There Are No Bad Boys, There Are Just Bad Haircuts

Continued from the last post:

After dressing down the barrister in the first case, but agreeing to reschedule the case for Michaelmas term, the judge instructed the clerk to call the second case. This was a criminal case where the defendant was charged with possession of stolen property, to wit, a 2004 BMW 5-series.

Before calling the jury in, the court heard a motion from the defense barrister to dismiss the case. The argument was that the defendant could not be found guilty because he could not form the requisite mens rea, which is literally translated from Latin as "guilty mind." Practically it amounts to a "but I didn't mean to" defense. The defense's ground for such a claim? The defendant (allegedly) was not in his right mind at the time he obtained the stolen car; he is bipolar and was in the middle of a manic episode at the time.

The judge looked down at his paperwork. "But you do not plead 'not guilty by reason of insanity,' you plead 'not guilty.'" The judge looked at the lawyer expectantly.

The lawyer stumbled through an explanation that didn't really explain anything. Essentially, he just repeated that since he could show that the defendant was in the midst of an episode, the case should be thrown out.

I felt as though I was channeling my Civil Procedure I professor as I wrote "TITTJ!" in my notebook. He had a habit of writing acronyms on the board when the class was overlooking an easy answer. I remember the day he wrote "TITTJ!" on the board as he was asking us to pretend to be plaintiff's attorneys responding to a defense motion. "What will you say to the judge? What is your answer to their motion?" Because of his messy handwriting, I sat silent and motionless, not believing that he really wanted someone to shout out "TITTY!" either in open court or in his classroom.

Of course, the correct answer was "tell it to the jury!" As in, this is not a matter for the judge to decide beforehand; it's why we're here, to let the jury decide.

So, the judge in Irish court that day probably had no idea that anyone was thinking about titties in the middle of a proceeding about a stolen BMW, but I was. He offered to allow the defense leave to amend their plea from 'not guilty' to 'not guilty by reason of insanity,' but the defense declined.

"What you're essentially saying to me, then, is that the prosecution does not have enough evidence to carry their burden of proof, since one of the things they must prove is mens rea. As I'm sure you know, a failure-of-proof defense is a matter for the jury, not for me. If you do not wish to amend your plea, then I am denying your motion."

TITTIES! I thought.

Whereupon, the two sides huddled and asked the judge for a recess to confer with each other. I don't think it takes Kresken to guess what happened next. After about a half hour break, the parties came back to announce they had reached a plea agreement.

Whereupon, the judge called the jury in to apologize for wasting their time, but as sometimes happens, it turned out that they weren't needed. He did tell them that since they were empaneled past 11am, they were entitled to lunch on the state, so head on down to Quay Street Restaurant and tell them you were on the jury today. I did not attempt to take advantage of this ludicrously loose system for a free lunch.

Whereupon, the trial proceeded to the sentencing phase. This was pretty cool because I actually got to see testimony. The prosecution called the sergeant who investigated and arrested the defendant. Little did I know that happy-go-lucky garda who told me that court would start at half ten was the prosecution's star witness. He matter-of-factly described his investigation and his understanding of the defendant's diagnosis. Incidentally, the defendant bore a striking resemblance to Brendan Fraser, except with a much worse haircut (almost shaved on the sides but long and Elvis-like on top).

The defense's witnesses included his psychiatrist, mother, father, and boss. It really got kind of sad through that phase, as you could see that the guy really did have a serious diagnosis. The doctor had been treating him for about ten years, the defendant had been hospitalized twice for his disorder, his father suffered from the same disease, and his mother even called the police in the days before he was caught with the car, trying to begin the process of getting him committed for going off his meds.

Here is a quick memo to anyone who wishes to pursue an insanity plea: don't do anything to cover your tracks or avoid detection. To succeed with the plea, at least in Ireland, you are still bound by a burden to prove the ancient M'Naughten rule: that at the time, you did not know right from wrong. Our defendant changed the plates on his stolen beamer. This instantly (and maybe unfairly) defeats any argument that he didn't know it was wrong.

So, as the judge returned from chambers to sentence your man, I was sort of holding my breath. After hearing the whole story, and the fact that the guy has absolutely no record, a new fiancee, is holding down a job, and has the support of his family, you just felt like this wasn't a guy who belonged in prison, even considering his haircut.

The judge, however, explained that he was unconvinced that the defendant didn't know right from wrong, and even hinted that he was a bit cranky that the court even had to put up with that argument. Further, the fact that the defendant had not cooperated with the police in tracking down the person that did the actual stealing was another negative. Therefore he handed down a sentence of 18 months. But, he continued, he was not unsympathetic to the condition that the defendant suffered, and to his lack of a record. So, he suspended the sentence on the condition that the defendant repay the owner her losses not covered by insurance, continue treatment and meds, and not get into trouble for a period of three years. It may seem lame but I actually did think, the system worked in this case.

Then a sort of touching thing happened. While the family huddled for a group hug, I noticed the sergeant waiting to talk to the defendant. After the family broke, the sergeant approached the defendant, offered his hand, and said, "I wish you the best of luck with everything - and I very much mean it."

It's sort of nice, in our adversarial system of justice, to see a bit of cooperation and understanding, isn’t it?

My Day in Court

One of the things I wanted to make sure I got in before I left Ireland was to see their court system in action. As luck would have it, there is a district court right in town. I had tried to attend earlier in the semester, but I had inadvertently chosen a day when divorce and juvenile cases would be heard. Under Irish law, all such cases are sealed. Or, as they say in Ireland, there is no public gallery.

So, on one of my last days in town, I headed back to court first thing in the morning. They start bright and early - at 10am - or so I thought. Arriving a few minutes after 10, I nosed around for a bit, noticing that people were milling about but none of the courtrooms were getting underway. I noticed a garda joking and laughing with someone, so I went up and asked when court might start.

"Oh, they'll get going right at half ten."

Not even court starts on time, I thought.

"Thanks a million," I said.

As ten thirty approached, I was faced with a dilemma. There were two courtrooms of four being used. Which one would offer a more interesting morning? I noticed a young fresh-faced barrister waiting just outside one of the courtrooms. FYI, the Irish Bar (not that kind) is split between barristers, who are qualified to argue in front of a court, and the much more numerous solicitors, who are not.

"Sorry," I said (which seems to be taken as a more polite expression here than 'excuse me'), "but do you know what's happening in each courtroom today?" He gave me a quizzical look so I pressed on. "I'm a visiting law student from the United States looking to observe for the day, and I just didn't know which room might offer the better experience."

"Oh," he said, looking relieved, "definitely this one here. They'll be seating a jury and beginning a trial. The other one, it'll just be traffic stops and petty tings - stuff punishable by at most two years. Put ya ta sleep."

Inside the courtroom the walls were salmon and there were blue fabric seats. Behind the bench hung a large harp emblem. I always thought that calling an Irish person a 'harp' was derogatory. Who knows?

At any rate, the barristers wore black robes with strange white collars. When the judge entered he actually wore a powdered wig. The clerk called us to order, and the judge explained to the packed courtroom that we were about to begin the process of empanelling a jury. This was done by having the clerk pull slips of paper out of a large wooden box. Each slip bore a number and a name. As they were called, each juror took his or her place in the jury box. After 14 numbers were pulled, the clerk handed the first person a "testament" (they didn't specify which one, you'll have to guess), had them recite an oath, then pass the testament to the next juror and so on. After they were each sworn in separately, the judge sent them to the jury room to elect a foreperson and wait. This would turn out to be a fruitless endeavour.

The clerk called the first case and a pudgy barrister rose and sheepishly apologized to the court. His client's case could not be heard today because the High Court had agreed to hear his interlocutory appeal. Now, I don't know how many of you reading this are familiar with the law, so hopefully you'll indulge me as I explain 'interlocutory appeal' briefly. Very generally speaking, you can't appeal a case until there is some finality to it. There has to be a judgment, or a dismissal, or something that says, "case over." The idea is that you don't want to have to stop the proceeding for an appeal every time someone doesn't like it that their objection was overruled. But, there are exceptions to this rule. One common one is when a judge rules evidence in or out after a preliminary hearing. Again the idea is to save time; if your whole case turns on getting something in, it's better to get a high court ruling on it now rather than have to have a big do-over. These appeals that happen before the case is over are called interlocutory appeals.

Anyway, our portly friend was explaining that he just recently learned that his appeal would be heard, which trumps the lower court proceeding and puts it on hold. The judge was none too pleased.

"Exactly when did you learn of this?"

"My lord, only this Thursday last. At the end of the day." (I attended court on a Monday).

"And could you not have made contact with my clerk on Friday?"

"I tried, my lord." He looked at the floor.

"What efforts did you make?" The judge asked, looking over his half-glasses.

"M'lord, my office sent a fax on Friday, but, apparently there was some malfunction."

The judge took off his glasses and looked at the barrister for a long moment. We were all thinking the same thing. Why didn't you pick up the phone, you useless teat? "You know that I am powerless once a writ has issued from the High Court. So I must grant your stay until the appeal is finished. But I am saying to you now that this is the last time you will do this in my court without a sanction of some kind."

"Yes, m'lord. Sorry, m'lord. Thank you, m'lord." He quickly gathered up his things and hustled out of the courtroom.

. . .

More about my day in court after the holiday. Enjoy the weekend!

Why?

Just by the way, here is an annoying thing that happens while you're hosting people in a foreign country. Although I would first like to go on record about how I have strived to keep this blog rant-free, or at the very least rant-minimum. I understand that many blogs revolve around the rant. But that, for the most part, is not my personality, and not something I enjoy reading, so I consciously avoid it unless I think it is particularly funny or relevant.

But what they'll do - people, that is - is ask you questions as though you have done a survey on the country regarding every concept under God.

Example One: Dad

"I have a question for you: I was at the Kylemore Abbey Cafeteria, and I ordered a turkey sandwich. And on this cold sandwich is shredded cheddar cheese. So, as I'm eating it, the cheese all falls out! What kind of a country makes a cold sandwich with shredded cheese? It makes no sense at all!"

I was really tempted to say: perhaps Kylemore Abbey Cafeteria just sucks? Honestly, I don't have the first clue. It's not as though (1) I've noticed this as an Irish sandwich trend, nor (2)if I did would I have given much thought to it.

Example Two: Cottonheads (apologies to Great Disapprover, but I can't abandon the name now).

We're walking along and one of the Cottonheads wants to know: "Patrick, why do they put down different textured stone at the corners as opposed to the regular sidewalks?"

Why is the sky blue? Why do we park in a driveway but drive on a parkway? I think, to a certain extent, people just get so used to me being able to explain why the Irish can't swim, or why it's rude to offer tips, that they just presume that I am a fountain of information for all things Irish, or even European. But some things just are (why do men like sports and women like shopping? why do I always have to sleep on the wet spot?) and neither I nor the Angry Grammarian can explain them.

A Quick Joke that Probably Only One of You Will Find Funny

I feel a bit bad that Angry Grammarian is taking it on the chin for his dork-out comment. Although at the same time I'm pretty sure he deserves it (uncanny, no?). So anyway, a quick joke:

There are only 10 kinds of people in the world: those who understand binary systems and those who don't.

At Home in Ireland

I was at the pub last night when an older man came in. This is what I love about Ireland: it wasn't 15 minutes before we were trading stories and jokes. your man was 83 years old, at least that's what he claimed. Yet he didn't look a day over 60. The secret to his success? According to him, "good eating, a little drink every day, and a lot of sex whenever you can get it."

There may not be many things in the world better than trading sex jokes with a man in his 80s. If you have the means I highly recommend it. Although, I will say that this guy told perhaps the worst jokes I have ever heard in my life, at least those that I could understand. As an example, he told me one about a man and his wife going into the delivery room. She was quite adamant that only 'Johnny' could touch her in her 'queer place.' I swear I am not making this up. The doctor explained that they needed to shave her as part of the prep for delivery. But she would only let Johnny do it. And when he did, she had to stop him because it hurt.

"What are you doing," she asked through the pain.

"I'm trying to get the wrinkle out," says your man.

Apparently this passes for humour here. Or at least it did last night. I hope that when I am old and unfunny young bucks will have the same patience with me. He did have the endearing habit, which I have noticed among quite a few older folks here, of starting a story or joke by saying "come here," as in, "c'mere, I got one for ye." You don’t actually have to move, though. It just means listen up.

As the night progressed, I noticed that the staff was nice enough to not ask me to leave. I say this not because I was being a pain, but because after closing time, the staff did ask everyone else to leave, except me and two other regulars. Much after I was sure I had worn out my welcome I excused myself to go home. As the barman went to the door to unlock it and let me out, he said "good to see you." As the words hit my ears I thought, nice of you to say, but it's just not so; you're happy to get rid of me more than anything else. But when I turned to say thanks, an earnest hand was pressed into mine, accompanied by a big smile and "Patrick, it was a pleasure." And although I can be a cynical American much of the time, I believed him.

On a barely related note, as I was walking home, I was reminded of a professor I had in undergrad. He was big on Freud in particular and German in general. One day he got going on the German word that gives English the word "uncanny." I don't remember what the German word was, but his point was that we had lost the meaning that was supposed to go with 'uncanny.' In German, uncanny meant to have both a normal and an abnormal feeling or sensation at the same time. In a way, it meant that only the familiar could really make you feel uncomfortable. So, as I crested Taylor's Hill, I had to stop and look twice at the road that I had walked down so many times. It just didn't look right. After a drunken second I figured it out. The mixture of a clear night with a lot of moonshine and a red stoplight against the street surface produced an eerie purpleness on the road. At the risk of sounding effeminate, I'd say that it was quite pretty. And in that moment, I realized that I wouldn't have noticed this unless I was familiar with the road; I did get that uncanny feeling that my professor was talking about. Part of it, I think, was the idea that I have come to know certain parts of Ireland as my own, but all the same I am not from here and never will be. It was both familiar and unfamiliar at once.

I didn't have my camera with me, but here is a picture of a nice recent sunset here.

But These Go to Eleven

At the risk of upsetting dad, I must relate a story. He stubbornly will not admit that he needs a hearing aid. Once upon a time he struggled to hear in situations where there was background noise. Those days are long gone. Now he he struggles all the time and generally just talks too loudly. This is all part of his campaign to pretend he's still in his 30s. I was 13 years old before I realized my dad was claiming to turn 29 for about the tenth consecutive year.

As an example, when he and little brother arrived, he excitedly prodded little brother to "tell Pat what that woman on the bus said!" After several eye rolls, little brother told me how an elderly lady on the bus from the airport to town asked whether they were in Ireland on vacation ("holiday"). Yes, little brother explained, he was in town to visit his brother who was studying at the college (me). Confusing the story, the woman pointed to dad and asked, "well, isn't this your brother here?" At the end of the story dad looks at me with that urgent 'how-about-that' look. I was reminded how, oftentimes, dad will introduce me to women he fancys as his brother.

"Did she actually get a good look at you?" I chided dad.

"To be fair, she was probably blind," he admitted, in a rare moment of self-deprecation.

Anyway, the story is about our trip to O'Connell's bar on the west side of town. Dad was on a bit of a high his entire time in Ireland, usually evidenced by his responding to a bartender's 'how are you' with something like 'tremendous!' or 'excellent!' As we walked along the beach on Galway Bay, we approached an old man with a cane and an overcoat. In a voice about four degrees too loud, my father essentially shouted at the man: "EVENING!" The man's head snapped back in a way that was probably dangerous for someone his age, and he hurried along with his cane, no doubt wondering why the strange American was mad at him.

"These people aren't as friendly as everyone says," my father said disgustedly.

When we arrived at O'Connell's I was a bit disappointed as the large barroom was almost empty. Two old men were at the bar and a quiet group were at a corner table. The attraction to O'Connell's is the extensive antiques collection scattered about the bar. The walls and ceiling are covered with odd items. It's a unique place that often has music and encourages dancing - it even has sawdust on its hardwood floors.

As we entered, again in a voice that was hard to believe he could muster without actually shouting, he said, "WHY IS THERE ALL THIS CRAP EVERYWHERE? AND WHY THE HELL IS THERE SNOW ON THE FLOOR?" Everyone in the bar stopped what they were doing to see the loud Yanks making their entrance.

Matching his volume, I answered, "WHEN WE GET YOU BACK TO THE HOME I'M GOING TO INSIST THEY ADJUST YOUR HEARING AIDS."

He was pretty mad, but it was worth it for the comedy. I wonder if he'll be more mad when he reads it in print...

Exchanging Money

Generally, don’t do it. Mostly because your ATM card works overseas and probably charges half the conversion fee that the Bureau of change does. That being said, here is another reason.

I have had a $100 bill for a while. If I was smart enough to follow my own advice, I would have saved it for use at home. But I've had it for a while, and thought it would be nice not to hit the bank account. So yesterday I walked by the bank branch which I know has a "Bureau of Change" at about ten after four. I walk up to the bank's door and? Locked. I look at the sign. Monday they're open until five, but Tuesday through Friday it's four. I walk away wondering about how I will adjust to America's rush-rush-hurry-hurry. Such is life in Ireland, I muse, and skip along home, figuring I can change the bill tomorrow morning on my way into town.

So this morning, a surprisingly bright, clear and warm day, I get over to the bank, only to find it closed. I look at the sign, again. The bank opens at ten. Okay, a bit annoying, but that's probably on me. I mean, I just assumed that a bank would open at nine (or before). No matter, there is a breakfast place across the street, why not enjoy a 'full Irish' for one of the last times? Blue sky, don't worry, be happy.

Shortly after ten I re-approach the bank. I stride to the door confidently, pull on it and . . . ? You guessed it, locked. Now I am like - WTF? I look around for assistance and notice, on a piece of letterhead stuck in the upper left hand corner of the door, where you'd expect to find today's rates, a Notice to Our Customers. On Thursday mornings, they wish to inform me, they will open an hour later so that employees may get up-to-date training. And further, they are sorry for the delay but I should remember that they are only doing this, in the end, so that they may provide the best possible service to me, the customer.

Judge Learned Hand once wrote, "it would be most irksome to be ruled by a bevy of Platonic guardians, even if I knew how to choose them, which I assuredly do not." Judge Judy once shouted: "don't piss on my leg and tell me it's raining!" I think both apply here. If you want to keep your bank branch closed for an extra hour, I can't say that I like it, but fine. I'm pretty sure you could get your employees on premises an hour earlier one day, or in shifts during lunch, or whatever. But that's beside the point: above all else, for the love of God, don't tell me it's for my own good. That really is irksome, you fat bag of fat.

I was kind of stuck. I was about halfway from home and had planned to change my money and spend the day sort of studying. I say sort of because I had a final at 2:30 which I was essentially prepared for, so it would be that sort of half-hearted re-reading of notes and outlines that wouldn't help me learn anything new but also would help keep it all in there. So, I walked around the strip mall for about half an hour and then waited outside the bank door. At least I would be first in line. And you better believe I read every single sign on that storefront.

Happily, the door opened at 10:59 and I went inside. The branch has four windows: one dedicated to customer service, one dedicated to the bureau of change, and two general ones. A girl waved from a general window. I approached and said, "well, really I need the bureau of change."

"Oh," she said in that vacant way that you know does not bode well. In fact, let's be honest: it bodes very badly. She turned around to whisper with someone in a cubicle, looked at her watch, and returned. Sonova. "She won't be in until noon."

I attempted to wither her with a glare. She smiled. "Noon?" I asked. She nodded. This was officially the end of the charm of this crap. I felt like a New Yorker.

Although completely under control, I said, "okay, here's the thing, though. You're not open past four except Friday, your gold-plated sign says you open at ten, but there's a random piece of paper saying every other lunar phase you're opening an hour late. I know because I read it sixteen times while waiting for you to open today. And you know what that sign doesn't say? It doesn't say the bureau of change is on another different random schedule." She gave me a look that I would say was about halfway to horrified. Now, I've been on the front line of customer service many times, so I do empathize. I said, "look, I understand you don't make policy here, but you might pass along that the sign ought to say the hours for the bureau of change as well, you know?"

As I was saying this last part, the manager walked by. "You just want change?" He said in that shouted whisper that says 'I'll do it this once.'

"That's right," says me. He jumped behind the change desk and clumsily converted my Ben Franklin to €77.75. But, he did it. So, to Barry at the Headford Road branch of the Bank of Ireland, thank you. And yes, I apologized to the teller, although she wouldn't have any of it.

I guess I am still in love with Ireland.

Cruel Fate

In anticipation of my toughest final on Tuesday and Little Brother and Dad's arrival on Monday, I spent the entire weekend studying European Community Law. Of course, these two days turned out to be the first time we had over 60 degrees and sun since the last Ice Age. And we didn't get one day of it, we got two.

In fact, on Saturday afternoon one of the roommates knocked on my door and said, "the boys and I are gonna get a few beers, sit by the river and watch incredibly beautiful Irish girls walk by in miniskirts and bare shoulders if you want to join us." Or something like that.

But instead, I stayed in and read. One of the cases was about whether it was a protectionist practice for England to heavily tax wines but not beers, especially when England produces no wines; that is, are they in competition? The European Court of Justice held that lighter and cheaper varieties of wine were in competition with beer, which got me to thinking about girls in miniskirts walking by the river drinking Buckfast, Ireland's answer to Boone's Farm. Why couldn't I be reading a case about circuit breakers or something?

Anyway it's over now and of course the rain is back. But I do have a few days to hang out with Little Brother and Dad, who have a very different idea of seeing Ireland than the Cottonheads, or really, anyone else. First off, they cannot pass a pub without checking it out. Do you know what it's like to try and walk through downtown Galway and not passing a pub? So we ping-ponged down Shop Street and once we stumbled out the other end, Little Brother asked about the pubs I had mentioned on the other side of the river. So we saw some of those, too. Yikes.

Also, based on this post, they are fascinated with pub bathrooms. Every time they return from one they report it to me as though it's as important as a Red Sox score.

"This one's got stainless steel urinals and no trough, very nice and clean."

"Another trough here, and you have to take a step up to use it so it's like you're on stage. Still very clean."

The one that took the urinal cake, so to speak, however, was Murphy's. They actaully made me go in and look even though I didn't need to use it. In fact, they photographed it. I am not making this up. At Murphy's they have installed urinals against the wall, but they have not removed the old trough behind them. So, as dad points out, you get your own urinal but no penalty if you miss. Brilliant!

Well I have to hurry off now to do some errands, since Little Brother threatened to cut today's tour of the Aran Islands short, since "there's so much to see in Galway."