Raising Cane. Let’s call it a “Fashion Statement” or “Ambulation Reassurance”.
A lawyer friend defended a young man recently in Municipal Court. Where? New Jersey. City? Not important. All municipal courts are the same here. Hint: Medievil England hosted something called The Star Chamber…..
(Interesting aside: In California, “significant” Motor Vehicle Offenses (including DUI cases that may involve jail time) are heard at the County Courthouse before a Superior Court Judge who is not beholden to the Mayor of his town to generate MV ticket revenue and bankroll municipal coffers. A Superior Court Judge doesn’t have to cowtow to local town cops that he faces every hearing day. He doesn’t have to look tough. He doesn’t have to cultivate a “Hard on Crime” persona in the town where he does his Judgin’ in order to get reappointed by the Mayor. Many believe that a Superior Court Judge appointed by a Governor (or elected) and sitting in Judgment at a county seat has greater independence and legal gravitas than a local Municipal Court “Judge” appointed by the Mayor of the town that pays him his wages. Now, I’m not saying that the NJ Municipal Court system is corrupt…..I’m saying it’s a bit too cozy. And that we can do better. Much better.)
Let’s call the young client Robert and my lawyer-friend Jason.
Robert is about thirty-ish and just lost his father to cancer. He lives in a ratty fixer-upper and for the past twenty years and has been running every day to help his dying grandmother and grandfather. About a year ago his grandmother died. His grandfather has since rapidly deteriorated into a senile basket-case requiring – no, demanding – constant attention.
After a particularly exhausting day at work – he’s a landscaper – Robert gets the word his father has passed on in Florida. His father has been ailing for some time and his death comes as no real surprise. But it still lays his spirits low.
Robert doesn’t have a private jet at his beck and call, nor is he financially flush enough to impulsively fly down to Orlando and attend any farewell ceremonies. He sucks it all up, pulls his pants on in the morning and gets back to work, He has bills to pay.
His work is made more difficult by a blown medial meniscus in his right knee – which has been grinding against itself internally for about three years and is getting worse. Robert has no health insurance and can’t afford the ten grand minimum that an arthroscopic meniscal repair costs. He also can’t afford to take time off for physical therapy. So he just works through the pain and tries not to let it get in the way too much. Robert even buys a heavy knee brace on Amazon. It helps a bit.
So one day Robert wraps up his landscaping jobs – he ‘s got some good accounts up in the Harding Township and Bernardsville “Old Money” neighborhoods – and figures he’ll have a beer. His grandfather is being visited by two Nuns from a local Catholic Church – who bring him Polish soup – so Robert’s free as a bird for the next couple hours or so.
Robert stops in a Brew Pub, one of the many that have sprouted in New Jersey since its tax-obsessed government has realized there is big revenue to be had in such trendy watering holes. He has two pints of their signature “Oatmeal Stout” and one pint of their “IPA”. The brewskis trigger his appetite – NJ Brew Pubs legally can’t serve food – so Robert heads out to a local pizzeria to get a couple of slices.
He is driving a five year old silver Ford SUV – and not a mile from the Pub he’s pulled over by a local cop. Another cop car appears as if by magic. The usual events unfold.
“Get out of the car please – and get out your license and registration” Officer “X” says.
Robert complies and hands over his documents.
The other cop – a senior officer “Y” – takes over.
“Alright. Walk to the rear of your vehicle. Stand on your right leg until I tell you to resume a bipedal position”.
As courtesously as he can, Robert says to the cops: “I can’t. I have a knee injury – see? I’m wearing a brace…..I can’t balance on only my right leg for any length of time. The pain is too intense.”
The cops aren’t impressed. “Are you refusing the sobriety tests we’re asking you to perform?”
“No….” Robert is flummoxed. “I’m trying to explain to you that I’ll perform any tests that I can gven my injury, but that test is one I cannot….”
Senior Cop “Y” construes Robert’s “refusal” to mean “game on”.
“Officer X – handcuff this man and take him to headquarters.”
Alas, the Circus now comes to town for Robert. Police Headquarters. Fingerprinting. Summonses – including Refusal of Sobriety Tests and Driving Under the Influence (a Breathalizer returns a noticable score). End of the world? Not really.
Robert retains my lawyer friend, Jason, who gets to work marshalling documents that seek to prove the Breathalizer machine was improperly calibrated, not isolated from electromagnetic interference or otherwise suspect thereby rendering its DUI score defective – hence inadmissible in evidence. It’s a garden-variety DUI defense attack that is (even today) creeping its way through the Court system. No verdict yet.
So why tell this story?
Because Robert is somebody we all know. He’s hard-working, good hearted and decent – and not a troublemaker. And yeah, he drank three beers. He ain’t escaping this adventure before he drops about $5,000 on lawyers fees and another $2500 on court costs and fines. His car insurance is going to spike. He may get an ignition-bypass devce assigned to his car. There’s a saying in New Jersey: “Ain’t no Justice – it’s “Just Us”.
Cue a visual of that Turnpike sign: “Welcome to New Jersey”. Right.
But Robert’s story doesn’t end there. Weeks later, Robert attends an Orthopaedic examination by an orthopaedic specialist retained by his lawyer. The defense game plan is to get a comprehensive, authoritative medical opinion that given his right knee degeneration and meniscal tear, there is no way he could have endured the “Sobriety Test” dictated by Officer “Y” at the time he was pulled over. Roberts’ knee pain would have truly made this test impossible from a medical standpoint. Lawyer Jason seeks to argue in court that Robert didn’t “refuse” the field sobriety test – he had a medical reason not to comply, ergo the ticket he got for non-compliance should be dismissed.
Sure enough, Dr. “Z” opines: Yes! Robert’s meniscal tear is so severe that he could not have tolerated or performed the sobriety test Officer “Y” required him to perform. Robert pays Dr. “Z” $1000 (cash) for his diagnosis, professional opinion and report memorializing same for the Court. Robert leaves the office delighted that the Doctor’s conclusions give him a fighting chance on at least one of his tickets. He’s got another $1000 cash in his pocket because he didn’t know how much Dr. “Z” was going to charge for his services. Robert didn’t want to come up short of money.
Problem is, Dr. “Z”s office is in Plainfield…..and it’s 5:30PM. It’s getting dark and Robert’s car is in a multi-level municipal parking garage down the block. Ironically (as we will see), this municipal garage is a few doors down from the local police precinct – and Robert thinks he’ll be safe. Robert’s in pain and having a hard time shambling about. Last week he twisted his right leg on the job and split his knee brace wide open. His knee hurts like sin. He’s ordered another leg brace, but for the time being he’s using a cane he keeps in his car for his grandfather to use. It’s an old, brown wooden job with a hooked handle and suction cup on the bottom for grip. Looks like it’s been through the war. Old school.
Robert finally gets back to his car in the parking garage – he’s parked on the second floor – and is reaching for his keys when he hears a voice from a few feet behind him.
“GIMME YO’ MONEY MOTHAFUKKA OR I’M GONNA’ SLICE UP YO’ WHITE ASS!!!!”
Robert turns a bit, ratcheting himself against his WWII vintage cane and sees a filthy, almost desiccated beanpole dressed in rags with rotten, crumbling teeth brandishing a rusty box-cutter. The woebegone character is twitching like he’s about to lapse into a seizure. He’s aggitated and angry.
“I SAY GIMME’ THE MONEY FUKKA’ OR I’S GONNA CUT YOU UP!!!!! CUT YO’ UP BAD WHITE BOY!!!”
Robert later recounts the story to me and his lawyer, Jason:
“At that moment……I was so thoroughly worn out from leg pain, having dragging myself to and from Dr. “Z”s office, I snapped. I gripped the cane as hard as I could and swung it around. It smacked the left jaw of this shithead hard and knocked him clear into the cinderblock wall of the parking garage a few feet away. Either my blow from the cane or his impact into the wall of the garage knocked him out cold. I could see he was breathing as he lay collapsed on the ground, blood pooling around his mouth – so he was still alive. I looked around and didn’t see any cameras. Well, there was one…..but the wires were frayed and dangling out the back of it, not connected to anything. I got into my car and drove home.”
Robert never heard anything more about the incident. His cane is fine and now accompanies him everywhere when he’s out and about. He’s even given it a name: Betsy (after his deceased grandmother). He’s got a new knee brace to help him keep moving at work.
Lesson?
Something old is about to be new again. The Gentleman’s cane, or: The Pursuader.
Perhaps the most storied and venerable example of the “Gentleman’s” cane is the Shillelagh, which Wikipedia says was “originally used for settling disputes in a gentlemanly manner”. In jolly-old England (per Charles Dickens) the Brits called it a “Pursuader”.
The Shillelagh has such a rich history that it deserves its own blogpost – which I will be composing in the future. Suffice to say here, however, that whatever “pursuades” a man to keep his distance and temper in check – and to refrain from criminal conduct – is a good thing.
Recently I was walking at a historical park in Burlington County, NJ and passed a County Park Ranger on the trail. I’ve seen him a few times before and we stopped to talk. I could see that he was admiring my walking stick, a real beauty I bought from a Texas company – Brazos Walking Sticks (get ’em on Amazon or at brazoswalkingsticks.com ).
The Ranger said: “How ya’ doin? Hurt your leg?” I realized that the last time he saw me I didn’t have my stick.
“Nah, not really…” I replied. “Just sometimes my left knee gives out on me – and I like the reassurance of knowing I got some support”.
“Don’t blame ya'” He said. “An’ it comes in handy if a shitbag comes a’ callin’, too!”
There you have it. The bottom line. From a Park Ranger.
In these days of prosthetic knee replacements, ankle replacements and weight-related bodily afflictions, why is it remarkable that somebody might need a walking stick? Or – to put it another way – “Who the Fuck are you to tell my knee don’t hurt? Nostradamus? “. A good Jersey reposte.
Nobody knows the anotomical condition of my leg, my knee or my ass……you get the picture. If you say your leg “goes out” on you now and again, who the Hell can question your statement? If you think you need the “reassurance” of a walking stick – who can say you don’t? Now that I’m a little older – and sportin’ a grey goatee – nobody gives my walking sticks (I’ve got a few of various lengths, two of which resemble gentleman’s canes) a second glance.
Get a walking stick – of whatever length you think is appropriate. Note: I’m NOT talking about a “club”. Get something that you can truly and honestly pass off as an “ambulatory aid”. Get a stick of good quality that looks hi-brow and presentable in every circumstance. And lest you feel queasy, remember: you have the right to self-defense in every US State.
Next time you see your doctor complain about knee pain – and get him to write it down in his notes. Maybe even ask him to prescribe some acetominophen or Tylenol (no opioids). Download his notes, print them out and throw them in in the glove box of your car in case some wise-ass copper asks you about your stick.
Maybe it’s time that we all keep a Pursuader nearby at all times. Like Clint Eastwood said in High Plains Drifter – “Nothing beats a good piece of hickory”.
This simple solution to any number of predicaments has stood the test of time – and works. A walking stick. The more people use them, the less noticeable they’ll be. Soon it will take on the air of an acceptable, gentlemanly accoutremont. In any event, it’s less nerve-rattling to Democrats than “Open Carry”.
A Pursuader. My “bum knee” is feeling better already.
