Unreasonable Doubt Update

Not once during the whole trial did I see or hear a gavel. This left me disillusioned about televised images of our legal system.

Medical exams and a work assignment have me squished for time. But I hope to at least wrap up the trial by this evening.
 Image: Capstone Education ePortfolio

Unreasonable Doubt II: A Pocketful of Koreans

Let us call the defendant "Mr. Pak." Mr. Pak was in his early thirties, tall, wearing a sharp-looking gray suit, no socks and running shoes. He and his female interpreter wedged into the witness box to testify. Mr. Pak's attorney was a middle-aged Korean with dark glasses who spoke heavily-accented English; not bad English but he often groped for words like a sleepy man fumbling for the alarm clock.

(I should note here that the city attorney was also of Korean heritage and spoke excellent English. Clearly the City of Los Angeles had determined they would not be out-Koreaned by anyone.)

Next to the witness stand was a bulletin board with a schematic of the apartment where the incident had taken place. The judge handed the defendant a laser pointer. The defendant fiddled around, at one instance turning it toward his face

Here the defense attorney dropped the ball.

He warned the defendant in English not to point the laser at his eyes. The defendant immediately flipped the pointer around and got the beam aimed at the schematic. (I'd like to say I noticed at the time, but one of the other jurors bagged that golden moment.)

So testimony began. Here the usual translating process was reversed. The defendant would hold forth in Korean while the interpreter in her high-pitched voice would relate events. 

 Mr. Pak came across as confident, even arrogant at times, but his thumbs twisted and mashed against each other like sumo opponents while his right foot tapped out a steady pneumatic cadence.

After I heard his testimony, I knew why he was nervous.

According to Mr. Pak he was beset by woes. His wife's brain had become soft as a rotten peach from too much cocaine. Mr. Pak wasn't above the occasional toot. But cocaine sometimes made him throw up and he'd go to bed chastened. However his nut wife would stay up all night snorting plate loads of blow and making her strange ululating sounds.

 One night she burst from the apartment, sprinting down the hall wailing like a high priest of Dagon in an H.P. Lovecraft tale. Poor Mr. Pak was forced to pursue and haul her back to their unit by her pony tail. He then flung her on the bed. This had the ring of admitting you pilfered copy paper from work to deflect charges of stealing several Xerox machines.

To get all that information on the record took most of an afternoon as there were objections, frequent side bars and at least two "strike that from the record." The judge was a business-like woman with long straight hair and a short fuse for awkward lines of questioning and any tangents that slowed down the process. She dogged both counsels to keep things moving. You got the impression the judge had rented out Department 46 for a wedding reception and needed all parties out by a certain time so she could string bunting and set up folding chairs.

On cross examination, the city attorney set out to ventilate Mr. Pak's story. But he was cagey and hid behind the translator like a running back shadowing a huge tackle.

"I do not understand that word."

"Could you repeat your question please?"

"I am not sure. Could you say that once more?"

"I do not know the word 'bruise.'"

I stopped taking notes and started doodling arrows with thick lines and shading.

At great length, the city attorney attempted to prove Mr. Pak was aware of—and had violated—a restraining order that instructed him to avoid his apartment.  But via the translator he was primed for that line of inquiry.

"The police gave me a paper. I could not read it. So I put it in my pocket."

"Why should  I tell my lawyer about a paper when I don't know what it is?"

"I don't read English very well."

(Unless there's a turkey club sandwich somewhere in the sentence.)

That night I dreamed I was talking to my wife through a Korean translator.

And we still weren't finished.

Tomorrow: Pak Up Your Worries

Image: zazzle.com & NewYork Magazine

Unreasonable Doubt

Last Monday I reported for jury duty at the Stanley Mosk Courthouse in downtown Los Angeles, hoping to hang out in the jury room, read all day and not get picked for a panel. Afterwards, I'd go home and forget about jury duty for the next 18 months to two years. The closest I've ever come to sitting on a panel was many years back when I made the cut at traffic court for a drunk driving case. But the defendant settled before trial—gutless wimp! Every since, I've sat in the juror room every couple of years, reading a damn thick book. Stacks of newspapers gave way around me to laptop cubicles, then WiFi and iPhones. But I remained the perennial jury duty wall flower, showing up for a day of reading with my thick library book.

Clara Shortridge-Foltz Criminal Justice Center

At first, Monday went as expected. I wasn't called for any morning panels. We broke for lunch. Afterwards, I resumed my reading. Suddenly about 40 names were called out including mine. We're being transferred to another courthouse further away from where our cars were parked. Apparently, the Clara Shortridge-Foltz Justice Center Building—also known as the Criminal Courts Building— ran out of jurors. Great. We're being sent to a legal meat grinder. Forty of us walked out into a bright sunny afternoon up to Temple, then east down past the LA Cathedral, across Hill Street, through a gauntlet of street folk that included a bald transvestite in women's platform shoes and a cadre of Informal Americans with super sized Styrofoam "donation" cups to the Criminal Courts Building and up to Department 46.

To my surprise and discomfort, I was sworn in on a panel at Superior Court. Our case involved seven misdemeanor counts that included spousal abuse, battery, intimidation, imprisonment, violation of restraining order plus damaging a cell phone thrown in for good measure. (That's what you get for not taking a plea bargain.) I didn't want to sit in a room with a bunch of strangers and decide seven counts. My fondest wish was that the defendant would do the right thing by me and settle.


But no. Not only wouldn't he settle but he claimed not to understand English very well. That meant a translator ghosted everything said by anybody in the courtroom—judge, clerk, bailiff, city attorney, defense attorney, witnesses—from English into Korean. There were two translators and they tagged in and out like wrestlers, warming the seat next to the defendant and keeping the air filled with muttered Korean. It was distracting. You never really got used to it.

Basically, the case came down to this: the victim said her husband punched her lights out one morning with a closed fist, smothered her with a pillow, restrained her until she promised not to call the cops, released her, then chased her into the bathroom, grabbed her cell phone and played keep away until she again promised not to call the cops. She promised and he let her leave.

Once outside she called the cops.

The defendant said via translator that his wife was a crazy cocaine addict who made weird glottal sounds as if she were speaking in tongues. He had accidentally hugged her too hard and that was what had caused the victim's facial injuries. Also his right hand suffered from a preexisting condition that would prevent him from ever punching his wife but not earning a living as a musician.

In addition, the defendant wore a sharp looking gray suit but no socks and running shoes. Where the heck were his socks? Unfortunately you are under orders not to discuss the case with anybody including fellow jurors. To my knowledge, everybody on the panel clammed up. We never discussed the sock angle. Now my fellow jurors are gone and I'm left alone with my memories.

On Thursday afternoon I was at lunch in a nearby food court waiting for my Quiznos salad special. I glanced next to me and there were the defendant and his attorney. They didn't recognize me, but I heard the defendant speaking pretty confident English. Granted, the Quiznos menu isn't exactly the works of Thomas Aquinas but for a guy who was burning up two translators he sounded like he could sling around a few good English sentences.

But you can't share that with anyone. And when it's time to deliberate, you can't use it because it's outside the evidence and testimony presented in court and they're all you get to judge the defendant. So no socks and OK English. These remained locked inside of me like valuable jewels kept deep in a bank vault guarded by goblins.

Witnesses came and went; there was cross and re-direct and inquiries and muttered Korean droning on and on. There were cops and a paramedic and a victim friend and a doctor who testified for the defendant, arms folded tightly across his chest as if posing for a painting to be titled "hostile witness."

The court provided you with note pads. You could take notes but had to leave them in the courtroom. The juror sitting next to me used his notebook to doodle an intriguing series of thick arrows along with parallel pencil strokes throwing off shadows. I wondered if he would be thoughtful and wise during deliberations. (I found out.)

Tomorrow: A Pocketful of Koreans

Image: Wickipedia and Chow

So Long, wee Earl Kress

Tom Ruegger has a post up on Earl Kress who just passed away from cancer. A nubbin of a man but with a good heart, Earl had been around animation so long that he used to TYPE scripts on a TYPEWRITER. He wrote animated moves and performed voices and pretty much did everything in the animation industry that a creative guy could do. I'll always remember him sitting in his office at Warner Bros. cranking out scripts wearing a repetitive stress brace on his wrist and forearm. While making shows we'd always say "On film forever" to remind ourselves to pay attention to the details.  Earl leaves behind a big old batch of work that will be 'on film' in one form or another for years to come. Rest in peace, Mr. Kress.
Here's a piece from an Animaniacs Christmas episode Earl wrote called "Little Drummer Warners." 

h/t: CillalisTheSeller

UPDATE: The Animation Guild remembers Earl. 

Jury Duty and Traffic

Jury duty is at least interesting. Morning traffic from my house to downtown Los Angeles is like sitting on a high branch with bees in your shorts—unpleasant and precarious. Yesterday, I saw a man flip out because some guy had edged in front of him. He whipped his car into the next lane just so he could violently cut back in front of the guy. All the time, he's leaning on the stinking horn. Perhaps all the shootings blamed on road rage really have nothing to do with crazed drivers, but are the actions of bystanders administering street justice to savage dopes. I hope so.

Tom Ruegger Remembers

In the beginning......there were a number of people responsible for the creation of Tiny Toons and Anamaniacs. Tom Ruegger says who the heck they were.

Image: Commentarama

Sprint to the End of Health Care

Not necessarily forever, but I'm nearing the completion of my COBRA-extended Motion Picture health care at September's end. I'm still in physical therapy for my shoulder, undergoing more skin cancer treatments, and have teeth cleaning on the near horizon. While I'm at it, I should probably shoe horn in another physical. Starting in October, I will simply will myself to remain healthy. An underutilized, cost-effective method, force-of-will treatments will be the norm for the foreseeable future.

As for my shoulder, it's perhaps a month away from being fully healed. I can do most things except trick pool shots or scrub above my lumbar vertebrae in the shower. But I'm getting there. And no one really minds that I'm strolling around town with dirty vertebrae. This is Los Angeles where such things often pass without comment.