Rain pounded the streets outside Kevin’s Korner Grille with an unrelenting fury, washing away the most recent heavy dusting of early spring pollen. A stiff chill still hung in the air as winter refused to depart without a fight. Inside the neighborhood diner, a collection of more than a dozen individuals gathered around a large circular table in the relatively small backroom. The space provided a weekly meeting place for the Rotary, the Gideons, and sundry organizations. But this was none of those. This group just returned from the very soggy graveside of the man about whom they randomly spoke.
They comprised an eclectic assembly. It reflected a mixture of work and personal experiences, diverse points of origin, and various places they now called home. A common thread ran among them: familiarity with the guy from whose funeral they’d just returned. Some had been better acquainted with him. Those present came to know the deceased man during different periods of his life. A few had known him for most of his time on earth, and a number for only brief spurts during his many years. Several wore the title of close friends, and others had only encountered him in school or through his two widely varied careers. They were older, more in terms of experience than years. Most were strangers to one another.
The deceased hadn’t been a man of any particular repute or infamy. He’d never made headlines for heroic deeds or lawless ways, nor ever climbed a famous mountain. As with most folk on this planet, he simply traveled through the world, taking things and people as they came to him. He’d lived a relatively full life of wide-ranging experiences. But those around the table agreed he passed through it with a sense of humor. His days made up an orderly, sane, responsible affair, though one filled with mirth.
Even as they talked in moderate tones, occasional peals of laughter erupted from the modest throng as they recounted stories about the recently departed. Occasionally, a member of the seated cluster excused themselves and left quietly. They were replaced in their chairs by another on the edge of the crowd. Periodically, a new face appeared in the group standing at the table. An assortment of cutlery, coffee cups, and small plates littered its surface. The dishes held remnants of pie, cake, or the like at various stages of consumption, waiting to be bussed or refilled.
One such outburst of snickers, which caused other patrons of the eatery to look toward the get-together, slowly subsided. “I know that’s hard to believe, but it’s true. I was with him when he did it. It happened exactly that way, and the objects of his actions never realized the distinction.” The giggles rose to another crescendo as the speaker continued. “He could be a hilarious guy at the most unexpected times. Tom forever found the funny side of everything. He always said life was sad enough, so we should search for laughter wherever we might find it. Seemed to be constantly looking for it.”
“Speaking of never knowing the difference regarding things he threw out there, let me share a couple of stories involving his shenanigans.” The speaker, a well-known, respected local defense legal eagle named Jimmy, sipped his coffee. He set the cup down and pulled his short, stocky frame closer to the table. Everyone focused on him as he pushed the container aside and folded his hands in front of him.
“While he served in this county as a senior assistant district attorney, he always laughed at the ‘fairy tales’ the defense bar told him. They did everything possible to mitigate their client’s wrongdoings or to get him to ease up on recommended sentences. Now, mind you, I’d never do such a thing,” he said with a mischievous twinkle in his eyes. It resulted in a titter among the crowd. “Anyway, he understood they were just doing their job. But they constantly stunned him with what he called the crap–not exactly the term he used–they tried to palm off on him. And he loved to toss the BS back at them occasionally.
“Once Tom handled a case where the defendant was charged with aggravated assault for the terrible beating of a woman who worked as a ‘dancer’ at a local club. As fate dealt the hand, the fellow appointed to defend the culprit ranked as, in Tom’s words, possibly the worst whiner in the county bar association. In fact, this lawyer tried so hard to BS prosecutors that Tom had an ink stamp made so he could emboss the backside of several of his business cards. Then, when the counselor started moaning, he’d just give him a card. The thing read, ‘My cow is gone. I don’t need your bull’.”
At this, laughter interrupted the story. When it subsided, Jimmy went on. “Anyway, this advocate constantly harassed Tom over giving his client a break. And he began every discussion with, ‘You know your victim’s a stripper’ only to be followed with disparaging remarks relating to ‘her and her kind.’ Our friend repeatedly asked the man why, whatever she did for a living, the victim should not be entitled to the fullest protection of the law. His counterpart voiced no direct rebuttal. He continued his harassment on the phone, in the courtroom, elevators, hallways, even in the men’s room, everywhere they bumped into each other while the case pended resolution. Each time he came upon his client’s prosecutor, he’d again start the conversation with that same derogatory phrase referencing the victim’s occupation.
“Finally, during one such phone call to the DA’s office, which, of course, began with a disapproving stripper comment, the ADA expressed deep personal hurt at the recurring comments. As his opposite number listened, Tom, with feigned pain in his voice, explained that his mother had been an ‘exotic dancer’ when she’d become pregnant out-of-wedlock with him. He said he’d appreciate it if his colleague did not repeat the comments concerning the victim’s livelihood and finished by telling the counselor the snide judgments upset him personally very much. According to Tom, there ensued a ninety-second pregnant pause–no pun intended–at the other end of the telephone line. There followed another five minutes of apologizing by the defendant’s lawyer for his unintended transgressions. But he never again mentioned the word ‘stripper’ to our departed friend before they completed the case.”
Everyone around the table sat or stood in stunned silence at this revelation regarding the dead man’s lineage. Jimmy recognized their confusion and quickly explained that it wasn’t true. Tom could think of no other way to stop the comments, and he even remarked his mother might kill him if she learned he’d said it. Then the humor of the circumstance struck the group. After the mirth of the moment subsided, the attorney concluded by explaining that the defense attorney had never been told the truth about Tom’s mother. And again, more laughter.
An older woman at the table, who introduced herself as Anita, spoke up. “Tom and I were prosecutors in a nearby county before he came to this jurisdiction, and our careers paralleled each other somewhat. We talked frequently and saw each other at annual conferences, so we kept up with one another’s activities. From the time he first started his career, he worked hard to be a good but fair prosecutor. He understood his fellow citizens made mistakes–God knew, as he often said, he was guilty of more than his share. In his mind, a difference separated someone who harmed another physically and a person who accidentally bounced a check or made some other minor misstep. He took his job earnestly, but never took himself too seriously.”
After several in the cluster agreed with nods and snickers, she continued. “At the time we were employed in the same DA’s office, there were two assistant district attorneys assigned to each courtroom. We referred to each other as ‘trial partners,’ although we normally tried our allotted cases alone. Anyway, Tom was in a tribunal where the judge presided over criminal matters–guilty pleas, motion hearings, probation revocations, etc.–all day long every Friday. Like clockwork, mind you, the same day each week. Well, Tom’s trial partner, senior to him in the office by a year or so and who shall remain nameless, was a very good prosecutor but possessed a minor shortcoming. She had a somewhat lackadaisical attitude concerning non-trial judicial appearances. She worked a telemarketing business on the side, selling personal security systems, and preferred to work that rather than go to court for ‘mere hearings.’
“Now understand that this occurred back in the ‘dark ages,’ for you younger lawyers present, when some judges did not allow a female to appear before them in pants. Their judge at the time was such an unenlightened soul. So, virtually every Friday, Tom’s partner showed up in a pantsuit or slacks, feigning forgetfulness, and Tom trudged off to handle the full docket by himself. Meanwhile, his associate stayed at her desk and made telephone calls, trying to sell her security systems.
“Although nobody ever mentioned it, everyone in the office had noticed the situation. Nobody understood why Tom took the ‘abuse’ at her hands. Later, after it became openly acknowledged, he said he didn’t mind. He was up to the task and loved his job. But he always warned her in a half-hearted way that he’d forget a court calendar, too, and wear a dress to work on a Friday.” A chortle circulated through the crowd as a few people commented that they’d heard this story.
“Well, coincidentally, one of our administrative assistants lost a tremendous amount of weight and left a pile of old clothes she had planned to give to charity on her desk. As Tom walked past her, the seed of an idea took root in that crazy, fertile brain of his. He asked the woman if he could borrow a dress. Holding back her natural curiosity, she agreed. The following Friday, he came to work in a suit with the dress draped over an arm. As usual, he was the first person in the DA’s spaces.
“Once in his office, he quickly changed into the woman’s garment because his partner was normally the second lawyer to arrive every day. After changing, he hung his clothes on the back of another office’s door, because he knew his hook would be the first place the woman might look for a suit. Now clad in the dress, Tom sat at his desk quietly going over case files when he heard her come in. As was her custom when she saw Tom’s light on, she shouted a greeting along the corridor in his direction. When he did not respond, a ‘Good morning’ came his way again. Still, he offered nothing in response.
“Finally, his co-worker walked down the hall to his doorway. As she approached, she chastised Tom for his antisocial behavior, when she stopped mid-sentence as she saw him working at his desk, clothed in a loud, flowery sundress. Her reaction to the vision that met her stunned gaze was to ask Tom what the hell he was doing dressed that way when they were scheduled to be before the judge in an hour. Not why he wore a dress, mind you, but why on a court day?
“Noting that she, once again, wore slacks, he feigned shock, claiming to have forgotten that they had a calendar and adding that she’d have to handle the session by herself. After, as expected, she looked at the empty hook on Tom’s door, the woman screamed an obscenity and stomped back to her office, cussing and fussing every step of the way.
“Later, his partner came by his office on her way to the courtroom, hoping to find Tom properly dressed and ready for the day. But he was still garbed as earlier. She stormed off hurriedly, leaving a stream of foul language in her wake. First, she plodded to the judge’s office to ask for special dispensation to appear in slacks that day. By this time, the district attorney’s staff arrived and had a great laugh at Tom’s joke.
“Returning to the office, she saw everyone else enjoying the gag. They were having pictures taken with Tom in the dress, laughing, and other things. She re-thought her attitude and calmed down. But the lesson had been delivered. She never again wore slacks on a day when court was scheduled, primarily because she could never count on Tom not ‘cross dressing’ on those days.” Laughter broke out once more.
When it subsided, she chuckled and added, “As I said, Tom didn’t take himself seriously most of the time. In fact, during his tenure as a prosecutor, he always kept an autographed picture of Art Carney, one of his favorite celebrities, hanging in his office. It showed Carney as his sewer-worker character, Ed Norton, from The Honeymooners, standing on a ladder emerging from a manhole. Tom likened his job to that of someone who has to deal with a certain amount of human waste regularly.” At the gasp of a few people, she gently urged, “Yeah, well, you do it for over twenty years, then return and tell me what you think.”
After a brief pause, a woman broke the silence. “Jimmy,” a heretofore silent lady standing at the rear of the gathering spoke up, “you said you had two anecdotes of Tom throwing stuff back at the defense bar.”
Jimmy smiled. “Well, there are several folks on the defense side who will badger the heck out of the prosecutor over a case as if it were the only one sitting on their desk.
“As we once sat and waited for a jury’s verdict, we swapped ‘war stories’ when Tom shared such an instance with me. A female defendant, represented by a different advocate from the gentleman in my previous yarn, was a woman charged with possession of drugs–not her first by any means. The judge held her in custody on fairly high bail.
“During negotiations between our man and defense counsel, they discussed letting the woman out of jail on bond. Tom said he’d agree to a bail or a plea deal when she’d been in the county lockup for one hundred eighty days. Those of us representing defendants refer to this as ‘DA time.’ He explained that, based on her record, his hard-nosed judge was going to give her a lengthy sentence regardless. The prosecution would not object to giving her credit for the time she had served up to that point. Tom felt it might provide a chance for her to dry out, so to speak, from her addiction.
“Anyway, as with that other lawyer, this fellow hassled Tom to release his client at every opportunity, starting very early in the agreed-upon period. He gave a litany of excuses why the assistant district attorney should do so. The ADA repeatedly pointed out that she was short of her six-month timeframe. The constant nagging wore on him after a while.
“Over coffee one morning, he mentioned to his wife how he dreaded that day’s court calendar. When she asked why, he said that if he never heard the name–using the defendant’s uncommon first and last moniker–again, it would be too soon to suit him. She repeated the name in a stunned question. When he confirmed it, she pulled out her high school yearbook and showed him the picture of a classmate with the same handle. It shocked him to see a much younger version of the defendant staring up at him from the page.
“Armed with the off-hand knowledge of the defendant’s background, he made his way to his office and then to court. As he entered the courthouse elevator, his counterpart on the woman’s case jumped into the car with him. He immediately started his usual pestering routine about his client being released. In Tom’s estimation, she still had several months to go on the jail time. When the prosecutor pointed that out, the opposing lawyer harangued Tom regarding the fact that he obviously held something against her when he knew nothing of her.
“That was the sort of moment Tom never passed up. ‘Know nothing about her?’ he scoffed. ‘Oh, I know’–here he repeated Miss X’s name, the high school, and the year of her graduation therefrom. ‘Do you think abandoning my brokenhearted brother at the altar is nothing?’ he demanded in a low tone, just as the elevator door opened. Tom stomped off without another word, leaving his opposition in the lift, slack-jawed and dumbfounded.
“Tom said he was certain the man hurried to the holding cell to confer with his client concerning the allegations. Our departed friend told me he could not decide between one of two things. Either the woman had been in such an illicit stupor for so much of her life that she couldn’t recall if the event actually occurred or whether she denied it and her lawyer simply didn’t believe her. Regardless, the attorney never hassled him again about the defendant. And she pleaded guilty on the hundred and eighty-second day of her incarceration.
“Of course, whether the event. It was one of those unbelievable coincidences that come along once in a blue moon. And he simply relished dishing the bull crap back at opposing counsel periodically. This brought another round of laughter.”
“Well, I have you-had-to-see-it-to-believe-it kind of Tom stories,” a local female advocate, known to many in the room, put in. “But it wasn’t anything he instigated. If fact, I might consider him the so-called ‘victim’ in this little vignette.
“As a backdrop for this event, those of you unfamiliar with court proceedings need to understand that most judges have a session known as a Trial Calendar Call. During this, the judge, the prosecutors, and those representing the defendants go over the upcoming criminal docket and decide which cases will be summoned to trial. Normally, a prosecutor calls it case by case, and defense counsel makes his or her announcement of whether they were ready for trial, requesting a continuance, announcing a plea, etc.
Well, on this day, Tom called one of these calendars. Now he did so from a podium situated directly in front of the jury box, which was filled with random defense attorneys. A small space separated us from Tom’s backside. I sat right behind Tom as he stood at the lectern.
“Early in the proceedings, the judge allowed a public defender to meet with his in-custody female client in the jurors’ deliberation room. The unusual decision was wholly within His Honor’s discretion. While Tom occupied the podium conducting the court’s business, the door from the jury room opened. The defendant, with hands shackled in front of her at the waist, the sheriff’s deputy who accompanied her, and her counselor re-entered the courtroom.
“As the prisoner moved between the jury box and Tom, she quickly but stealthily reached out with both hands and firmly grabbed and squeezed Tom’s buttocks. Her action was clearly visible to everyone seated behind Tom. We all burst out in stunned laughter at what had taken place. Tom never missed a beat and proceeded with business as usual. The shocked deputy snatched the woman away from Tom and continued to escort her to a folding chair against the far wall facing us. When the commotion occurred, the judge asked what had caused such a disturbance. Tom said not a word. To keep the proceedings moving forward, I told him I’d explain later. He reluctantly agreed.
“Meanwhile, we closely watched Tom, still at the rostrum, and the female, who was now seated, to observe any follow-up to this incident. While a defense attorney droned on with an explanation of why his case should be continued, I saw Tom look at her with neither surprise, anger, nor admonishment on his face. The woman mouthed, ‘I’m sorry.’ The prosecutor likewise returned with, ‘No, you’re not.’ In response, the inmate grinned broadly and raised both her hands with her thumbs up. The crowd in the jury box laughed heartily at this. Again, His Honor called for order.”
Those in attendance at Kevin’s eatery chortled. Waving gently to quiet the group, the storyteller continued. “That’s not the end of the story, though. At the completion of the calendar and after the female inmate had been taken back to the jail, the judge once again demanded to be told what caused the earlier disruptions. I explained the scenario to him amidst the laughter of my fellow attorneys. The indignant judge’s face reddened, and he addressed the prosecutor. ‘Tom, you should have her charged with the crime of sexual battery!’
“Tom readily brushed aside what he considered a silly suggestion and shook his head vigorously. He knew he could throw the humorless judge off and add to the comical scenario. So he quoted one element of the criminal charge the man had recommended, saying, ‘Oh no, Your Honor! That crime requires unwanted touching!’ Of course, we laughed that much harder.” The cluster at the table guffawed at the story as well.
“Before this conversation gets too far afield on my buddy’s later span in the legal profession, let me say that he had a life before he dove into the field of law.” The man making this offering appeared to be around Tom’s age and was unknown to the locals. “My name’s Roy, and Tom and I had been friends since third grade. We met one day as I walked home on a dirt road from our rural elementary school.
“Tom’s family had just moved into the area where I lived. It’s across the state line to the east of here. As I made my way, two older boys, the Weaver brothers, found me and started picking on me. They punched me and knocked my books out of my hands. The pair were the schoolyard bullies of their day. I was small for my age and no match for either of the Weavers, much less both at the same time. At that point, Tom, always big for his age, came along.
“I learned later that he’d become lost going home from school that afternoon. He intended to ask us how to get to his house. When Tom tapped one brother on the shoulder for help, the guy spun and swung at him. Tom ducked the punch, which landed squarely on his brand-new loose-leaf binder, which he’d raised to block the blow. The blow broke it.”
Roy’s narrative was broken by his chuckling to himself. “Now Tom’s family had little money. He would not be bought another binder. And his dad would take it out of his hide for being ‘careless’ with it, whether or not his fault. So, Tom decided to get his pound of flesh first. He started wailing on one Weaver, and the second joined in. Understand that Tom wasn’t a violent guy by any means. The only time I ever saw him use his size and strength to an advantage was in athletics. But the Weavers soon realized that they’d bitten off more than they could chew. They withdrew from the field, as they say. After that, Tom and I began a very long and strong friendship, as Bogart said in that old movie. He proved to be a good friend. Always.
“But Tom,” he added, “didn’t get his zany sense of humor by accident. I think he inherited a bit from his maternal grandfather, Mr. Gilbert, whom he loved very much. The best example of his humorous side that I can recall happened back in the fifties. It was at the height of the Cold War and during what folks then called ‘The Red Scare.’ The older gentleman worked as a superintendent for a sizable construction company. The outfit once had a job erecting an enormous church in a neighboring county. When the time came to construct the church’s steeple, the building site afforded no room to complete the project. So his grandad began assembling it on the large parcel of cleared land he owned next to his home, which was on a busy highway outside of town.
“When the steeple’s frame had been assembled, an ornery, inquisitive neighbor wandered over to the property. He asked the man what he was fabricating. Now Tom’s grandfather possessed no patience for nosy people, especially, it seemed, the fellow in question. So, he solemnly told the fella he was building a rocket ship. Shocked at the statement, the guy looked at the framework and hurried away. Having achieved the desired effect, Mr. Gilbert went back to work. Within an hour, two men in suits, agents from the local FBI office, appeared. They’d been called by the frantic informant. The pair was keenly interested in his ‘rocket ship.’ He explained to the frustrated lawmen the actual purpose of the structure.” The story caused another outburst of laughter, particularly from those old enough to recall that period in American history.
“I didn’t see anyone besides his widow, who might have been family, at the funeral? Did he have any children or any other relatives?” someone asked.
“He had a daughter by a previous marriage, but they hadn’t communicated with each other in over forty years. It broke his heart for a time.” The voice belonged to another fellow who appeared to be the same age as the interred man. He, too, was unknown to those gathered around the table. His statement left something of a pall in the air. “It’s true Tom encountered funny experiences and could be held responsible for a fair amount of craziness. But I think a lot of his search for humor that has been mentioned here resulted from so much of the sadness he saw and experienced in his life–even from early on.” As the group looked at this most recent speaker, he explained how he knew the dead man. He nodded sharply toward Roy.
“Like Roy, I’d known Tom since we’d been small boys. A happy childhood eluded him. His mother was neurotic. Tom often said, ‘She was a travel agent for guilt trips.’” When the nervous titter from that remark waned, he continued. “In addition, Tom never felt that his dad father truly loved him. Though he never spoke of it much, he once told me he believed that he’d been conceived before his parents had been forced into an unhappy marriage. And Tom was convinced his dad always held it against him.” The speaker paused and pushed back slightly from the table. “Tom and his entire family had been estranged for years when he died. He referred to them as ‘relative strangers.’ Anyway, some of you may not know that his was a sad life in many ways.” He sighed audibly.
Though not the man’s intent, the mood appeared to darken with his observations. A heavy silence fell on the room before people made moves to leave. There were a few weak smiles, quick handshakes, dull sighs, and goodbyes. Then, the participants drifted from their meeting place out into the unrelenting downpour. The requiem had finished.
Even Happy People Cry If you see my tears And if you hear me sigh, Remember, if you will, Even happy people cry Laughter is a front For my tears to hide I may be laughing outwardly But I'm crying deep inside With all this joy and mirth, I play an actor's part To keep you all from hearing The crying in my heart All this laughter you may hear Is only a disguise To hold back each and every tear That lingers in my eyes When my life is over And I've done my dying And my heart is silent No more to be crying And in my lonely grave So quietly I lie, Remember, if you will, Even happy people cry. T.W. 1962
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