Monday, February 23, 2009

A Win

All day long, I have been working my ass off, trying to figure out my new assignment, trying to field phone calls from angry and hurt people in my personal and professional life.

I have been trying to adjust to sticking with the most ridiculous life choice I ever made: I gave up meat, dairy, and caffeine. I don't know why... I feel like I need more opportunities to be in control or something.

I finally made it home after a 13 hour day with nothing to eat but fucking stupid ass grapes, and called my friend to vent.

Everything in my life has been so fucking shitty lately, that I completely forgot to even mention that something fantastic happened today.

I won my oral argument. AND the opinion was published. I am precedent. Well, not me personally... but... you know. It's still fucking cool.

I can't believe I almost forgot to even think about that.

Yay.

Saturday, February 21, 2009

Yesterday


I knew it would happen eventually. I just didn't think it would happen so soon. SO SOON. Less than one month. I'm in my brand new courtroom. It's a busy morning call. Defense attorneys are interrupting me, shoving files in my hand and asking for plea deals. Because I'm new, it takes an immense amount of focus to not fuck things up, and not slow things down. Our courtroom moves fast. I step out of the room to interview a witness. I step back in and approach the bench.

I make eye contact with a defense attorney. Following that eye contact was one of the most awkward double takes as we both realize who we just made eye contact with.

Yep. The sleazy defense attorney has a case up in my courtroom. The very guy who, in open court less than a month ago accused me of being a liar, a slut, a drug addict, an alcoholic, and a thief. The rapist loving attorney who built his career humiliating and bullying victims on the stand.

And there he was. Just sitting there at the defense counsel table. In my new courtroom. Maybe it's not him, I think, hopefully. There's nothing particularly remarkable about his appearance. He looks like the stereotypical sleazy defense attorney. Maybe it's someone else. My first chair asks me if everything is ok. I ask him what the name of the defense attorney sitting at the counsel table is. He confirmed it was him. My first chair asks me what's wrong. I tell him I need a minute, and walk out.

I walk down the back hallway. I am shaking like I've fucking got Parkinsons. I need some water and I need a quick cry. or a quick scream. Either one will do. There is absolutely no place in a courthouse to scream without drawing some seriously negative attention to oneself. I can go in the bathroom and cry for just a minute, however I will fuck up my makeup, and I will have to walk back into court with fucked up makeup and the sleazy defense attorney will know he got me. Again.

I sort of panic. I get in the elevator. I go down to the first floor. I walk outside. I take a few deep breaths of cold as shit Chicago air. I turn around, I go back inside. I get on the elevator, go back to my floor. Stop at the drinking fountain, take a sip, and walk back into my courtroom.

He's still there. As he sees me walk in, he makes a point of stretching out his legs, and leaning back in the chair. Making himself as comfortable as possible. He enjoys this. He finds this amusing. It's no wonder no one at my office, not the lifers, not the newbies have any respect for him at all.

His case is finally called. My first chair takes it. Because I am too big of a coward to stand up there and do it myself. All they do is schedule a new date. And then he leaves. I wait until I'm pretty sure he's gone, then I go get a second sip of water. But he's standing right there in my way to the drinking fountain. LAUGHING with his client. Probably telling him how fucking hilarious it was that the blonde woman in the courtroom was the same blonde woman he destroyed on the witness stand just a few weeks ago. HILARIOUS.

I have an overwhelming urge to grab him by the shoulder, spin him around and scream at him, "WHAT YOUR CLIENT DID WAS WRONG! WHAT YOU DID WAS WRONG! THERE ARE BETTER WAYS TO TREAT PEOPLE WHILE ADVOCATING FOR YOUR CLIENT. YOU'RE A FUCKER AND A LIAR AND A BAD BAD BAD MAN. AND I HOPE YOU ROT IN HELL AND I HOPE YOUR ENTIRE FAMILY AND THE CABDRIVER'S FAMILY ALL GET HORRIBLE DISEASES AND DIE AND YOU TWO HAVE TO LIVE AND WATCH THEM ALL GO THROUGH IT." And then of course, the oft-mentioned punch to the nuts.

Of course, none of that happened. I stepped around them, took my sip of water, and went back to work.

Nothing I do matters anymore. I could yell at him. I could be cordial to him. I could be difficult with him when he comes into court. I could ignore him, and make him sit there all day. I might have to try a case against him. I could work harder than I've ever worked on anything to make sure I win. Ultimately, though that win would be nothing. The only trial that matters was the cabdrivers. And that trial is over. So none of this matters. Nothing changes anything. The cabdriver is still free to do whatever the fuck he wants. And I still have to go to work and pretend to be ok.

Later that night, I had to go to a bar in WRIGLEYVILLE and sell fucking raffle tickets for a charity I work with. Almost as traumatic.

Wednesday, February 18, 2009

Sunday, February 15, 2009

My Stolen Lines #2

"Ghosts definitely live here," I say.

I take one last drunken drag off of a Marlboro light and put it out. I lean back against the wall, and survey the empty living room. Then I survey her. Sweaty and luminous. She absentmindedly plays with my long thin fingers with her own long, thin fingers. To describe us you'd think we were identical: Long thin fingers, long thin arms and legs, long thin blonde hair, pale, often dressed in black. Even our names are similar enough that people often confuse us. I don't think it ever bothers her and I know it never bothers me.

She pours some wine from the keg (yes, we have a keg of wine) into a plastic cup. All of our dishes have been packed. Rookies that we were at the time, we had already packed our stemware.

I am going to miss her.

She puts her head on my lap. I play with her hair.

"Remember when that dude came over and set our couch on fire?" she asks.

"Do you remember how hard we all laughed?"

"I do."

We were both quiet for a while.

"It actually wasn't all that funny, was it?" she asks.

"Nope."

I lean over and kiss her impossibly soft cheek.

We stay there, on the floor for a while. Completely still. It's much too hot to do much else, anyway.

Quiet.

"Remember when those guys broke in, and stole everything in the living room while we were right there asleep on the couch?"

"Oh my god yes! And they accidentally left their sleeping bags, and that 6 pack of Rolling Rock?"

We both laugh. Hard.

"Fucking hippies."

Quiet. Again. She draws imaginary circles on my leg. I close my eyes.

"Do you know," she says, "that I hated you when we first met?"

"That's funny," I reply. "when we first met, I loved you with every fiber of my being... Do you think the ghosts will miss us?"

She sits up, and kisses me softly on the lips. "Naa. I think they're coming with us for a while."

*I stole the first line of this post from You'll Never Eat Lunch in This town Again, by Julia Phillips as part of the Stolen Lines Blog Experiment.

Update: Stolen Lines by:
The lovely Harmless Error
My very best, The Shire Smarty
Kelli
Daisy
Brand new blogger, Hope
The Artful Blogger
Brita
Obsquatch
Stacy
Melissa
Year Zero
Butterflyfish
Fianna
Kristine

Monday, February 09, 2009

Stolen Lines #2

"Ghosts definitely live here," I say.


The rules: Start your post with the above line. End your post with "I stole the first line of this post from You'll Never Eat Lunch in This town Again, by Julia Phillips" And maybe link back to me so people can understand the point of the post.

And whatever you put in the middle is up to you.

There's no deadline. Write whenever you feel like it. If you want to have your post included, just leave a comment or send me an email telling me you've posted.

PS. This is open to absolutely anyone. All you have to do it write it.

Updates and Thanks


Wow. Just so you all know, I keep on reading over the comments from my last post. Thanks, well... to almost all of you.

First off, to the anonymous poster who said I should have told him I was a dyke, and maybe the cab driver would have left me alone:

I know you meant that to somehow hurt me, or offend me, but you didn't. You're just another one of the anonymous assclowns that bloggers just have to put up with. Since you asked though, Yes, I did, in fact, tell him that I "dated women". And then he told me the really gross and painful thing he planned to do to me (that I had to repeat in open court, which was SUPER fun), and then he assaulted me. So, I guess your theory was wrong. So, there you go. I hope you're happy. Oh, and fuck you, of course.

Second, to all the people who said they'd kick his ass/punch him in the nuts, etc... Thanks. What girl doesn't need an army of nut punchers at her side?The idea made me all warm and fuzzy. But let's just all agree that violence is not the answer. I say that mostly because I think the sleazy defense attorney reads my blog, and I don't want him to construe anything that I (or anyone else on this blog) may say as a threat.

Which brings me to another point. I am really disturbed that the sleazy defense attorney found my blog. Here's why: while a significant number of people know my real identity (I don't keep it that much of a secret) very few people, until now, know about the assault. And then there are even fewer people who know about both, and even fewer people knew who the sleazy defense attorney was. So, basically, all I can come up with is that someone in my small circle of trusted friends told Sleazy Defense Attorney about this blog. And I don't understand why they would do that.

I mean, I guess the private investigator that was hired to find out all sorts of dish on me could have uncovered it, but I just don't know how he would. Hey, if any private investigators read this blog, and want to fill me in, let me know. Then maybe I won't feel like someone in my inner circle really sucks.

Anyway, I REALLY don't want this blog to turn into some whiny, self-indulgent ranty blog, because I do enjoy having, you know, readers. So I will try not to go on and on. But, just for a little perspective, in an eight day time span, the cabdriver trial started. On the same day, I got promoted and transferred to a new assignment so I am now in a courtroom every day prosecuting criminal cases, I had to take my first days off however, to go and testify at the cabdriver trial. Then he was found not guilty. Then I had a meltdown. Then I had to go back to work, then I had to take more time off of my new assignment because I had an oral argument before the Illinois Appellate Court, which next to testifying at the cabdriver trial, was the most intimidated I had ever felt. But I did an ok job, and I am pretty sure I won. It was a busy 8 days. In those 8 days, I slept only about 5 hours total, and lost ten pounds.

Now it's Sunday. And it's really quiet. I'm in bed. My dog is asleep next to me. Everything should feel peaceful, but of course it doesn't. All I'm doing is worrying about the stupidest shit. What am I going to do if I see the cabdriver somewhere? There's no order of protection in effect, so he can just hang out wherever I am. Not like he'd want to, but since I do work in a government building, he may HAVE to. What if I run into the defense attorney? What if I run into the judge? What if I run into a juror? How can I arrange it so I only hang out in areas where you have to pass though a metal detector to be in? Why aren't there metal detectors in my gym, on the el, at my favorite brunch place. At the dog park? LIFE NEEDS MORE FUCKING METAL DETECTORS.

A lot of people keep on saying that I was brave. I totally don't understand that. There's nothing brave about me. Maybe if I were granted a do-over, then I would have been brave. Not now though. I appreciate the sentiment, though. And by the way, writing about it, also does not make me brave. At least not in this forum. Don't forget. I am not Grace. This blog is anonymous. Well, semi-anonymous. You know what I mean.

OK. I got off the point. The fucking point of this post was to thank you all for your really thoughtful comments, and to tell you that I am not dead, because I know I haven't been returning a lot of phone calls and texts. So thanks. And I am not dead. Just a little fucked up.

PS. I've decided that all posts that have to do with the cabdriver will have pictures of annoyingly fucking cute cats. So that way you will be immediately tipped off that it might not be a happy post.