A Forgettable Trial with Unforgettable Lawyers
I just got back from Roger Glandon's funeral. I sat there thinking of a trial eight years ago. I saw a striking white head of hair there, too, and I thought about a trial probably neither of them remembered. I can't tell you who won, but I remember the trial partly because of the poem I wrote while it was going on.
They arise as the judge comes back into the court,
two on opposite sides of the bar.
They have stood here before and in other courtrooms
over forty years' practice of law.
On the left is the hero of injured and maimed,
the old personal injury don
with his silvery mane and his homely demeanor
concealing words crafty and wise.
To the right the defense is insurance in shoes,
though he sits with the woman who drove.
While his hair still is brown, he is parting it now
just an inch or so over his ear.
In their sixty-fifth year the attorneys at law
butt their horns and for what? Not for much.
The request isn't quite up to forty-two grand
Though the fervor and feeling are high.
But the game is the same and it's deep in their bones
so they'll fight 'til the contest is done.
For the goal is as much the defeat of the foe
as a verdict declaring it won.