By D.W. Buffa
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He wrote most of the law—most of the procedural law—in this state. He had a brilliant legal mind. ” The liquor had reached my stomach, and I remembered I had not had anything to eat. “You have to give him that,” Harper was still insisting as I got up from the table. At the bar, I exchanged the drink for a cup of coffee and ordered bacon and eggs. “I’m having breakfast,” I told him as I sat down. ” He started to shake his head, then changed his mind. “I’ll have the same thing,” he yelled across the empty room.
Always left all of that to me. He was too busy, reading cases, sitting in court listening to other lawyers make their arguments. ” Grasping the handle of the cup between his thumb and the gnarled knuckle of his forefinger, Bartram lifted it to his mouth, staring straight ahead as he drank. “He should never have been a lawyer. He didn’t have the temperament for it. You have to treat people with respect. You have to at least pretend that a client might have something to say worth listening to. You have to defer, with a show of good grace, to anything a judge decides to say.
Squinting his eyes, he started moving his lips, noiselessly, like someone forming the words they are reading from a book held right in front of them. His lips stopped moving, and his eyes opened wide. ’ His gaze raced from one side to the other. Then he leaned over and whispered, ‘She told me that you didn’t want to use your real name in here. ’ I asked. ’ ” ‘In Rome. She’s a nun,’ he replied. ‘She’s the Pope’s daughter,’ he added, eager to share this proof of his own importance. “Madness has a logic of its own, and there was nothing to be gained by insisting on the rules of reason that every normal person follows without a conscious thought.