Are You My Lawyer? or Beest Thou My Barrister?

Are You My Lawyer?



       or



Beest Thou Mine Barrister?


.***by   Frank Hickey ***



      Aged ten, I was a writer fascinated by detectives. I hungered to be one.

   At 22, I became a street corner kid private eye, with no training, car or gun. All I sported were thick eyeglasses, languages and a longing to learn. Murder defense cases thrilled me.                                                         For ten years, I worked those challenges. My main job skill was annoying normal adults. They told me so. The Manhattan District Attorney's Office offered me a chance as one of their investigators.                Sometimes, I worked undercover in torn and dirty clothes. Living in a drug-and-murder neighborhood, I needed to blend in.                                                 My boss bursts into our work room in the Manhattan District Attorney's Office.

  "All you detectives, saddle up," he says. "Gotti's thugs are on trial downstairs. His crew is filling the spectators' seats with some bad rascals to intimidate the witnesses. Scare them off. We gotta pack those seats with our own guys".                      "Is that legal?" I ask.

   "From them and for us, yes," he snaps. "No physical contact. But we gotta move fast."

   From my clothes rack, I score a torn disgrace of a once-proud blue blazer. Before, it had graced a park bench. Hoisting my Colt .38 and gold detective's shield over ratty blue jeans,

  I panted. With moribund sneakers and no socks, I prepared to step out on Life's Great Stage.

   Bouncing into the courtroom, I worry that I ran too late. Some Mafia peacocks with pompadours over rich suits already hold front row seats. Bumping my sneaker on the bench, I squat down near them. They edge away.

  Time for spur-of-the-moment, Stanislavski Method Acting, I opine.       "Are you my lawyer?" I slur, breathing coffee breath on them. My index finger explores my nose. "My lawyer?"     Mob guys seem germ-phobic. They edge away from me.                          "My lawyer?" I repeat. "Says I'm 'tarded. Does I look 'tarded to ya?"

   They try not to notice me. I'm a white guy, in my 30's, brown hair over blue eyes, dressed like an unlucky rat farmer.

  "My lawyer, sposed ta be here," I cough.

   Clearing my throat, I move closer. 

    A reporter, John Miller of NBC News, recognizes me and slides in alongside.

 "My lawyer?" I wheeze at him. Coughing more, I wipe my fingers on the bench near the Mafia goons.

   John smirks. 

    Two more thugs arrive.

   "Y'ouse guys?" I ask. "My lawyer?"

    They decide to sit elsewhere. So do my bench companions.

   Regular normal spectators arrive. They fill the first three aisles.  John Gotti gets attention.

   The People of the State of New York (or PSNY) win this round.


***   Frank Hickey 


Frank was a cop. Somehow. He writes the Dancing Max Royster crime stories, about the world's only ballroom dancing detective.



Comments

  1. Wild ChildFebruary 26, 2026 at 11:23 AM

    It's so delightful to hear the lighter side of law enforcement creativity. Sometimes it's humor that gets them through the day, and it is a gift when one of them can share the lighter moments with the rest of us. Humor lightens everyone's load.

    ReplyDelete

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