In Pro Per

By Forrest A. Hainline III
     
      Poetry in the Courtroom
      As far back as I can remember, I knew that I wanted to become a trial lawyer and that I wanted to study poetry. To me, the two disciplines are intertwined. Any experienced trial lawyer knows that it's not just what you say, it's how you say it. Cadence, repetition, alliteration bolster your narrative. After all, trial lawyers are storytellers. Rhythm and image are the heart and soul of poetry; they are also the heart and spirit of a well-tried case. Trials, like poetry, communicate the spirit from the things of sense, from documents, evidence, conflicting testimony. Making the opaque transparent, giving form to the formless-this takes the heart and soul and skill of a poet.
      I once tried a case in Camden, New Jersey, before a very bright federal judge. I was representing a Fortune 100 company that was suing to prevent a division head from bolting to its chief competitor. There was a noncompete agreement. During the trial, the judge asked me, "Mr. Hainline, do you really think this noncompete agreement is as clear as you make it sound? There is a 250-word sentence in paragraph three. I counted it. James Joyce would not have written a 250-word sentence." I looked at him and said, "riverrun," knowing that if he did not get it, nothing would be lost. But he responded, "past Eve and Adam's" and continued, "it's not only past Eve, but past Steve." I said, "Because Stephen Daedalus is the new Adam." The judge replied, "And everything circles back on itself, the beginning of the book the end of its last sentence." To which I replied, "From swerve of shore to bend of bay, by a commodius vicus of recirculation, we should probably get back to the case we're trying."
      The courtroom was full of folks?reporters, executives of the two firms. I'm sure no one knew what the heck we were talking about, but I'm certain everyone knew something magical had happened that changed the case. We ended up imposing restrictions that prevented the executive from attending any meetings in which the competing products were discussed, and had his correspondence and email audited by a major accounting firm. In a few months, he departed for less-restricted environs.
      Another time, I was trying a case in Sumter, South Carolina, on behalf of a large company against a dozen local farmers. The farmers had built turkey coops at great expense to grow the birds in total confinement, to my client's specifications. They each signed contracts that promised the purchase of a flock of turkeys, with an integration clause stating there were no oral or other agreements. My client later got out of the turkey-processing business and closed its plant. The farmers then sued on the basis of oral agreements they claimed promised them a 20-year relationship. The only thing we had, really, was the integration clause, which I embraced as if it were the Torah.
      There happened to be a large Bible in the great ceremonial courtroom where we tried the case, prominently displayed on the court rail. During the trial, my opponents, though local folks who should have known better, would knock the Book about a bit, because the judge let us examine witnesses from anywhere in his courtroom. At least once a day I straightened the Book and moved any documents or papers off it.
      After a six-week trial, my opponent's closing argument was very good. Mine was scheduled for after lunch. I needed some poetry. My colleague (now my wife) gave me a line from Proverbs and said, "Start with this and do your magic." I looked at the jury, looked at the Baptist pastor who would become the jury foreman, and said, "He who speaks first seems just, until another comes and examines him closely." The pastor's eyes lit up. I gestured to the Bible. "It's in the Book. It's written in the Book. But I didn't get it exact. I paraphrased. Because even in matters as important as those that touch your very soul, you have to go back to the writing." The pastor and three other jurors said aloud, "Amen." They gave my client a defense verdict and found for us on our breach of contract counterclaim. Amen, indeed.
      You see, people think visually and rhythmically before they even start to put the images and rhythms together. If the judge or jury is in tune with your cadence, if they see with your metaphors, then they will feel your logic and be more likely to accept it. That's the power of poetry in the courtroom.
     
      Forrest A. Hainline III (FHainline@goodwinprocter.com) is a trial lawyer and partner at Goodwin Procter in San Francisco. His poetry has appeared in small journals and online, and has been performed on stage.
     

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