THE LAST AND FINAL SAY

THE LAST AND FINAL SAY

The Judge is showing signs of fatigue. He’s been presiding over his Court for the past four hours. The last case in the calendar is called and the Attorneys of the opposing camps stand on their feet, as they declare their appearances. The Judge wants to wind up this last item in the calendar, so he tells the lawyers to be done with preliminary matters, and agree             on the undisputed facts.                     

The lawyer of the man pompously begins, “Your Honor this is a simple case. My client seeks to negate the paternity of the child, he purportedly has with the defendant, and thereby be relieved of whatever obligations with this child and to stop provision for support. We have very good  reason to believe that the child is not his child. This is the only issue, your Honor.” 

The Judge looks at the lawyer, and asks, “Since when did your client believe  he is not the father of this child?”

The lawyer answers, “ A couple of years after he has been giving financial support through the child’s mother, the defendant your Honor. My client came to realize that he could not have sired this child.”

“And why is that so” asks the Judge.

The lawyer clears his throat, and explains, “The last time he was intimate with the defendant was in September of 2000. The defendant gave birth to the child early April of 2001. We admit your Honor that my client has been giving support to this child, for the past three years but he was deceived by the defendant by telling him that she delivered the child prematurely. We have marked in evidence the medical records which shows that birth was far from premature but perfectly within the full term,  your Honor. Furthermore your Honor we are going to prove that plaintiff could not  possibly have physical access or sexual congress with the defendant prior to the month of September 2000 as he was out of the country.”

The Judge shifts his imperious gaze at the defendant’s table.

The woman with down cast eyes sits motionless. The child a little girl, sits beside her squirming in her seat. Her Lawyer waits for the Judge to speak. “Are we clear on the issue, counselor?” the Judge  asks her lawyer.

The lawyer rises and responds, “Yes, your Honor, and the defendant maintains  that her  child’s father is none other but the plaintiff. She denies she deceived him, and plaintiff’s  prior act of giving support to the child is an implied admission of his paternity.”

The Judge swivels to the direction of the man’s counsel but fixes his eyes on the little girl who is holding her mother’s hand.

The Judge addresses the man’s counsel, “What do you say counsel?” his eyes still  fixed on the innocent little girl.

The lawyer says, “In that case your Honor, we are prepared to go through with full blown trial.”

The Judge sighs, unable to  hide his impatience. “Let’s cut to the chase  here. I will require DNA testing. Since paternity is in question, the result will settle the question more decisively. Do you have any problem with that?”

“That would be fine with us your Honor,” the man’s counsel agrees.

“May I ask for a few minutes to advise my client, your Honor,” the woman’s counsel, pleads.

“Go ahead, counselor,” says the Judge.    

The woman tugs at the sleeve of her counsel and whispers something to him. The woman listens attentively to her lawyer as he talks to her in  measured slow tones.  The little girl wiggles  in her mother’s arms, as she earnestly talks to her lawyer in similar low tones with emphatic hand gestures.

After a few exchanges the woman’s  lawyer  clears his throat, stands, addressing the court, “Your Honor, we have a change of heart in this bitter contest. The defendant doesn’t want her child to be subjected to the indignity of having to undergo DNA testing, young and tender as she is, if her father, denies any paternal kinship with her so be it. My client is pleading no contest to the cause of the plaintiff, and interposes no objection to allow judgment in favor of the plaintiff.”

“Is it true as your counsel says that you are pleading no contest to this suit?” the Judge asks the woman.

The woman rises and replies, “Yes you Honor, as stated well by my counsel. I want this matter behind me so my child and I could get on with our lives.”

“Very well then,” looking well pleased, and  focusing his gaze on the woman, the Judge declares,  “I like to thank you for your gesture, if at all there is any virtue in this self sacrifice, it is the swift termination of this controversy which I anticipated to be long and acrimonious.  What you did today prevented that from happening in this case.”

The woman with sadness,  replies, “You Honor, If you will allow me to speak freely?”

“Please do” the Judge says, “and this is off the record.”

Fixing her eyes at the man in the plaintiff’s table the woman speaks, “ I am not related to this man except for the fact that he and I have been lovers, sexually intimate without benefit of marriage. We enjoy each other’s company and meet regularly. We have no commitments with each other, not until I conceived this little girl and gave birth to her. This man promised me that he would help me support this child, which I was too happy to welcome. Now he doubts he fathered this child and even implies that she could have been sired by any of the men, he says, I’ve been dating, other than him. As the mother of this child I swear I know who her father is, and the man who is not man enough to face up to his responsibility isn’t worth my while. Thank you, your Honor”

The man’s lawyer jumps to his feet and exclaims, “Your Honor please, We cannot let this insult pass. The plaintiff wishes to answer lest we are given the false impression that she is right to obtain sympathy from this court.”

The Judge bores his sight on the counsel and softly says,  “You have already  won in this suit counselor, for that there is no need for you or your client to explain. What she said couldn’t anymore hurt the cause of your client. This woman has already pleaded no contest. For that I gave her the privilege,  to have the final say, so take your seat.”

The Judge shifts his gaze to the man as his counsel sinks in his  seat.

The Judge speaks to the man, “Gentleman, this court rules in your favor. Henceforth, you are relieved of any  and all legal obligation,  with respect to this child, and whatever reciprocal rights and obligation under the law between parent and child is deemed terminated with respect to you and this child. Furthermore and for your full satisfaction this court pronounces judgment that you are not the father of this child. Is this clear to you?”

The man replies, “Yes Honor”, as he steals a glance at the quiet and expressionless woman in the opposite table.

The Judge swings his attention to the woman who now wears a sad and forlorn look.

“As for you Madam,” the Judge exclaims, “I hope that you can find a good husband who can accept and love this child as his own, and man enough to be a man, as you soundly described earlier. I give emphasis to the words “a good husband” not a partner, or lover, or soul mate, or whatever hogwash they now describe all types fornicating relationship outside of marriage. Don’t make the same mistake twice. Be a good mother to this little girl, raise her well and as best as you can. And when she asks for her father tell her she has none! Or whatever you want to tell her, after all you have the last and final say. Now this court is adjourned!”

“All rise please”, the bailiff intones.

The Judge bangs his gavel, with great effort  rises on his feet, hobbles to  enter his chamber, a tired and weary man.

(Photo Image by 123rf.com)

     

THE BOY

THE BOY

He hates cleaning the class room but his turn as sweeper is a task he cannot escape, because the teacher is unforgiving. The price for evasion of this type of unjust labor is a low grade in good manners and right conduct, an item in his report card which he didn’t really care about.  He is only ten years old and after classes he should be playing.  His mother, however, is sure to hit the roof if he gets the axe of a grade even for this irrelevant endeavor. So he begins scrubbing the floor.

Good he is not alone in this thankless task. There are five of them in the cleaners group to clean up their own mess, and the mess of others.  Two boys, and three girls.

He’s in love with one of the girls, or so he feels, which feeling he  keeps  to himself. Young children aren’t suppose to be in love yet. He’s precocious  alright, but he can’t help it.

Doing the task he hates now turns out not bad after all, when the girl  is around.  He often steals glances at her  during classes.  Some strange force attracts him to her.  His heart leaps when she catches him gazing at her, and gives him that girly smile. He is happy that she welcomes the attention.  So they often stare long  at each other, in between lectures,  their eyes meeting in silent  communion, unmindful of everything but themselves.

Now he can feel the nearness of her. He finds scrubbing the dirty floor no longer a drudgery  but a delight because she sweeps the floor which he scrubs following his trail. And he likes it when she is  up close   wishing  this moment  will never end.  

Sweating profusely he reaches the end of the floor, marking the end of the work.  The girl comes up to  him as he drips with sweat.  She looks at him with such tenderness that his heart thumps in affectionate cadence. She has never been this close.   If only his heart can reach  out, if only his mouth can speak,  he will be able to purge himself of this  delicious melancholy which torments him. 

Alas he is dumb for he is at a loss for words. He struggles at the thought that he will lose this chance to say to her what he always dreamed of saying. 

He thinks she knows.  She waits for him to speak. Their eyes meet, exploding in the magic of the moment,  soaring  in total bliss, the boy wretchedly speechless.

The girl pulls the red headband off her hair. She holds his hand, puts the headband on his palm.  In the warmth of the touch they become passionately one.   

With gentleness she said to him, “I lost my handkerchief. You can use this to wipe off that dirt and sweat off your face. Take care. It’s yours to keep.” 

THE NUN AND THE LAWYER

THE NUN AND THE LAWYER

Many years ago, I befriended a young, pretty  Nun, of the Paulinian Order, who was a professor of psychology in the College where I taught part-time. She and I were about the same age. I was a new lawyer, still learning the ropes,  she was a novice who just earned her Masters Degree.

How I ended up teaching in a school ran by the Nuns is unbelievable. I believe though it was By God’s direction.

The Dean of the College, who was a pleasant and kindly  Sister with a doctorate degree in education, accepted my application to teach part time, despite the fact  I’m not Catholic.

In my interview, she said, “Young man, because you are a Christian, albeit raised in the other side of the misguided Protestant fence, and you come from the finest but most secular University of  this country,  you’re  good enough for me, but in the name of the Holy Mother of God, don’t you ever teach religion in your class because your only business with us is to teach law.” She said she has enough Priests and Sisters to handle religion.

I gave her my word, and she could perish the thought of me ever disobeying her special edict, under pain of discharge, even excommunication.

So it came to pass that  I spent the most memorable years of my life with the wonderful Sisters in this school. A thing of the past which still remains in my memory.

I first met Sister Christine the pretty Nun, when the Dean summoned all the faculty for a Retreat. I had the good fortune of sitting beside her, prim, and immaculate in her Nun’s Habit. I didn’t particularly like spiritual retreats, but before I could ask to be excused,  the Sister Dean glared at me and said, “As for you Atty. Drilon, your being a Protestant bigot doesn’t exempt you from this religious exercise, who knows we might convert you yet to return to the fold where you originally came from, so stay.”

I noticed Sister Christine giggling red in the face trying hard to control her laughter.  I whispered to Christine if she finds my discomfort real funny, and she whispered back she does. In very low voice I said my business in this school is to teach boring law subjects and I was supposed to be off limits to religion, that was my deal with the big Sister now she wants me to Retreat.

Christine could no longer hold back laughter that she had to get out of the room on to the far corridors where she let go of choked off guffaw. I followed her and she was quick to regain her composure. She asked how in heaven’s name  a Protestant boy like me, could have strayed in this hallowed, rigid Catholic grounds. I told her the Sister Dean apparently likes me, though she disguises it with her display of disgust.

“I bet she does,” Christine agreed.   I took the chance to give her my name and she did give me her convent name which I know is not her real name. She said she was on her last term of teaching Psychology, to pursue her Doctorate.

That was the introduction to our very short friendship.  

Together we returned to the retreat room.

I listened to the long sessions of the entire Retreat, sitting close to my new found friend. I could feel her aura of pure unadulterated peace, which subdued my restiveness that a sweet calm came over me. I was lost as the Priest droned on, transfixed by the quiet presence of this innocent woman, smiling and assuring me that I would be fine. I wanted to hold her hand, but for her sake I restrained the thought. If I was off limits to her religion then I was off limits to her as well, this was the implied logic I suppose, of the Sister Dean.

The retreat ended but Fasting wasn’t in the agenda of the good Sisters who shepherded us to the long dining table where they fed the retreatants with the most delicious home cooked food.

I whispered to Sister Christine that I’m not much in matters of   retreat but would prefer to go on  the attack. The pretty Nun gave a puzzled look. She asked me to explain.  

I said we are through with the retreat and  I meant to attack the food.  She giggled and covered her mouth suppressing another chuckle. The Mother Superior gave grace for the food. I sat facing Christine and attacked the food. She remained quiet through out the meal wearing that amused, angelic smile.  

After the meal she asked me why I became a lawyer. I said it runs in the family, three of my uncles are, and when I saw Richard Harris delivering his speech in England’s  House of Commons  as Oliver Cromwell in that movie, I had no doubt I wanted to become  a benighted barrister.

Then she gave me that seductive wink in the eye and said, “You are doubtless still a rabid Protestant like your idol Cromwell, am I right?”  I was amazed she knew British history.  “No” I said, “I’m a rabid Christian. But don’t get me wrong, I adore St.Thomas More and he’s Catholic,” I said.

Then she looked straight into my eyes, and whispered, “No matter what, God loves you”. I thought I heard her say I love you. But no, I was hearing wrong. She gave me another wink.  She rose from the table and bid me goodbye. She walked away from my life, without glancing back, straight ahead in fluid steps her Nun’s habit flapping in the cold of the night. I never saw her again.  

THE SITTING STATUE OF THE NATIONAL HERO

THE SITTING STATUE OF THE NATIONAL HERO

Over  a cup of coffee my friend and I are waiting out for  the rain to stop because getting wet is out of the question. Rains have their way of holding you off and the only decent thing to do is to seek shelter in the office cafeteria. The bad weather prods us to talk for want of nothing better to do. Lawyers are paid to talk, and my friend is not a lawyer, thank God, for that, because all I hear is lawyer talk every day, and it makes me sick.

My friend is some type of a trader dealing in almost everything within the commerce of man, with one rule. He is off limits to anything illegal. In strictly adhering to his self proclaimed business ethics he visits me once in awhile in the guise of paying a courtesy call, but bringing a few questions to which he wants my opinion. He often rubs me the right way, gets sound advice for a cup of coffee. He knows I dislike legal talk outside the office, so we quietly, listen to the spattering rain, in between sips. Then he breaks the silence. He tells me a story, from one of his experiences.

One time he says, he joined to bid in the construction of a statue which the Mayor of a small  town wanted to build to adorn the grounds of the city hall. This Mayor wanted  Jose Rizal to keep him company so he deemed it fit to have the hero’s statue  rise overlooking the town hall. My friend says he won the contract to undertake the project.

After the paper works were done, my friend asked the Mayor how he wanted the statue of the national hero to look like. The Mayor invited him to his office for a talk. In the privacy of the office the Mayor asked him if had seen some of the statues of Rizal in other places, cities and towns. My friend says he couldn’t lie so he frankly told the Mayor that he hadn’t. The Mayor was pleased as  the contractor was honest enough to admit it. So the Mayor suggested that before undertaking the construction he should visit the other places where there are statues of the National hero and then report his observation. Transportation expenses would be covered.

So my friends says he spent the next five days travelling to other towns, gazing at the different statues of the national hero. Upon his return he reported to the Mayor. The Mayor waited for him to speak. My friend gave his honest observation. He told the Mayor that all the statues of Rizal he saw look the same, the face, the outfit, and the book the hero was holding. All statues of Rizal portray him to be firmly standing  on his feet, confident, bright and gallant. And finally my friend told the mayor that  all the statues of  Rizal showed him to be  wearing the same long black coat.   

My friend asked the Mayor if he would build the same statue from what he had seen in others.

The Mayor reacted with a loud, “Definitely not!”  The Mayor emphatically said, “I want you to make this Rizal different from the rest of them. He has been standing for too long out in the open so he needs to rest. Make him sit. Our hero is no western cowboy and wearing that long trench coat is a disgrace. Dress him up properly with the country’s Barong Tagalog. And he has been lugging that mysterious book, for a long time which for all we know contains a lot of Spanish Friar’s crap. Make him hold his pen, which would serve him well in writing all the names of the Mayor who seldom goes to the city hall.”

My friend says he built the statue of the National Hero exactly as instructed. The rain stops as the tale ends. The coffee cups are empty. We both go our separate ways.

I love this guy, he makes me laugh, but I doubt he isn’t making this one up.