In this episode of "The Trial Lawyer's Handbook" podcast series, litigation attorney Dan Small talks about his experience working in the Hyattsville, Maryland, Magistrate's Court and handling everyday cases involving ordinary people. The episode highlights the importance of compassion, common sense and the principle of "doing the right thing" in the legal system. It underscores the responsibility of trial lawyers to zealously represent clients while recognizing and addressing their real-life challenges.
Listen to more episodes of The Trial Lawyer's Handbook here.
This podcast episode was adapted from Mr. Small's book Lessons Learned from a Life on Trial: Landmark Cases from a Veteran Litigator and What They Can Teach Trial Lawyers.
Podcast Transcript
Daniel Small: Most of the crimes that we dealt with in the Hyattsville, Maryland, Magistrate's Court that I've talked about in the last several episodes were everyday, ordinary crimes, committed by everyday, ordinary people. No serial killers, no inside traders, no corrupt politicians. Just people trying to live their lives but doing it wrong, at least once. The magistrate's mantra, to himself and to everyone in the courthouse, was "Do The Right Thing." It should be all of our mantras as trial lawyers.
Was it the wisdom of Solomon? No, just common sense and caring. We processed a lot of cases, and many — maybe most — were pretty routine. But each one meant a lot to those involved, and each one deserved our consideration. Some more urgently than others.
One day, a mother came in with her 15-year-old son, who had been arrested for simple possession of marijuana. Hardly the crime of the century, but in our early morning conference, the park ranger who made the arrest warned me. He said, "This kid is heading down the wrong path. I've seen him out there before, and he was nothing but arrogant and insulting when I arrested him."
Sure enough, in court, when I got him and his mom in line, that description held true. "This is bull!" he said. "You're an a-hole!" And with a final expletive, he stormed out of the courtroom, telling mom to "take care of this crap!"
At that point, his mom started to cry. She was losing her baby boy and she didn't know how to fix it. She knew no way to steer him away from the tough, older crowd he was starting to hang out with. She loved her son deeply, but he had become just as arrogant and abusive at home as he had been there in court. She was out of options and desperate for help. I was an Assistant U.S. Attorney, an honored position, surely I could do something to help her?
I had no idea what to do, so I ignored the line and I went back into the chambers to talk with the magistrate. He listened, and he flipped through the thin file to familiarize himself with the facts, and he said, "I'm going to come out early; call this case first."
So I did. I called the case. The judge had the arresting officer describe the offense, and then turned to the defendant and asked him, "What do you have to say?" There's no transcript, and it was a long time ago, but what followed remains pretty strong in my mind:
Defendant: This is a B.S. charge. It wasn't even my pot.
The Magistrate: I would warn you not to say anything further without getting legal counsel.
Defendant: That's B.S. I don't need a lawyer. I know my rights.
The Magistrate: So you understand what you're charged with?
Defendant: Yeah. It's B.S.
The Magistrate: So you understand what the penalties are for this offense?
Defendant: My mom is here. She'll pay the fine.
The Magistrate: I asked you if you understand what the penalties are for this offense.
Defendant: Do I look like a lawyer?
The Magistrate: Mr. Small, would you read into the record the statutory penalties for this offense?
I said: Yes, your honor. It's a maximum term of imprisonment of one year and a fine of $10,000.
The Magistrate: Yes, that's correct. I find the defendant guilty as charged and, finding no remorse and the likelihood of a repeat offender, I sentence you to the maximum one year in prison and a $10,000 fine to be paid by you, not your mother. You'll have plenty of time to think about what a smart ass you are. Mr. U.S. Marshal, please cuff him, step him back and put him in the holding cell.
The Defendant: What? What? You can't do that. What?
The Magistrate: Mr. U.S. Marshal, cuff him, step him back and put him in the hole.
At which point the U.S. Marshal grabbed him, cuffed him and dragged him — kicking, screaming and crying — back into the little holding cell we had where he was chained to the bench and sat and sat and cried and cried. Throughout the day, as we worked through other cases, the magistrate would occasionally call the marshal and me up to the bench and ask, "How is he doing?" The marshal reported that the defendant was crying and begging for help. "Well, that's a start," the magistrate responded.
Finally, late in the afternoon, the magistrate called the mom and me up to the bench. He asked her what she wanted him to do. Mom, still in tears, thanked the magistrate for his toughness and said that she was willing to take him home and try again. So the magistrate had him brought out, still in prisoner's chains. The arrogant jerk of the morning was now a puddle of sobbing Jello, as any 15-year-old would be after a day in chains.
The Magistrate stepped in: "Young man, if you think a day in a holding cell was fun, let's try 365 days in a federal prison. Is that what you want?"
Defendant: No. Your honor, please let me go. I'm so sorry!
Magistrate: I'm inclined to sentence you to the full year. The only reason I'm reconsidering, the only reason, is that your mother seems like a good person. And she has asked me with all her heart to give you a second chance. Do you think that you deserve a second chance?
D: Yes. Your honor. Please! Yes, please!
M: Given your lousy attitude, I'm not so sure.
D: I'm really sorry. I didn't mean it. I'm really sorry! I didn't mean it!
M: Well, only because I believe that your mother is a good person and she has asked for mercy for you, God knows why, I'm willing to suspend your sentence, but let me make something very clear to you. Are you listening carefully?
D: Yes, your honor, I am. Yes!
M: Are you listening carefully?
D: Yes, your honor.
M: If I ever, ever see you in this courthouse again or ever, ever hear from your mother that you've screwed up again, you just pack your toothbrush because you're going to jail for the maximum. Do you understand me?
D: Yes, your honor. Yes!
M: Do you have any questions about what I've just told you?
D: No, your honor! I'm so sorry. I won't do it again!
M: You'd better not. Now go home with your mother.
His mom took him out of the courtroom and led him to the bathroom so he could recover for a moment. Meanwhile, she rushed back into the courtroom in tears again and gave me a hug and said, "Thank you, thank you!" Then she went up to the bench and said the same thing to the judge. "Good luck," he said. "Come back if we can help." And she left.
Under the unwritten rules of that court, a first offense simple possession charge, without aggravating facts, would never have resulted in prison time. Never. But to the magistrate, that wasn't the point. Maybe the work of a wise, experienced jurist and a brand-new inexperienced lawyer that day ended up not making any difference. But maybe, just maybe, it did. And he felt it was our responsibility to give it a try. To do the right thing.
As trial lawyers, our obligation is to represent our client zealously, but we should never forget that our clients — and everyone involved — are real people with real problems. Whenever we can, within the bounds of representing our clients, we should always find ways to, as the magistrate said, "Do The Right Thing."
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