Fury Bailey - Personal Injury - Wrongful Death Attorneys

WITHERING UNDER JUDGE REVELLE'S GIMLET EYE

By William S. Bailey

Fury Bailey

710 – 10 th Avenue East

Seattle , WA 98102

(206) 726-6600

billb@furybailey.com

Speaking as someone who came of age before the current era of preventive dentistry, there is a similar reaction of fear and anxiety in me triggered by either a trip to the dentist or a court appearance. If you saw me in the dental chair for a routine cleaning, you'd assume that I was in an advanced stage of rigor mortis, given the extreme muscle rigidity present. While I have learned to disguise the physiologic affects of fear in the courtroom to a far better degree through practice and conditioning, internally my emotions usually are in a state of fight or flight whenever I am in a courtroom.

The scariest moments in professional life often occur at the beginning of the learning curve, a time when youth and inexperience give no clue of what to expect. This is what happened when I stepped into Judge George Revelle's courtroom as a new public defender in November 1976 for my first sentencing hearing. There was no training period for new hires at the public defender. I got a case load and learned to survive in the jungle very quickly thereafter, in true Darwinian fashion. My predecessor on this file before Judge Revelle had pled out the client on multiple counts of shoplifting, with no jail time recommended by the prosecutor, (provided that she continue to participate in drug rehabilitation and pay a $200 fine). The cryptic, vague transfer memo to me in the file gave no clue that this court appearance was anything other than routine, "Should be no problem." I was to repeat this phase during the course of the hearing on this case more times than a transcendental mediation student does a mantra.

In the wonderful world of public defender misdemeanor practice, whatever justice exists is often, as the saying goes, meted out in the halls. I met my client for the first time in the hallway outside Judge Revelle's courtroom an hour ahead of time. While this was probably generous by public defender standards, I wanted to have the chance to get some sense of this client before I plunged into the unknown world of my first sentencing hearing.

My sense of compassion was quickly triggered as the client carried an air of confused vulnerability around her like the perpetual foggy shroud on the moors. In some sense, the multiple shoplifting charges had forced this otherwise intelligent, attractive 30 year old mother of two children to come to terms with a serious drug addiction problem. But until this proceeding was over, the ghosts of her past could not be put completely to rest. The client was so visibly unhinged by the prospect of the sentencing, I spent most of the hour out in the hallway reassuring her that it would all work out (mentally chanting the "Should be no problem" mantra that my predecessor left on the file transfer memo).

While I had called the prosecutor several times to confirm that "the deal" that my predecessor struck in this case was still on, trying to put an overworked prosecutor in telephone communication with an overworked public defender was a near impossibility (with faxes and voice mail still off in the future). So I was vastly relieved to have a chance to catch the prosecutor in the hall five minutes before court was to start. My newly hired public defender bias was that all prosecuting attorneys were hard asses inclined to say "No" as a knee jerk to anything proposed by a public defender. My relief was considerable when the prosecutor was actually a very pleasant fellow who confirmed that the plea bargain was on and that he would speak on behalf of the recommendation.

While the mystery of the prosecutor was solved, I still had no clue whatsoever about what to expect from Judge George H. Revelle. My predecessor had not communicated one way or the other how this plea bargain might sit with this particular judge.

As I was to find out later, in fact, Judge Revelle was a jurist that many local lawyers avoided whenever possible. Though a very pleasant man off the bench, whenever he was on duty, he was never known to smile, joke or engage in any behavior even remotely approaching the lighthearted. He was as grim as an old school Presbyterian deacon and the Lord High Executioner rolled into one.

My client and I marched into the courtroom with the prosecutor when the bailiff unlocked the door shortly before court was to begin. The interior was somewhat disorienting, not unlike sets on surrealistic German silent films. I realized why after a time, there were no square corners in the room -- everything was circular, revolving around an arena in the center. I later learned that Judge Revelle championed the cause of these circular modular courtrooms, believing they maximized communication.

I looked at the calendar for the afternoon and saw that my case was listed first. Once inside the courtroom, my client began to visibly wilt and droop like a cut flower out of water on a hot day. You didn't need to be a student of body language to see that she was absolutely undone by the prospect of this moment of reckoning.

The white noise of the heating/ventilating blower in the background was suddenly broken by a sharp smack on the gavel. The bailiff gave the traditional accompanying cry of "Oyez, Oyez . . .", a regular part of the pageantry in Judge Revelle's strictly orchestrated courtroom protocol. The Judge walked out in a deliberate, uniform processional pace. From the moment he entered the room, there was no doubt who was in charge. I could feel the trapped animal type of panic start to tighten the knot of anxiety in my stomach to strangulation levels. I found myself unable to continue with the "should be no problem" calming mantra by this point. My instincts were all screaming that there was going to be a problem here, a big one. I wasn't sure what it was going to be, but I knew it wasn't good news for me.

Franklin Delano Roosevelt said in his 1932 inaugural speech, "We have nothing to fear but fear itself." While this may be true as an abstract principle, in this courtroom on this day, fear itself seemed a very large force to be reckoned with.

After taking his seat, Judge Revelle spoke in a low, even voice, approaching a monotone. His eyes drilled right through whoever he looked at and there was absolutely no hint of animation in his face. "Are the parties ready to proceed with this sentencing?" "Why -- why-- yes, your Honor." By this point, I thought my client was going to faint. I watched her swaying unsteadily on her feet. Part of me was secretly hoping she would topple over giving me a reprieve from this ominous feeling growing inside of me. But she didn't.

Without any further word, Judge Revelle began slowly, methodically thumbing through each piece of paper in the court file. His face did not show not even the slightest flicker of emotion. The silence in the room was deafening. The crinkle of each turning page was like a thunderbolt in my ears.

I would see this ritual many times in the course of my later appearances before Judge Revelle. Whether he consciously realized it or not, what he was doing was determining which of the two lawyers in this case was going to be "it," the target and object lesson for his near compulsive passion for attention to detail. While it only took him about five minutes to examine the court file, time in fact did seem to stand still.

Finally, Judge Revelle raised his head slowly from the file review and pivoted in my client's direction. He turned the "Revelle look" on her -- it was like getting stared down by God. "Young lady, do you realize that while the prosecuting attorney and your lawyer have agreed on a sentencing recommendation, I am not obligated to follow it. I can do whatever I determine to be the appropriate sentence, up to six months in jail on each count. This notwithstanding, do you still wish to enter a plea of guilty to the charges?" My client's facial expression suddenly resembled livestock at a meat packing plant after they are hit on the head with a sledge hammer. She turned to me pleadingly for reassurance, but I couldn't even look at her. Operating from sheer adrenaline alone, she managed to get out a shaky "Yes."

Abruptly, Judge Revelle pivoted his head 10° more to his left, focusing on me . He said nothing for 10 seconds and did not even so much as blink. His face was a flesh colored death mask. "Counsel (he never called lawyers by their names, ever), where is the plaintiff's pre-sentencing report? I do not see it in the court file and it is a requirement of this court." A mental panic ensued inside my brain, "Oh God, nobody told me . . . How do I get out of this . . . Help!" Judge Revelle continued to stare at me, waiting for the answer. My mouth went as dry as the desert floor in a blazing mid-day summer's heat. My lips started to move, but no sound came out initially. Finally I managed to stammer, "I'm very sorry your honor. I got this file from somebody else. I didn't know . . ." Judge Revelle was hearing none of this and he cut me off, "We cannot proceed without this counsel, you are not prepared in the proper manner." Then he just gave me the gimlet eye and remained as impassive as a stone gargoyle on a cathedral.

My Catholic guilt was in full flower. What was I to do, prostrate myself face down on the floor as they do in monasteries and beg forgiveness? Volunteer to wear studded horse hair underwear for a week? What? Just when both client and lawyer were about to melt down in unison on the courtroom floor, Judge Revelle turned to his bailiff and said, "We will continue this for two weeks. All required documents will be submitted one week before. We are at recess."

My mind is amnesic for how I actually got out of the courtroom. All my body functions seemed to be gripped by a strange paralysis. At some point, back out in the hallway, away from Judge Revelle's withering gaze, my adrenaline levels lowered enough to allow some semblance of normal body and brain function. I turned to my client and said, "I'm going to my office right now and do the best pre-sentence report that this judge has ever seen." I spent the next three hours getting this lady's entire life story, adding a few Dickens-like twists of poignancy for good measure. This drafting exercise was beneficial for both lawyer and client, as it proved to both of us that I wasn't an inarticulate mute and at least capable of a reasonable level of advocacy on paper.

When we returned to court two weeks later, somehow I had the confidence that everything might work out after all. Judge Revelle had forced me to rise to the occasion with the best level of work I was capable of. This brought with it a certain peace of mind that had been missing from the fiasco of the first hearing. It was the same ritual in Judge Revelle's court -- "Oyez, oyez . . . " the page-by-page review of the court file and the withering gaze of the judge. But this time, I had made the grade by submitting the required pre-sentence report, one that met or exceeded the Court's high standards. With no fanfare, the Court looked up at my client and said, "The court will follow the sentencing recommendation of counsel." As a last word, Judge Revelle looked at me pointedly and said, "Pre-sentence reports are required for a good reason -- you can't assume a judge knows anything, he probably doesn't."

I was to appear in front of Judge Revelle many times until he retired in January, 1983. I am proud to say that I was never "it" in his courtroom again. Once was enough!

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