Trial bubble rudely punctured by guilty verdict

After deliberating over three hours, the jury in our case returned a guilty verdict. The time after a case is submitted to the jury may be the most harrowing part of the process. All of the thinking, strategizing, and debating of trial strategy is over. All motions have been filed, questions asked, and arguments made. The only thing left to do is sit and wait, wondering what the twelve people selected will do with the case.

It's too early at that point to armchair quarterback your performance - that will come in the days and weeks to follow. Your mind is strangely empty, like the a computer busy backing up data that can't be bothered to process any new information just yet. "CPU usage at 100%" - "This program not responding" - these are the error messages of trial brain. Then the word comes from the bailiff that the jury has reached a verdict.

Out of the entire practice of law, the few seconds before a jury verdict is read are the most terrifying, hopeful, and strange. It's hard to describe the feeling, but disconnected or out-of-body might be a good starting point. Your mind races as the jury enters the room - is the body language good or bad? Are they making eye contact? Do those things even mean anything?

Even when the evidence of guilt seems fairly overwhelming, I think all criminal defense lawyers carry a secret hope in their heart that it might be a two word verdict, despite all logic to the contrary. It's not naiveté, but rather a hope that maybe our better qualities of reason or compassion might prevail. Sometimes it's just not warranted or likely, but I keep hoping all the same.

On the Road in Erath County

One of the great things about this job is the strange places it takes you. Tonight I'm hunkered down in the (surprisingly nice) Hampton Inn in Stephenville, Texas, preparing for jury trial tomorrow. Being in any trial is like floating temporarily in an alternate reality bubble - things move differently, the usual noise in your life fades into the background, and nothing really exists but the mini-world of the courtroom. This can be an unbalancing feeling when it collides with the day-t0-day ringing of the phone, email, and other responsibilities known collectively as "your life," which by the way, rudely continues to barrage you with little care for the sanctity or necessity of the trial bubble.

Which is why trying a case in another county is so great. Hotel rooms contain none of the to-dos or distractions of home. The pile of work sitting on my desk is, well . . . on my desk 200 miles away. The laundry I didn't fold or the groceries I didn't buy will just have to wait. In a profession where there's always something more to do and you're often pulled in different directions at once, out-of-county trials give you a chance to fully devote your attention and concentration to one task - a rare luxury in a multi-tasking world.

Here, the trial bubble reigns king. Lawyers sleep peacefully by 10:00 p.m. in their hotel rooms. Coffee brews by 6:00 a.m. to awaken and energize. And the outside world relents - at least until I check my voicemail.

Appellate Briefing Proves I'm not a Geek

Well, not a total one, anyway. Having just finished an appellate brief to the Third Court of Appeals in Austin, I am relieved to find that I do not enjoy writing appellate briefs. I take this as a positive sign that while I am a geek in some (well, many) ways, there remains some residual "coolness" in my personality that wrinkles its nose at the lengthy and technical process of appealing a criminal conviction.

The process of appellate work is itself an invitation to stick a fork in the middle of one's forehead. It begins by reading the transcript of the trial you just lost (rub salt in the wound, eh?) and making notes on everything you (and the State) did wrong. After that self-esteem boosting exercise, one turns to gleeful task of trying to find case law that is not adverse to your position, which turns out to be a considerable task given that appellate courts go out of their way to avoid overturning a conviction that would give a criminal defendant another shot at trial. After cobbling together the available caselaw, it's time to park it and write. And write. And write.

The finished product does of course, make you proud. This appeal involved a conviction of a Class C misdemeanor for which the maximum punishment is $500.00. The amount of time involved in appealing the case far exceeded the actual fine assessed, but you know, right is right. And appeals are for righting injustices, no matter how small. To our client, and hopefully the Third Court, it's no small thing at all.