Criminal Defense Lawyers: Good Guys or Bad Guys?

www.etlewis.com                                       donlewis@sccoast.net

The most asked question posed to criminal defense attorneys is, “How can you represent a person you know is guilty?” At one time or another you’ve either asked that question to or about a lawyer, or have at least wondered about it.

Some lawyers take the question as an insult, but I never looked at it that way; I think it’s a legitimate question. So, having been both a prosecutor (17 years) and a defense attorney (14 years), let me take a shot at answering it.

Assuming you understand that the Sixth Amendment to the U.S. Constitution guarantees every person charged with a criminal offense the right to the “Assistance of Counsel for his defense,” you’ll understand the right of the criminal defense attorney to exist.

Obviously, the decision to represent the accused is a choice made by the attorney, and some choose not to do that; that’s their right. But before you condemn lawyers who do represent the criminally charged, stop and think for a minute about how our Criminal Justice system works. Criminal trials aren’t shows put on for the public’s amusement. They are very serious efforts to resolve the question of whether or not sufficient admissible evidence has been presented during a trial to prove the defendant guilty Beyond a Reasonable Doubt.

Once he has taken the case, what are the defense attorney’s responsibilities to his client? The uninformed say the attorney’s job is to get his client off. That’s not true. His or her job is not to protect the client from the consequences of a wrongdoing, but rather to protect his right to a fair trial. In other words, it is to insure that if the client is found guilty, it is the result of the presentation of legally admissible evidence accepted by a jury beyond a reasonable doubt. So, you see, it’s not the defense attorney’s job to seek justice; that’s the job of the prosecutor.

What would motivate an attorney to take on the stressful task of representing those charged with a crime? The first thought most have is that money is the forbidden fruit that draws the interest, and that belief has some merit; after all, defense attorneys generally make significantly more money than do prosecutors. But usually there is more to it. When you accept a case, your client has put his future in your hands and if you fail, he doesn’t lose money as in a civil case, he loses time out of his life.

Though we’ve already said that the job of seeking justice is entirely in the hands of the prosecutor, it actually works both ways. Justice doesn’t always require a conviction. Many people charged are not guilty, and in those cases justice demands an acquittal. Often that takes the considerable efforts of a competent attorney. That’s one compelling reason why some go into the field. Few feelings are greater than seeing an innocent client vindicated.

Still wonder why they do it? Have you ever been, or had a friend or family member, accused of a crime? Your first inclination is not to wonder where your friend or brother will serve his time. No, guilty or not, your first inclination is to get or recommend him to the best Criminal Defense Attorney in town. You know it’s true. If you were charged with a crime, wouldn’t you want the best attorney you could hire to defend you? Don’t say no – it’s not nice to lie.

Some ask if it isn’t the antics of defense attorneys that contribute to putting criminals back on the street and add to the growing crime problem. No, the “antics” of the defense attorneys are both created and limited by court rulings. Much of the guilt for the growth in violent crime falls on the TV and movie-going public. It is we who support the increase in violence and gore on our small and large screens. I’ve been to more murder scenes than I care to count and have been to almost as many autopsies, but I’m at a point where I can’t even watch much of what I see on CSI and other similar  shows. The casual way in which murder is treated, and the graphic manner in which wounds are portrayed are, to me, very disturbing.

Under our system of justice the defendant really isn’t on trial; it’s the evidence against him that’s on trial. The Court instructs the jury that the defendant has no responsibility to offer any evidence or testimony on his own behalf, and that, if the defendant chooses not to offer any evidence or testimony, the jury may not draw any adverse inference from that against the defendant. It’s what separates us from most other systems in the world.

Does the law sometimes allow the guilty to slip through the system without punishment? Absolutely, and that’s the down side of our system. In a perfect world the guilty would be found so, and the innocent, vindicated. But we don’t live in a perfect world. So that must mean that our Criminal Justice System isn’t perfect either. Of course it isn’t perfect, but it’s good enough to make our system the best in the world, and if you can think of a better one, let’s hear it.

Since retiring from my law practice, I’ve been writing crime novels and illustrating the strengths and weaknesses in our system of justice. I find it not only fun to do but it also gives me a great deal of satisfaction.

Please pass the link to this blog on to others in your social media world.

www.etlewis.com                                                   donlewis@sccoast.net

Your Mom; The Gold We Take For Granted

www.etlewis.com                                    donlewis@sccoast.net

Mother’s Day is just around the corner, but what does that really mean to us? Oh, we buy the cards, and say, “Happy Mother’s Day, Mom.” It’s become pretty much of a ritual; “Oh, don’t forget Mother’s Day. Be sure you get your mother a card,” Dad tells the kids. We dutifully obey and it goes on almost automatically the same way, year after year. Maybe we take mom out to dinner or even buy her some flowers, and all of that is nice, and she appreciates it. But when was the last time you really thought about what your mother does, and how much she means to you?

Do you have a magic drawer at home; one that is always full of clean clothes? You never even consider how they got there; the clothes were always there, as if by magic. Have you ever really thanked your mom for making sure you always had clean clothes ready to wear? Probably not; I mean that’s mom’s job, isn’t it?

Remember when you came down to breakfast before going off to school in the morning? There was your lunch box, already packed with a sandwich and maybe bag of chips, and often a little surprise, some goodie that you weren’t expecting. When you returned home after school on those days did you ever remember to thank your mom for putting that little surprise in your lunch box? Probably not; you’ve already forgotten about it.

Was your mom always there to tend to your scraped up knee or elbow when you came home after falling off your bike or sliding into home plate? Chances are she probably was.

She defended you when your name was under attack; she supported you in every fruitful endeavor you ever attempted. She was always your biggest cheerleader, and when the whole world seemed against you, she was there to encourage you.

How about the working mom? When I was a kid in the 40s and 50s, most moms stayed at home; they were called housewives. Over the years, things have changed and mothers have had to leave the home to go to work to help support the family, and usually did so of their own volition. 

Even though she may not have been at home all day, she wasn’t forgiven the duties she had as a mother. She still had to wash and iron the clothes; clean the house, make the beds, prepare the evening meals and clean up afterwards. She’d go to the store to shop for food and other household necessities. She took time to attend periodic meetings at school to meet with your teachers, and performed a million other tasks around the house that moms do without complaint. They do it because they love you so much that they would give up their own lives without hesitation to protect yours. Don’t take my word for it; pick up the newspaper, it happens every day.

Make this a special Mother’s Day. Go ahead and give her that card she looks for every year, and even some flowers if you can afford it. But sometime on that day pull her aside and don’t be embarrassed to tell her exactly what’s in your heart and not just that you love her, but how much you love her and why. Then watch her reaction; it’s one you’ll never forget

If you haven’t done it yet, do it this Mother’s Day. You will not only make her day, you’ll make her whole life. Mark my words; if you don’t ever do it, you’ll regret it forever.

My mom died in 2006 and, God love her, she lived to be 99 years old. I told her fairly often that I loved her, and I did, but I never really sat her down and told her how very much she meant to me, how her support and encouragement over the years were so important to my success in life. I regret not telling her that she was my strength throughout my life. Maybe it’s not too late for you. Nothing, NOTHING is more important to a parent, especially a mother, than knowing that her children love, honor and respect her and are truly grateful for all she has done for them, and how much it has meant to them to have her never-ending support and love.

Mom, if you can hear me now, you know how much you meant to me. I’m sorry I didn’t give you the thrill of hearing that while you were with me.

Please pass this along to everyone you know so that they never have to say “I’m sorry …”

www.etlewis.com                                                      donlewis@sccoast.net

Wrinkled Old Man

http://www.etlewis.com/

He was a wrinkled old man, bent slightly forward at the waist, his face wearing years of trying experiences. I guessed him to be in his eighties. His face, narrow and long, carried upon it a nose broken and twisted by life’s challenges. That his weary eyes had seen much sorrow was readily apparent by the look of their downward squint. It was a kind face, windowing a heart full of caring and burden.

With the knobbed head of his crooked wooden cane held firmly in his hand, he meandered slowly through the Millcreek Mall, stopping here and there to ponder the contents of a store window, or to rest, or both. Every movement of the man’s gait was slow and deliberate, as if to make certain that each step he took was upon firm ground, and his stooped shoulders held his arms close to his side, as though passing through a narrow doorway. I couldn’t take my eyes off of him.

The sound of hasty footsteps approaching from his rear brought him to a stop. As I moved in his direction to help in case of a collision, the young man rushed by and the old man was safe. As he raised his gaze to continue, his steel gray eyes, the one feature that bespoke of a handsome youth, caught mine. I had been watching him, wondering if I would live as long as he, and if so, whether I would have the courage to be walking alone in a busy mall. He smiled, knowingly, and nodded his head, as he continued his stroll. I had never seen him before, but when I noticed a screaming eagle pin on his lapel representing the shoulder patch of the storied 101^st Airborne Division, the Heroes of Bastogne, I felt a bond with him. I was never a member of the 101^st, but I was a paratrooper and I wanted to speak with him about … well about anything; I just wanted to talk with him.

On one hand I was hesitant to interrupt the old gentleman’s labored saunter, but on the other hand his smile invited conversation.

“Excuse me, sir,” I finally said, “Are you from Erie?”

“No,” he said, “I’m from Pittsburgh. I’m up here visiting my daughter and grandsons.”

“Are you alone here?” I asked.

“No, my daughter and the kids are around somewhere shopping. I’m not a shopper so I told her I’d be out here somewhere.”

“If I’m interrupting sir, I apologize, but I noticed your lapel pin and …” I hesitated to say more.

“Not at all young man,” he said to me, a man of 59. “In fact I could use a rest,” he said, pointing to mid-mall benches. He led me to them and we sat side-by-side.

“Were you in the 101?” he asked.

“No sir, but I was a paratrooper.” When I asked him if he was in World War II he replied in the affirmative. My heart was in my mouth.

 I asked, “Were you in on the D-Day Jump into Normandy?” He nodded his head and said that he was. But he said it in a way that conveyed he had done nothing special; he was just doing his job.

“Were you involved in the Battle of the Bulge?” I asked, my chest heaving with every word.

“Yes,” was his simple answer. I wanted to ask about his combat awards, but I decided not to risk embarrassing the man with that question, but neither was I going to let this conversation pass without asking him if he had been at the Siege of Bastogne. He said he was there the whole time. “In fact, if I’m still alive six years from now,” he said, with a hopeful glint in his eye, “I’ll be going back to Bastogne for our 50^th reunion.”

There were so many questions I wanted to ask him about those experiences; oddly enough, one of them was how it felt to march down Broadway in a tickertape parade; to feel the pride of being an American, to hold one’s head high, to have fought and given everything and receive such a glorious reception.

All too soon his daughter and grandsons came by to pick up grandpa. I didn’t get to ask those questions, but I wish I had. He gave me his name, but I didn’t write it down and I have long since forgotten it.

I have met a number of outstanding people in my life, but I have always held a special respect for my dad and all of the veterans of World War II; the boys who became men when they parachuted into hell in Europe; the Army Infantry and US Marines who signed blank checks on their lives when they stormed the beaches of Europe and the Pacific; the sailors and airmen who swept the seas and skies of the enemy; the tank drivers who slugged their way through Europe in metal boxes.

There were a million men and women like the wrinkled old man who put their lives on the line for us; you and me, and were humble enough to say that they were just doing their job. They were the ones who SAVED THE WORLD.

God Bless them all. I always thank every WWII veteran I meet. Soon they will all be gone. Honor them with a simple, “Thank you.”

I’m a writer of mystery novels now; no longer the lean mean fighting machine I once was, but I will always treasure the honor and inspiration it was for me to meet someone as brave and patriotic as was the wrinkled old man, and I will never forget him. I hope he made it to his reunion and I hope he’s still alive and making more old vets feel good.

If this blog made you feel good please pass it on to your friends. It’s a true story.

donlewis@sccoast.net                                                                        www.etlewis.com

Let Freedom Ring!

donlewis@sccoast.net                                       www.etlewis.com

Let Freedom Ring

Our great nation was born through the Declaration of Independence, to be governed by Constitutional guarantees that the freedoms listed therein would endure forever.

In the 230 plus years since then it was the exercise of those freedoms that molded our country into the greatest on earth. It’s true that “Freedom isn’t Free,” and from the time of America’s beginnings until the present day, it’s citizens have been called upon to make sacrifices, and in many cases, to risk their lives so that those freedoms could be preserved. Over those centuries thousands of American men and women have given their lives for our liberty. Today our freedom is endangered; not so much from the wars we fight, but from concerted efforts to destroy America from within.

Since the early 20^th Century there have been those who would radically change our way of life. Seldom have they identified their plans as an attempt to subvert our Constitution. Nor have they identified themselves with their revolutionary scheme. They work privately and anonymously in a most insidious manner.

Over the years we have paid little attention to those who embraced the weakening and eventual destruction of American ideals, either misunderstanding their intentions or believing that eventually they would simply go away. They haven’t. They are in fact growing in numbers and in boldness.

Those of us who grew up in the 40s and 50s find the country very different from the one we knew in our youth. Almost everything has changed; many believe for the worse. We are being converted from a society dominated by doers and givers, to one of watchers and takers.

As a child growing up in Pittsburgh I learned from my mother about how to confront and deal with problems and about the difference between right and wrong. My mom was my strength and the person I turned to every day for answers to life’s problems. She sacrificed her teaching career to spend her days tending to the needs of her children and always took the time to guide us along the road to maturity. She taught us that there are no free rides, and that we must earn our way through life.

As a youth I took it all for granted. I didn’t realize the extent of her sacrifice and wisdom until I was grown and raising my own family. It was from her and my dad that I learned to cling to traditional values, and how important they were to our freedom. Bless her heart, mom lived for 99 years. I miss her a lot, and think of her every day. In all of my novels I highlight the values I learned from both of my parents.

There are those who say that to draw attention to the growing attacks on our liberties is an attempt to instill false panic. They say America is too intelligent a nation to fall into that kind of trap. That’s what the German people thought in the early 1930s and who would argue that they were not intelligent? Here in America the decline into disastrous social change has been taking its toll. While each generation’s opportunity to grow academically has increased, our educational standards have decreased. To disagree with a “politically correct” idea labels one a trouble-maker, a Nazi, a sexist or a racist. The growing inclination of the public to accept these standards is like a cancer; eventually we will simply go and do, where and what we’re told.

We are “progressively” turning from a nation of leaders to one of followers; from an independent society into one dependent upon the government. In the end the goal of the “progressives” is that we be governed without our input or consent.

We’re told now that our nation’s flag, the proud symbol of our country is something that shouldn’t be worn on our lapels, or displayed publicly. In schools we no longer recite the Pledge of Allegiance, because it might offend someone. Might offend someone? Who the hell would have dared to spew such a shameful lack of respect for our flag and our values fifty, or even twenty years ago?

Our government was created to guarantee checks and balances, so that no one political group could force their agenda on society, yet today that is exactly what is happening. What used to matter was the will of the people; now it seems that the only thing that counts is the will of the government and now their agenda seems to be to “fundamentally transform America.” The question many now ask is “Into what?”

Our strength as a nation is our Constitution and the freedoms set forth in that document. It is the foundation of this great country. Tear the pages from the Constitution, lose the freedoms it guarantees, and we will lose our Republic.

donlewis@sccoast.net                                                     www.etlewis.com

Please pass this message on to everyone on your email & FB list.

                                               

         

Amazon Kindle Books – Dark Covenant, Satan’s Boots Don’t Creak, Kalup’s Crossroads – Don Lewis, author – $2.99

The Day That Changed My Life

          At some time or another, most of us have faced and overcome obstacles through tenacity and patience. This blog is meant to encourage those of you who have not yet faced the fire-spewing dragon to do so with determination, courage, hard work and the resilience to bounce back from disappointment and fight on. Though it’s my story it’s not meant to be about me, but about facing our fears and setbacks.I enjoyed a very successful career as a criminal trial lawyer and now as a published author of mystery/crime novels, and I owe much of that success to the day that changed my life.

       It was early in the fall semester of my sophomore year in high school. My friend Gary and I were working our way through the crowded hall near the trophy case when I was stopped by a classmate; we’ll just call him Bob. He was a football player, somewhat bigger than I and known as a pretty tough guy who felt a need to remind everyone of that from time to time. He made a comment about the hat I was wearing, grabbed it off my head, went to the water cooler, filled the hat, came back and dumped it over my head. I raised my hands to fight and he hit me on the jaw. I went down and slid across the wet floor to the water cooler. It felt like every kid in school was standing there watching. Bob merely turned and walked away. Gary helped me up and stopped me from going after him. I wasn’t a fighter; not nearly big enough for that, but neither was I a coward. It was a good thing that Gary stopped me; otherwise I might have been badly hurt.

          Something changed in me that day. I had never been humiliated like that before. I wanted to do something about it. With encouragement from my mom and help from my dad, I decided to take up boxing. My dad had a friend named Fritzie Zivic who had been a World Welterweight Boxing Champion. He spent the next seven months training me for the spring boxing tournament. I gained weight and learned how to fight.

When tournament time came in the spring of 1955, I was a middleweight at a little over 160 pounds. As it happened, Bob was in the same weight division but in the other bracket, so the only way we would fight each other was if we both won our three preliminary bouts. We both did and were scheduled to face off for the championship. Everyone in school knew about the incident in the hall, and the auditorium was packed.

I had watched Bob’s preliminary fights and he was a bulldog. He didn’t have very good skills but he was fearless and kept charging his opponents, pressuring and simply overpowering them. Most of Bob’s weight was in his upper body and he was strong. His shoulders were thick and his arms powerful.

Before the fight Fritzie told me to stay away from him and let him tire himself out; he wouldn’t be in as good a shape as I. When he tired, I would take control of the fight and begin inflicting punishment.

That’s exactly how it went. Bob pushed and I backed up. He kept coming and throwing punches; I kept withdrawing and dodging punches. He tired quickly and after two minutes of the first round I saw my opportunity and took it. Bob went down, got back up and a moment later the referee called it a TKO. I had won! I was the Middleweight Champion. What a feeling!
In retrospect, I wasn’t as tough as Bob, but I was patient and used what I had and that’s what won the fight.

So many things changed that day. Up until then I had always been kind of a background figure in school without any real athletic success, but from the day I beat Bob everything changed. All of a sudden I was very popular at school. Even the football players treated me differently. In my junior year I was elected my home-room president and in my last year I was elected as one of the top four officers of the senior class.

All of the changes in me that my parents encouraged; my confidence, my motivation to make something of myself, and my improved social skills, all began that day. I give a lot of the credit for that to Bob for popping me in the jaw right in front of the trophy case on that fall day of my sophomore year in high school. Bob transferred to another school at the end of the year.

Almost thirty years later I ran into him in Meadville, PA. He looked at me and said, “Don Lewis.” I glanced at him and then he said, “Bob,” and his last name. Immediately the incident in the hall flashed into my mind and I said, “The last time I saw you I was looking up.” Through a tight smile he replied, “Huh uh, counselor, the last time you saw me I was looking up.” We both laughed. He’s a totally different guy now, and even though I’ve only seen him a couple of times since, it was a pleasant reunion.

http://www.etlewis.com/