Cyberlad
Half Pint
Ezekiel
PatientBean
Mao Mao
Retired
Qia
Festive
mickilennial
AndyC"A year..? I'd have to go to prison for a year?"
It was always difficult doing this part. No matter how good the deal. If it involved a term of imprisonment, it never came easy. Understandably so.
"Yes. But given the maximum is nine years for your sentence, if found guilty, one year is pretty-- well, I'm hesitant to say it's a great deal, because I'm not the one doing the time. But it's beyond what would usually be considered reasonable given the circumstances."
"It-- it is?"
"Like I said... he had to change his pants." Banjo tried to offer a warm smile.
"Well... what happens now?" Edgar asked.
"Well, assuming he gets clearance to sign off on the deal, he calls me back and let's me know it's on. Then, assuming this is what YOU want, there's paperwork and documentation to fill out that becomes activated upon your submission of a guilty plea, which would take place at a preliminary hearing. At which point you'd be taken into custody and transferred to prison from where you're being held, and go through processing. With the year's penalty starting that date. Since it's part of plea bargaining, there'd be no knocking time off on time served, but a year's also considerably less time in the first place than you'd likely get if found guilty."
Edgar looked nervous. A whole year in prison. Could he-- what would that even be like? Could he make it through that?
"Do you-- do you think I could make it through that? A whole year?"
Banjo sighed, there was no easy and honest way of doing this. Any effort to spare the client in one way would be sacrificing the other. It was not a situation where compromise was possible.
"I've had clients do thirty days. I've got clients doing multiple years. I'm not going to lie and say it's ever easy... or like a really bad summer camp, or the worst school you've ever attended... but I can honestly say, for shorter termed sentences - and this is all relative - the bigger reason to not take it is the question of what will happen when you get back out, than the horrors when you're in. And don't take that wrong. It will be horrible when you're in." Banjo kept his voice down, and it almost seemed muffled beyond the pair of them behind his hunched shoulders.
"When you come out, there's no return to the status quo. You'll be treated differently everywhere. You're going to have even more trouble finding legitimate work. Taking this deal... what you get back from the years you'll have taken off your sentence, they won't be the same as your existence before you got arrested. They just won't. If you're scared of potentially having to be in there and ACTUALLY SURVIVING for five to nine, then yes. I get it. On paper it's a fantastic deal. A single year, when you could have been serving nine. But it doesn't factor in everything that comes with telling society that you're guilty."
"You don't think I should take it?"
Banjo tried to arrest the way the conversation was going by raising his hands up, palms out.
"Whoa... that's not what I'm saying. What I AM saying is that this isn't the kind of decision you can make just seeing the number one, the number nine, and thinking 'this' is a Hell of a lot bloody better than 'that'. Even if it is. Because there's still pain that comes immediately with 'this' that would outright not be felt with an acquittal or positive verdict."
"If I served nine, when I get out wouldn't I have the same problems? And they hauled bag after bag from my own car. What are the odds you could even get me an acquittal or positive verdict? At least when I get out, I could help my Moms, man. I go for nine years... she might not even make it that long. She just lost Pops already."
Banjo shrugged. An honest gesture, if somewhat callous. "But that's what I'm saying. I can't make this decision for you. Has to be by you, what's right for you, based on your knowledge of what the different options mean and their consequences."
"So if we get the greenlight for the one, what do YOU want?"
Edgar hunched over thinking. In the end it was the thought of his own mother which made the decision for him. Just as it had made the other decisions which led him to where he sat right now. In the 'Visitation Room' in stir.
"I mean-- I've gotta take the one and done, man."
It was always difficult doing this part. No matter how good the deal. If it involved a term of imprisonment, it never came easy. Understandably so.
"Yes. But given the maximum is nine years for your sentence, if found guilty, one year is pretty-- well, I'm hesitant to say it's a great deal, because I'm not the one doing the time. But it's beyond what would usually be considered reasonable given the circumstances."
"It-- it is?"
"Like I said... he had to change his pants." Banjo tried to offer a warm smile.
"Well... what happens now?" Edgar asked.
"Well, assuming he gets clearance to sign off on the deal, he calls me back and let's me know it's on. Then, assuming this is what YOU want, there's paperwork and documentation to fill out that becomes activated upon your submission of a guilty plea, which would take place at a preliminary hearing. At which point you'd be taken into custody and transferred to prison from where you're being held, and go through processing. With the year's penalty starting that date. Since it's part of plea bargaining, there'd be no knocking time off on time served, but a year's also considerably less time in the first place than you'd likely get if found guilty."
Edgar looked nervous. A whole year in prison. Could he-- what would that even be like? Could he make it through that?
"Do you-- do you think I could make it through that? A whole year?"
Banjo sighed, there was no easy and honest way of doing this. Any effort to spare the client in one way would be sacrificing the other. It was not a situation where compromise was possible.
"I've had clients do thirty days. I've got clients doing multiple years. I'm not going to lie and say it's ever easy... or like a really bad summer camp, or the worst school you've ever attended... but I can honestly say, for shorter termed sentences - and this is all relative - the bigger reason to not take it is the question of what will happen when you get back out, than the horrors when you're in. And don't take that wrong. It will be horrible when you're in." Banjo kept his voice down, and it almost seemed muffled beyond the pair of them behind his hunched shoulders.
"When you come out, there's no return to the status quo. You'll be treated differently everywhere. You're going to have even more trouble finding legitimate work. Taking this deal... what you get back from the years you'll have taken off your sentence, they won't be the same as your existence before you got arrested. They just won't. If you're scared of potentially having to be in there and ACTUALLY SURVIVING for five to nine, then yes. I get it. On paper it's a fantastic deal. A single year, when you could have been serving nine. But it doesn't factor in everything that comes with telling society that you're guilty."
"You don't think I should take it?"
Banjo tried to arrest the way the conversation was going by raising his hands up, palms out.
"Whoa... that's not what I'm saying. What I AM saying is that this isn't the kind of decision you can make just seeing the number one, the number nine, and thinking 'this' is a Hell of a lot bloody better than 'that'. Even if it is. Because there's still pain that comes immediately with 'this' that would outright not be felt with an acquittal or positive verdict."
"If I served nine, when I get out wouldn't I have the same problems? And they hauled bag after bag from my own car. What are the odds you could even get me an acquittal or positive verdict? At least when I get out, I could help my Moms, man. I go for nine years... she might not even make it that long. She just lost Pops already."
Banjo shrugged. An honest gesture, if somewhat callous. "But that's what I'm saying. I can't make this decision for you. Has to be by you, what's right for you, based on your knowledge of what the different options mean and their consequences."
"So if we get the greenlight for the one, what do YOU want?"
Edgar hunched over thinking. In the end it was the thought of his own mother which made the decision for him. Just as it had made the other decisions which led him to where he sat right now. In the 'Visitation Room' in stir.
"I mean-- I've gotta take the one and done, man."
Location: Bernalillo County Metropolitan Court, Metropolitan Courthouse, Albuquerque, New Mexico
Better Get A Lawyer, Son: 1.03 Get Yourself a Suit And Tie
Interaction(s): Nil
Previously: Get Yourself A Lawyer Son
"A year?!? I don't get it, I thought you said you had a clean bust, clear case."
"I do. But--"
The younger Assistant District Attorney was following an older colleague around the office whilst he made stops at various desks and the photocopier.
"Then what's the problem?"
"Well, it's this slimeball defense attorney..."
"Isn't it always..."
"Says he's got evidence to walk back the charge for crossing the Mexican border..."
"So drop the Fed charge."
"Yeah, but I papered the charge. It's already gone to the judge. He says when he makes me walk it back he's going to dress me down in front of the judge, with his stupid shitbag accent..."
The older man stopped in his tracks and his neck straightened up.
"Wait-- accent..?"
"Yeah, it's weird. He's got this Mexican name, which he even mispronounces with this stupid accent from like, Britain, or Austra--"
"Banjo de Leon..? Fuck that. Take the opportunity he gave you. Call him back, he'll drop it to six months. Doesn't matter. Take the plea." The older man turned and faced him, and actually got animated with his advice. His hands a quick flurry of gestures, before he went back to what he'd previously been doing.
"Wait, what--? What happened to clean bust, clear case?"
"Don't care. You're not ready for the kind of buzzsaw you're staring down. Hell, you don't even have the sense to realize that's what you're looking at. Not this early in your career, you don't want any of that. Make him plead it out. Shit, three months if it gets you out of that woodchipper." He handed back paperwork to someone working behind a desk, and moved on, before noticing the younger man wasn't still following.
The young ADA had stopped in his tracks, barely able to believe what he was hearing. He snorted derisively.
"What?" The elser statesman of the prosecution asked.
"You're scared of him. Make it sound like he should be wearing a cape. Acting like he's Superman or something."
"I am scared of him. For you. You've nowhere near the level of experience necessary to be dealing with this guy, ESPECIALLY with a case that looks open and shut from the outside. This guy will embarrass you. And he's not Superman..." With an 'onwards' nod of his head he gestured for the new ADA to keep walking.
"...Superman has a moral code." He finished after the younger man was once again by his side.
"He's more like-- I dunno-- Nineties Michael Jordan. You don't give him any reason to be pissed off. Hope he tries to sleepwalk his way to a breezy twenty-five... thirty-five points... and then hope you can sneak up on him and steal a game here and there where he's not looking. In your case... Make him plead it out. Build your career around him until you're established. Hope you catch him on a breezy day later once your reputation is solid."
"I did call him an asshole. I think my exact words were, 'some slick little asshole defense attorney'..."
"Or you could kick the hornet's nest and call him an asshole..." He looked up to the sky as if he couldn't believe the stupidity of the younger man.
"It's a car full of cocaine, though..."
"It's a two-bit driver, with no apparent connection to his higher ups. The actual dealers or cartel will replace him by the end of... well this sentence. They'd have already replaced him."
"You want me to take the plea bargain?"
"I think it would be best if you did. And I'll explain it up the chain. You wouldn't be the only one to have dodged him early. But a lot of the people who didn't-- don't work here anymore. So, your choice."
"Yeah. Alright."
The older man still sensed resistance. "Look... how old are you?"
"I'm twenty eight."
"Exactly, you're twenty eight. And how many other Assistant District Attorneys are operating in major US cities under the age of thirty five?"
"And how am I supposed to know that?"
The older man raised his eyebrows, refusing to give that response any dignity whatsoever. The young wunderkind ADA from New York city who had moved to New Mexico to be the youngest operating ADA in any major city in the country, had a clipped article framed at his workspace. Playing dumb did not impress him at all.
"Alright, none. What's your point?" He admitted his knowledge.
"My point is, you moved here to get that put on your resume, and presumably when you move back in five or ten years--"
"I'm not--!"
"I didn't interview you. I'm not your boss, and I'm not stupid. For what its worth, they're not either." He pointed to the closed door of the District Attorney's office. "You moved here short term for your career. I'm not mad. Not even disappointed. So let's be straight here. You got offered an ADA gig at a ridiculously young age in an attempt to lure a high-potential, high-profile young prosecutor down here. They get your talents however long you stay, you get the resume plaudits, until you hit a high profile enough case that gets New York looking in this direction... at which point the resume speaks for itself, and they bring you back as an ADA to New York. And you've shaved ten to fifteen years off your waiting period - Youngest ADA in New York is about twenty years older than you right now, I believe. And because of your added years of experience in the role, quickly put yourself in the frontrunning position of District Attorney successor over enough time as well. Yes?"
He'd checked pretty much every box of his career plan that he'd mapped out.
"..."
"I'll take that as a 'Yes' or at least a 'Close enough'. Well, what you don't realise is, this guy... he's the guy who derails all of that. This is the heavy puncher that the young boxer ducks early in his career, because you're in no way ready to deal with this, so that you can go on to be the Heavyweight champ one day. Maybe you take him on later, maybe you don't. But you sure as Hell don't make that fight today."
"Why are you so worried that this guy's going to beat me?"
"I'm not worried he's going to beat you. Any one of these attorney's could suddenly have a good day, evidence drops in their lap, a witness disintegrates on the stand, a good session turns one way one day. You're going to get beaten by one of them one of these days."
"Then why?"
"Because you care about your career, about your reputation, and this guy isn't just going to beat you. He's going to embarrass you. If you get on the wrong side of this guy and set foot in that courtroom, he's going to dance around on you and make it look like you don't even belong up there."
"And what would you do, when you were my age, if you had someone your age coming at you telling you to get this guy to plead it out, to less than a year for a trunk full of coke."
"Me? Oh, I'd take it to trial." The older man said in a matter-of-fact way.
"Ex-ACKT--!"
"But then I have no problem with being an Assistant District Attorney in Albuquerque at age fifty three... I'm right where I want to be."
The younger man stopped in his tracks.
"Alright, alright... I get your point. I'll get him to plead it out."
"Good luck. Hope he lets you out."
"Wait-- What?" This whole thing was only sounding worse by the minute.
"Well, you did call the man an asshole. And he can be... competitive."
"So? The man has a client."
"He does. But if he thinks he can beat you, he will voice as much to the client. As much hardball as you think he's playing in plea agreement, this isn't what he does. He's a trial attorney. That isn't because he's incapable of being convincing..."
"I do. But--"
The younger Assistant District Attorney was following an older colleague around the office whilst he made stops at various desks and the photocopier.
"Then what's the problem?"
"Well, it's this slimeball defense attorney..."
"Isn't it always..."
"Says he's got evidence to walk back the charge for crossing the Mexican border..."
"So drop the Fed charge."
"Yeah, but I papered the charge. It's already gone to the judge. He says when he makes me walk it back he's going to dress me down in front of the judge, with his stupid shitbag accent..."
The older man stopped in his tracks and his neck straightened up.
"Wait-- accent..?"
"Yeah, it's weird. He's got this Mexican name, which he even mispronounces with this stupid accent from like, Britain, or Austra--"
"Banjo de Leon..? Fuck that. Take the opportunity he gave you. Call him back, he'll drop it to six months. Doesn't matter. Take the plea." The older man turned and faced him, and actually got animated with his advice. His hands a quick flurry of gestures, before he went back to what he'd previously been doing.
"Wait, what--? What happened to clean bust, clear case?"
"Don't care. You're not ready for the kind of buzzsaw you're staring down. Hell, you don't even have the sense to realize that's what you're looking at. Not this early in your career, you don't want any of that. Make him plead it out. Shit, three months if it gets you out of that woodchipper." He handed back paperwork to someone working behind a desk, and moved on, before noticing the younger man wasn't still following.
The young ADA had stopped in his tracks, barely able to believe what he was hearing. He snorted derisively.
"What?" The elser statesman of the prosecution asked.
"You're scared of him. Make it sound like he should be wearing a cape. Acting like he's Superman or something."
"I am scared of him. For you. You've nowhere near the level of experience necessary to be dealing with this guy, ESPECIALLY with a case that looks open and shut from the outside. This guy will embarrass you. And he's not Superman..." With an 'onwards' nod of his head he gestured for the new ADA to keep walking.
"...Superman has a moral code." He finished after the younger man was once again by his side.
"He's more like-- I dunno-- Nineties Michael Jordan. You don't give him any reason to be pissed off. Hope he tries to sleepwalk his way to a breezy twenty-five... thirty-five points... and then hope you can sneak up on him and steal a game here and there where he's not looking. In your case... Make him plead it out. Build your career around him until you're established. Hope you catch him on a breezy day later once your reputation is solid."
"I did call him an asshole. I think my exact words were, 'some slick little asshole defense attorney'..."
"Or you could kick the hornet's nest and call him an asshole..." He looked up to the sky as if he couldn't believe the stupidity of the younger man.
"It's a car full of cocaine, though..."
"It's a two-bit driver, with no apparent connection to his higher ups. The actual dealers or cartel will replace him by the end of... well this sentence. They'd have already replaced him."
"You want me to take the plea bargain?"
"I think it would be best if you did. And I'll explain it up the chain. You wouldn't be the only one to have dodged him early. But a lot of the people who didn't-- don't work here anymore. So, your choice."
"Yeah. Alright."
The older man still sensed resistance. "Look... how old are you?"
"I'm twenty eight."
"Exactly, you're twenty eight. And how many other Assistant District Attorneys are operating in major US cities under the age of thirty five?"
"And how am I supposed to know that?"
The older man raised his eyebrows, refusing to give that response any dignity whatsoever. The young wunderkind ADA from New York city who had moved to New Mexico to be the youngest operating ADA in any major city in the country, had a clipped article framed at his workspace. Playing dumb did not impress him at all.
"Alright, none. What's your point?" He admitted his knowledge.
"My point is, you moved here to get that put on your resume, and presumably when you move back in five or ten years--"
"I'm not--!"
"I didn't interview you. I'm not your boss, and I'm not stupid. For what its worth, they're not either." He pointed to the closed door of the District Attorney's office. "You moved here short term for your career. I'm not mad. Not even disappointed. So let's be straight here. You got offered an ADA gig at a ridiculously young age in an attempt to lure a high-potential, high-profile young prosecutor down here. They get your talents however long you stay, you get the resume plaudits, until you hit a high profile enough case that gets New York looking in this direction... at which point the resume speaks for itself, and they bring you back as an ADA to New York. And you've shaved ten to fifteen years off your waiting period - Youngest ADA in New York is about twenty years older than you right now, I believe. And because of your added years of experience in the role, quickly put yourself in the frontrunning position of District Attorney successor over enough time as well. Yes?"
He'd checked pretty much every box of his career plan that he'd mapped out.
"..."
"I'll take that as a 'Yes' or at least a 'Close enough'. Well, what you don't realise is, this guy... he's the guy who derails all of that. This is the heavy puncher that the young boxer ducks early in his career, because you're in no way ready to deal with this, so that you can go on to be the Heavyweight champ one day. Maybe you take him on later, maybe you don't. But you sure as Hell don't make that fight today."
"Why are you so worried that this guy's going to beat me?"
"I'm not worried he's going to beat you. Any one of these attorney's could suddenly have a good day, evidence drops in their lap, a witness disintegrates on the stand, a good session turns one way one day. You're going to get beaten by one of them one of these days."
"Then why?"
"Because you care about your career, about your reputation, and this guy isn't just going to beat you. He's going to embarrass you. If you get on the wrong side of this guy and set foot in that courtroom, he's going to dance around on you and make it look like you don't even belong up there."
"And what would you do, when you were my age, if you had someone your age coming at you telling you to get this guy to plead it out, to less than a year for a trunk full of coke."
"Me? Oh, I'd take it to trial." The older man said in a matter-of-fact way.
"Ex-ACKT--!"
"But then I have no problem with being an Assistant District Attorney in Albuquerque at age fifty three... I'm right where I want to be."
The younger man stopped in his tracks.
"Alright, alright... I get your point. I'll get him to plead it out."
"Good luck. Hope he lets you out."
"Wait-- What?" This whole thing was only sounding worse by the minute.
"Well, you did call the man an asshole. And he can be... competitive."
"So? The man has a client."
"He does. But if he thinks he can beat you, he will voice as much to the client. As much hardball as you think he's playing in plea agreement, this isn't what he does. He's a trial attorney. That isn't because he's incapable of being convincing..."
- - -
