Lawyers Aren't Your Friends

Lawyers are a shifty bunch.

I was standing outside a court room today, as I often do, when a pair of well-dressed men came rushing out to talk. They carried on what should have been a private conversation right next to me:

"Well listen Bill, my client told me she did it, then changed her story," said lawyer #1.

"Yeah, my guy is pretty much the same," said lawyer #2.

"If you go for this settlement, I have to tell you...well listen. I'm doing this for free."

"You are?"

"Yeah, it's my barbers daughter. The guy just died of cancer. I'm doing this at no charge. So I have to tell you, if she goes for this, I'm pretty sure she won't be able to pay."

"Oh yeah?"

"Yeah. But look, she's going to say that she was going about 50 miles an hour and went around him when they hit."

"That's exactly what my client is going to say. All right, look. I'll call him."

"You sure you don't want to talk this over with him in private?"

"No, it's no problem. He'll go for it"

These two idiots confirmed every one of my worst fears. Lawyers dole out justice like playing cards. They talk about golf swings and country clubs, then figure out how many years you'll get at Rikers while they sip on Chai Lattes.

I expect the FBI will bust down my door any day now. I haven't done anything wrong, but I've watched way too many episodes of OZ to feel safe. Now I've got to worry about some public defender (metaphorically) shiving me in the back.

My only recourse is to start boning up on law books like that guy in that movie with Ben Affleck. The one set in Boston with the Irish girlfriend who was really hot back then but not so much now. Something about Guffman. Or Forester.