I had to get a criminal lawyer because there was no way for Miles Lewis, the station attorney, to argue that the First Amendment guaranteed me the right to fling alcohol in public.
So in a gesture of extreme overkill, I hired Benny Walsh, the top criminal attorney in town. Usually he defended big-name murderers, embezzlers, bank robbers—more interesting cases than mine.
“So you’re saying I should just plead guilty?” I asked my lawyer. “What about what he wrote about me?”
“Well, you could sue him civilly, but, to be honest, you might lose. And it would cost you plenty because no one will take it on contingency. I sure won’t. My advice is to end this and end it fast.”
Benny convinced me that because it was a lousy misdemeanor, if I committed no other crimes in the next year, it would be erased.
The deal was I’d get community service.
“You can give disadvantaged kids a tour of the TV station and be done with it,” he said.
Begrudgingly, I agreed.
“So what are you going to wear to court?” he asked.
“Don’t worry, Benny, I’ll pick out something suitably appropriate for a court of law.”
“Pink,” he said. “I want you to wear pink. And not an aggressive pink, either. A delicate, harmless pink.”
So on the advice of my attorney, I bought a pale pink, feminine-cut blazer that the salesperson guaranteed made me look “pretty.” I figured I could always wear the soothing shade when I had to interview crime victims or their families.
But when I got to court, and the clerk called my name, Benny’s cushy deal didn’t exactly fall together.
Apparently Judge Tregobov harbored some rancor against the media. And she wasn’t fooled by the color pink, either.
“Since you journalists enjoy garbage so much, your community service will be picking up garbage somewhere in the county, location to be determined later.”
My attorney tried to argue, but the judge cut him off.
“You heard me; trash for the trash. Keep quiet or I’ll find you in contempt.”
But when the prosecutor wanted to talk, the judge allowed him to request a protective order keeping me a thousand feet away from Sam Pierce. I was given no opportunity to point out that anyone who compared our body of work would easily see who regularly wrote trash and who wrote award-winning public-service investigations.
But with a bang of her gavel, the judge consented to this last piece of humiliation. And that’s the way it was. Whether Walter Cronkite would have agreed or not.
“What just happened?” I asked Benny. He gathered up his papers and mumbled something about the unpredictability of the legal system.
Sam was snickering in the back, waiting to goad me as we walked out.
“I thought you wanted me to stay away from you,” I said. “Get lost.” I wanted to give him a little shove, but if throwing booze got me hauled into court, pushing and shoving would probably land me in jail.
Benny stepped between us and told me the order for protection didn’t actually start until after we left the courtroom.
Figuring I wouldn’t get another chance, I decided to throw one last verbal barb at Sam. “Staying away from you will be a relief, you rumormonger. Have I told you how much your cologne reeks?”
Sam smiled with the confidence of a man used to getting the final word. “I just want to assure you Channel 3 will get plenty of column space in tomorrow’s newspaper.”
I told him it just better all be true and quoted another Bible verse about men giving an account on the day of judgment for every careless word they have spoken.
“God doesn’t scare me,” he replied.
“Maybe he will,” I answered.
Something about the tone of our voices, our body language, or maybe just how we were staring at each other made the court bailiff come between us and make sure we rode down on separate elevators.
Instead of going back to work, I went home sick. By the time I got there, Sam’s “Piercing Eyes” gossip column already had the story posted online with a splashing headline: “Let the Punishment Fit the Criminal.” Unfortunately, I couldn’t complain. For once, his report was all accurate.
The only email I had was a message from Rolf Hedberg, commiserating with me and telling me he’d like to throw a six-pack in Sam’s face himself.
Just when I thought it couldn’t get worse, I learned the wire service had picked up the main points, sending the story to radio stations all over the Midwest. My parents, huge fans of AM radio, were sure to be listening.
I let my clothes fall to the floor and didn’t even bother hanging up my new pink jacket. Then I curled up in bed in a fetal position with a pillow over my head. The phone rang a couple times, but I didn’t answer.
Probably just the damn media.