They want even more time?

I represent a defendant on appeal who entered open guilty pleas in a Philadelphia gun case (no shots fired, nobody hurt) back in March 2013.  My client remains incarcerated, with his state parole for a prior conviction now extended until late 2019.  Despite these circumstances, the Commonwealth appealed his sentence, because they want to “warehouse” him for 4-8 years in a state institution.  Your taxpayer dollars at work!

The first part of the argument section of my much longer opposition to the Commonwealth’s appeal is attached.  Hoping for the best.

A.             Two concurrent terms of time served to two years’ incarceration on the charges of violating Sections 6105 and 6106 of the UFA, subject to additional penalties for Whitfield’s violation of State Parole, was reasonable and consistent with the applicable provisions of the Sentencing Code.

The parties agreed on March 19, 2013 that the standard range for Whitfield’s UFA offenses was 48 to 60 months’ incarceration, plus or minus 12 months.  (R. 22b, NT 14/6-11).  The Trial Court’s sentence of time served to two years on the UFA charges was outside the guidelines, as a result of which this Court must decide if that sentence was “unreasonable.”  See 42 Pa. C.S. § 9781 (c)(3).  At the outset, Supreme Court authority instructs that an unreasonable sentence is one that is “irrational” or “not guided by sound judgment.”  Walls at 963.  These adjectives do not accurately describe Judge Schulman’s sentence in this case, most evidently because Whitfield remains incarcerated at SCI Somerset, pending a State Parole Hearing that will take place later this year.  Thus, while “time served” as of the Sentencing Hearing meant the 21 months that had passed between the June 19, 2011 offense date and the March 19, 2013 hearing date, “time served” now means the 31 months that have passed since June 19, 2011, and as Judge Schulman specifically recognized during sentencing, Whitfield faces the certainty “that the State Parole Board will be dealing with your parole case in the manner that will be appropriate.”  (R. 25b, NT 26/18-24).[1]  As a result, this case bears no resemblance to situations where this Court has vacated a sentence outside the guidelines as excessively lenient.  Compare Commonwealth v. Daniel, 30 A.3d 494, 497 (Pa. Super. 2011) (vacating 11 ½ to 23 month sentence where defendant had a lengthy criminal record, was on probation at the time of the incident, and “nearly killed an unarmed man by stabbing him in the stomach and he seriously injured another man.”).

In addition, the Trial Court’s sentence met all the criteria for review provided by the Sentencing Code.  The first requirement of Section 9781 (d) of the Code is that the Court “shall have regard for the nature and circumstances of the offense, and the history and characteristics of the defendant.”  42 Pa. C.S. § 9781 (d)(1).  Accordingly, Judge Schulman heard a detailed recitation of the facts from the Commonwealth – that when faced with an approaching caravan of police vehicles in the middle of the night on June 19, 2011, Whitfield removed a loaded Beretta semiautomatic pistol from his waistband, tossed it under a van near the corner of 22nd and Oxford Streets, and then attempted to sneak off into the night, only to be immediately arrested by Officer Hauser.  (R. 20b, NT /18-9/1).  On the consequences of having guns on the streets in general, the Trial Court heard four pages of testimony from Orla Treacy, a representative of Cease Fire Pennsylvania who covered the economic effects of gun violence (“they think, I’m not going to venture past Fairmount Avenue because it’s not safe”), and the danger of guns even when they don’t get fired (“in a lot of cases it’s just pure luck that there wasn’t a victim who was shot or killed”).  (R. 23b, NT 18/18-19/24).

The “history and characteristics of the defendant” were likewise thoroughly covered at the sentencing hearing.  Near the start of the hearing, defense counsel advised Judge Schulman, referring to Whitfield, that “he’s on parole.” (R. 20b, NT 6/3).  After the Court denied the Commonwealth’s request for a continuance, the first thing said by the ADA in the room was “Offense gravity score is 10; prior record is a 4; guidelines from an F-1 Robbery committed by this defendant sentenced in 2006.”  (R. 22b, 14/6-11).  After Ms. Treacy concluded her testimony on the community effects of gun violence, the Commonwealth characterized Whitfield, again referring to the 2006 conviction, as “somebody who cannot be near guns period.” (R. 24b, NT 21/4-5).  After each side had made its presentation, the Trial Court immediately noted that Whitfield “did state time at a young age” as a consequence of the 2006 robbery conviction.  (R. 25b, NT 26/1-7).  And finally, while imposing sentence, Judge Schulman made clear that “I was the Gun Court Judge for a year.  I fully understand what we are dealing with day in and day out, and I am not known as being a lenient sentencer.”  (R. 26b, NT 29/20-25).  There is no question that Whitfield’s criminal history was a primary fact of the Court’s consideration at sentencing, in compliance with Section 9781 (d)(1) of the Code.

The next criterion provided by Section 9781 (d) is “the opportunity of the sentencing court to observe the defendant, including any presentence investigation,” see 42 Pa. C.S. § 9781 (d)(2), and again there is no question that this element was met at the sentencing hearing.  After each side had covered its respective points, the Trial Court engaged in the following colloquy with Whitfield:

THE COURT: You are 28 years old now.  I look at you sitting here and you don’t look like the same guy who would commit a robbery and show up on parole with a loaded Glock and have the appalling attitude that comes out on this transcript.  You don’t look like that guy.  I would like to know, Mr. Whitfield, when you got out, did you get a job of any sort?

THE DEFENDANT: Yes.

THE COURT: Doing what?

THE DEFENDANT: Stage hands.  First I was working at Enterprise.  They fired me because of my criminal background, and I put on my application that I was a convicted felon, but they passed it.  So they fired me and wrote a letter of recommendation.  Then I started doing stage hands, and me and my wife opened our own business, and it’s still up and running, but it’s failing because of I’m in here.

THE COURT: Doing business as what?

THE DEFENDANT: Selling hair weave. 

(R. 25b, NT 26/25-28/1).  Evidently, Judge Schulman’s sentence was not the product of a perfunctory review of the facts, or a “cookie cutter” approach to either the defendant, or to gun-related crimes.  While the Trial Court denied as untimely the Commonwealth’s request for a continuance to obtain a PSI, the record demonstrates that Judge Schulman engaged in the individualized sentencing that is required by Section 9781 (d).

Finally, for purposes of this section of argument, the record likewise shows that Whitfield’s sentence satisifed the general standards of Section 9721 (b), which the record must show were expressly or implicitly considered by the sentencing court.  See Walls at 964, citing 42 Pa. C.S. § 9721 (b).  The first factor is “protection of the public,” and in furtherance of this, Whitfield remains in custody to date.  (R. 2b).  Further, Judge Schulman advised Whitfield: “You are never permitted to have a gun, Mr. Whitfield, ever.  Do you understand that?”  His answer was “Yes.” (R. 26b, NT 30/1-23).  While nobody was injured in either the July 19, 2011 incident or the 2004 robbery, Whitfield’s continuing supervision on State Parole after his release will further the protection of the public as required by Section 9721 (b)(1).[2] 

The second factor is “the gravity of the offense in relation to the impact on the victim and the community.”  42 Pa. C.S. § 9721 (b)(2).  While the June 19, 2011 incident fortunately did not involve a victim, the more general impacts of having loaded handguns on the streets of Philadelphia were covered in detail by the four pages of testimony given by Orla Treacy of Cease Fire Pennsylvania.  (R. 22b-23b, NT 16/22-20/17).  The third and final factor provided by Section 9721 (b) is “the rehabilitative needs of the defendant,” and again there is no doubt that Judge Schulman considered this at sentencing, where the Court asked Whitfield about his employment history, received ample facts about his wife’s successful hair weaving business, and then imposed anger management classes as a further component of the sentence.  (R. 26b, NT 30/24-31/1 – “Well, you clearly have an anger problem, so I will order anger management.”).

In summary, Judge Schulman’s sentence, imminently reasonable under the circumstances of Whitfield’s looming State Parole sanction, also met all criteria for review provided by Sections 9721 (b) and 9781 (d) of the Sentencing Code.[3]


[1] Whitfield’s 31 months in custody as a result of his arrest on June 19, 2011 is currently only five months short of a mitigated, guidelines sentence of 3 to 6 years.  By the time this case is argued, Whitfield’s time in custody will likely exceed what is necessary to achieve the functional equivalent of a Guidelines sentence, making this appeal moot.

[2] As a result of Whitfield’s convictions in this case, the Parole Board has so far taken away credit for Whitfield’s time at liberty from January 4, 2009 to June 19, 2011, and has extended his maximum date from October 23, 2016 to January 27, 2019 for the 2006 robbery conviction at CP-51-CR-507921-2004.

[3] While the Commonwealth chose to omit the transcript of the sentencing hearing from its Brief, the Commonwealth simultaneously goes outside the hearing record and into inadmissible hearsay to suggest that Whitfield’s use of the names Jalil and Devon somehow make him more deserving of a lengthy sentence.  See Commonwealth Brief at 5, n.1.  This Court should disregard the argument, as it is not based on materials that are part of the record on appeal.  Further, there has not been any confusion about Whitfield’s identity, and the suggestion that he might actually be a different prisoner by the same name, housed at SCI-Pittsburgh, is baseless.

“That’s not mine” – a primer on Constructive Possession in Pennsylvania

Many criminal cases rest on a prosecution claim that because one passenger of a vehicle, or occupant of a room, possessed something that was illegal, then other people in the immediate area are also to blame for possessing the item.  This legal fiction, called “Constructive Possession,” is subject to rigorous proof requirements in Pennsylvania.  In practice, however, Judges tend to overlook the required elements of Constructive Possession in favor of something that could be called Guilt by Association.  

In a recent trial, I overcame this judicial bias by having each defendant (the driver who actually possessed the gun and his front seat passenger who didn’t) testify.  The driver said he didn’t show or tell his passenger about the gun, and the passenger testified that if he knew a gun was present, he would have exited the vehicle immediately.  Without this testimony, it is likely that my client would have been convicted of possessing a handgun, despite the absence of any direct testimony that he knew of its presence.  A piece I recently wrote on the required elements of Constructive Possession follows:

I.          INTRODUCTION 

We put ourselves at serious risk of criminal prosecution when we ride in a car, visit a home, or even walk with a group of friends, if one person among several is carrying drugs, a gun, or something else illegal.  To prove the point, Pennsylvania law provides a five-year mandatory minimum sentence for all “accomplices” (basically, anyone in the immediate area) if a police find a gun in or near an alleged crime scene.  We are not our brother’s keeper, but what our brother is carrying can land us in serious trouble.  Therefore, we provide this guide to the doctrine of constructive possession. 

II.        ELEMENTS OF CONSTRUCTIVE POSSESSION

The Pennsylvania Superior Court says that “constructive possession is the ability to exercise conscious control or dominion over the illegal substance and the intent to exercise that control.”  Commonwealth v. Kirkland, 831 A.2d 607, 610 (Pa. Super. 2003), see also Commonwealth v. Hamm, 301 Pa. Super. 266, 447 A.2d 960, 962 (1982) (“To prove constructive possession of an item, the Commonwealth must show that the defendant had both the intent and the ability to control the item.”).  “At the very least, the evidence must show that the defendant knew of the existence of the item.”  Id. (string citation omitted).  Importantly, a Court “may not infer that [defendant] knew of the weapon’s existence simply from the fact that it was hidden in an automobile.”  Id.  In Hamm, police officers driving “about half a car length” behind the vehicle operated by defendant James Hamm observed a back seat passenger pass an unknown object to the front seat passenger, who was then seen to “bend down in a forward motion as though placing something on the floor in front of him.”  Id. at 961-62.  Hamm pulled over voluntarily (because he recognized the passengers in the unmarked car behind him as local police officers), and as the passengers exited the vehicle, the officers saw a .22 caliber revolver resting on the front floorboard, passenger side.  See id. at 962.

Mr. Hamm was found guilty by a jury of possession of the revolver and of conspiracy to possess the same weapon, but the Superior Court reversed each conviction.  On constructive possession, the Court reasoned that, even if Mr. Hamm had seen the revolver as it was handed to his front seat passenger, “there was no evidence to suggest that [Hamm] knew of the weapon’s existence before it was produced by [the rear seat passenger].”  Id.

            The Superior Court reached a similar conclusion in Commonwealth v. Boatwright, 308 Pa. Super. 41, 453 A.2d 1058 (1982), where it vacated defendant’s conviction for Carrying a Firearm Without a License.  See id., 453 A.2d at 1059.  In Boatwright, City of Pittsburgh police officers responded to a radio call for three “suspicious” men seated in a vehicle parked in front of a residence.  Id. at 1058.  Upon arrival, officers observed Albert Boatwright seated in the front passenger seat of the vehicle, and then watched him “moving towards the left rear” of the vehicle.  Id.  After police ordered all occupants out of the vehicle, they observed a handgun on the floor of the left rear passenger compartment of the vehicle, the same area to which Boatwright had been seen “moving towards.”  Id.  Reviewing the elements of constructive possession, the Court observed that: (1) “the Commonwealth must present evidence to show that [defendant] had both the power to control the firearm and the intent to exercise that control;” and that (2) “mere presence at the scene where the gun was found is not sufficient.”  Id. at 1059.  The Court concluded its analysis by vacating Boatwright’s conviction, because “the only evidence other than mere presence was [the officer’s] testimony that appellant made a movement towards the left rear of the vehicle.”  Id

            More recently, and in the context of Possession of a Controlled Substance, the Pennsylvania Supreme Court observed that “the existence of constructive possession of a controlled substance is demonstrated by the ability to exercise a conscious dominion over the illegal substance; the power to control the illegal substance; and the intent to exercise that control.”  Commonwealth v. Johnson, 611 Pa. 381, 26 A.2d 1078, 1093 (2011).   The Johnson Court went on to hold that the lower courts had erroneously concluded that the defendant, Omar Johnson, could be held in constructive possession of a large quantity of drugs found in a co-defendant’s vehicle, which Johnson did not own, control, or enter.  See id. at 1095.

III.       CONCLUSION

The cases discussed above show that defendant can win in a constructive possession case, but the key to success is defense counsel who understands how to battle the Commonwealth on each element of constructive possession. 

Prior Bad Acts

In a case that is scheduled to go to trial on May 13, 2014, the Commonwealth served notice that it intended to introduce three types of “prior bad acts” against my 77-year old client pursuant to Pa. R. Evid. 404 (b).  The three categories were: (A) sexual assaults of stepchildren that allegedly occurred between 35 and 40 years ago; (B) arguments between my client and his wife, which allegedly included the 33-year old wife getting slapped, hit with a chair, and locked outside the home; and (C) earlier assaults of the complaining witness that allegedly occured in Jamaica and Florida.  I am glad to report that after argument held on January 8, 2014, the Court precluded categories (A) and (B) from evidence, and will allow only category (C), the alleged assaults that occurred outside Pennsylvania.  While I am encouraged by the ruling, it will still make defending a difficult case even harder.  For those interested in more detail, portions of my Brief follow:

A.           The Court should preclude evidence of defendant’s alleged abuse of two step-daughters during the 1970s.

The Commonwealth seeks a result here that has never been duplicated in caselaw – the admission of alleged sexual assaults that supposedly occurred 35 to 40 years ago, in the mid to late 1970s.  According to the Commonwealth, A.K., now age 51, will testify that defendant molested her by digital penetration when she was between 12 and 14 years old, while her sister C.K. (age 43) will apparently testify that defendant “lifted up her shirt and sucked on her breasts” when she was 8 or 9 years old.  See Commonwealth Motion at 4.  Missing from the Commonwealth’s vague descriptions of these bad acts is any indication of where they happened, what were the surrounding circumstances, and if there were any other persons present.  It will be an exercise in futility for defendant to defend against these allegations aside from a blanket denial.  Due to defendant’s advanced age and the passage of more than three decades, he could not begin to reconstruct where he was, or what he was doing, at the time of each allegation.  Moreover, the allegations concerning what defendant allegedly did to AK (digital penetration) and CK (sucked breast) in the 1970s do not sufficiently resemble the allegations of this case (vaginal rape) to satisfy “the requirements of the common scheme, plan or design exception to the general rule that evidence of one crime is inadmissible against a defendant being tried for a different crime.”  Commonwealth v. O’Brien, 836 A.2d 966, 971 (Pa. Super. 2003).

The longest delay allowed by Pennsylvania caselaw between a prior bad act involving sexual abuse of a minor and the later assault of the complaining witness is the fourteen years found in Commonwealth v. Luktisch, 451 Pa. Super. 500, 680 A.2d 877 (1996).  More typical is Commonwealth v. Keaton, 556 Pa. 442, 729 A.2d 529 (1999), where the Supreme Court affirmed the admission of evidence from two of defendant’s prior victims, which occurred “over a period of less than six months” before the capital murder case against the defendant.  See id. at 537.  In Luktisch, the Trial Court allowed the defendant’s eldest daughter to testify at trial concerning sexual abuse that had occurred “fourteen years prior to those committed upon” the complaining witness.  Id., 680 A.2d at 878.  The Superior Court affirmed, in large part because only six years had passed between the end of sexual abuse involving defendant’s oldest daughter, and “the time he turned his depraved intentions upon” a later victim of similar misconduct.  Id.  Here, the passage of time between defendant’s alleged abuse of AK and CK and his alleged acts involving AM is between 35 and 40 years.  This period of time exemplifies the “excessive delay” which should preclude the admission of prior bad acts under Rule 404 (b).  See Smith, 635 A.2d at 1089.

B.        The Court should preclude defendant’s alleged abusive behavior towards his wife. 

The Commonwealth seeks to introduce evidence that defendant yelled at his wife, slapped her, locked her “out of the house in little clothing,” and also hit her with a chair.  The Commonwealth has not provided a date, time or place for any of these allegations.  See Commonwealth Motion at 3.  Nor has the Commonwealth provided factual averments that defendant’s alleged behaviors had any affect on the complaining witness’s state of mind, for example by inducing her to forego a prompt complaint of defendant’s alleged sexual abuse.  Instead, the Commonwealth asks the Court to infer that defendant’s acts directed to his spouse are a complete explanation for “why A.M. would not disclose the abuse to anyone over a three-year period.”  Id. at 20.

Caselaw makes clear that for evidence of a third person’s abuse to be admitted at the trial of a sexual assault case, that abuse must be severe, and also shown to have dissuaded the complainant from making a prompt complaint.  Commonwealth v. Dillon, 863 A.2d 597 (Pa. Super. 2004) proves the point.  In that case, the Commonwealth’s proffer concerning the defendant’s abuse of the complainant’s family members included the following:

  • “The victim personally witnessed her mother, and brother, Kenny, receive several violent beatings at the hands of [the defendant].”  Id. at 599.
  • “the victim was physically abused less, and isolated from the other family members.”  Id.
  • “by doing this, defendant was compelling the victim to comply with the sexual abuse by making her fearful of receiving beatings similar to that of her mother and brother.”  Id.
  • And finally, “in all that time, never once did the victim indicate to anyone the numerous incidents of sexual abuse until after the family finally moved away from [the defendant].  Id.

On this record, the Superior Court held that defendant’s abuse of the complainant’s mother and brother should not have been restricted to rebuttal evidence, but instead should have been allowed into the Commonwealth’s case in chief, because “the victim’s resulting fear of Dillon logically and persuasively explains her failure to report her abuse.”  Id. at 600.

The facts of this case differ from Dillon in several compelling ways.  Most noticeably, while Thomas Dillon was inflicting severe beatings to the point of breaking legs, the totality of the allegations against defendant is that he yelled at his wife, slapped her, locked her “out of the house in little clothing,” and also hit her with a chair.  See Commonwealth Motion at 3.  The inference that A.M. was terrified into silence by defendant’s alleged misconduct is not supported by any facts, and the speculation of the District Attorney are not a sufficient substitute.  While Mr. Dillon isolated his victim from the other family members and abused her less, the Commonwealth provides no indication that defendant behaved in a manner which indicated that abuse would be turned against A.M. or withheld, depending on her conduct.  In summary, the Commonwealth has failed to provide a factual connection between defendant’s allegedly poor behavior towards his wife, and A.M.’s failure to report defendant’s alleged sexual assaults while they were allegedly taking place.  Without this connection, evidence of defendant slapping his wife and engaging in other misconduct is nothing more than propensity evidence, inviting the jury to convict because defendant has behaved badly on other occasions.

C.        The Court should preclude evidence of defendant’s alleged abuse of A.M. in Florida and Jamaica.

Finally, the Commonwealth seeks to introduce evidence going back to 2008, that defendant allegedly sexually assaulted A.M., starting “when she was 9 years old in Jamaica,” and continuing to when the family moved to Florida.  See Commonwealth Motion at 3.  The request should be denied, because the cases upon which the Commonwealth primarily relies involved criminal convictions based on specific facts, not vague allegations.  In addition, allowing the Commonwealth to convict defendant based in part on actions he allegedly took in Jamaica and Florida would involve the improper, extraterritorial application of Pennsylvania law to acts allegedly done in jurisdictions that are able to apply their own criminal law to alleged offenders.

The importance of specific “prior bad acts” allegations is shown by Commonwealth v. O’Brien, 836 A.2d 966 (Pa. Super. 2003), where the defendant was arrested after befriending the ten year old son of a former lover, inviting him to defendant’s home for a visit, playing a pornographic film, and then attempting to rape the boy.  See id. at 968.  Prior to trial, the Commonwealth served notice of its intent to introduce the facts that supported O’Brien’s guilty pleas to molesting two young boys, age 11 and 8 respectively.  Id. at 967.  In the first case, involving the 11-year old complainant, the defendant admitted to meeting the child through his parents, inviting him over to his house, and then attempting to perform oral sex.  Id.  In the second case, the defendant similarly met the 8 year-old victim through his parents, arranged for the boy to visit alone, played a pornographic film, and then initiated oral sex.  Id.

The Trial Court precluded the facts of the two prior sexual assault cases to which defendant pleaded guilty, but the Superior Court reversed, finding that the specific facts of the two prior convictions satisfied “the requirements of the common scheme, plan or design exception to the general rule that evidence of one crime is inadmissible against a defendant being tried for a different crime.”  Id. at 971.  The Court reached a similar result in Commonwealth v. Ardinger, 839 A.2d 1143 (Pa. Super. 2003), where it readily reversed the Trial Court’s preclusion of the facts that supported defendant’s pending criminal case in Maryland, because those facts were a virtual duplicate of those which led to defendant’s prosecution in Pennsylvania.  See id. at 1143.  Specifically, in the Pennsylvania case, defendant befriended an 11 year-old boy after becoming close to his single mother, in time became a “substitute father figure,” and then attempted to fondle the boy’s penis after inviting him over to spend the night.  Id.  In the Maryland case, defendant befriended a 10 year-old boy after becoming close to his single father, engaged in sports activities with the boy as a “Big Brother,” and was eventually discovered while fondling the boy after inviting him over to spend the night.  See id. at 1144.

The facts of this case do not compare to the specific allegations of O’Brien and Ardinger.  In O’Brien, the defendant was charged with a crime that was a virtual duplicate of the two cases where he had pleaded guilty.  Ardinger likewise involved nearly identical criminal prosecutions, one pending trial in Pennsylvania, and the other pending in Maryland.  Here, the Commonwealth alleges a penetration of A.M. “when she was 9 years old in Jamaica,” and an attempted back massage in Florida.  See Commonwealth Motion at 3.  These vague allegations, compared to the offenses filed against defendant in this case, do not rise to the level of a common scheme, plan or design.

Finally, the prior bad acts admitted against the defendants in O’Brien and Ardinger were each the result of a prior judicial proceeding, where the acts had been found in violation of governing law, and resulted in criminal prosecution.  Here, in contrast, the acts which defendant allegedly committed in Jamaica and Florida apparently resulted in no official action in either location.  For this Court to now put defendant on trial in Pennsylvania for those same acts would effectively result in the extraterritorial application of Pennsylvania law.  See Kunzmann, 41 Pa. at 434, 1862 Pa. Lexis 40, ** 14 (observing that “the courts of Pennsylvania, therefore, have no jurisdiction over crimes committed within the territorial limits of another state,” and further noting that “crimes and misdemeanors committed within the limits of each of the United States are punishable only by the jurisdiction of that state where they arise.”).

Life Sentence

With one hour left to Richmond, there are still no leaves on the trees but it’s looking more southern out the window of the cafe car. People come here to eat, not talk, which makes a better place to write than the seat I left two cars back. The train passed a farm with a couple of heavily rusted metal house trailers in the yard and an array of junk, mostly tires and other automotive debris, leaning against a barbwire fence which extended off from the train tracks into high dead grass. The thin asphalt roads stretching through passing shallow valleys have no sidewalks and are lined with sand. Glimpses of water occasionally show to the left of the train, although I don’t know if this is a wider part of the Potomac River, or part of Chesapeake Bay.
I assume trains ran on this track during the Civil War, since the description of Northeast Corridor renovations back at 30th Street Station in Philadelphia stated that most of the corridor track had been initially laid in the 1830s. If trains did run on this path, they must have carried a lot of dead and dying soldiers back to Washington, because the northern army body count for the Wilderness, Peninsular and other Virginia campaigns was appalling, even by tolerance levels shaped by 20th century warfare. My understanding is that none of the northern generals were very competent, but that Grant made the fewest mistakes. I wonder if they talked their way through each battle, far from danger in the rear, like incompetents charged with responsibilities beyond their capacity today.

I am southbound to participate in another federal action, a criminal case against one of my few friends from high school in New Jersey which is scheduled for sentencing tomorrow morning. The stakes are high — Rory’s lawyer advised me that the Judge shows every sign of imposing a life sentence for a plan by which Rory charged the government top dollar for a large quantity of items passed off as ultralight and superstrong fasteners for aerospace applications, but in reality, they were no different from the nuts and bolts available from a neighborhood TrueValue hardware store. I am told that the federal government cannot tie any equipment failures to Rory’s fasteners, which under different circumstances could be welcome publicity for America’s Favorite Hardware Store (“we keep ’em flying!”). It seems that any federal oversight involved in these purchases was either too well-entertained or inattentive to notice that the same fasteners could have been obtained over the counter for a few cents each, but I don’t expect to hear any of that perspective at sentencing.  The problem for Rory is that he implemented this plan twice, once in the mid-1990s after which he was convicted and received several years in federal custody, and again around 2004, after which he got even more creative. According the archives of “America’s Most Wanted,” Rory converted his Phase II proceeds into gold which he was able to get across the Mexican border through the services of unsuspecting drug mules, and then got himself across the border, after which he faked his own death in the breakers off Cancun, arranged heavy publicity for that event to lull the FBI into complacence, and then went into comfortable hiding for about four years until someone blew his cover. Based on my memory of Rory’s dark hair, rugged features and large blue eyes, his arrest may have resulted from a relationship gone vengefully wrong.

Rory called me unexpectedly in my office about three years ago, at which point he was in a Mexican jail awaiting extradition to the Eastern District of Virginia. Scared of a federally-recorded phone call and not wanting to skew my chances for partner in the upcoming firm election, I merely advised Rory that the federal government normally obtains extradition, particularly of a US Citizen held by Mexico, and that the best use of his money was to retain a highly competent, high stakes criminal defense lawyer after his return to the US. I could not be that person because I am not admitted to practice law in Virginia, but have regretted not giving more help to Rory when he needed it. Many years ago, from 1977-80, Rory had been a good friend, especially in high school when differences in class and affluence were becoming noticable. Unlike some, Rory never hesitated to include me at a lunch room table or invite me to a party because I did not live in Lake Mohawk or come from an affluent family. Rory was also guilty on both counts. He lived north of Sparta on a twisty rural road, and when asked what his Dad did for a living, he would answer “industrial fasteners,” a term which led a good number of students and not a few teachers to chuckle or request clarification. What Rory meant was “screws,” but that term would have resulted in even more laughter. Thirty years later, that’s what Rory is alleged to have done to the federal government.

It’s almost dark now and we have reached the outskirts of Richmond. The train passes groups of well-kept clapboard houses in colonial colors of blue and yellow, with lots of Christmas lights, separated by patches of forest. Then we pull into Staples Mill station, which appears to be in the middle of nowhere. According to my Richmond mass transit schedule, the last bus to Center City left at 5 pm, and it is now ten after. The parking lot is empty in the growing darkness, the woman who sat next to me in the train pretends not to see me as she climbs into a waiting vehicle, but suddenly a cab pulls up. Not wanting to pay but realizing there are no other options, I hail the cab, which pops the trunk, closes the door, and then speeds off.
I note the lack of mass transit to City Center, and my driver agrees, “There ain’t none.” According to his card, my driver is Bubba, and within minutes we are engaged in a detailed discussion of Civil War history. I ask if Richmond burned to the ground like Atlanta while assuming it was, since this was the capital of the Confederacy. Bubba clears his throat and answers in a cigarette baritone that no, in fact a volunteer regiment of free blacks who served the Confederacy started a fire by setting off the remains of an ammunition dump, which led Sherman approaching from the west to believe that Grant had taken the city, and led Grant approaching from the south to believe that Sherman had taken the city, with the conclusion that each hostile force deferred to the other and advanced in a different direction. By the resulting miracle, Richmond was spared destruction, and the City is filled with antebellum red brick structures, many more than would have withstood a large hostile force. This summer I visited Czestochowa, home of the shrine of the Black Madonna who had repeatedly saved Poland from complete foreign devastation and was the only explanation for how a small Polish force was able to rout Stalin’s Red Army at the gates of Warsaw in 1920. She is a celebrity and I wonder if that status grew up around the Black Guard who apparently saved Richmond. I will look for a statue on the way to federal court.

Tarrant’s was recommended by the front desk for dinner. I walked a different route then the recommended path to get there, and on the way passed a small backalley establishment with a sign saying “Tarrant’s Take Out.” I went around the corner, to the entrance of the main restaurant, but the prices sent me back to Take Out, where on the table in front of me soon appeared an economical spread, with unlimited space to write in an empty large-sized booth, and no customers to turn on the TV. There’s no need for ceremony when eating alone, and the bright light by the takeout counter made it easier to type. The absence of company made dinner go fast and I was back at the hotel in less than one hour, talking with Rory’s counsel while pacing the hotel courtyard about what I planned to say. We agreed that recollections about school and Rory being a good friend would be helpful. A new point I formed in the train – that the emphasis in the time we entered the work force (late 80s/early 90s) – was money, and that Rory actually responded to these pressures effectively (his conduct briefly made him a millionnaire), is discarded as too nuanced for judicial consumption. After a third glass of Chardonnay I fall soundly asleep, and unusually for me, don’t wake until the alarm rings at 7.

Richmond again made a good impression as I walked to Court, along a shopping street going east-west like Chestnut in Philadelphia. The street was clean, sunlit, lined with historic redbrick buildings but unfortunately empty, and not just because it was 8:30 in the morning. The delicate storefronts seemed to date from the 1920s, with glassbox windows to display wares, decorative floor tiles at the entryways, imaginative floral details in the brick exterior walls. All still waiting for customers. Fashion clothing, art supplies, jewelry, toys, “Richmond’s Television Store,” each had a rent sign plastered where at this time of year, Christmas sale announcements should be. Most stores looked forlorn, as if they have not seen a customer for a very long time. Do they wait out the years conscious of time, or go to sleep until the people come back? The street was likely a victim of white flight to the suburbs followed by twenty years of big-box retail. Big box, which convinced a population that it should purchase large numbers of synthetic items from China and then put them in landfills when they broke, has not been brought to justice.

I got to Court early and was reviewing my notes when Rory suddenly emerged from a door in the wall and was brought to counsel table by two US Marshals. He was handcuffed and manacled in a blue prison suit, with pants leading down to a pair of shockingly red athletic shoes which I suppose he purchased in Mexico. I wave, he waves back and the Marshals allow me to shake his hand. A keen mind and prodigious memory is immediately apparent. Rory asks me about a girl I liked in 9th grade, who I have not thought of in years, then if I kept playing bass guitar. His questions are as if handed out of a time capsule. There was no serious thought of playing bass after I moved to Oklahoma, because cello made me well known, and the better I got the more popular I became. After a few minutes, Rory’s lawyer comes out the same door as Rory, and I turn over the conversation to him. Next to emerge is the Judge, and soon the proceedings are underway.

It becomes rapidly clear that the federal deck is towering over the defense side of this Courtroom, and that I am the only card Rory has. The Judge gives Rory one break, a two-point downward departure because his modus really did not expose anyone to death or serious bodily injury, but gives the government everything else it asks for, stacking up enhancements based on terms including “sophisticated operation” and “criminal mastermind” until the guideline sentence range, if the punishments are all made consecutive, is 105 years in federal prison, until the year 2116. Despite the overwhelming odds of obtaining a life sentence, the government presents the testimony of a sex offender awaiting conviction for failure to register, concerning comments which Rory supposedly made in jail about how to organize a breakout, including a hint that it would be helpful to blow up a police vehicle in the process. This talk between two bored inmates reminds me of two boys comparing notes on an issue of Soldier of Fortune magazine when they should be paying attention in Theology class, a discussion with Rory and I could have easily had in Tenth Grade without intending real consequences. Despite the unlikely scenario described by the witness (which involved him and Rory conversing freely through ventilation ducts under the watchful eye of corrections personnel), and his unsavory past (Roger’s lawyer does a good job getting admissions that the witness is a professional snitch), the Judge accepts that Rory actively planned an escape from federal custody, and adds a further two-point enhancement to the mix.

That left me as the second witness of the morning. After acknowledging that my last contact with Rory was in 1980, I added that in my opinion, the fundamentals of personality are formed by age 16, and that is how old Rory was when we last had contact, in correspondence exchanged shortly after I moved to Oklahoma in April of that year because my Dad found a job there. I remembered Rory for being inclusive, explaining that there was always a place at the lunch table or study hall when he was around. Bringing the testimony to the present, I mentioned how the few minutes of catching up that morning reminded me why Rory had been a friend to begin with — sharp intellect, optimism, and somehow still a sense of humor. To close, I invoked the Quaker teaching that every human being contains some of the light of God, and that while the wattage may vary, this is a difference of degree, not presence. I then asked the Judge to impose a sentence which would not extinguish that light for Rory, a sentence which would allow some hope of eventual release from incarceration. To my surprise, this introduced a theme to which the government and the Judge each responded. The government argued in rebuttal that the reason Rory’s accomplices got involved and were eventually convicted was the same inclusiveness I talked about. The Judge, while stating that he believed people did have an inviolable light of God and that Rory should use his abilities to help others in prison, followed the government’s argument and imposed a sentence of 105 years.

Because my train was scheduled to leave in 35 minutes and I had not yet checked out of the hotel, I was only able to meet Rory in cellblock for about 5 minutes. He said it was actually a relief to get sentencing over with, to now move on to the appeal. I expressed interest in getting involved, wished him well and then got out of the Courthouse as fast as possible. Stuck at a red light while running back to the hotel, I remembered that Bubba had given me his card, and he was at the hotel within ten minutes. The sky above Richmond was deep blue as my Taxi left the curb and I wondered if Rory could see it.

Postscript: The Petition for Certiorari that I filed for my friend in the US Supreme Court in March 2013 follows below.

Day v. United States cert petition final

Lawyer-Cellist Back on Stage

Standing on the platform waiting for the 1:05 to Trenton, I had with me two black containers.  One was a battered rolling briefcase, the bulging legal kind, which carried the tools of my trade – a motion to which I would be filing a response, caselaw to give my argument added traction, the netbook to write it down, a side-pocket assortment of highlighters, post-its and binder clips.  The other container was a cello case, and inside was an instrument I purchased in July of 1987, two months before I started a master’s degree at Juilliard, and two years before I improbably began studying for the LSAT to get into law school.

I needed a better instrument then, but my parents did not have $37,000 to purchase the outrageously fine Italian cello, a Rocca, on which I won the Aspen Cello Competition in 1986.  A teacher lent me the modern Italian instrument on which I played my Juilliard audition, but it was due back by the end of the school year.  I needed to find something quickly, before school started up in the fall, and on a small budget besides.

After playing a three week music festival in the Texas Hill Country that June (young musicians play “festivals” for a roof over their head and three hot meals per day in the summer), I got a ride to Los Angeles, which I heard had more reasonable prices than New York.  It was there, in Hollywood of all places, that I found the cello I still have.  It’s almost Italian – made in Rio de Janeiro by Vicente Lo Turco, who had emigrated there from Naples to make violins, cellos and inevitably, a lot of guitars.  My instrument has the red varnish and big singing sound of an Italian cello.  The art deco label which says “Rio – 1925” ensures that it will never have the trade-in value of a Cremonese cousin, but if this cello could talk, it would tell of green room jitters before going on stage, innumerable auditions, wedding gigs, church music, and the innumerable hours of practice which made it all happen.

Aside from the content, a good thing about a cello case is that you can lean on it.  The top of the case (underneath is the scroll and tuning pegs) fits perfectly under my right arm, and the support makes me bold and relaxed at the same time, an effect which I am told also comes with cigarettes.  Throughout my legal career, and particularly in the early days looking for a first job, I fought the impression that as a classical musician, I would be an undisciplined free spirit, a flower child with a folding music stand.  In reality, we are closer to Marines or gymnasts.  For the performance major, music school is endless training, much of it focused on strength, where striving for 115% ensures that even an off day meets standards.  This musical foundation supports a litigation practice which emphasizes proportionality, accountability, and tenacity rooted in the knowledge that “the show must go on.”

Throughout my big-firm years, I saw well-assembled and persuasive efforts, from briefs to oral argument, lose their spark when someone’s new issue needed to be prominently included, often at the last minute and regardless of the consequences to the whole.  From performance, I know that a simple piece well-played, even a three-minute Gavotte from one of the Bach solo cello suites, will outshine a hastily assembled symphony.  While proportionality in civil discovery is a relatively new addition to the Federal Rules, it has been a guiding principle of concert music for centuries.

To me, accountability means that nobody should be expected to attain an outcome which the boss himself is not ready to achieve.  This is a given on stage, where performance cannot be delegated.  In a law firm, sharing work by dividing responsibilities is essential, but that does not mean the associate becomes an excuse for the partner to lose focus.  Ideally, delegation should be like chamber music, where some parts are more complicated than others, but each is essential to the whole.  My goal is to strengthen the associate’s command over the part they will play, while never forgetting that mine likewise needs to be practiced and ready (without last minute, support staff “fire drills”) before argument.

Last, knowing that “the show must go on” equips me to deal with the unexpected, from the tripod refusing to unfold for the blow-ups I need to show the jury, to the boxes which are still on their way over to City Hall, to the jury pool for my very first trial, who all stood up when I asked them “does anyone think DUI is immoral?”  In Pablo Casals’ memoirs, he told of being so nervous for his first concert in London that his bow shot out of his hand, only to be quietly passed back towards the stage, from one audience member to the next, until the show could go on.  The tough, unexpected moments effectively reveal character and the extent of preparation.

Far from Royal Albert Hall, I waited at 30th Street Station for a train to Newark, for a rehearsal at the New Jersey Performing Arts Center.  The occasion was a benefit performance of Something Funny Happened on the Way to the Forum, a 1963 Stephen Sondheim musical featuring togas and tunics, courtesans and eunuchs, multiple mistaken identities, and a challenging cello part which I was invited to play as largely as possible, since I was the only cellist in the ensemble.  The realized vision of New Jersey Law Journal publisher Robert Steinbaum, this “Celebration of Lawyers in the Arts V” was to benefit the NJ Volunteer Lawyers for the Arts, through ticket sales and a gala reception before the show.

I was glad for the invitation to play.  After working up two movements from the Bach d minor cello suite for some church performances in June, I had hardly touched the instrument, the consequence of spending ten days in Poland on legal business, and then catching up with work and client invoices after returning in late July.  Fortunately, shows are ideal for recovering instrumental strength.  When played with alternative fingerings, a repetitive, “nothing” bass part becomes a useful intonation study.  After two, 3-hour rehearsals, I felt my strength returning, and thought of Théodin, King of Rohan, who wakes from an enchanted sleep to be urged by Aragorn that his fingers would remember their old strength better if they but held their sword.[1]  My fingers continued to remember their old places on the fingerboard, my bow pulled straighter, and after two roundtrips to Newark (typing briefs most of the way), the performance on September 14 went well.  It was good to be on stage again, where something always happens differently than planned.

The cast of singing actors, particularly Pseudolus (the slave who earns his freedom by uniting his bashful master with a courtesan pledged to a general) and Senex (the harried husband who briefly rivals his son for the courtesan’s attentions) far surpassed their efforts in rehearsal.  Backstage with the string players, plans were forming for a Metropolitan area lawyer’s orchestra.  A recurring theme in post-performance e-mails was how pleasant everyone was, how we worked for the most part seamlessly towards the common goal, how different this was from the ruder expectations of lawyer work.  In some of these messages I could hear a muted regret for the path not taken.  Yes, it was good to have a larger and more steady income as a lawyer, but high level performance made us younger, like Benjamin Button going backwards through time on a motorcycle.

I did not stay for the cast party, but it was still well past midnight when I returned to Philadelphia after “Forum” came to a successful close.  With a difficult client, answers to written discovery due, an emergency motion and then a motion response, ten days without practicing passed in a blur.  Inevitably, I started up again, this time working on the remaining movements of the Bach d minor suite, which I learned at age 17, and somehow remains intact in my memory.

My participation in “Forum” did not make economic sense, with train tickets and an endless drive to Upper Saddle River for the penultimate rehearsal.  It did not make time-management sense, shutting down my office computer at the last possible moment while conducting a mental inventory of what briefs needed to come with me but still forgetting my music stand.  But as a way to experience energy, purpose, and in the end accomplishment, my participation made all the sense it needed.

© 2011 Richard Hans Maurer

Richard Hans Maurer is a Philadelphia-based trial lawyer, with trial experience in a wide variety of cases, from products liability to 1st Amendment.  After three years as a Partner at White and Williams, Richard formed his own firm, Maurer/Song PC, in June 2011.  Richard can be reached at richardhansmaurer@gmail.com, or at 267-297-5470.


[1] J.R.R. Tolkien, The Twin Towers (Peter Jackson 2002).

Crossing into Germany

July 16, 2011

As the train moved west towards Berlin, the land became drier and more vast.  The bogs visible yesterday from the train between Czestochowa and Warsaw were replaced by open fields bordered by pines.  From this faster train, I saw less birch, more oaks and maples, surroundings familiar from central Pennsylvania.  The Oder River between Poland and Germany was no wider than the Schuylkill, and it was strange to think that this river served as a major boundary between two nations for such a long time.  Impossible to think of two mutually hostile peoples facing each other down across a distance no greater than the span of the Falls Bridge in East Falls.

But I think this is part of a misleading historical generalization, fine for propagating stereotypes or selling movies, but a poor substitute for reality.  Today, the maps of eastern Germany and western Poland give each town and city two names, one in each language.  There is Wroclaw/Breslau, Szczecin/Stettin, and more.  And this is how it was for centuries.  Nikolaus Kopernik (Copernicus) spoke German at home, but could get by in Polish, and accepted the local Polish ruler as the sovereign authority.  My grandmother, Margarete Stresemann, spoke German and identified with that culture, but a quick glance at any photo will confirm that she looked far more Polish, or Russian, or something other than what I associate with ethnic German.  My guess is that she understood more than a little Polish to get by in Stettin/Szczecin.  I am sure that a porous frontier is more fun, more vibrant and more filled with ideas than one which is closed off by a wall.  Between Poland and Germany, where citizens of each country do not need a passport or even photo id to cross, the present is returning to the past with excellent results.

Suddenly, a few minutes after the Oder crossing, the signs are in German and I can read them.  The train is now moving much faster, maybe the tracks are in better shape.  I see a highway overpass which looks like any at home, and a small German flag waving amid the cucumbers in a garden fast by the railroad tracks.  After passing a small town with more signs which make sense to me, I see a half-circle of more than a dozen huge power windmills, with massive fan blades turning in the breeze.  We don’t have these in Pennsylvania.

Sunday in Berlin

Sunday, July 17, 2011

(Some of this was written contemporaneously, other parts reconstructed from notes, which explains the changes in tense from present to past.)

Yesterday was good but today was better, although I left my brand new hat in a Lutheran church which I was visiting by chance (beim Zufall). Fortunately I took a weekly service guide on my way out, and plan to write them to mention that I left it. The church sanctuary was incredible.  I took some photos, but they do not begin to do the interior justice.  The conversation started with a woman wanting to know if I planned to post the photos on the Internet for any questionable purpose.  I understood in German, said no, and was then allowed to take as many as I wanted.  It was all very friendly after that, and a member of the congregation explained to me that their church organ was salvaged from a Lutheran church in Massachusetts which was shutting down, and then sent to Hamburg by boat and trucked to Berlin.

The people I spoke with told me the church was about 100 years old, newer than our church in Philadelphia. It is obvious that northern Germany was the center of Lutheran influence, because within one kilometer of this church is another, even larger church and the two come within the same leadership. I saw at least ten other red brick Lutheran churches while riding across the city, each so tall it could barely fit in my camera viewfinder. I had never read “A mighty fortress” in German, and in the original language carved over the church entrance it conveys a more pragmatic message, which goes like this: Ein feste Berg ist unser Gott, ein gute Wehr und Waffen. (in my translation – a tight/tough fortress is our God, a useful shield and weapon).  This is more along the lines of what I need when I get back to the US, better than a “stronghold sure.”

Thanks to my bicycle, I was able to explore the entire city, and the southern part of it, especially Bergmanstrasse, is what I was looking for yesterday.  Bergmanstr. is lined with practical shops – grocery, bicycle, bread, coffee, and of course bier.  The east end of the street goes by a nice park, clean, leafy and no homeless, which today is filled with a flea market selling things you might actually want to buy.  I saw several suits and shirts for very low prices which would be worth getting if I was not getting on a plane tomorrow.  At one end of the park is a combination hotel-restaurant-biergarten.  The location is Marheinecke am Bergmanstr und Friesenstr.  A good place to stay on the next visit.

I wrote most of this while having lunch outside the Biergarten, wondering if there was any chance that the women I spoke with in the Church might pass by so I could ask for my hat back.  Amazingly, they did, and explaining the quandary in German, to them and to my waitress, was a good test of my language abilities.  They knew after a few grammatical blunders (in, not im, etc.) that I was not a native speaker, but my abilities and probably evident determination kept the entire conversations in German.  I told the server that I needed to leave my table for a bit because I had left my hat in the church down the street (that must have sounded a bit off), followed one of the deacon(esses) back to the church, reclaimed my hat, and then had an interesting conversation about the role of women in the Evangelische Kirche.  When I asked if women were Pastors here, she answered emphatically yes, with an expression of mild but friendly insult.

It’s a residential area, far from the huge-scale government buildings and monuments which fill the north part of the City near the Hauptbahnhof.  Bergmanstr. runs east-west, and above the shops at ground level are what seem to be apartments or condos.  The buildings are big, about eight storeys tall, masonry, painted white or pale yellow, grey, or green and in very good condition.  No graffiti.  Several have exterior-facing niches occupied by sculptures of nude (except for their spear) Greek goddesses with German features, suggesting origin in the Wilhelmine era, so maybe these buildings escaped destruction in the war. To me, the sculptures reflect German pragmatism.  Yes, they are incredibly voluptuous and totally exposed, but they preside over a quiet street of people behaving and having an enjoyable day.  The omnipresent bier of Berlin also did not lead to any bad behavior that I saw in two days of almost constant walking and riding on the street.  It all makes me wonder if US puritanism, which would ban or frown on these things, has any efficacy whatsover given the prevailing behavior levels in Philadelphia.

A bicycle is essential to get around this city.  Berlin is huge and walking seems almost hopeless unless one is willing to walk very quickly and for a long time.  Characteristically, I walked a huge distance yesterday, including a jaunt through the entire Tiergarten, starting beyond Technisches Universitat to Winged Victory to the edge of the Reichstag, but I would not recommend this for most.  My hotel is near several Straende, which seem to be the fad of this summer.  Start with a normal outdoor biergarten, truck in several tons of sand, bring in Tiki-torches and umbrellas, and you have a ready made “beach” far from the ocean for beer enjoyment.  I described these to my German tutor, and she had never seen one despite living in Berlin for a few years.  Evidently, they are new.  I went to a Strand late Saturday night after my epic walk, and a half-liter of beer was 6 euros (about $7.50), which is certainly not guenstig.  On my way back to the hotel after one beer, I picked up two large bottles of Berliner Pils for 2 euros each, which was far more to my liking.

Upon returning to the hotel, I watched a fun family movie, a German version of National Treasure which told the story of an unlikely threesome searching for the spear which pierced Christ’s side through many famous destinations of the German-speaking world.  The villian who burns up at the end in an underground sanctuary of the Knights Templar was Juergen Prochnow, and he was an even better Boesemann in his native language.  The film was smarter, historically more challenging than NT, and quite a bit longer.  The subject matter reminded me that Germany was always a center of Christianity, and it remains a big influence on local culture.

I was not surprised, but still pleased to see that after two days in Berlin, my brain started adjusting to German.  I would look at billboards and suddenly understand words which I did not know before, from context and just being there.  I guess this comes from really liking the language and the place.  It was obvious to me that a wakeup call was a “weckruf,” which I asked for and received on my last morning in Berlin.  I would like to come back regularly, and I think my family will enjoy it also.

Warsaw and the Polish Train

I spent July 8-18 in Germany and Poland, on legal business for a client based in Czestochowa.  My notes from Warsaw and the train ride to Czestochowa follow.

WARSAW

I ventured out after checking in and taking a shower.  I had been awake for about 24 hours at that point, but had lots of energy, thrilled to be in Warsaw.  I took a bus from the airport, it was cheap, fast and clean, and I could see more of the city than from the back of a cab.  At about 6 pm, my room was filled with bright sun which looked like three hours earlier in Philadelphia.  My hotel room looked out over a small square with a statute of a statesman, looking over ten skateboarders who were using the stone benches to full advantage.  I did not have a map, and basically followed what looked interesting.  I crossed a park with a sign explaining that large rocks can be found in unexpected places throughout Warsaw.  The sign was in the middle of a rock formation, so I took a photo.

I kept going in a direction which based on the sun seemed east, which I thought would take me to the river Wisla, where I assumed the older part of town would be.  I forgot that in the middle of the summer this far north, the sun sets closer to the north than west.  But the directions did not matter in the end.  I walked through a part of town filled with big buildings, about 6 storeys tall, which had been converted into apartments, or maybe they had always been.  The area was quiet, no stores were open so I could not buy a map.  I passed Chopin Street and then reached a traffic circle where I took a photo of a beautiful Church which came out of nowhere.  I then headed back to the hotel, because I was clearly not going to find Old City without a map, and there were no stores open to buy one.

The hotel had plenty of maps, from which it was readily obvious that Old City was to the northeast, directly opposite from where I had just walked.  The way was simple — stay on one street, Nowy Swiat, until it ended in the circular streets of Old City.  The walk was the most amazing I have ever taken in any city.  There were times when I could do nothing but stop and openly gawk (from the German guck, to look at) what I was seeing.  Ancient buildings lining cobblestone streets, seemingly untouched for five centuries (I later learned that virtually everything had been rebuilt after 1945).  The sun was starting to go down, putting gold light on the old masonry buildings.

Many people were on the street, cheerful but orderly, quiet, and like so much else I saw in Warsaw and Czestochowa, confidently unassuming.  I never felt tense, confused or apologetic for not speaking Polish.  Not wanting to be a pushy American, I began each conversation in German, and if the person was more comfortable in English, then switched over.  I wished for a Polish phrase book, but the people I met were very patient.  I asked at least ten people in German for directions to the Sheraton when I first arrived in Warsaw, but nobody knew where it was.  It was good practice, finally putting German lessons to practical use.

Novy Swiat was lined with places to eat and drink.  At first glance it looked like some places did cakes and coffee, others sold pizza, and others beer, but looking at the glasses on the tables, it was clear that each and every place sold beer, even if sweets were in the window.  My first stop was Bierhalle, where guests on the sidewalk had before them enormous glass Bavarian beer steins, I forgot the German name (“Krug?”), but it was not necessary and I had no problem ordering my own full liter glass of Pils.  I drank while reviewing my map, and then watching the event which had most people’s attention in the well lit backroom, a men’s volleyball game between Poland and Russia.  It looked like the game was going on in a huge hall in Wroclaw, a large city to the southwest pronounced “vroslav,” which really is not far from the German name for the city, Breslau.  After repeating it a few times, it was easy to see how the name could easily go from one language to the next, especially if the speaker was working on a liter of Pils.  The game was broken up by advertisements for other events in the same stadium, including an upcoming freestyle motocross event which looked insanely dangerous.  I asked how Poland was doing, and the terse answer was not very well.

Returning my stein and paying 20 zlotys (a bargain), I resumed my walk up the gentle slope of Novy Swiat.  I still did not feel in the slightest bit tired, and in this the succession of incredible sights must have helped.  A cathedral built in the 1770s, with a sign confirming, with a painting of the same building, that Tintoretto or some other famous Italian had painted in 1778.  I remembered the names from Little Dorrit, proving the educational worth of BBC drama.  A little further up, across the street was a larger church, with a banner devoted to a huge photograph of a gently smiling John Pawel II dominating the middle of the facade.  During the walk, I noted the slight amount and generally poor quality of the street music.  An accordian playing the Four Seasons and Alla Turca, a miked classical guitar playing some new age arpeggios, and that was about it.  It was obvious that my daughters’ band could become huge in this City.  Maybe we should come over next July and stay in the Hotel Bristol, a huge hotel right in the middle of Old City which according to the date inscription had been built in 1899.

As I got further into old city, the streets narrowed and the buildings, still immaculately preserved, got smaller, although still very big by Philly standards.  I rounded a corner and a huge central square, a Piazza, opened up.  A band was setting up equipment on a low-slung stage, and by the banners, it looked like jazz concerts were held here regularly.  I held my camera up to photograph the throngs of people, and thought this was more of a rock crowd (more mental planning for how to bring guitars and amps over by plane).  I did a circuit of the square, and then worked my way back to Nowy Swiat through some back alleys which were not open to cars.  One of the alleys was crossed by an overheard arch with a center window.  I took a picture and then merged back into Nowy Swiat, just down the hill from the banner of Jan Pawel II.  I took the opposite side of the street, passing many more places to have another beer.  I wanted to stop, but really needed a bathroom, and I did not want to start a conversation with an emergency request to use the facilities.  So I headed back down to the hotel and then ventured out again.

A beer garden close to the hotel had caught my eye on my first walk, so I ventured over and ordered a Tyskie for only 5 zl.  I wondered if this means “German,” at least is sounds like Tyskland, the Norwegian word for Germany.  I ordered in German, which seemed to give the owner the impression that I was Russian.  He gave me a beer with a hearty “dos vedania,” which is what the Ukrainian captain says to Dr. Jones in the last installment of the Harrison Ford adventure series.  All eyes by the bar were on the volleyball game, still going on.  I asked in German how Poland was doing, and got back in English “the Russia is stronger.”  Concerned looks all around.

Since volleyball is not an interest, I went to the outdoor tables.  People were talking and laughing in low voices, drinking and smoking.  At my table, the smoke actually smelled good, and I could see a half-moon in the sky, which was still not (it was about 10 pm), completely dark.  After finishing the beer, I went back to the hotel and asked for a ten am wakeup call, thinking I would certainly be awake by then.  However, the next thing which happened was the 10 am wake up call.

I woke up feeling completely rested and went to the Club Room to get some coffee.  My train for Czestochowa left Warsaw Centralna at 12:15 pm.  I had two cups of espresso while checking gmail and there were no messages from home, but a few technical difficulties printing my ticket, which did not get figured out until 11:40.  Fortunately I knew my way back to Centralna, but still ended up running most of the way.  I had put my warmup jacket on, expecting a repeat of the cool temperatures on Saturday.  Instead it was gray and muggy, raining slightly.  Typically, I did not have time to remove the warmup as I ran through the streets, getting to Centralna at 11:55.  I could not find a 12:15 departure on the screens, and eventually asked a younger woman for help.  She spoke English better than German, and took me over to an information booth where she forcefully cut in the line and asked the person at the window what was going on, because her train to Munich was also not showing on the screen.  She got answers, telling me I needed to go to platform 3, and then running off to platform 1.  I thanked her and hurried over to my platform, at this point dripping sweat.

The layout of Centralna was geared for maximum exercise.  It was built in 1972, a time when I suppose the passengers did not have a lot of possessions to take with them on train rides.  After dealing with the main, open ticket floor, the passenger goes down three sets of stairs to a long perpendicular hallway, from which the passenger goes back up two flights of stairs to reach a train.  By the time I reached my platform, I was bathed in sweat.  A few minutes later, the opposite side of the platform lit up with information for my train.  My earlier confusion came from being too early.

How is Centralna different from 30th Street Station in Philadelphia?  Most obvious is the lack of law enforcement.  This is the biggest station in the capital, the equivalent of Union Station in Washington, DC, and I was glad to not see any police officers in the building or around it.  Second, there are none of the long lines of people waiting for a chance to go down (in Centralna it would be up) to the platform where they will wait again.  Instead, people go to the platform when they want to, and the waiting is done in the platform, with no need for someone in a uniform looking at your ticket and allowing you to go there.  Third, places to buy snacks for the trip are sensibly on the platform, and not on the main floor.  In my sweaty rush to the train, stopping for a bottle of water would have seemed risky, and it was perfect to be able to get a bottle of water after getting to the right platform and seeing the sign light up with departure information.

THE TRAIN

The train to Czestochowa had a Harry Potter set-up, with a narrow vestibule passing by the sides of glassed-in compartments with passengers facing each other from three chairs on each side.  As the train moved south, the city center quickly became suburbs, which in turn became flat green countryside, with orchards, sunflowers and small streams.  Small farms had ducks and huge geese watching the train go by.  Poland looked like Lancaster County with birch trees.

The conductor took tickets, but no food cart (that showed up later).  The other passengers in my compartment are slim and quiet.  Nobody talks, eats or drinks.  Warsaw, with its underground galleries of shops and fast food which pedestrians use to go under (and not through) major street intersections), reminded me of Seoul.  The silence of the train is evidently different.  I take a walk down the vestibule to find that most people in the train are sleeping.  When I went back to the hotel last night at around 10 pm, the generalized Warsaw party seemed to be in the early stages.  The Polish weekend, with most shops closed early on Saturday and Sunday work impossible, is worthy of the name.

There are is no air conditioning in the train, which in any event is not necessary.  Behind each seating place there is a small light, and above that two racks for luggage.  No instructions to emergency exits or evacuation rows.  Each passenger compartment has a functional (as in fully opening) window.  Above the window there is a single fine print warning, in Polish, Russian, French and German.  I focus on nicht hinauslehnen – “don’t lean out.”  It doesn’t say don’t lean out the window because it’s dangerous or have a stick figure drawing of the consequences, because they are obvious.  In the US, these windows would not open due to liability concerns, and on a sunny day like this one, we would be at the mercy of intermittent air conditioning.

We are running at high speed now, and will reach Czestochowa in about 45 minutes.  The ride has gone by very quickly.  The countryside is mainly rural, still looking a lot like Pennsylvania, but flatter and with a lot of birch trees.  Without them and the pines, and after turning up the temperature by about 30 degrees, we could be in Texas.  The three people in my compartment are now each reading.  They have working cell phones but aren’t using them.  They are not eating anything, not even something like the chocolate bar which I have with me.  There are no paper cups, fast food bags, or any sort of trash generated by any occupant of this compartment.  I have not seen anyone on this train but me pounding on a laptop, and I hope this is not annoying.  It is obvious that Poland has far less sources of trash than the US, and this must be one of the reasons why the streets are so clean, that plus the fact that people are better behaved here.

The train has stopped again.  Most buildings in this town are brick or masonry, with large windows and steep roofs as in Germany or Scandinavia.  I have not seen attached houses since Warsaw, and even those were far larger and more solid than Philadelphia rowhouses.  We get underway again and small housing developments can be seen from the train, most of them under construction.  The houses are compact, brick with red orange tile roofs, and arranged in something like circles.  No vinyl siding, no signs advertising the lowest available price, no resemblance to a development as we know it in Pennsylvania.  These houses look like they will be standing for a long time.

The train briefly stops at Radomsko, a small city probably the size of Norristown.  The stations are old, evidently build under communism and allowed to rust since then.  But there are hopeful signs of construction everywhere – an idle cement mixer, piles of block, another half-built house pass by the open train window, from which nobody is leaning out.  Shortly after clearing Radomsko we pass a stream where people are swimming from a small sandy clearing on the banks, their cars pulled off into the shadows of a nearby forest.  More pine trees now and the temperature remains cool.  There are about 15 minutes remaining in this train ride, but I would be fine staying for several more hours.  With a laptop to write with, water and chocolate, I would have no problem taking this train to wherever the journey ends.

Food Addiction

Each of my parents had a love affair with food.  This contributed to the heart surgery and related stroke which took my father, and has caused the diabetes and related foot problems which now threaten my mother with total lack of mobility.  For all of my childhood, “fat” was the defining word for my mother.  For the few years we lived in South Carolina, people were more polite, referring to her as “stout.”  But when we returned to New Jersey, it was back to “fat” again, and indeed, my mother grew stouter each year, drinking a lot of gin.  There were less fat people in the 1970s, and they commented seeing my mother wrest her considerable bulk out of the car at the grocery store.  I remember “how’s it going, slim,” and stares.

Fat was not fixable, because food had become a proxy, initially for my mom but eventually with dad also, for a normal relationship with their spouse.  I think both people craved torrid abandon romance, straight from the movies of their childhood, but there was no opposite in their marriage who could reciprocate.  My mother certainly was not attractive during the years which should have been closest for them, and even if my mother had looked better, my father didn’t form communicative relationships with people.  He enjoyed flirting with waitresses and “joking” (from what we heard of his work, it sounded like “joking” and then “roaring” were primary), but I can’t remember my parents having a serious discussion about anything, without it ending quickly in an argument and tears.

But they could agree on the benefits of a basket of fried clams, so the missing, missed and anticipated other became food, preferably fried, creamy or cheesy, and most enjoyed outside the home.  When they found a place with hot comfort food, they became regulars, going most weekends and paydays until the charm wore off.  The vaguely indecent oohs, ahs and smacking noises when the shrimp, pizza, smothered baked potato, tacos or other luscious stuff came out were gradually displaced by complaints, that the food was not hot (hot was always a priority with them), that the french onion soup was not crusty enough, that the service was not sufficiently attentive or deferential.  Eventually, my parents sought their satisfaction elsewhere.

I saw this sequence play out as a child at Cutters in Morristown, NJ, at a Mexican restaurant in Ponca City, OK where my father thought the owner’s wife enjoyed being called “my little enchi” (his take on enchilada) in front of her husband, and even in Norway, where they expected (but did not receive) the same deferential service as from enchi.  I don’t remember seeing any fat people except my mother in Norway when I visited during vacations in the mid-1980s.  If there were any commments, at least my parents could not understand them.

My mother had long been a diabetic by then, and my father received the same diagnosis as he ate, drank and gradually became as sedentary as my mother.  I took the summer of 1987 off from the Aspen Music Festival, in hopes that regular walks on the beach at Sola would moderate my mother’s drinking, weight gain and depression.  It worked while I was there, but stopped when I left.  Food and drink resumed their reign, and my parents were fine with it.  Given the choice between walks on the beach and dinner with drinks in town, there was never any question which choice would win.   

Now, 25 years later, my father is dead and my mother may be facing the amputation of a foot which seems to have lost sensation and is becoming infected.  During the five months we hosted my parents in Philadelphia, while my father was recovering from inadvisable kidney surgery which hastened his death, they formed a fast, intense relationship with a pizza place down the hill on Midvale.  They ordered several times a week from Halloween through Christmas, raving about the authentic east coast pizza they could not have gotten in Florida, as the greasy pizza boxes collected in the garage.  By winter, the charm began to wane.  We heard about cold pizza, a surly deliveryman, and finally some topping which made them sick.  With pizza as in marriage, they needed to find their delight elsewhere.

Foreign Policy

Three weeks after the Cairo uprising began, we learn that the US, through the conventional wisdom of Hillary Clinton and the administration, was wrong to initially support Hosni Mubarak.   What else is new?  The history of US foreign policy for the past century has been a series of dismal failures.  These could not be questioned while in progress, but afterwards it was ok to wonder how things went so badly wrong, without any seeming obligation to fix the problem.  In the interests of time, two things seem self-evident: (1) the outlook of our government is poorly suited to conducting a perceptive and productive dialogue with other nations; and (2) the US will back the current plantation owner, whoever it may be, everytime.

This may be due to US history.  The colonies were not founded to be the land of the free.  They were designed to be the place of bondage, first for generations of European indentured servants, and after they would not take it anymore, for generations of Africans who broken and far from home, could not effectively rise up.  This was done in the name of maximum profits, first for Virginia tobacco, and eventually for southern cotton.  300 years later, it is as though the US has a genetic memory, and continues to support the current plantation owner in foreign policy.  Character and good behavior don’t matter, as long as the farm is really big.  If the latest failure by so called smart people in office unmasks US policy for what it is, so much the better.  RM