I do not write I’m sorry I haven’t written more lately; here’s why; I promise to do better blog posts.
The first part strikes me as narcissistic—as though it matters to the world that any particular blogger hasn’t written more lately; the third part is usually a lie—people who write these posts almost always return to silence shortly afterwards. And I don’t figure readers generally care much about the why of silence. But Scott Greenfield has called me out:
As for those of you who have paid only rare attention to your blawgs, let your posts dwindle, left the heavy lifting to others, this might be a good time to explain why. You know who you are. I know who you are too. Is the genre dead? Is it not worth the effort? Are things so wonderful that there is nothing left to write?
So here’s why:
In 2014 I tried three jury trials and won all three. Two of them saved clients from certain deportation and the other saved the client from a felony conviction, a lifetime of sex-offender registration, and a possible prison term. Three jury trials is not a lot for a criminal-defense lawyer in Houston to try, but it’s fifty percent over my yearly average.
I also got part of a statute held unconstitutional. No, check that. Two statutes. Two-hundred-plus people were on probation or in prison because of their convictions for violating Texas’s “dirty-talk-to-a-minor” statute. After I killed that statute on First Amendment grounds in the Court of Criminal Appeals a few of them found their way to me, and I got them out of prison or off probation and off the sex-offender registration list, and started the process of clearing their names.
One of those whose name I am clearing was the first client for whom I had argued (unsuccessfully at the time) the unconstitutionality of the statute. I got to tell the trial judge, “I told you so.”
I took on several civil First Amendment cases on behalf of web publishers and a newspaper, and won.
Throughout this professional triumph, it was the voices of the many clients I haven’t been able to save whispering in my ear, “memento mori.” I have three cases set for jury trial in the first three months of this year, and I’m not going to let the distinct possibility that I will break my short streak by losing one of them stop me from fighting like hell.
I have First Amendment challenges pending against Texas’s Online Impersonation statute, the remainder of its Online Solicitation statute, the remainder of its Improper Photography statute, and its Fraudulent Use of Identifying Information statute. These should all be winners according to U.S. v. Stevens and U.S. v. Alvarez, but I’m not letting the possibility that Texas courts will fail to follow Stevens and Alvarez stop me from prosecuting these appeals, especially since I do it better than the other lawyers I have seen challenging Texas statutes on First Amendment grounds. I may not win, but I have the best chance. And, unlike many in this profession, I am not my record.
I’m debating whether to jump into the fray and try to get the Texas Legislature not to pass any of the unconstitutional speech-restricting statutes that have been proposed, or to lie behind the log.
I taught jury selection, ethics, legal writing, and constitutional law to groups of law students and lawyers across Texas and farther afield, and scheduled more of the same for this year.
Personally, I got my family through 2014 with no surgery, serious illness or death. I couldn’t say the same about the three years before. I reconnected with old friends whom I hadn’t heard from in up to three decades. I took my family on a three-week European vacation, showing the kids a part of the world they hadn’t seen before. I spent some quality time with them, watched my oldest play some lacrosse, started building an AR-15 with my youngest, and spent some time at the shooting range.
I took Jen to Eric Clapton, Eric Taylor, and Greg Trooper concerts. Held the fort while she got through her first semester of the University of Houston’s post-baccalaureate accounting program.
I made dinner for my family almost every night. I got my oldest to school almost every day.
I declared victory in my war with TSA, and resumed air travel: to DC (for a reunion of my cohort from the American Embassy School in New Delhi in the mid 80s, Columbus (where I hung out with Scott Greenfield, Brian Tannebaum, Mirriam Seddiq, Jeff Gamso, and Appellate Squawk), Miami (where I celebrated with Brian and his family the release of Brian’s book), and Colorado (where my brother and some high-school buddies took a couple of hikes, broke bread, and drank some good whiskey). Not to mention Beaumont, Lake Charles, Fort Worth, Austin, Odessa, and Round Top. (Next Friday I’m flying to Abilene! Woohoo!)
I also resumed my psychodrama and improv training. I found the synergy between the two, applied it to my advocacy, and taught others to do the same. I went back (after a few-year hiatus) to the National Psychodrama Training Center’s Round Top training, and I attended staff training for TCDLA’s psychodrama-based Fourth Annual Advanced Skills course (but was, unhappily, prevented by circumstances from attending).
I found a new improv home, Station Theater, took two groups of young lawyers there for introductory classes, performed twice before paying audiences, and joined a troupe that will do four shows in the next two months.
I don’t imagine that I’ll be long-remembered. I consider my protégés, and their protégés, my professional legacy. Three of my protégées started taking regular improv classes.
I wrote a few brilliant briefs. Came to terms with the existential loneliness inside my head. Perfected my prime rib and my dark chocolate cake. Drove cool cars. Rode motorcycles. Made new friends. Cried a little. Laughed a lot.
In short, I’m sorry I haven’t written more lately. I’ve been busy living and lawyering. I promise to do better.