Immortal Justice

UNDER SUBMISSION

So it is the end of the year - yawn. It is not that I wish to denigrate 2002, nor speculate about what to expect or dread in 2003. But in light of my theme - immortality - a year is meaningless.

Immortality connotes a life forever, an enduring and endless presence. Artists seemingly achieve it through their work. Parents believe they achieve it through their children. Most religions teach that our souls are immortal. I know that my theme sounds pretentious, but recent events lead me to conclude we should not reject this concept out of hand.

If immortality means we maintain a presence that affects lives after we have left this world, then I have become a card-carrying believer in immortality.

Presiding Justice Mildred Lillie died a few months ago, but along with countless others, I can attest to her powerful and awe-inspiring presence after what some have called her death. I am not disputing her death, mind you; I attended her funeral service. It just may be that death means the end in only a limited sense.

So many people in and out of the legal profession know about this remarkable judge. Her very life and accomplishments set an example of character, perseverance and sheer grit. Yes, she achieved immortality through the thousands of well-crafted opinions she authored during her 44 years on the Court of Appeal. But recently, her presence touched me on a more personal level.

What happened is related to an incident a few years ago. It had to do with another one of my innumerable mistakes. No, this was not a legal error or mistake.

On occasion, judges get the opportunity to undo that kind of error. Trial judges have the opportunity to grant motions for a new trial, for example. They can reverse themselves on evidentiary rulings. Court of Appeal judges may reconsider the error of their ways in petitions for rehearing. (Of course, that supposes they can get beyond the calumny in the petition.)

But there are some mistakes, errors in judgment, however slight and irreproachable, that can create unforgettable havoc and affliction. How often does one have the opportunity to unscramble the eggs? It is rare that fortune will look down upon you and grant a petition for rehearing, so that you can nullify the error.

Justice Lillie and I were speakers at a confirmation hearing for a newly appointed justice to the Court of Appeal. We were sitting in the impressive courtroom at the Ronald Reagan Building. The commission members took the bench and the chief justice called the meeting to order.

The chief justice made his opening remarks and explained to the assembled guests the confirmation procedure. He announced the order of speakers. Justice Lillie was first. She and I were sitting in the first row two or three seats apart. My right leg was crossed over my left leg, which stuck out in the imaginary aisle to the podium, leaving little room for one to pass. I was mulling over what I intended to say when Justice Lillie got up to speak. She moved in front of me.

In the nether reaches of my mind there was a faint voice saying, "pull in your legs." The voice was barely audible. Before I could react to it, I felt Justice Lillie brush against my legs. Her leg caught my extended leg. What took place in the next millisecond proved Einstein's theory. Time warped. World history passed before me at the speed of light while Justice Lillie appeared to be lifting like a swan breaking free of the water.

I am not sure how or why the succeeding events occurred. Did I will them to happen? Or were they the consequence of my (for lack of a better term, let's call it) supplication? A rational explanation is out of the question, but somehow, I or from somewhere, a force greater than I, granted a rehearing.

One will sooner win the lottery than be conferred the opportunity to annul the consequences of a wrong before it occurs. But that is what happened here. On the way to the podium Justice Lillie turned a stumble with a potentially disastrous outcome into a graceful, yet scarcely noticeable, two-step.

She began her remarks by saying that she intended to speak on behalf of the nominee despite Justice Gilbert's attempt to trip her. The room roared with laughter, and I laughed from the depths of a soul I did not know I had, with gratitude and a new-found faith in a higher power.

Although jarring, it is at this point that I am compelled to juxtapose in the context of the empyreal events I have described a boorish platitude. Whether in the transcendent realm of the hyperphysical, or in the muck of the plebeian world, be aware of an immutable truth: "There is no free lunch."

As time crumpled just before the grant of the rehearing, I acknowledged a self-evident moral principle: If anyone were to fall, as in fall down, or pitch forward and go down, it should be me, not Justice Lillie. From this followed a supplication: Please let it be me.

Thus was made a contract, albeit one of adhesion. Oh yes, I fulfilled my part of the bargain, but not then, mind you. Without much warning my time for performance came a few weeks ago, but I am getting ahead of myself.

At the conclusion of the confirmation hearing, Justice Lillie and I briefly chatted. I apologized for my clumsy feet. She patted me on the arm and said to forget it. I remarked on how gracefully she handled the situation and told her that I wished that I had been tripped rather than her. She smiled and said, "Don't worry. You will get your chance."

So as I mentioned, I got my chance a few weeks ago. I had the honor of swearing in a new crop of lawyers to the California Bar in Courtroom 22 of the Ventura Superior Court. I, along with the presiding judge of the Superior Court and a federal magistrate, gave them words of advice, cracked a few tasteful jokes, and wished them well.

Other speakers, who included representatives of the California Bar, the American Bar Association, and the Barristers, spoke in the well of the court from a podium to which was attached a microphone.

The ceremony was concluded, and I left the bench with my colleagues. No, I did not trip, nor did they. In the judge's chambers adjacent to the courtroom, I took off my robe and put on my jacket.

Unfortunately, I did not trip in the chambers where no one was present. No, I waited until I re-entered the courtroom where all the new admittees and their families and friends were socializing and taking pictures. I strolled around the courtroom shaking hands and offering congratulations.

Although the ceremony was over, the stupid podium still stood in the well of the court. Of course, now it served no purpose, other than to take up space. Perhaps I unfairly disparage the podium.

My displeasure is more properly directed at the microphone securely attached to the podium, or more specifically at the taut cord attached to the microphone, the dull-gray cord that blended in so perfectly with the dull-gray carpet of the courtroom so that carpet and cord were indistinguishable from one another.

When I tripped over the cord, time neither stopped nor warped. No intervention occurred. I went down fast. The alacrity with which I got up could not erase what had happened in real time two seconds earlier. I had to assure everyone that I was fine before I could crack a joke or two that no one including myself can remember.

I thought of Camus' "The Fall," but it gave me little solace. I wondered how long the image of my mishap would stay embedded in the minds of the new lawyers who, for all I know, would be relating this incident to their grandchildren.

The socializing resumed, smiles were in abundance, flashbulbs went off and then I saw Mildred looking down on me with a sympathetic grin.

"I told you, you would get your chance," she said.

"I hope I don't get many more chances like this," I replied.

"Don't complain," she admonished. "I know what it's like to pick yourself up."

I felt good and waved goodbye to everyone. A short conversation with the immortal can be quite uplifting.