Back when I was attending law school, the argument that every criminal defendant, even those who were indigent, had a constitutional right to the assistance of legal counsel, was still being hotly debated in the appellate courts. Even at the time of my admission to the local bar, our county still had no taxpayer-subsidized Office of the Public Defender staffed with free lawyers standing at the ready to serve the impoverished. Rather, the Court determined on a case-by-case basis whether an accused defendant required legal assistance. If such aid were found to be necessary, the judge before whom the trial was pending would try to convince some luckless attorney to take the case on a gratis basis.

During the summer before I was to graduate, I learned how to "search titles" - the science of reviewing the accuracy and ownership of real estate as recorded at the local courthouse. I knew lawyers with established practices would hire me to perform this time consuming task when their clients sought to purchase real estate. Title searching would help me pay the rent until I stumbled upon a client or two of my own.

Less than 48 hours after learning that I had passed the state bar examination, I was inducted as the newest member of our local bar, and within hours after the official court admission ceremony, I found myself standing in the recorder of deeds office, dressed in my one and only suit, struggling to complete a title search on time. I was finally a lawyer, broke, and facing seven years of student loans. With the exception of the admission ceremony, I had never stood before a judge in my life.

That was about to change. I had to go to the bathroom, so I left the recorder of deeds office for the journey down the long second floor marble corridor. Courtroom No. 1, the large ornate chamber over which the President Judge presided, was located on my left, about 100 feet before my goal, the men's room. The two huge oak doors were drawn wide open. Back then air conditioning had not yet been installed, so all the windows and doors were propped open to let air drawn by large ceiling fans find its way through the building. I decided to peek into the courtroom, hopeful that I might catch a glimpse of some real lawyers at work.

There in all his splendor sat the President Judge, adorned in his austere black robe. The bench upon which he was seated towered at least four feet above the mere mortals subserviently scurrying below him. He was the only one in a position to see me as I leaned in from behind the open doors. Everyone else was obediently facing him, similar to a faithful church congregation, attentively fixed upon the minister at the pulpit.

That's when I caught His Honor's attention, for he raised his head ever so slightly to see above his bifocals. For a split second our eyes met, after which a slight grin overtook his previously solemn judicial face. And then he did it. He motioned with the index finger of his left hand, just as my second grade teacher use to do whenever I had transgressed. I looked behind me to see if His Honor was motioning for someone else, but I was alone. I inched into full view and pointed at my chest. Was the judge actually motioning to me? He nodded his head ever so slightly, the way only President Judges do, so I accepted his kind invitation and advanced into the hall of justice.

I walked cautiously down the center aisle of the courtroom, past the 20 or 30 pews filled with several hundred potential jurors. As I approached the bench, I noted that the fidgeting and whispering which had only seconds before filled the room had now abruptly ceased. I could feel the penetration of a thousand eyeballs. Who was this interloper, this pretender, seeking audience with the court?

My journey ended at the judge's elevated bench. There I stood before tipstaffs, stenographers, court clerks, sheriff's deputies, bailiffs, and real lawyers, unaware why I had been summoned. His Honor decided to speak. Judges can do that whenever they want.

"Forgive me, young man, but didn't I admit you into the Bar yesterday as this county's newest attorney?"

"Yes," I whispered, grateful that my pants were a dark color.

"How very fortunate for both of us," Judge Porter mused.

"Do you see that gentleman seated over there?"

The judge pointed in the direction of a tired-looking, unshaven bum slumped at what I would soon learn was the defense table. His Honor had motioned with the very same finger he used to ensnare me just moments ago. The judge, I would also quickly learn, had more power emanating from that one finger than most sorcerers possess in their entire bodies. "He's your newest client. Be ready for trial in 15 minutes."

With those words, Judge Porter abruptly stood up and withdrew into his chambers. Judges do that a lot, too, I would learn.

"Court is in recess for 15 minutes," the court crier announced as the assembled multitude once again began its animated conversation.

I decided I better introduce myself to my newest client who served the dual role of being my only client. I may have lacked trial experience, but this deficit was offset by the fact that I was able to give this case my undivided attention.

Joe Hummel did not project an image designed to capture the sympathy of a jury. His stained bowling shirt barely covered a sizeable potbelly that protruded from his 65-year-old frame. His pants had grease stains. The whole grizzly ensemble was held together by a belt I couldn't see. And his 6 o'clock shadow wasn't helping matters much.

The court clerk presented me with a file - my client's criminal file. Was I representing a mass murderer? A bank robber? A gangster?

"I didn't do it," Hummel insisted as we sat side by side at the defense table.

"Do what?" I asked the accused, as I tried unsuccessfully to glean from the file the nature of the felonious act he had allegedly committed.

"Drunk drivin'," Hummel confirmed. "I'm innocent. I want you to make sure I get Justice."

No one had ever requested this of me. I began to realize that I had inadvertently, while searching for a toilet, stumbled upon something much bigger and perhaps more important - Truth, Justice, and the American Way.

I sensed Hummel's indignation at having been wrongfully accused. I took him at his word, for he certainly had no reason to lie to me. After all, I was his lawyer.

As I continued leafing through his file, some of the data reflected upon sworn affidavits, the indictment, and the official laboratory report, caught my attention. I decided to confront my client with the allegations.

"The police report relates that your car left the roadway at a high rate of speed and struck a tree located over 100 yards from the shoulder of the highway..."

"I can explain that..."

"...And that when the police arrived, you appeared to be highly intoxicated..."

"I can explain that, too..."

"...And that your blood-alcohol level was twice the legal limit..."

"That may have been, counselor, but I ain't guilty. I would never drink and drive. People could get hurt. Don't you want to hear my side of the story?"

Hummel's sincerity touched me as I looked into his blue eyes, the left iris of which appeared to be just a shade or two darker than the right.

"Of course I do," I noted apologetically.

Delighted to have discovered a captive audience upon which to test his defense, Hummel launched into a dramatic narrative of his vehicular accident, and his resulting arrest.

"It's like this, see, it was Saturday night, and I had just finished buying a case of beer at the mall. I was driving home, minding my own business, when all of a sudden this deer scampers out on the road, not 500 feet in front of my car, and starts staring into my high beams. I got exactly one second to decide if I'm going to slaughter Bambi, or veer hard to the right. I'm an animal lover just as much as the next guy. So I swerve, lose control of the car, go down an embankment into the woods, and hit a tree. I totaled my wife's new car."

"Were you injured?"

"Not 'til I got home. She was real mad. I knew she would be, and so as I sat there in the dark woods watchin' steam rise from the busted radiator, I thinks to myself - it sure would be nice to have somethin' to take the edge off 'til the cops arrive. And that's when the idea come to me..."

"The beer?"

"Right, counselor. The beer! I figured, why not have a snort or two just to brace me. So I reached behind to the back seat and glory be, discovered not a single bottle was broken. I pops one open, and boy it tasted good. So did the second."

"How many beers did it take to help you relax?"

"Maybe 12. Maybe 15. Anyway, after a while, I stopped counting. So there I am sitting behind the wheel, minding my own business, when this cop shows up, shines a light in my face, says I'm drunk, and arrests me. Imagine my surprise!"

Hummel took a long emotional breath before continuing his saga. "You believe me, don't you? I want a trial, and Justice. Now here's the proof that I'm an innocent man..."

"Mr. Hummel," I interrupted, "all that talk about beer has reminded me how I ended up here in the first place. In two short minutes, the judge is returning, and I have to go to the bathroom."

Hummel appeared disappointed, but sympathetic.

"I'll tell you when you get back. OK?"

"OK," I said over my shoulder. I figured I'd be safe from judges, defendants, and tipstaffs, if only for a moment, were I to find the safety of the men's room. Unfortunately, such was not the case. Attorney Vanderbilt, the lawyer who gave me the title search assignment, spotted me as I approached the bathroom door.

"Is the title search done? Settlement is tomorrow, son. I'm relying on you."

"The title search? Oh, yes, the title search. Well, you see, I'm in trial, and as a result..."

"That's not possible, son," Vanderbilt corrected me. "The only judge in town this week is Porter, and he and I have a tee- off time at the country club every Thursday at 2:00 p.m. Today is Thursday, and he hasn't missed a game in seven years."

What good would it do to debate the judge's golf schedule with learned counsel? I visited the facilities, and returned to Courtroom No. 1, at the side of Mr. Hummel, still seated at the defense table. Most of the 200 potential jurors had also found their way back into the courtroom, and were now studying my every move, their eyes following me as if I were a tennis ball at the U.S. Open.

"Like I was sayin'," Hummel began, "the real proof that I'm innocent is this..."

"All rise," the tipstaff announced.

I instinctively stood up, as did the masses, for Judge Porter had again entered the courtroom. He nestled into his overstuffed, green-leather-swivel-high-backed judge's chair.

"Please be seated," the tipstaff directed.

This, by the way, is all I recall ever seeing tipstaffs do: tell people to stand or to sit, perhaps twice a day. And for that expenditure of energy they receive accrued credit toward a county pension, full health benefits, and a staff to tip. Go figure.

"Gentlemen," Judge Porter began, "have you been able to dispose of this matter?"

Some fellow dressed in a three piece suit similar to mine, a studious looking man about two years older than I, possibly an attorney, stood up at what I would soon learn was the prosecutor's table.

"May we have the Court's indulgence for a moment?"

"Certainly, Mr. Ritter," His Honor assured the man, who was now heading my way.

"I'm Assistant District Attorney Michael Ritter," the prosecutor whispered in my direction, as he hunched over the defense table and stuck out a bony hand. "Now listen: Hummel here is going to plead guilty, in return for which I agree to his probation, a $100.00 fine on the drunk driving, a $50.00 fine on the reckless driving, and a six-month suspension of his driving privileges. Then we'll be out of here in 15 minutes, and the jury panel can go home, since this is the last case on the docket? Agreed?"

Hummel tapped me on the shoulder. He, too, whispered as he joined the informal huddle. I could hear the judge's fingers impatiently drumming on his elevated oak bench.

"Nutin' doin'," the defendant proclaimed.

"OK, I'll drop the reckless driving charge and the $50.00 fine," Ritter countered, "but that's the best I can do. Now let's go before you annoy the judge!"

Ritter returned to his seat, confident that an agreement had been reached. I, on the other hand, was not as optimistic. I hardly knew Mr. Hummel, but if ever an individual yearned for a trial, Hummel fit the bill.

"I ain't pleadin' to something I didn't do," Hummel whispered in my ear.

"Gentlemen, please approach the bench," Judge Porter commanded. I followed Ritter's footsteps. "Do we have a plea?" His Honor inquired of me.

"I don't believe so, Your Honor," I advised the Court.

Ritter stared at me in disbelief, his shock exceeded only by that of the judge.

"Mr. Fox," Judge Porter instructed me, "when I asked you to be 'ready for trial,' that was just my little way of bringing some humor into an otherwise dull day. I didn't expect you to take me seriously. If you plead your client, we all go home, including Mr. Hummel. If you are misguided enough to test the limits of the system, and you fail, Hummel will get six months in the slammer, and I'll find some way to arrange that you are his cell mate. Get the picture, Counselor?"

"Well, you see, Judge, my client is innocent, and he wants Justice," I began to explain.

"If it's Justice he wants, then tell him to live long enough to see his children have kids. There isn't much Justice left around here. I distributed most of it last week."

"May I have a moment with my client, Your Honor?" I asked.

"Take all the time you need," the judge assured me.

I advised Hummel that he might want to reconsider his demand for a jury trial.

"I'd rather go to jail than plead to somethin' I didn't do," he asserted. "Don't you believe me?"

I did. I returned to the bench, to the waiting judge and to the assistant district attorney.

"Mr. Hummel wants a jury trial, Your Honor."

The judge, who had been picturing the green on the par-3 seventh hole, now focused upon my words.

"I have a foursome with a 2:00 p.m. tee-off time. It's now 11:15 a.m. How long will this trial take?"

"I don't really know, Judge," I admitted. "This is my very first trial."

The judge leaned back in his squeaky chair. "Let's pick a jury, gentlemen," he ordered, as he sat dejected and solemn. "Mr. Ritter, please return to your seat. Mr. Fox, please remain here at side-bar for a moment. I have a minor matter to discuss with you."

I could have sworn that Ritter gave me a microscopic wink as he turned toward the prosecutor's table. I was left standing alone to incur the wrath of the Court. But Judge Porter was now serene and reconciliatory in his demeanor.

"Mr. Fox, I'm about to miss a golf game for the first time in seven years," His Honor mumbled.

"I am truly sorry," I assured the Court. "Is there anything I can do?"

"Actually, there is," Porter confirmed. "There is a potential juror in the third row. She's got the biggest set of hooters this side of the Mississippi. Ritter knows enough to put her on the jury. Now you know enough not to raise an objection. Right?"

I turned to survey the third row of potential jurors. The presence of a well-endowed platinum blonde gave a special glow to the entire room. "I think I understand, Sir," I advised the Court, as I returned to the defense table.

Picking a jury proved to be easy. Ritter and I positioned Ms. Hooters front and center, whereupon the judge's prior agitation appeared to quickly subside as he quietly stared in her direction.

"He won't give you much trouble now," Ritter noted from his seat at the prosecutor's table. In fact, Judge Porter would prove to be helpful on occasion to the defense.

Ritter called Pennsylvania State Trooper Martin Johnson as his first witness. The trooper had a jutting Clark Kent square jaw. A John Wayne swagger. He was resplendent in his tailored gray uniform, complete with gun, badge, nameplate, and spit- shined shoes. No doubt about it, he was the poster boy for Truth, Justice, and the American Way.

All state troopers attend state trooper school. That's where they learn to square their jaws and to swagger. They also learn a new language for use during court appearances. As an example, they are taught that defendants who are arrested for drunk driving "walk with a staggered gait, have slurred speech, wear disheveled clothes, and appear to have bloodshot eyes." Nobody really knows what any of that phraseology means, but it's quite effective on the witness stand.

After soliciting the usual formalities of name, rank, and serial number, Ritter began in earnest the direct examination of his star witness. Trooper Johnson advised the jury that on the evening in question, he was called to the scene of a one-car accident. Upon his arrival, he noted a single white male sitting behind the wheel of a late model Oldsmobile that appeared to have been totaled. What was left of the front end of the car had imbedded itself into a large tree. The headlights beamed into the woods. Steam was rising from the radiator.

The driver did not appear to be injured. To the contrary, he seemed to be rather jovial and offered the trooper a beer. The trooper asked the driver, who identified himself as Joseph Hummel, to exit the vehicle in preparation for a field sobriety test. But Hummel was unable to perform the simple maneuvers. Assistant district attorney Ritter continued with his direct examination.

"Did anything noteworthy occur as the defendant emerged from his car?"

"Yes. Had I not caught him, he would have fallen on his face. It was then that I noticed that his shirt was moist with beer. His breath smelled as if he had been drinking. I found 15 empty beer bottles in the car."

Hummel tugged at my sleeve. "I never litter," he whispered to me. "It ain't legal."

"I asked the defendant to touch his nose with his right third finger. He was unable to do so. His speech was slurred, and he had a staggered gait. His clothes were disheveled. I directed my flashlight into the defendant's eyes. They were bloodshot from drinking," the witness confirmed.

Judge Porter snapped his gaze away from Ms. Hooters for a second, and turned to me.

"Mr. Fox?"

I stood at attention. "Yes, Your Honor?"

"Don't you want to object? It really is a perfect time for you to object."

"It is?"

"Trust me on this one, counselor. I won't lead you astray."

The big picture was starting to come into focus, and so I summoned up all my courage, and did it:

"I object!" I said, although I wasn't quite sure why.

"Sustained!" His Honor rang out. "Whether the eyes were bloodshot as a result of the imbibing of alcohol calls for a medical conclusion beyond the field of expertise of this witness. The jury is instructed to disregard the trooper's suggestion that drinking alone caused the defendant's eyes to become bloodshot."

I sat down in a heap, exhausted yet exhilarated. This trial work was tough, yet rewarding.

"That was fantastic!" Hummel assured me.

And so it was. A surgeon always remembers his first appendectomy, a pilot his first solo flight. I would never forget my first objection, which was, indeed, sustained. Never mind that the favorable ruling came from a judge who was paying closer attention to a set of breasts than to the testimony at hand.

"What that trooper just said about my eyes, it ain't true," Hummel whispered. My eyes wasn't bloodshot. It's the proof I've been tryin' ta tell ya about all mornin', but you had ta go to the toilet."

I was concentrating upon important trial testimony. What was Hummel babbling about now?

The assistant district attorney pushed on. "Trooper, tell the jury what next occurred."

"When I remarked that the defendant's eyes were bloodshot, he responded that my eyes appeared to be glazed, and then asked if I had one too many donuts."

"Now, Trooper, you have testified about your observations of the defendant, the smell of alcohol, the defendant's slurred speech, staggered gait, disheveled clothing, bloodshot eyes, and your field sobriety tests. Were you able to make a determination as to whether the defendant was inebriated to such a degree as to render him incapable of safely operating a motor vehicle?" Ritter inquired.

Judge Porter stopped staring at Ms. Hooters again, and turned to me.

"Mr. Fox - aren't you going to object?"

I jumped to my feet. "I object!"

"On what grounds?" the Court inquired.

"Grounds?" I asked myself. "I need grounds?"

"Overruled. I'll allow it," His Honor proclaimed without so much as a moment's consideration. "The totality of the circumstances permits the witness to formulate an opinion."

I inched back into my chair, dejected and confused.

"Don't take it personal or nothin'," Hummel consoled me. "You're still battin' 500."

The witness advised the Court that the defendant was incapable of safe driving.

"Cross-examine," Ritter announced.

I got the distinct impression that meant I was supposed to do something.

"Do you have any questions of the witness?" Judge Porter coaxed.

Hummel was again tugging at my sleeve. "The cop is lyin'. My eyes wasn't bloodshot!" he whispered in my ear.

"How would you know?" I shot back. "It was dark and you had drunk 15 beers!"

"'Cause this here eye - the left one - is fake. It's made of glass and don't never get bloodshot!"

I looked into Hummel's blue and bluer eyes. A beautiful sight.

"Do you wish to inquire of the witness?" an impatient Porter reiterated.

"Yes, Your Honor," I confirmed. I faced the witness. "Tell me, trooper, how did you determine that my client's eyes were bloodshot? Wasn't it dark at the accident scene?"

"I had a flashlight powered with six fresh batteries. I beamed it in his face."

"And what did you see?"

"Little red veins, lots of them, going in all directions, like what happens when you drink too much."

"Were there red veins in the left eye?"

"Yes."

"Were they in the right eye?"

"Yes."

"Your Honor," Ritter complained as he rose to his feet, "this question has been asked and answered several times. The evidence is clear that the defendant's eyes were bloodshot."

"Agreed," Porter confirmed as he looked at his watch and then the clock on the wall. "Might we move on, Mr. Fox?"

"I'm done with this witness," I advised His Honor.

"The Commonwealth rests," Ritter announced.

"Marvelous," Porter gushed. "Will we be putting on a defense today?"

"Put me on the stand!" Hummel begged. "I've been waitin' four months for Justice. I ain't gonna wait no more."

Up to this point in time I had not seen my client walk. He had patiently remained seated at the defense table since the moment I had first been shanghaied into court.

Now he struggled to stand. His balance was shaky at best. He made his unsteady way to the witness stand, where he labored to climb one step prior to being sworn in as a witness.

I tried to present my questions in a logical sequence, but Hummel seemed to be in a hurry, a trait the judge found endearing.

"I don't got no 'staggered gait'," he informed Porter and the jury. "What I got is a wooden leg. It makes me walk funny, like I'm gonna fall on my face." Hummel knocked on his left thigh. A hollow wooden sound echoed throughout the courtroom.

"And I wasn't disheveled. The night of the accident, I was wearin' my lucky shirt, just like I am now. This is how I always dress."

Some lucky shirt. Hummel was wearing it when he totaled his wife's new car, and now he was facing possible incarceration.

"And my speech wasn't 'slurred.' On the night of the accident, my head hit the dashboard, and my false teeth shot out of my mouth from the impact. I didn't find em' under the seat until two days later."

"And my eyes wasn't bloodshot neither," Hummel assured those in attendance. "Just the right one gets bloodshot."

"Uh huh, Mr. Hummel. And why is that?"

"The left one is made of glass."

With those dramatic words, Hummel hit himself on the back of his head, causing his left eye to shoot out of its socket with the same velocity as apparently did his teeth at the time of the accident. Hummel deftly caught the glass orb in his outstretched hand, and proudly displayed the unblinking sphere to the startled jury.

I couldn't tell what was unraveling more quickly - Hummel's body or the prosecutor's case. The jury returned in 15 minutes with an acquittal. His Honor would get to his golf game with time to spare. Hummel had found Justice. Ritter hadn't convicted an innocent man. Ms. Hooters accepted a dinner invitation from the tipstaff. And I would complete my title search by 5:00 p.m. I love it when everyone is happy.

"You did a good job," His Honor shouted to me as he clacked down the hallway in his robe and golf shoes. "If ever I need a lawyer to handle another case, I'll certainly keep an eye out for you."