Brownsville, Part 4
Posted by: Ed Chernoff
May 16, 2008

The cop had asked the most unusual question that I had ever received from someone in that position, but in my anger, I didn't hear him the first time. So he asked again. "Is it a big drug trial?" he repeated, his face genuinely earnest. My first thought was that he was kidding. Wasn't that what he did for a living, harassing motorists like me for the gamble of a drug find? Why the hell would he be interested in our trial? Aren't drugs what he does? But this cop looked at me as if he was watching his own reality show, and Matt and I were the actors. He really, really wanted to know.

It took me a while to get it. Some trial involving drug big wigs would all be foreign to him. He wouldn't actually know a "big" drug case. His busts would generally be uneventful. With the exception of the large load, which would have been identified by a CI early and worked from the border up, he wouldn't really be involved in anything momentous. Even in that situation, the local cops would only be called out to make the traffic stop, and then brushed aside as the agents who worked the case rushed in to do the search and close the investigation. His normal stops would largely be at the expense of the poor courier, or the mere mortal making a cash run into Mexico, whose load could be seized and registered, but never resulting in much of a case.

Because he really wanted to know, and because I felt vaguely famous, I really wanted to tell him. "Yeah", I offered, lowering my voice to accentuate the importance of what I was about to say, "It's a big deal. A really big deal." I half expected him to high-five me. He turned to his street partner and nodded, I assumed to share in appreciation for this important moment. I egged them on. "I really can't tell you any more, but I'm sure you will read about it in the papers." I almost winked. They both nodded solemnly.

My anger was gone, and clearly the officers no longer had any interest in searching my vehicle. Assuming our meeting had ended on a high note, I reached out to the officer for my driver's license. He mistook my reach, and instead of giving me my license, he took my hand firmly and shook it. "Good Luck", he said looking me in the eyes, "we are sort of all in this together, you know." "Yeah", I said haltingly, "I really guess we are."

******

Through the window of the courtroom door, I could see the seven dwarfs huddled together. They sat at one table, hunched inward as if they were throwing dice. Grumpy was doing most of the talking, but Greedy also had a thing or two to say. The rest stared into the center with a quiet resolution. Matt and I already knew the fix was in, but exactly how fixed was a mystery. That question was answered when we shuffled through the door with our wheeled boxes. Grumpy and Greedy turned their heads to offer a patronizing smile. The rest looked guiltily into their briefcases or at each other.

"Good Morning", I said to no one in particular. Being Matt, he would have no part in contrivances. He rolled his box around mine until he had a full frontal of the dwarfs. "So", he asked, throwing his hands out to the side and thrusting his groin forward, "Which one of you is going to fuck us today?" I had to laugh. The dwarfs offered up their denials. At the end of the cacophony, Grumpy spoke up. "You are the one's fucking us!", he said, "We didn't want to cooperate but you won't plead!"

As I began unloading and organizing, pulling my trial materials around to a table parallel to the dwarfs, I gestated Grumpy's comment. I have to admit, I was baffled. How in heavens name could our refusal to cooperate with the United States Government serve to fuck anybody? Was I entering a parallel universe, where the laws of gravity and governmental back dealing didn't apply? If we didn't plea, then their clients could testify their time away, clearly earning the federal guideline departures they were so anxious to achieve. If there was no trial, the departure request was not at all assured.

All would soon be clear. As our Assistant U.S. Attorney marched in through the out door, followed by his smiling cabinet of FBI, ICE and IRS agents, he waived recognition to the dwarfs but walked directly over to Matt and I. "Can we talk?", he asked. And so, my dear reader, this begins the part of our adventure where Matt and I get to eat the magic mushroom. I certainly hope you all enjoy the next installment.

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Thanksgiving
Posted by: Ed Chernoff
December 06, 2007

I read a book about 9 months ago that attempted to explain the key to ultimate happiness. It was titled "Stumbling on Happiness", and it provided interesting insight into a number of things that have shown statistically to provide contentment and happiness. Yesterday, I found it on my bookshelf. It was placed, ironically behind a photo of my mother. She smiled expansively in the photo. I'm not sure when it was taken, but I am sure it was during her sober period - the three years before she died.

Most of her life, she searched vainly for that elusive happiness and stumbled instead into alcohol and prescription drugs. Whatever was missing in her life was polished away. The visions I have of my mother flash back and forth in three-second intervals, every other scene showing her slurring and stumbling against the living room wall, making her way to the bedroom.

Inevitably, the drugs failed my mother, and when she reached the jumping off place, she jumped. On the day she took too many sleeping pills, the guests were just beginning to arrive for my sister's 11^th Birthday party. Because my father was desperately occupied in trying to keep my mother awake, my duty was to herd the guests away from the front door. They didn't believe me when I told them the party was cancelled, until the paramedics rushed in. They watched them pull her out on the gurney, a mask loosely attached to her face. My mom survived my sister's birthday, but my sister was irrevocably broken.

My father left soon after the suicide attempt, starting a new family without the burden of an irrational, dangerous wife and three children trained to enable. I had to hang on for four more years, immersing myself in the deterioration. But when I got the chance, I ran. I was seventeen. I was admitted to the only college to which I applied, and evaporated into a world where the future seemed immeasurably vast and light. I never looked back, and selfishly allowed my brother and sister to try to put the puzzle together. It was sixteen years before I spoke to my mother again. She called from Atlanta, Georgia. She wanted to make amends.

I tell this story, because I want you to know I understand. Last week, one of our clients committed suicide. He was 22. His mom and dad hired us a year ago because he was charged with a drug case out of the 248^th District Court. Bill got him on probation and into a drug treatment facility. He seemed to be doing fine and graduated from treatment, but just recently he picked up another case in Ft. Bend County. We had been expecting a Motion to Adjudicate from the District Court in Harris County and religiously checked for warrants. When it arrived, Bill called and instructed him to come in the next day for surrender. That night he killed himself.

Being Bill, he worried that perhaps he had been too pessimistic with the boy about his chances. I assured him that, as the messenger, he had no guilt in the boy's decision. The stark reality is that this is not our first suicide and there's no reason to believe it will be our last. Nothing that happens in court is inconsequential to our clients. Some see nothing but blackness. Sometimes we can't bring them to the light. There is no lawyer alive with purer intentions than Bill Stradley. You simply can't fix everything.

I often say that if it weren't for drugs, alcohol and love we wouldn't have anything to do at the firm. Perhaps that's being too glib. The legal problems that result from drugs and alcohol cannot compare with the damage addiction causes to families. We can heal the criminal pain, but oft times we can only watch as the addiction takes its worst toll.

No one in the firm expected our 22 year old client to kill himself. His desperation was hidden from us and his family. If we had known, I'm not sure what we could have done to prevent it, but you can't help but second guess yourself in these circumstances. As a child, I didn't know what was so wrong in my mom's life that she felt it important to take her own life. Today, as I look at her photo, I can still only surmise. The thing I know for sure is that even sober and despite the radiant smile, I can see the pain in her eyes. It is to my everlasting shame that I didn't do enough to help her when I had the chance.

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Trece
Posted by: Ed Chernoff
October 11, 2007

Ok, so maybe I was joking. The last blog entry was mostly fiction, and I apologize to anyone who got too terribly wrapped up in it. Matt wasn't holding. I didn't get pistol whipped. I just fell into my novelist persona and couldn't get myself out. So back to reality.

The deputies were following protocal. I knew it well. Most of my highway stop cases fit the same mold. They separate the passengers. Come up with some reason to have a conversation. See if the stories diverge in some way, and then ask permission to search. Somewhere along the way, they report extreme nervousness in the driver or "strange" movements from the passenger. Of course, none of that applied to Matt and I. The only thing strange about Matt was his complete detachment. I suppose they could have mistaken my curiosity for nervousness. In any case, there was nothing to discuss. I hadn't broken any traffic rules.

But Willacy County Sheriff Deputies were as well trained as Dallas debutantes. Even without a reason to converse, they knew their job was to maintain conversation. It was show time. The short one stared at my license like he was expecting an alien head to pop out. He mustered a perplexed look. "You know", he said, "your license address doesn't match your registriation address." He looked up at me like he expected an answer. I didn't give him one. He continued. "Your registration shows this car out of Atlanta". I had no response for this mystery. "Where you coming from?", he asked. Finally a question I could answer. "Why did you stop me?", I replied. He seemed taken aback by the change in script. He actually stammered. He said, "You changed lanes without signaling".

Maybe it was his change in tone that did it. Maybe it was all the stories my clients had told me about the cohersive stops that had resulted in searches and arrests. Maybe it was the injustice. I knew damn well I hadn't changed lanes. Whatever it was, I lit into the little guy. The initial diatribe went something like this: "You know that's bullshit! You were following me for two miles, and I wasn't about to change lanes. You can lie all you want out here, but up on the stand you had better be prepared to lie under oath. You know...so help you God? Maybe you will get by with it, but you and I will know its a lie. You really want to do that?" At that point, Deputy number two left his position at the back of the Navigator and slipped behind me, but I was on a roll. "I'm not one of those guys who is going to let this go! No, I'm not going to agree to a search! No, I don't give a Goddamn if you get a warrant! Or a dog! I hope you get a dog! I have a video camera in the car and I hope to God you get a dog, because I'm going to videotape every 'alert' your Fido makes!"

I stopped to get my breath. For some reason Deputy Number Two stepped in and he asked the second most interesting thing I had ever heard a cop say, "Who the hell are you?" I didn't know what to say at first. My adreneline was pumping. In fact, I WAS NERVOUS! I said, "I'm a lawyer, heading to Brownsville to try a drug case." The two Deputies turned to each other and the second one, face curiosly transformed, asked the the first most interesting thing I had ever had a cop ask.

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Part Dos, Dos
Posted by: Ed Chernoff
October 02, 2007

I was frankly amazed. I don't get stopped by cops. I'm a 44 year old white male, in an appropriate vehicle. And although I sympathize with my clients who are pulled over for no reason at all, I can't honestly say I relate. I have before driven 18 months past the renewal date on my registration tag. Longer than that for inspection. I've gotten lazy, knowing that enforcement policy doesn't include my demographic. I speed. I weave. I drive with one brake light out. Nothing. I can't get a date to that prom.

So to see that Willacy Sheriff vehicle pull out into traffic and stalk my Navigator fascinated me. He had no reason to follow me. The Navigator was new, so it was current on its papers. i wasn't speeding. Matt had made sure of that by lending me his state of the art satelite enabled Jenna Jameson endorsed cop detection device. It checked for laser, infrared, X Band, K Band, XXX band and Rubber Band radar. They weren't shooting me. No reason at all, but the cop car closed in and I hadn't any doubt he was going to stop me. I told Matt, who was as confused as I. "What for?", he asked, craning his neck backward. "I don't know", I replied, "but we are about to find out." It was then the lights went on.

It turned out to be two of them. They followed protocal. After I stopped, one approached my drivers side, just slightly to the back of my shoulder. The other waited at the back passenger side. The one near me asked for my license and insurance. So far, I was amused. With a smile, I asked if it was okay if I reached into my glove box. He agreed. I dipped between Matt's legs to dig for my insurance card. Strangely, Matt seemed tense. His face was unmoved, like a guard dog perked by a sound outside the front door. Later, I found out why. I couldn't find the card, and told the deputy. He asked me out of the car.

It would be incorrect to say I was concerned, but I began to feel a discontent at the operation. They were far too terse considering the occupants they found in the car. It didn't make any sense. I turned to ask the deputy why he had stopped me - really just to break the ice. As I turned he jumped and reached down to his belt, where his semi-automatic rested. Taken aback, I stepped away. I held my hands open to the officer, and said, "Whoa there, there's no problem here!" I said it in a pleading manner. This guy was clearly stressed, and God knows I didn't want to do anything to ramp up his apprehension. Unfortunately, it didn't do any good. I heard a shuffle, and turned to see the deputy at the rear of the Navigator running towards the passenger door. It was then I saw Matt bolt from the car and take off towards the field next to the highway. Alarmed, I took a step forward. That's all I remember.

I had always heard about how it felt to be knocked unconscous, but the descriptions don't really do it justice. I can't say I felt pain, until much later when I woke up in the hospital. I've got to give him credit, he was fast. I think it was a flashlight, but I didn't see it coming, and really it could have been anything. The romantic in me likes to think I was pistol whipped. All I know is the bright sunshine of the Texas Valley faded to black very, very fast and whatever importance I placed in protecting Matt was buried in the hot concrete of the southernmost part of US 59.

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On the Road to Brownsville
Posted by: Ed Chernoff
September 19, 2007

My thoughts were random. I considered that I might be losing weight. Or maybe I picked the wrong hole in my belt? Is that a love bug? Do they come out this early? What the hell were these settlers thinking? Were there settlers out here? This was Mexico, wasn't it? Where is the King Ranch? Are we driving through it? Why here? Cheap land I bet. I bet it's still cheap. I mean, who the hell wants to live here? That?s like the thirtieth Dairy Queen I've seen on this road! How long is Matt going to sleep? He looks like a toad with his head bent that way. My mind was racing and I decided to stop at the very next Dairy Queen. I needed to find out what the big deal was.

Matt and I were driving south in my black 2007 Navigator, the one with the stainless rims and satellite package. I had never driven south of Rosenberg on US 59, so I was surprised to find it was actually more boring than 45 North of Huntsville. Matt leaned sideways in the passenger seat, head back and the slightest amount of drool dripping from his lips. He had been sleeping for three hours. We were less than half way to our destination.

We were scheduled to be in trial the next day in Brownsville. Ordinarily, I take the plane. Our fees reflect the travel costs when our clients are charged out of town, but this trial was going to take four weeks by estimate and I wasn't about to reside in South Texas for that long without having transportation. I worry about my sanity in the most pleasant of surroundings, and I couldn't imagine what would happen to my state of mind if my mobility were constrained by cabs.

Besides, we needed the space for the move. Matt is a clothes whore. By comparison, I brought three suits - all dark with various GrrAnimal accoutrements. Matt wouldn't embarrass himself by wearing the same three suits twice in one week, so he had seven suits, ten shirts, two hats and 15 ties organized in a rainbow pattern in a rack behind his seat. Adding the shoes, library of books, two computers, plus a printer and we were way over the Southwest Airlines baggage limit. Hence, the road trip.

But God, I had no idea this would be such a mind numbing trip! I knew I was in trouble when I began counting Dairy Queens. I turned and caught Matt leaning against the side of the passenger seat. Why won't he wake up? His head was back and I had a straight view of the top of his head. I couldn't tell if his eyes were closed. I nudged him. He didn't move. I leaned over to see if he was breathing. I couldn't tell. I put the Navigator on Auto Pilot and with my left hand on the steering wheel, I lifted up and placed my face above his, hoping to see his nostrils moving. Hell, maybe he was dead? I drew in closer and - with my face six inches above his -I saw his lips move. I smiled in relief. It was at that point that Matt's eyes opened. For a second we looked at each other. Then he asked, "What are you doing?" "Want to go to Dairy Queen?", I responded.

I ordered a Snickers Blizzard, but the girl behind the counter with the cow eyes gave me one with Oreos. She did remember to turn it upside down before serving it to me, which I guess would have made it all worthwhile, except she did it with so little exuberance and flair that I felt like I was imposing. The last thing I was going to do was complain. I?m giving no one the opportunity to spit in my Blizzard. Matt ordered a Hunger Buster with Bacon, tater tots and a chocolate shake. He ate in silence and occasionally looked up at me with suspicion. "Want to drive?", I asked. "No", he responded into his burger, "I'm in no shape. I took a Xanax a couple hours ago and I?m going back to sleep." Fucker!

Two hours, and three more Dairy Queens later, we were driving through Willacy County. Matt had graced me with his consciousness, and we were close enough to our destination so that the trial was on both of our minds. We talked strategy and predicted the mess that awaited us. Knowing that all the other defendants were set to plea and negotiate with the Government, we bemused our Fate. It wasn't funny, but it was pleasant. Then I saw him.

The Willacy County Sheriff sat on the shoulder, one nib of his patrol car aimed towards the flow of traffic. We weren't speeding, but as we passed he jumped into traffic. Still 100 yards away, I knew that the Navigator had become prey. "We are about to be stopped", I said, looking into the rear view mirror. The patrol car came closer, still no lights or siren. "For what?", Matt asked. "I guess we are about to find out", I said.

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The Phone Call
Posted by: Ed Chernoff
September 02, 2007

I would say the odds of a government employee being in his office after 4pm on a Friday is only somewhat greater than a criminal defense attorney being similarly situated, but I decided to roll the dice, and picked up the phone. Besides, the voice message seemed urgent. He even used the word "imperative". Only one thing could be imperative to an Assistant U.S. Attorney the Friday before a Monday trial.

I had seen the call come in, but the caller ID represented as a private call, and more often than not that means someone is trying to sell me something. I was interviewing a potential client at the time, which was infinitely more important than a sales call. When I checked the message an hour later, it was 4:45pm. I cursed the situation. I doubted he would still be in his office, and found it unlikely that we would be able to connect during the weekend. That meant that Matt and I would be on the road to Brownsville Sunday afternoon wondering what the hell was going on. I was wrong.

Two rings into my call, he answered his own phone. Skipping the pleasantries, he got right to the point. "Ed, all six of the other co-defendants have agreed to plead guilty and testify against your client", he said. The cat got my tongue.

As of Wednesday, nobody had hinted that they intended to plea, much less cooperate with the Government in their prosecution. I knew that offers had been made earlier in the process, but that had resulted in nothing. In fact, we had already started one trial after those offers had been made, so what had changed? And how did it change so fast?

After a sufficient silence, the prosecutor began explaining the deals each defendant was getting. Some of the offers seemed generous. Several others struck me as the usual pie in the sky government nonsense. Then he offered us our own slice of the pie. I still had nothing to say. The plea offers didn't seem much different than what had been offered months earlier. I couldn't wrap my mind around what could have happened to influence the pleas.

I've got to hand it to him. His timing was impeccable. Only sixty hours remained before we were scheduled to pick another jury. The first trial had ended in a mistrial, after four jurors dropped out. Two had admitted to reading and being influenced by mid-trial publicity. One had decided that he was too fearful for his family to be fair. The fourth admitted to having dreams about one of the defendants slicing her neck.

I could sympathize. The trial was enormous, with large implications. It was an intimidating experience, for lawyers and jurors alike. The seven defendants sat around two large conference tables, half of them wearing earpieces for the Spanish translation, and each accompanied by at least one lawyer. We barely had room to turn our heads. It reminded me of the grainy films I had seen of the Nuremberg trials.

The evidence was also intimidating. The Government claimed that our client and his brother made up the hub of a huge drug enterprise, connected to an even larger cartel in Mexico. The head of that cartel had been turned over by the Mexican government. All of the jurors lived on the border, and were intimately aware of the name of the cartel and its propensity for violence. Every time the government mentioned the cartel, it was like pushing into a bruise.

So in this phone call, an offer was made to our client that would make a new trial unnecessary. All he had to do was agree to cooperate with the United States Government. Perhaps, by testifying against his brethren and anyone else the Government deemed offensive, he could cut a good percentage of his sentence. This would all be promised to him in a sealed plea agreement. I had heard it before. I politely declined and told the AUSA I would see him on Monday.

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