Tales from the Courtroom Trenches: The True Story of George and How He Managed to Stay Out of Jail

My first job in law was that of a Provincial Crown prosecutor, dealing with low level criminal matters.   When I left the Crown and moved on to a civil firm, I continued to do some criminal work but now I was wearing the white hat as member of the defense bar.  From time to time, I would work on legal aid cases where we were paid a minimal fee for representing individuals facing jail time but who lacked the financial means to pay a lawyer.

The last legal aid client I ever represented I will call George, a pseudonym to minimize the chances of me getting death threats or poison pen letters. George was a male who wore his sexual orientation on his sleeve, so to speak.  He did whatever he could, with his dress, attitude and mannerisms to convey to the world that he preferred the company of his own gender. The law had no problem with that.  The law did have a big problem with George’s actions when a member of the public made a  disparaging comment on his choice in dress and in his attitude and mannerisms. The unfortunate critic usually ended up with a visit to the local hospital.  George had a long and colorful criminal record and had spent some time as a guest of her Majesty.  As you can imagine, people like George do not do particularly well in custody.

George gave me my marching orders – “keep me out of jail, which was a tall order for a gentleman in his circumstances.
I decided that I needed to pull a favour if I was going to be able to be compliant with George’s instructions. I called a fellow who I had befriended when we were both toiling as lowly Crown counsel.   Peter was a bright and energetic young Crown counsel, a good person with a big heart, and the much loved son of  a prominent local medical specialist. Peter was happy to grant George and I an audience with no promises as to whether he could assist.

I remember the day that George and I saw Peter like it was yesterday. I wore my best and only suit.   George wore something that looked like a cross between a Roman toga and Superman’s cape, quite striking really. As we made our way to Peters’ office on the third floor of the old Courthouse at 222 Main Street, George received many glances and glares from passerby. To his credit and my relief, George restrained himself from punching out anyone.

I knocked at Peter’s closed door and George and I entered.  After Peter and I exchanged pleasantries, he turned an eye on George, restrained a chuckle, and gave me a look that said “What the hell?” I gave Peter a shrug and went immediately into a 15 minute impassioned pitch for my client George. I told a tale of woeful neglect by his parents, horrific abuse by his classmates at school and generally shoddy disrespect by society in general that had brought him to the point that he was at that day.  Some of what I said was actually true. Peter listened attentively, trying hard not to be distracted by George’s admiring glances his way. Finally I finished my plea for mercy and sat there with a satisfyingly stupid grin on my face.  Suddenly, from somewhere on my immediate left, I heard crying, soft at first, and then quickly accelerating into a cascade of rib rattling sobs. I felt my knees buckle as George emanated gut wrenching wails from the very core of his skinny frame. He sold me.  He sold Peter.  Suddenly, Peter was running for Kleenex and telling George that he would do everything in his power to help.

In due time, George’s sobs subsided and we were able to make our way out of Peter’s office.  We headed toward the elevator thirty feet down the hall.  As we waited for the elevator, George wiped his face with his sleeve and I consoled him, telling him that everything will be all right. We got in the elevator and the door closed.   Suddenly, George grabbed me in a giant bear hug,  he danced me around the interior of the elevator with a massive grin on his pixie face as he said the words that still haunt me today: “Hey, Lee!   Have you ever seen such an amazing acting job in your life?” I didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. I had been had. Peter had been had.

A week later, I received a letter from the Crown that my client George would be allowed a conditional discharge with no jail time of course. My buddy Peter had come through for us.

I have seen Peter many times in the years following that time with George.   I have never had the nerve to tell him the real story. Who knows – maybe he would laugh.

I never saw George after that day in Peter’s office. I wonder what he’s doing now .Maybe he made it to Hollywood.