"Just Words"
by Dwane Roanhorst
Copyright © 1999
What if it were true? What if words could kill? I wrote that brief. I researched it myself. I know what it said and suicide never occurred to me as an option. Any Justice who read it would be compelled to act, but I never imagined anything like that. She couldn't have known that the only way to defeat the writ was not to read the brief unless she read it first.
That was the magic of it. It was an archaic common law writ that demonstrated the very loophole it sought to close. It was said by some of the old masters that such a writ, if written correctly, could become self-executing. Through the mystery of words alone, all the powers of the universe could be brought to bear on a recalcitrant magistrate. The writ would become its own remedy. The magistrate would have no choice but to do the right thing.
The brief concerned a complex hearsay issue and, like a Rube Goldberg machine, was constructed to trigger a reaction that would reveal a procedural flaw in the rules of evidence that threatened the very foundations of our Republic.
The defendant was a prominent doctor, accused of contracting a Mafia hit on his estranged wife (who was, by the way, John Wayne's daughter). It was the biggest case in town at the time. The whole world was watching. Who could resist reading that brief? That would be tantamount to dereliction.
The law was clear. The doctor was being railroaded. Any Justice who read the brief would be compelled by operation of law to grant a hearing. Such a hearing would have exposed the chicanery and forced the prosecution's hand. With the fate of our very form of government at stake, their case would have crumbled.
But it didn't happen that way. "The best laid plans…" How it happened that she was the one to sign the order, I don't know. All we ever got was a post card saying the Court was refusing to read the petition and denying the writ without a hearing. Clearly, that was a denial of due process by the one person chosen above all others to keep things fair and square. But, without proof she'd actually read it, there was no remedy.
After that I began receiving invitations to important social functions. One concerned a Bar Mitzvah. It was there that I was introduced to her as the author of that brief. It was clear by the look on her face that she had not only read it, but also understood it, admired me for having written it, and despised herself for having acted the way she had.
There is now a building named after her and the legislature has changed the law concerning the introduction of evidence at preliminary hearings. The doctor's conviction was overturned on appeal and, though the panel remained one Justice short, their ruling did turn on prosecutorial misconduct. The use of such archaic writs, however, is now outlawed.
Was that what pushed her over the edge? Were the words so compelling that her refusal to act honestly in light of them caused her to self-destruct? What if words do have that power? Why would she choose self-destruction over compliance with the law? Why didn't I take that into account? Had she been so corrupted that she saw no other way out?
That night, when she shook my hand, I saw the truth in her eyes. She was the one and I was the one and, at that instant, we both knew that that had made all the difference.
Had she never expected to face me? Did she think it would not show? She was a Justice of the Court of Appeal. This was her bailiwick. It should have been obvious. She should have seen where she was headed before she was too far out to get back. That was her job. She was the one that was supposed to be leading us. Was she incompetent as well as corrupt, or had she just succumbed to political pressure and lied her way out?
She never appeared incompetent. I may have disagreed with a lot of her opinions, but she was no dummy. I remember when I first connected her face to her name. The Court of Appeal was being temporarily housed in our building while theirs was being remodeled. I must have seen her a hundred times on that elevator. She always kept a polite distance and never spoke to me, though she did carry herself with the utmost dignity. That made me feel like a part of the woodwork.
One time, my son came to the office and parked in what she, evidently, claimed was her private space. Parking, until then, had been on a first come first serve basis. The whole security system in the building was changed after that and her space was marked with bright orange stripes. Nothing was said, but everyone knew. I received a note from the management asking me to remind my visitors not to park in assigned spaces.
The bar mitzvah was about a year later. The brief had come in between. By then, the doctor was a defendant in a front-page criminal case as well as a Knight in the Holy Order of Hospitalers--an ancient society of healers who survived all the witch-hunts. What difference that made, I don't know. All I remember is being introduced to Her Honor, Madame Justice, over drinks, looking into her pale brown eyes and watching every drop of dignity drain away as she recognized me. The next time I heard her name she was dead.
Maybe it wasn't the brief. Maybe it was a bunch of things or maybe it wasn't even a suicide. There was no note. A .45 to the temple is pretty messy. I must have an overactive imagination. Words just can't be that powerful, can they? I don't write briefs anymore.
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