“Please step to the podium, Mr. Whitfield,” Ramone said.
Whitfield stood up and stretched his arms downward, forcibly, as if he were bracing for some form of sudden impact. He then walked to the podium, placed his notes on the stand, and fumbled with his reading glasses.
“Mr. Whitfield,” Ramone said. “You’re here without an attorney. Is that correct?”
“Yes, Your Honor.”
“And you prepared the complaint by yourself, is that also correct?”
“That is true, Your Honor.”
“No attorney helped you. You sought no legal assistance from any member of the New York bar. Correct?”
“Correct, Your Honor.”
“Before we proceed, Mr. Whitfield, do you wish to retain counsel? If so, we can adjourn today’s hearing so that you may have an opportunity to hire an attorney. Would you like to avail yourself of this opportunity?”
“No, Your Honor.”
“I have a hard-and-fast rule with pro se litigants, Mr. Whitfield, which is this: I have no rules which differ from the rules I apply to any member of the bar appearing before me. I want you to understand the consequences of this rule.”
“I think I do, Your Honor.”
“I’m not sure you do, frankly, but even if you do, I will repeat them, for your benefit and for the benefit of any other individual who would consider appearing before me pro se.”
Justice Ramone gathered up the papers in our file, stacked them loudly into a neat pile, and placed the pile down roughly on her desk.
“All attorneys appearing before me, which would include any individuals representing themselves, are expected to be fully cognizant of all aspects of their case. This requires complete familiarity with not only the facts of the case but also the law. Do you understand this?”
“My son is dead,” Whitfield replied. “And this man is responsible.”
Ramone sat back, her black robe flattened against and merged with the dark back of her chair, and all we could see were her head and hands, disconnected and disembodied, yet moving in a coordinated fashion. She closed her eyes and stopped breathing. The courtroom was filled with a painful, expectant silence. With her eyes closed, Ramone spoke:
“Your case is dismissed,” she said, softly but not sympathetically.
Whitfield came uncomfortably close to shouting. “Your Honor, you cannot allow . . .”
“I’m going to ask that you not speak and allow me to state my ruling on the record, and then I may have other comments, and then, and only then, will you be given an opportunity to speak, if indeed you wish to have such an opportunity. Can we agree to this protocol, Mr. Whitfield?”
Ramone still had not opened her eyes, and I could see that Whitfield was disoriented. “I’ll . . . abide by your instructions,” he said.
“I will not prolong this, Mr. Whitfield, at least not here, not now. I will issue a written decision and order in due course, where I will explain in detail the basis for my ruling. But in summary, your complaint fails to state any cause of action that is recognizable in New York law. And with respect, it doesn’t even attempt to do so.”
Ramone then opened her eyes and fixed her gaze on Whitfield.
“I could go into a lot of detail about the elements of the claims that are vaguely suggested by the language in the complaint and how they are unsupported, even if we were to accept the truth of each and every one of the allegations. But that would prolong your pain, and I do not wish to engage in such a process in this public setting. This case is dismissed, with prejudice, decision, and order to follow.”
Whitfield was about to speak, but he choked back his words. I admired him in that moment. He kept quiet, not because he was intimidated by Ramone, but because even then, he had a sixth sense about the need to preserve some measure of dignity. He gathered up his papers and, without acknowledging the judge, began to walk away from the podium. I also stood and prepared to walk out of the courtroom.
“I’m not finished,” Ramone said.
I was surprised to hear this, because while I believed that Ramone, up to this point, had been relatively gentle, there seemed to be nothing further to add to her emphatic ruling. What more was left to be said? Any further commentary would be piling on. We both stood before her, perplexed.
“I would like to ask both of you to sit down,” she said.
Whitfield scraped his chair back noisily and sat down gruffly. I circled the chair and sat down softly.
“As a courtesy to me,” she said, “I want to understand a few things. And I emphasize that this would only be as a courtesy to me.” That confused me. What was there to understand? The case was over. For all intents and purposes, it no longer existed. Whitfield could appeal, but he had no chance of prevailing. Ramone’s decision was final, and it was unimaginable that she would reverse herself within a matter of seconds, with no oral argument.
Ramone turned to me. “Counselor, would you mind standing? You can remain at the counsel’s table, but I’d like to ask you to stand.”
I stood up slowly, assembled my notes in front of me, and flicked off the top of my pen. Was I going to need to take notes?
“You’re an attorney at Canaan & Cassidy, counselor, correct?”
“I’m on a leave of absence, Your Honor.”
“Are you still receiving compensation from the firm?”
My stomach clenched, and I pushed down a burning liquid migrating through my throat. Where was she going with this?
“I am receiving compensation, Your Honor.”
“How much?”
“How much . . . money am I being paid?”
“What part of my question are you having trouble comprehending, counselor?” Ramone asked.
“Your Honor, it’s not that I’m having trouble . . .”
“Perhaps I’m guilty of a lack of clarity. Let’s review what we’ve established so far. You’re an attorney on a paid leave of absence from Canaan & Cassidy. And so my question is this: How much money are you being paid by the firm during this leave of absence?”
“Your Honor, I would like not to answer this question . . . it’s not really relevant . . .”
“Of course, it’s not relevant to the motion, counselor, especially when you consider that the complaint has been dismissed. Now that the case no longer exists, we can safely assume that everything that we’re about to talk about now is completely and totally irrelevant to your motion to dismiss. That much should be clear to you.”
“It is clear, Your Honor, it’s just that . . .”
“Surely, you’re not refusing to answer my questions based on some legal objection, are you?”
“Your Honor . . .”
“Are you asserting your Fifth Amendment right not to answer questions?”
“That’s not anything I’m thinking about . . .”
“You’re not a witness in any proceeding. You’re not even a witness in this proceeding, because, as I’ve said, this proceeding no longer exists. But I suppose that you could still assert your Fifth Amendment right, or some other objection, if you believe that such a tactic is necessary or appropriate. I’ll tell you what . . .”
Ramone then abruptly leaned over to converse with her law secretary. The word “tactic” hung in the air. I stole a fleeting glance toward Whitfield, who was stunned but hopeful. I looked behind me and found a packed courtroom of attorneys waiting for their motions to be called. No one was consulting outlines or notes. No one was engaging in whispered conversations with each other.
“I suppose,” Ramone continued, “I suppose we can dispense with questions concerning the amount of your compensation on your paid leave of absence, as long as we can stipulate that from the date of the commencement of your leave of absence up to today’s date, you have been receiving compensation from Canaan & Cassidy. Can we stipulate to that, counselor?”
“That is the case, Your Honor.”
“And can we also stipulate that, although I’ve posed the question, you have de
cided not to provide this court with information concerning the amount of your compensation while on leave, correct?”
“Your Honor . . .”
“I’ll take that as a yes. Let’s move on. Are you familiar with an individual named Mark Lindquist?”
“Your Honor, I’m having some trouble understanding this line of questioning, the purpose . . .”
“I read a letter, counselor, in New York magazine, addressed to the editor, and purportedly written by Mark Lindquist. I assume you’re familiar with this letter.”
“I am, Your Honor.”
“There were four words in that letter that caught my attention, counselor. And those four words are ‘I met Will Alexander.’ Is this true? Did you meet Mark Lindquist?”
Even in the face of this onslaught, I had the presence of mind to consider my options. I could refuse to answer any more questions, and I might have even been within my rights. But this course of action bothered me. I had nothing to hide, and I therefore decided to stop my hemming and hawing and just answer her damn questions. Surely, she would soon tire of this pointless inquiry. I made it a point to meet her stare directly.
“Yes, Your Honor, I have met Mark Lindquist.”
“How many times?”
“Perhaps three or four times, Your Honor.”
“And when did these meetings take place?” Ramone threw this question out in a desultory fashion. She began fiddling with her laptop and started reviewing the contents of the file for the next case. Whatever she was up to, she had grown weary of the exercise and was about to dismiss both of us, leaving us to guess at the peculiarity of her inquiry.
“I believe the first time we met was in September of last year, and then we met a few other times after that.”
“What did the two of you talk about?”
“I would like not to answer that question, Your Honor. I believe that such conversations would be privileged . . .”
“Privileged? Your communications were privileged, and that’s why you’re not answering my question? But here’s the thing, counselor. The existence of the attorney-client privilege requires the existence of an attorney-client relationship. When you met Lindquist, you must have been acting as his lawyer.”
“I was not his lawyer, Your Honor. I never have been.”
“But you said that your conversations were privileged. A justice of the Supreme Court of the State of New York asked you a question, in open court. And you answered. You have been a member of the New York bar for years, so you, among most others, know the importance of choosing your words carefully and accurately when responding to an inquiry from the court.”
“I misspoke, Your Honor.”
“Really? You provided me a reason for not answering a question. Your reason could be a good one, by the way, if true. Since you’re refusing to answer my questions, and since you’ve chosen a potentially valid reason not to answer, I have to assume that the valid reason you provided to me was carefully thought out and entirely accurate.”
I saw where this was going. I had to admire the skill, the stealth, displayed by Ramone in maneuvering the proceedings to this point.
“You met Lindquist in your capacity as an attorney at the same time that you were affiliated with the law firm representing his adversary in an active, ongoing litigation.”
“Your Honor, I would like to provide some context . . .”
“You’ll have every opportunity to provide all the context you want, counselor. I don’t make decisions on behalf of the Disciplinary Committee; I only make referrals where appropriate. So for now, I’ll provide the context. And a view of the broader context would show, if I have my dates correct, that when you first met Lindquist, you weren’t even on a leave of absence from your firm. You were an active participant in the firm’s business, and, indeed, an active participant in the very litigation commenced by Lindquist.”
“This is unfair, Your Honor—there’s more to it than this, if I may have an opportunity to explain. I absolutely did not provide any legal advice to Lindquist. I was . . . helping him with a matter regarding his . . . health.”
Ramone leaned forward, detaching her thin frame from the back of her chair. She resembled an electrical appliance turned on without supervision, spinning erratically. “Did I just hear a waiver of the attorney-client privilege? No, it can’t be that, because the privilege does not belong to you. It belongs to your client. So, perhaps what we all just witnessed was not a waiver but rather a violation of the attorney-client privilege. Does Lindquist know you’re in court right now, divulging the content of your communications with him?”
“Your Honor, these conversations . . . my meetings, had nothing to do with the law. I was helping him with his medical condition.”
“Are you a physician, counselor?”
I sat down, a serious breach of protocol, but even Ramone understood the movement not as one of defiance but of deflation.
“I’ll go out on a limb and suggest that you are neither a physician, psychologist, social worker, priest, rabbi, or anything else that would cloak your conversations with another individual with any kind of legal privilege. So your claim of privilege, on which you based your refusal to answer my question, can only be based on the attorney-client privilege.”
“This is not the right forum, Your Honor. With respect, I believe it may be improper for you to compel me to answer these questions.”
Ramone threw up her hands in mock defense. “When did I ever compel you to answer these questions? I made it very clear that this entire line of inquiry was based on a request for courtesy. You could have refused to answer any of these questions, and I would have been without authority to compel you.”
Ramone then leaned forward and lowered her voice to the kind of whisper that permeates more broadly than shouting: “But I will tell you this, counselor. Having chosen to answer, you took on an obligation to answer the questions truthfully, as we are in open court. Did you know that fortune telling for a fee is against the law in the state of New York?”
“That is ridiculous, Your Honor. I have never told anyone’s fortune, in this or any other state. I ask the court for permission to leave.”
“Do what you want, counselor, but at your leisure, you might want to read carefully section 165.35 of the New York Penal Code. This would be under Title J: Offenses Involving Theft; Article 165: Other Offenses Relating to Theft.”
Whitfield banged the table in front of him. “Yes!” he shouted. “That’s it. He stole from me, from Josh’s mother . . .”
Ramone held up her hand, which was hardly the punitive measure I would have expected for such an unauthorized outburst. “The title of the statute is a bit misleading, because the law reaches far beyond what we would typically understand as fortune telling. Here’s the part that’s most interesting: ‘A person is guilty of fortune telling when, for a fee or compensation which he directly or indirectly solicits or receives, he . . . holds himself out as being able, by claimed or pretended use of occult powers . . . to exorcise, influence, or affect evil spirits or curses.’ Isn’t this exactly what you’re doing, counselor? As I read the press accounts, and as I read through this complaint, it seems to me that you, a licensed attorney no less, hold yourself out as being able to expel the demons which afflict us all to one degree or another.”
“I intend to leave, Your Honor, and will do so now, unless Your Honor orders me to remain.” I began packing up all of my motion papers and belongings.
“You’re free to do as you please, counselor. I, on the other hand, operate under stricter burdens. I have not reached any conclusions and frankly may be without authority to assess sanctions. But I do have the right, or better put, I have the legal obligation, not to mention the moral obligation, to make the appropriate report to the Disciplinary Committee. I can think of three of four provisions from the Code of Professional Responsibility that you have almost certainly violated.”
I finished organizing my materials, and I walked through the wooden
gate toward the courtroom exit.
“Counselor,” Ramone said.
At first, I thought Ramone might be speaking to an attorney for the next case, and I continued to walk toward the door. But Ramone called out again, with a stinging intensity that blacked out noise and thought. “Mr. Alexander!”
I turned and readied myself for a withering stare, but she was looking down at papers on her desk.
“I apologize, Mr. Alexander, there was one more item.”
I was near the exit. The expected protocol would have been to resume my seat. But I remained standing, convinced that whatever fate awaited me would not be softened by a continuing adherence to convention. I glanced erratically around the courtroom, searching for scraps of selfrespect as all the attorneys’ eyes were focused on me. I had a sickening vision of a boxer being hit hard and falling down, the fight over, except that the opponent delivered one final shot, brutal and unnecessary.
Ramone continued to flip through papers on her desk. “As you all know, I don’t take kindly to letters concerning judicial matters addressed directly to me. This is a court of law. I don’t adjudicate through correspondence. Matters are brought to my attention through proper order. Pleadings. Motions. Scheduled hearings and conferences.” She then stared out at the courtroom. “In fact, I detest letters to the court, especially those that masquerade as procedure. Some judges differ with me on this, but I think that letters are a cheap way to score a drive-by hit on the opposition, by casually attempting to manipulate the court while at the same time excusing yourself from the burden of strict formality.”
A penetrating hostility filled the room, each attorney undoubtedly experiencing the brunt of an individually tailored accusation.
“Take this letter I received from one Jessica Bryant, for example,” Ramone said, her voice suddenly playful. “Imagine this. An individual who is neither a lawyer nor a party in any litigation before me, seeking to deliver what might be considered a cheap shot to a licensed attorney appearing before me today.” She turned to me suddenly. “Were you aware of this letter, counselor?”
The Reluctant Healer Page 28