that, too.

Like, I care about their personal lives. I care about their self-esteem and self-worth. I care about their job hunts. I care about their health and physical well-being. I care about all sorts of shit that is really important, but doesn’t have a blessed thing to do with the actual case. I want to play lawyer, doctor, social worker, therapist, priest, mother, guidance counselor, and best friend.

I want to wear ALL the hats.

And that’s not … realistic.

Hell, it’s not even SANE, you guys.

It’s a completely unrealistic expectation, and it’s a completely unrealistic standard to which to hold myself.

I mean, there are some situations in which caring about things going on with your client that aren’t about the substance of the case is important, and actually does serve some purpose as to the case, even if it’s, eh, not that great.

For example, that client I blogged about before? Who I worked really hard to get those Kosher for Passover meals for? Who called me from the jail and told me that he’s hungry? Well, I got the details from him about his food situation, and I’m motion-ing it up right now as a violation of his First Amendment rights. No, it has nothing to do with the charged offenses of possession of child pornography or transporting a minor across state lines for the purposes of sexual contact.

Not so much, no.

But it’s still important given the situation that he’s in. He’s a federal prisoner, and he has rights. And unless we win at trial on both counts (we have a good shot at one, I feel, but the other one, eh, I’m not nearly so optimistic), he’s going to be spending many more years in prison. And during that time, he absolutely has a right to Kosher meals, and meals that are Kosher for Passover during that week. So the motion isn’t about the charges, no, but it does project forward and attempt to protect his rights.

For another client, I’m really worried about the fact that he’s addicted to a certain category of controlled substances. And I’ve been talking to him about seeking treatment. Not just meetings and other fly-by-night talking sessions, but actual, intensive, in-patient treatment. But in this case, my Wounded Bird tendencies, exhibited in my desire to get him the help he needs and help him come to a place where he affirmatively wants to seek that help FOR HIMSELF, would help the case. It always looks better when a criminal defendant in a drug case acknowledges his problem and seeks treatment.

In another case, I care very much about the way the case is affecting a client’s academic and career prospects, especially because of the client’s age. But in that case, the concern has a good purpose. Pushing this client to continue to pursue a longtime career dream – a dream that he had long before this happened to him – helps the case as well. Which would be a win-win-lose. Win for us, win for the client, lose for the State. But who cares about the State?

Hah.

(CRY MOAR.)

Anyway, normally, I can generally keep it all under control. Kind of. I focus on doing productive shit, and if I’m not doing something productive for the actual case, then I’ll do something productive that’s peripheral/incidental to the case, along the lines of what I outlined above. And if I find myself getting bogged down in the stupid stuff, I try to wrap it up as quickly as I can and move on to more important things.

So generally, I’m pretty good about it. I mean, I feel like I waste more mental energy thinking about things that don’t matter for the case than I should, but I’m working on it.

But seriously, you guys, sometimes I find myself doing or thinking something that is totally out of left field as far as the actual substance of the case, and it’s just like … wat.

Wat am I doing.

Wat is life.

So then I just kind of have to slap myself and move along.

Because I know that I can’t keep doing this. I can’t keep working my ass off on the actual case, and then spending my other time thinking about things that are very important in the client’s life … but don’t help move the case forward.

I can’t.

It’s a great way to drive myself crazy and totally burn out on work that I absolutely burn to do.

It’s a great way to stress myself out to the point that I become increasingly ineffective when it comes to actual lawyering.

It’s a great way to wear myself down using coping mechanisms to deal with shit that isn’t even the important shit.

I don’t want to be that burnt out CDL who turns to random vices and tics just to deal with the weight of shit that DOES NOT EVEN AFFECT HER ACTUAL WORK THAT MATTERS MOST TO HER CLIENTS.

Yeah. I don’t want to be that person.

So basically, I just need to get a fricking grip.

I’ve always had Wounded Bird tendencies. Always. Since I was a kid. I have always empathized deeply, I’ve always sympathized deeply, I’ve always had a very strong urge to fix other people’s problems, and if I can’t do that, I consider it my obligation to make their day just a little brighter.

And these are all good qualities. These are all strengths.

But the goal here is not to let these strengths become a weakness when it comes to actual lawyering. I gotta get over this Wounded Bird thing.

When I was in high school, I was leaving one morning for school, just like any other day. I stepped outside the house and was locking our front door when there was a huge BANG! and something hit the living room windows – hard.

Naturally, I screamed and ducked. It was ridiculous. It came out of nowhere and was LOUD – in a very quiet neighborhood at about 7:30 in the morning. When I got over my fear ten seconds later, I went over to the hedges in front of our window to investigate. I found a robin sitting, quite dazed and stunned, in the hedges, chirping its little head off and unable to move, despite how close I got to it.

I didn’t know how to fix a broken wing (it clearly had one, no question), but I figured the little animal rescue center/sanctuary near my house could handle it. My friend Paul took a rabbit there once in our junior year, I think, when he accidentally ran over it with his riding lawn mower.

So I grabbed a shoe box and a dish towel and basically picked the bird up with my bare hands (ew, they’re probably disease-ridden) and put it on the floor in front of my passenger seat and, overcome with worry and sick to my stomach over the well-being of this unremarkable robin with its red, red breast, decided to risk being a little late to school in order to drop it at that wildlife sanctuary thing so they could fix its wing.

So I drive to the sanctuary place, which is maybe 7-10 minutes from my house, and I put the car in Park and undo my seat belt and open my door, preparing to grab the box and head into the little building, and I look over to reach for the bird …

And find it sitting on the shoulder of the passenger seat.

I SCREAM.

Holy cow, do I scream. I scream and jump out of the car and hop around a bit because, OMG, scary. And this bird, meanwhile, has hopped onto the dash and is repeatedly banging its head against the windshield, trying to get out. So my next plan of attack was to open all the doors so the dumb thing would be able to get out.

But it kept bashing its head against the windshield and freaking out, so obviously it needed help. So I grabbed a magazine I miraculously had lying on the backseat (in high school, I always kept my car immaculate), rolled it up, and tried to nudge the bird toward the open door. This yielded mixed and terrifying results, and necessitated me getting within arms’ length of this scary bird.

But I finally got the bird out, after many unsuccessful attempts. And the fat little robin that had bashed into my living room windows and CLEARLY exhibited a broken wing (like, it was busted, you guys, seriously bent out of shape) just took off and flew right up into the tall trees until it disappeared from my sight.

And I’m standing there as a little sixteen year old thinking, …WTF.

YOU WERE BROKEN, YOU STUPID BIRD. YOU WERE CLEARLY BROKEN.

But that’s the point I’ve been slowly winding my way to. Sure, I’m trying to get from A to D and I’m stopping at B, C, X and 12 along the way, but you guys know by now to expect this sort of thing from me.

Sometimes, wounded birds manage to hop out of shoe boxes and sit on the shoulder of passenger seats and strike terror in the hearts of sixteen year old girls named Huma before they fly up into the trees as if nothing was ever wrong with them.

Sometimes, wounded birds just get their shit together.

So, I really have to just kind of … stahp. I really have to stahp letting myself get sucked into wanting to wear all these different hats and set up some clear boundaries.

I’m an attorney. Not a best friend or a therapist or a teacher, much less someone trying to save the whole world. My focus has to be on the case, and some of the peripherals I mentioned above, but those are limited.

I can do it. That’s not a problem. I can absolutely do it. I just need to frequently check myself and make sure I’m not falling back into these habits.

But at the same time, I won’t let myself lose these qualities, either, because they’re good qualities, they’re beneficial to a lot of people in my life, and they make me a better person. More importantly, they really do make me who I am, and I like who I am. I’m a trainwreck and I’m a spazz, but I like who I am. I’d like to keep being who I am.

But this is getting too Carrie-in-the-last-scene-of-Sex-&-The-City, so Imma stop now.

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The one where Brian Tannebaum comes to Chicago and feeds me.

Written By: humarashid - Apr• 03•13

Did I ever mention this? I’m pretty sure I tweeted about it. If you follow me on Twitter, which I don’t recommend, you probably know that @BTannebaum and I are super best friends. Brian is a criminal defense attorney in Miami, and he occasionally finds his way up to Chicago for random things like football games and fancy conferences, and whenever he’s here, he feeds me.

I really like being fed, you guys. I’ve kind of gotten used to it over the years.

So anyway, Brian comes to Chicago sometimes and whenever he does, he feeds me. And @BobBlahBlawg is somehow always there, too, which is kind of awkward, because, um, it’s like he doesn’t get how Third Wheel-y he’s being, which, frankly, is just embarrassing. How is it possible for a person to have such little self-awareness?

IDK, you guys.

(Let’s pretend for a moment that we all don’t know that if anyone on this planet lacks self-awareness, it’s BIG FAT ME RIGHT HERE OOH OOH OVER HERE.)

So Brian asked us to meet him at Bin 36, because he’s some sort of big wine guy. Personally, though, I just like to watch Brian drink his wine – he does all sorts of weird things to it before he tastes it, and then he says weird shit like, “It needs to open up a bit more.” WHO IN THE WORLD EVEN KNOWS WHAT THAT MEANS.

But it’s always fun to see Brian. I can’t say too many lovely things about him, because he has a reputation to maintain on Twitter as That One Super Asshole Lawyer (one?), so I’ll try to abstain from saying tons of goopy, shmoopy things about how he’s a sweetheart who, when I passed the Barzam, sent me the talking Yoda toy that sits on my desk at work.

Suffice it to say, I adore Brian. And I’m always so excited when I get a message from him saying he has plans to be in Chicago sometime soon. And then when he’s finally here, I’m basically like,

And then he spends the rest of the night terrorizing me about my life decisions, so.

The first time Brian came to visit, I think I’d just graduated from law school. It was a whole group of us at this great restaurant somewhere on Lake street downtown, and he pulled me over next to him and spent basically a half hour counseling me about my future. It was the first time someone had sat me down and said those exact things to me. And I’m hideously awkward when someone tries to compliment me, so that was kind of uncomfortable.

(You should see me now when my boss compliments me. I literally stare at him blankly until he narrows his eyes and walks away from me.)

Anyway, that was the first time someone had said those things to me. And I filed those words away in the back of my mind and pulled them out when I felt like I was losing my sense of direction. And for the longest time, I didn’t really believe that what Brian said would actually happen. I was convinced that he saw something in me that was never there – that had never been there. I definitely thought that during the time that I was unemployed and job-hunting, lemme tell you.

But I thought about those words anyway, because even though I didn’t exactly believe them about myself, it was comforting to know that someone out there thought highly of me.

However, this time when Brian came to visit, I was employed. Very happily. Doing the same sort of thing he was doing. (Well, in addition to his criminal practice, he also represents attorneys who have run afoul of the ARDC, which I don’t.)

And I still remembered what he had said a year and a half ago, and I was (am) working to make it happen. More than anything, Brian impressed upon me the importance of thinking big and just going for it. Because, as he said, “Why the fuck not? Why the fuck can’t you be that person?”

So yes.

Here’s a cute picture of me and Brian and our friend Amy from his first visit.

It’s kind of dark. It was a dimly lit restaurant. So you know.

And here’s a picture from, what, the first week of March, I think?

This one is also kind of weirdly lit, but that’s just because BobBlahBlawg can’t operate gadgets and is basically the worst man on the planet.

Anyway, look at those two fancy people.

Dinner was great. We were joined by BobBlahBlawg and his girlfriend Mallory, who is basically 100x more awesome than old Bob could ever hope to be. We were also joined by Joshua King, lead counsel for Avvo.

Brian had come prepared for the evening, and the theme was two-fold: (1) Interrogate Huma about her (non-existent) love life and (2) mock her endlessly for it.

And of course, BobBlahBlawg didn’t even need to be asked TWICE to join in, so he was all over this, and I’m looking at him like, YOU SIT DOWN.

The worst part was, they got Josh, a perfectly nice, respectable man that I’d met just twenty minutes earlier, to join in on the nonsense, too!

WHAT.

Now, as you guys can no doubt guess, my love life is dangerously non-existent. Basically, my love life consists of me trying to dodge my entire extended family’s attempts to marry me off to men that are all wrong for me.

Seriously, I don’t know why I’m not thinner, what with how hard and fast I run from their attempts to set me up with various eligible young men. And I use the term “eligible” in the loosest sense of the word.

So anyway, both Brian and BobBlahBlawg find this predicament endlessly hilarious, and never pass up an opportunity to mock me for it. So obviously, Brian’s first question was whether or not I was banging anybody.

When it came out that I’m decidedly not banging anybody, Brian demanded that I get my shit together and stop being single.

Now, obviously, being the wildly repressed Muslim girl I am, I’m basically losing my shit during the course of this invasive conversation and the intensity with which both of these jags are going after me.

And THEN, that colossal ass BobBlahBlawg let slip that I’m majorly crushing on this one prosecutor (two, actually, but I didn’t tell BobBlahBlawg about the other one – gotta keep a sense of mystery about myself, you know?) and HOLY CRAP I COULD HAVE WRUNG HIS NECK.

This obviously didn’t sit well with Brian, who’s been a CDL for years. He was all, BUT HE’S A PROSECUTOR!!1! And I’m sitting there like, kill me. And then BobBlahBlawg, who enjoys my misery far too much, the horrid man, announced that my hot prosecutor’s name was Gregg.

With two g’s at the end, he says.

Guys.

There is no Gregg.

There has never been a Gregg.

I’ve never even KNOWN any man named Gregg.

Or Greg, for that matter.

But that doesn’t stop BobBlahBlawg from spreading his awful lies. He basically sits on a throne of lies, like the tyrant that he is.

THERE IS NO GREGG.

But, I made a mistake: I admitted that though there was no Gregg, there was a hot prosecutor I was doing my best to ignore forever because my people skills are THAT awesome.

And so then the rest of the evening basically devolved into Josh, Brian, and BobBlahBlawg doing this:

So, you know, kill me.

Now, to the best of my recollection, Mallory did not join in. Which is why she’s still cool. I think.

So that was what my dinner with Brian Tannebaum was like.

I can’t wait until he comes back to Chicago.

Posted in Coffee, Tea, Me | No Comments »

Then there was the time I met Andrea Lyon.

Written By: humarashid - Apr• 02•13

So, back in law school, I really enjoyed my Criminal Law class. And then I took Criminal Procedure I, and REALLY enjoyed that. Then I took Criminal Procedure II, which was basically just adjudication, and then I took Federal Criminal Law, and then in my last semester I took a Sex Crimes seminar.

Man, I just realized that I REALLY overloaded on crim classes, without even realizing it. Huh. Without even seriously believing that I could one day actually be a defense attorney. AND NOW I AM ONE. Funny how that worked out, huh?

Anyway, at some point in there somewhere, I read this awesome book, Defending the Damned: Inside Cook County Public Defender’s Office by Kevin Davis. (Weird. The copy I have has this title on the jacket, but it’s up under a different title on Amazon. It’s the same book, though, I promise.)

That book follows the public defenders on the Murder Task Force – the small, elite group of PDs that only dealt with death penalty cases. (Devotees will remember that Illinois abolished the death penalty in 2010, thank goodness.) These attorneys worked at 26th & California, a courthouse where I appear several times a month.

(26th & Cali is basically my favorite courthouse because the main floor always smells of hot dogs. That’s basically the only requirement to get me into a building of any sort: it should smell like meat. Even questionable meat, i.e., hot dogs.)

One of the attorneys featured in the book is Andrea Lyon. She also wrote her own memoir about her time on the MTF, entitled Angel of Death Row: My Life as a Death Penalty Defense Lawyer. As soon as I was done reading DtD, I looked up the different attorneys featured in it to see if any of them had written their own books. I quickly found Andrea Lyon’s memoir and absolutely devoured it. It was great! If you read DtD, I highly recommend AoDR if you wish to continue down that road.

It’s all pretty disturbing, though, in general, so it’s not for the faint of heart, and I don’t think less of anyone who can’t handle it. I’ve had friends who started reading DtD based on my recommendation who then quit and told me they thought I was nuts for not only finishing it, but seeking out similar material. Heck, when my father learned that DtD was what made me yearn to be a criminal defense attorney, he grabbed my copy and started reading it … and stopped after literally 17 pages. He has not picked it up since.

Just to tease him about it, I once commented on whether or not he’d finished the book and what he thought of it, and he was basically like,

But even as I was reading all these books and eagerly tearing through the reading for all of my different criminal law-related classes and dreaming of being a CDL one day in the same way I occasionally dream of riding my pet unicorn through a field of sunflowers, I never actually seriously thought that I could actually be a CDL.

(For those not familiar with acronyms I commonly use, CDL = criminal defense lawyer.)

It was a dream I had. I thought that was what it would always be, you know? I went to a law school that is known regionally, not nationally. I graduated into a terrible economy and basically the worst market for lawyers. I was entering the legal work force with out-of-work attorneys who had been laid off after practicing for any number of years, and that’s stiff competition. There weren’t any jobs. I had no reason to hope for getting a job I even liked, much less one that would basically be a dream come true. I was preparing myself for years of bankruptcy shit just to put some money in my bank account.

That’s not to knock bankruptcy lawyers. Plenty of them absolutely love what they do. But I would not have been one of them. I would have wanted to fall off a cliff every single morning if I had to be a bankruptcy or foreclosure or family law attorney.

But due to several twists of excellent luck/fate/Divine Providence (pick your favorite), I landed a job as a CDL with Raymond G. Wigell, a solo practitioner who’s been practicing at the state and federal level for almost forty years. He’s fantastic and I love working for him. I love the work we do, even when it’s disgusting and complicated and devastating and makes me heart-sick. I love it all.

During my first interview with Raymond, he mentioned his “best friend Andrea Lyon,” and a case that they were working on together as part of the Innocence Project. And I swear, my face must have just LIT UP when he said he had been super close friends with her for decades. I was like,

And he caught the way I perked up and was like, Oh, do you know her? And I was like NO BUT I WANT TO WHY ARE EXCELLENT THINGS HAPPENING HERE.

So fast forward, and I’ve been working for Raymond for about a month. It’s late December, and it was that morning that some huge snowstorm was supposed to blow through the Chicagoland area. I live in the burbs about an hour out, and I had to be at 26th & Cali that morning, so I decided to skip my normal skirts/dresses and heels in favor of pants and my winter boots that, thankfully, don’t look too clunky-winter-boot-ish under pants, and I trekked out towards the city.

I got there a half hour early, as I always do, and just picked a seat in the jury box. My boss told me to meet him in that court room, but I wasn’t standing up on the case because it wasn’t mine – it was him and Andrea. And then the two of us had a couple of status dates for our state cases in other rooms in the courthouse, so he wanted to basically make his appearance in the room, see if they could get called up first so they could file their huge PC, and then bounce so we could handle the rest of the stuff we had up that day.

Now, I’ve never seen a picture of Andrea Lyon in person. I think there might have been a small black and white picture of her on the inside back jacket for her book, but I’d read that so long and barely glanced at the author picture, so what did I know?

I just sat in the jury box, listened to the clerk annoy the living fuck out of the deputy in the room (he was really sweet about it but I could hear him gnashing his teeth from across the room, which was kind of funny), and worked on some other crap I had to get done.

The glass doors opened and I looked up as a tall woman in a brown suit, with thick, wavy brown hair and a rolling briefcase. And you know those moments where you just know something, intuitively? I knew that was Andrea Lyon. I just knew it. At that moment, it could not have been anyone BUT Andrea Lyon, as far as I was concerned.

So, my boss had told me that Andrea would be there that day, and I’d have a chance to meet her. I knew he’d introduce me and say lots of favorable things, because he’s a nice man and for reasons I don’t quite understand, he likes me a lot. (I think.)

But … to hell with that! Andrea Lyon was sitting just a few yards away from me! :O WHAT.

So she’s sitting there at the defense table going through her files for the day, and I dumped my crap back in my bag, stood up, straightened my blouse, and made a beeline for her. I was kind of aggressively creepy about it, too. I was basically like,

And so I introduced myself and told her I was Raymond’s new associate and I was a big fan of hers and she inspired me to be a CDL after I read about her in DtD. And she was like, “Oh, you read that book? You should read my book!” And I was like “OH TRUST ME I DID!”

So I took a seat next to her and she was just so sweet. Seriously. She talked a bit about Raymond and how awesome she thought he was and how I was going to learn so much, and how it was good to see more women CDLs, and this work is so important, and then she told me about the case that they were filing the PC in, and all of the different aspects of it that inspired her and Raymond to take the case as part of the Innocence Project.

And I’m just sitting there, basically being supremely creepy. Like this:

It was basically a miracle that she didn’t ask for me to be removed from the room.

Anyway, I’m basically soaking up everything she says just as I do with Raymond, and all I can think is, holy shit, I’m an attorney and a CDL and I’m sitting at the defense table at 26th & Cali with ANDREA FRICKING LYON and we’re talking about the law and cases and important things!

I was having a moment, you guys.

*sniffle*

Yeah.

Awkward.

Especially since I’m not exactly the sort of person that HAS feelz, you guys.

But it was seriously just so awesome. And I know I’ll remember it for a long time. Heck, every time I’ve seen her since, I still get a little star-struck. She’s Andrea Lyon, you guys!

And there really is something so powerful about having a dream, one that you never thought would be fulfilled, and then to get to live it out every single day, and then one day be sitting at the defense table, discussing finer points of law with one small but integral part of that dream, like it’s no big deal. It seriously just blew my mind when it happened.

I just love when the people I secretly look up to turn out to be really nice. I mean, I do my best not to admire people or look up to them, because everyone’s human and everyone’s flawed, and it’s not fair to force unrealistic expectations onto a single, fallible person. So instead, I admire qualities that I see in people, rather than the person him or herself. But still, it’s really nice when a person that has a lot of qualities I find inspirational and admirable also turns out to be a truly sweet person who has no problem sitting around with me and just chatting.

My boss showed up while we were talking, and seemed pleased that I possessed the nerve to just walk up to Andrea and introduce myself. (Probably because he’d seen how star-struck and fluttery I got when her name was so much as mentioned around me.) And then their case was called and they filed their PC and set a date, and we were out of there. Ray made some plans with Andrea and said a few things about me by way of belated introduction, and it was just really pleasant. Then we all said our goodbyes and I’m basically gushing at this point as I shake Andrea’s hand. I should be embarrassed about it, but fuck it. She’s Andrea fricking Lyon, and I get to talk to her. So when we’re leaving, I’m basically like,

So yes.

I hugged you in my mind, Andrea Lyon, and there’s nothing you can do about it.

>:)

…Ugh. One of these days, I will stop being so gallopingly creepy.

BUT NOT TODAY!

Posted in Better Read Than Dead, Court Chronicles | No Comments »

Occasionally we order books for inmates. There’s a lesson in this, I swear.

Written By: humarashid - Apr• 01•13

We don’t do this for all of our clients that are currently in custody. Obviously. That would be far too big a project, and it would cost us far too much. It’s not that we’re cheap, because my boss is quite generous with a lot of our inmate-clients, and I’ve seen that repeatedly since I started working with him, but still, we can’t buy books regularly for all of our clients that are in custody.

But we have this special client. I talked about him on this blog before. I’m going to call all of our client by the names of Disney characters, so let’s call this client … Sergeant Tibbs.

Sgt. Tibbs is great. He’s very personable and charming, and it was impossible for me not to warm to him instantly. I first met Sgt. Tibbs during a PSIR (pre-sentence investigative report, called a PSI on the state level) interview conducted between him and a federal probation officer. My boss and I were both present, and it was done over an iPad.

Sgt. Tibbs answered the questions honestly, was forthcoming on the details of his life, even the uncomfortable ones, and he cooperated fully with the federal probation officer, who ended up writing an excellent mitigation section about him in the PSIR. That worked out really well, and it’s these little things – like helping your client truly connect with the government official in charge of writing this kind of an evaluation – that really matter. Sentencing is in late April, and I’m looking forward to it.

Anyway, Sgt. Tibbs’s case was originally a (federal) death penalty case. I probably mentioned this before, but Sgt. Tibbs is supposedly the former second commander of the Black Disciples, one of the most vicious Chicago gangs, and this case involves a violent crime.

My boss, Raymond Wigell, and his co-counsel, Andrea Lyon (one of the rockstar Cook County PDs who made me yearn to be a criminal defense attorney), took the case and successfully “de-deathed” it. Now we’re gearing up for sentencing. (Although my boss has been prepared for it forever, telling me that he “could do that shit in [his] sleep at this point.”)

The last time I saw Sgt. Tibbs was probably a month ago. Maybe. No, according to the write up I did about it, it was two weeks ago. Phew, time flies when you’re having fun, right?

Anyway, I saw him a month ago when he was moved to another prison a bit closer to Chicago. Before, he was quite a ways away. Perhaps the U.S. Marshals moved him closer to the city in anticipation of sentencing? I have no idea. I will never claim to have any insight as to what the Marshals do or why. :P (No, but they’re always so sweet and helpful when I am making an ass-ton of calls frantically trying to locate our clients.)

So Sgt. Tibbs sang us a song, and it was great, and it made me yearn for another College Dropout-esque album from the Great Yeezy, Lord and Sustainer of Awesome Music. Even though that will never happen, now that he’s an international superstar instead of a struggling young artist in Chicago.

Back on track. The last time we were all together, Sgt. Tibbs asked if we could send him some books. He likes urban fiction, and mentioned James Patterson specifically, and added that he wanted some new releases, from late 2012 or 2013 so far, since presumably he’d read all the other relatively newer releases at his previous facility.

Now, my boss adores Sgt. Tibbs. He loves him. And it’s easy to understand why. So when Sgt. Tibbs asked for books, I made a specific note to my file because I knew that my boss would later ask me to take care of that for him. And sure enough, the other day, he gave me the firm’s card and told me to handle it.

It can be kind of a process to get books to prisoners. Detention facilities often have differing rules about what they’ll accept and from where. Some will let attorneys stick paperbacks in an envelope and mail it in, the same way they’d send any confidential legal mail. Other facilities will allow newspapers, magazines, and even hardcovers in as long as they come from “publishers,” meaning retailers like Barnes or Amazon or whatever.

Sadly, Sgt. Tibbs’s prison doesn’t allow in any hardcovers, at all, so I was restricted to paperbacks. But I found a couple good Patterson novels on BarnesandNoble.com, and I use the term “good” very loosely, because frankly it’s a crime against the English language to put “good” and “Patterson novel” in the same sentence.

I ended up picking “Tick Tock” and one of the Alex Cross novels, I think. I put in Sgt. Tibb’s inmate number and the prison address, and they should arrive early this week. I hope they make him happy and he gets a few hours of joy and escape through them. And they’re his, so hopefully they get to travel with him when he inevitably changes facilities after sentencing and goes to a federal pen rather than a county/state/federal mishmosh detention center.

I’m more than happy to take some time to mull over the myriad of Patterson books available (far too many, really, so as to be basically unconscionable) and figure out which ones he’d want, and which ones I can send (ie, no paperbacks). And I’m glad that my boss will occasionally do these sorts of things for his clients.

On a human level, I love it. I think it’s appropriate, and I think it’s worthwhile. On a selfish note, it just makes me feel good, plainly put, to know that I put some time and care into selecting a book or two for an incarcerated man who has very few pleasures left in his life.

And on a professional level, I think it’s appropriate and worthwhile, too. I think doing little things like this is a good way to practice. Sure, it’s not actually practicing law, but it’s an incidental aspect of practice. It’s about client relationships.

It hurts when I hear clients say they hate their attorneys. I usually hear this about PDs, and I think part of that is clients not understanding, much less appreciating, all that their PDs do for them. But sometimes, unfortunately, it is a case of attorneys who have a very heavy case load and maybe don’t devote as much time or attention to individual cases or clients as perhaps they should. (And that’s true of plenty of private attorneys, too, lest anyone think I’m ragging on my beloved public defenders.)

But I think it’s very important that clients in general, and especially our clients since, frankly, they’re the only ones I care about, understand that we care for them beyond the particulars of a case. And the way we practice, I think they get that message.

It reminds me of what my boss was explaining to me when I was very new and trotting along after him as he handled a few status dates for some of our felony sex cases out of 26th & Cali. He likes to lecture me at any given moment about the finer points of practicing, and I am always up for it. It’s great. He’s such a great attorney and I have so much respect for him and I love when he shares his methods and insights with me.

But that day, we were hurrying to yet another courtroom at 26th after wrapping up a status date for his Innocence Project case, and he was telling me a little about the family in the case we were about to handle, and what he was going to do on this date.

His court date procedure (and mine) is very simple but very structured. When he gets there, he takes a few minutes to talk to the client and the client’s family about what he’s going to do that day. This conversation is admittedly brief and not … too specific. He stays away from saying certain buzz words in front of the client or his family before everything is nailed down, and sticks to more general ideas.

Then he goes and talks to the State, or gets right into the call. And then he says his goodbyes and has the client and/or his family follow him out of the courtroom, where he finds a quiet corner and talks to them. He’s very careful not to say anything too sensitive, because courtrooms are public places, and anyone could be listening. When there are sensitive conversations to be had, we tell them to call in and set up an appointment for an office visit.

But after the call he always explains in detail what happened, even if it was as simple as the State asking for a continuance to file their response. Shit like that takes 20 seconds to handle, especially if you’ve set up a date in advance with the prosecutor, but to the average person, it looks like absolutely nothing happened. So he takes some time to explain to them the details of what was said, what it means, and how it affects the positioning of the case. And then he draws them back to the positive, and lets them go with that thought.

This is his procedure, and this is exactly what I do as well when I’m handling my cases or court calls.

And I remember trotting after him that morning at 26th & Cali when we were rushing to this sex case, and he was explaining why he sets up his court dates this way.

“A lot of attorneys don’t do this,” he told me as we hurried along. “But I can’t imagine practicing any other way. A lot of attorneys just say, oh, call my office, or give them a sentence or two in explanation and then rush off. You’ve seen me do this a few times – how many minutes do I normally spend with clients or their families after the case has been up?”

“Ten minutes, give or take.”

“Exactly, and there’s a reason for that. You always do that. Always. These people are paying us a lot of money. A lot of money. Sometimes, all the money they have. And you’re just going to come to court, do your thing, and walk by them after only a few words? Fuck that. You think they’re going to feel good? They’re going to feel like shit. Like they don’t matter and their attorney can’t be bothered to talk to them and tell them what’s going on with their loved one’s case. You always take the time to talk to your clients, no matter what else you have going on. And if they want to talk specifics, you say, that’s a good question and it’s important, but this is not the time to discuss it. Call the office, come in, and we’ll talk about it in detail. Because you never want them to feel like you’re brushing them off – because if you are, you’re not doing your job.”

I always do this. Always. Doesn’t matter if the call was as simple as the State saying, “Your Honor, we’re waiting on additional discovery in the form of blah blah blah.” I still always spend about ten minutes with a client in a conference room, or whispering quietly in the corner of the hallway, to explain what that means, why it was good or bad, and ending on something positive.

Because that bolsters the bond between the attorney and the client, and that’s really important. And granted, buying a few Patterson books off Barnes & Noble isn’t doing anything substantive for the case.

But it’s letting Sgt. Tibbs know that we heard him when he asked for the books, and we remembered his request and followed through because we care about him. And that we care about little things like the fact that he’s bored and likes James Patterson and urban thrillers. Even though none of that has fricking anything to do with sentencing.

It’s very similar to when I spent probably two hours total (if I were billing hours … which I’m not, since we don’t do that billable hour stuff) working on a similar incidental for another (also federal) client. This client is actually the one whose case we’re taking to trial in June of this year. (It’s a great/awful case and I know the discovery like I know the back of my hand, and I’m so excited.)

He’s Jewish, and desperately wanted Kosher meals for Passover of this year. Back in February, he asked us about it. My boss immediately handed that project over to me, knowing that I’m big on prisoners’ rights issues. For my Sex Crimes seminar back at John Marshall, I wrote this massive proposal about how Illinois could combat prison rape in its jails and prisons. I can’t even tell you how much I read in preparation of crafting that proposal – about prison rape, and about prison life in general. If there’s ever any way I can help our inmate-clients, I’m all over it. Any little, tiny thing. It means a lot to me, and I find it personally rewarding (but that’s really selfish, so whatever).

So I took over the Passover project, and it was … kind of insane. I found out a good way to get the Passover meals, but he wanted specific items that weren’t there on the prison commissary list for special items, or the meals provided by the 3rd party organization that deals with this. So I had to try to track that stuff down, which led me on a wild goose chase in which I ended up calling all of the other federal facilities he’d stayed at, the Bureau of Prisons, and even a rabbi or two who he had been in contact with in the past. But I was able to get what he needed, and he has Passover meals, so I’m pleased about that.

I’m NOT pleased because apparently they’re really small meals, and the prison he’s at won’t give him any additional food, so he called the other day to tell me that he was really hungry. And it’s horrible because there’s nothing I can possibly do to help him. And he understood that, and just asked that I document it for the file, which I did, of course. But ugh. I felt so bad. Not in a way that expended energy and diverted that energy from shit I really needed to do, but still. You guys know what I mean. I just felt bad that he was hungry. Ugh.

But I like doing these little incidental things. I love doing my actual legal work, which is fantastic, but I like doing these little things. I like spending a half hour on the B&N website, picking out the perfect books for Sgt. Tibbs. It’s a nice little way to break up the day, it’s different from my normal lawyerly work, and it’s a nice little way to de-stress after spending all morning working on actual stuff.

And again, being totally selfish for a minute, it just makes me feel good to help someone in some tiny way, to bring a little bit of happiness into their lives. But I try not to dwell on that, because it’s not at all about how anything makes me feel.

I just hope those books are enjoyed. Even if they are Patterson novels.

Ew.

Why.

Posted in Court Chronicles | No Comments »

I love it when I’m underestimated. Which is often.

Written By: humarashid - Mar• 27•13

You guys have seen pictures of me, right? I mean, there’s a picture of me directly to the right of this post, so, obviously. Look at me. I look young, right? I always get told I look young. It’s probably because I’m petite (I’m exactly 5’1″ if I’m not slouching), and because I STILL have baby fat taking up space in my face, which is just cruel at this point.

And you know what’s weird? Like, strangers comment on it. In courthouses. I’ll be wearing my tailored blazers and little dresses, and I’ll be striding purposely through the halls of the courthouse in my heels, with my phone in hand (a sure sign you’re an attorney – no one else is allowed to bring phones into the building) and RANDOM PEOPLE appearing for the morning call will stop me and be like, “How old are you?”

No “hi.” No “hello.” No “how the hell are you?”

Just, “How old are you?”

And it’s always white people who ask me, too. Only white people.

Oh, white people.

Anyway, normally, I’d just be like, “It’s none of your damn business how old I am, stop being frigging creepy.” But sometimes (most of the time) they catch me entirely off guard, so I’m just like, “…I’m twenty-six.” And they’re ALWAYS like, “You look eighteen!”

It’s always eighteen, too.

Hm.

Anyway, so that’s kind of really weird. But it does make me think that I probably do look quite young.

And let’s be honest: I’m adorable. I’m the most adorable person to ever adorb, is basically what I’m saying to everyone reading this, forever. I’m petite and my glasses make my eyes look huge and I have pinchy cheeks and I’m always smiling or grinning or smirking and I wear cute dresses with nipped in waists and tailored blazers and I have super shiny, super flippy hair, and I am just a vision of adorableness.

(IT’S NOT BRAGGING, IT’S REPORTING.)

So yeah. I’m kind of horribly precious. Not necessarily in a good way, either. Because who wants to try to be a fearless, tough defense attorney and look precious?

NO ONE THAT’S WHO.

But I’m not going to start deliberately ugging it up because screw that, and I’m not going to start wearing clothes that don’t fit me because my mom made me do that all throughout junior high and some of high school, so screw that, too.

(OMG, you guys, I was a trainwreck in high school, physically. I hadn’t yet figured out that curly hair wasn’t meant to be brushed, so I’d brush it and it would get HUGE and be nothing but frizz. I also didn’t know how to use straighteners or hot air brushes. So I basically wore my hair in a huge frizzy ponytail, and it was awful. I obviously didn’t wear makeup, which has only slightly improved over the years because I have since learned how to apply mascara, and I only dressed in jeans and tees. Also, my mom insisted I wear sweaters that were like 4 sizes too big for me because boys exist and boys are bad, so I was constantly DROWNING in fabric, which explains why I gravitate toward tailored, structured looks now that emphasize how petite I am and -GASP- actually fit me. And then senior year I decided to rebel because I was an overachieving goody-two-shoes little monster, so I just abandoned wearing shoes and only wore my slippers to school. But whatever, because they were so comfortable. So yes. Trainwreck in high school. I make up for it now, and how.)

So basically, I refuse to change up my current style, because I love it. I’m just going to keep being normal and if that means I end up looking twee, so be it. I’ll deal.

But it’s kind of funny, just because of the environment. I’m ALWAYS the youngest-looking person in the room. Always. Judges have commented on it. Repeatedly. Different ones. Sometimes on the record, which is pretty funny. Courtroom personnel ALWAYS comment on it. With regularity.

Plus, my boss, who is sometimes with me in court but not always, is old enough to be my father. And my counterparts for the State are all older than me, and most of them have been practicing longer than I have.

And when I show up in court with my pencil skirts and shiny earrings, smiling and chipper (why am I always so chipper in the mornings? I DON’T EVEN CONSUME CAFFEINE), they basically see this:

Sigh.

Guys, that’s basically me.

I’ve been known to wear bling-y headbands to court.

BECAUSE WHY NOT.

But let’s not get too focused on who’s wearing headbands and who isn’t, you guys. We’re better than that.

I’m very aware that this is what they see when I come skipping into the room.

Haha, there’s this one judge who calls me “dear” and it’s kind of really sweet. I know that offends a lot of women, and I take no issue with that. If some women are offended, they are absolutely right to feel that way. Sometimes it offends me as well when men say that, especially when they don’t know me and that’s the first term they use. Fuck you – I’m no one’s “dear.”

But I’ve had some conversations with this judge and told him a few jokes and made him laugh, and after that he started calling me “dear,” and so I can tolerate that. But I’ve definitely seen an ASA or two frown at me a bit when they notice use of that term and notice how …. almost solicitous (?) the judge is when I step up. And I do believe that at least part of it is because this judge is an older judge who’s sat on the bench for quite some time, and he knows how new I am to his courtroom, and he’s trying to be nice.

Also, let’s be real, I kind of look like I’m a total airhead.

And the caricature I play on this blog doesn’t help matters, does it. :P

But good luck getting me to stop.

Haha, there’s this one ASA on one of my child porn cases who, I swear, it’s a challenge to get this man to even LOOK at me. He’s been a hot-shot State’s Attorney for years, and he’s admittedly pretty damn handsome, so he’s got the whole prosecutor strut down, and man, I seriously think he thinks I”m just some random fan that follows my boss around and writes down whatever he says and fetches him coffee. Seriously, he WILL.NOT.EVEN.LOOK.AT.ME.

I’ll be standing right there, it will be MY MOTION that we’re discussing, and he’ll just look right over my head and talk to my boss. And what makes it really funny is … I don’t think he even really recognizes me?

Like, I think the guy must have goldfish memory, because every time I pass by him in the hall or whatever on my own, I always smile at him and nod (in recognition, you know, not to be an ass), and he just gives me this long look of perfect bewilderment, as if he can’t imagine who I am or how I was even allowed into the building.

So now I’ve just made a game of it and I tease him relentlessly and he doesn’t really know what to do with me. He’ll find out what to do with me when I absolutely slam him during the hearing on my motion. Oh, he’ll find out. Bet he’ll recognize me after that.

Then there are the prosecutors that give me pep talks, because they recognize that I’m new. And that’s really sweet, and I appreciate it. Except when they do it in a way that reveals that they think I’m a dumbass. Because, fuck that. I’m new and I’m young, but that doesn’t mean I don’t know what I’m doing. Hell, I bet they’ve been practicing for years with other attorneys who don’t know as much about how to defend a child porn case as I do. So, whatever.

(I know, you wouldn’t know it to look at me that I know this much about that awful crime. I think that about myself sometimes, too.)

Then there are the prosecutors, like my poor, beleaguered ASA up there, who really just won’t talk to me about the case at all because I’m not the lead so I’m not worth their time and I look like a little airhead anyway, so forget it.

…And then I manage to pull something that throws a serious wrench in their case, and they can’t ignore me anymore. That is by far the most fun. Because I did that once with a special prosecutor on one of our biggest sex cases. My boss was in federal court that day for an emergency arraignment so I was handling a status dates on several of our state cases that were up that day. It was totally comical how sweet (and dismissive) this prosecutor was when I made it clear that I was the only one there … and then how stony he/she got when I very sweetly revealed what I intended to file and tender that day. It was beautiful. And now whenever I enter that courtroom, this prosecutor notices. I love it.

The same goes for our clients, too, actually. Some more than others. I don’t talk that much during initial meetings because my boss is always with me and, what, I’m going to talk over him? Repeat what he just said and look like a moron? Nah. So I sit there and concentrate on taking notes and organizing whatever information I need to organize for when I draft an attorney-client agreement. So I feel like they initially see me as some kind of glorified secretary, or just a newb attorney who knows nothing substantive about their case.

And that’s okay, I don’t blame them. They’re stressed out and don’t know any better. But when they call the office, I’m the one that often deals with them and answers their questions and tells them what to do. On any given day, I’m fielding phone calls from our inmate clients about where their case is positioned and what we plan to do next, I’m giving instructions on how to proceed for a federal detention hearing and how to comply with the bond, I’m explaining how sex evaluations work and how to help us put together effective mitigation. I know the details of all their cases. I know, at any given moment, all the itsy bitsy To Do items that they need to take care of and that we need to take care of. I know all about their cases, damn it, and I know all about the procedure aspect on our end, and how we have to proceed.

Some clients are jerks. No matter how much they see me do, I’m still the newb associate that can’t be trusted. But it’s always nice when we get to that moment where clients “get it.” Where they see me coming to their court date on my own, with my files tucked under my arm, and they’re not apprehensive about it because they know I got this. When they feel comfortable asking me the questions, and knowing I’ll give them the answers.

Sigh. IDK, you guys.

I’m pretty used to being underestimated, to be honest. All my life, really. And I knew I was in for a lot more of it in this environment. But I don’t let it bug me. Like with that one bewildered ASA, I usually make a game of subverting people’s image or expectations of me. It’s not something that upsets me (…for too long) or keeps me up at night.

Besides, the real joy is in seeing the looks on their faces when I show what I’m made of. That’s the best thing about being underestimated. Because I can walk in there looking like an adorable airhead, be awesome, and walk out like a bad-ass.

Yup.

Exactly like that.

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