While studying in England many years ago, I learned that one of the ways to resolve a lawsuit was trial by combat. The theory was that God would not allow a just cause to lose, so you either picked up your broadsword or battle axe or got a champion to do it for you. One of my favorite clients is a very sweet-natured young lady named Jody, who is five-foot-nothing and probably doesn’t weigh over ninety pounds. About a year and a half ago, I got her a consent decree against her babydaddy, who, I’m told (and I wholeheartedly believe), once roughed her up when she was holding her child.
After resolution of the consent decree, I was a distant observer on several occasions while the two parents would do pickup and dropoff for the little kidster on visitation days. Yes, you might say I was running an escort service. Jody is relocating out of state and another attorney handled the negotiations to modify visitation. While I’m glad she’s going to a better environment for her and her child, I’ll certainly be sorry to see her leave.
Every time I see her babydaddy, even though he’s twenty-five years younger than I am, I feel nostalgia for one of the practices of Arthurian England, and I stifle the urge to say to that (expletive deleted), “Okay, you, me, parking lot. Be sure to fill out your organ donor card.”