F-BOMB IN COURT

Much to the delight of the nation's media, pundits, and assorted talking heads, the prosecutor in his opening statement in the George Zimmerman trial dropped the f-bomb. It was a planned drop, not one of those spur-of-the-moment “oh f***”s. The prosecutor was quoting Mr. Zimmerman in a call the latter had made to the police shortly before slaying another individual, a slaying Mr. Zimmerman claims was self-defense but the state, represented by the prosecutor, asserts was murder.

The prosecutor was not the first lawyer to drop the f-bomb in a trial. Cranky his own self did so almost four decades ago. At the time, Cranky had a little part-time law practice down in Williamsburg, Virginia, where he had grown up and was working on a graduate degree at the Big Green, or The College of W&M. One day a cousin dropped into his office, a young lady he had last seen when she was a child. She was now a young adult and in a bit of a jam.

Seems she had gotten into an argument with another young lady over the affections of a young gentleman, a truck driver as near as Cranky can recall. Some unpleasant words were uttered and there may have been a bit of hair-pulling. The local constabulary became involved, and Cranky's cousin found herself with a court date. Only a misdemeanor was alleged, so it wasn't the crime of the century.

Still, Cranky didn't get into a courtroom much. Thus here was an opportunity to shine. The only witness against Cranky's cousin was the other young lady. In fact, since only a misdemeanor was involved, there was no prosecuting attorney. The complaining young lady took the stand and told the judge her version of events. The judge, incidentally, who Cranky had been before on several other occasions, conducted his court in the head-down position. He was continuously writing and rarely looked up for eye-contact with anyone in the courtroom−attorneys, parties, police officers, spectators, anyone.

The young lady completed her perceptions of the truth as she remembered them. As one might expect, she was just an innocent victim of a wrathful other woman. But Cranky had heard his cousin's version of the incident, and that version included one item that the complaining young lady had not mentioned.

So Cranky got right to it: “Miss Jones, isn't it true that you called my client a 'Mothaf***ing B****'?”

The low rumble of courtroom back-up noise ceased. Jaws of spectators and attending law enforcement officers dropped. The judge looked up from his writing. And the young lady on the stand commenced a flustered bout of hemming and hawing.

Soon after, the judge ended the proceedings by instructing the two young ladies to stay the heck away from each other. Some months later, after several billing notices, Cranky's cousin paid him his $10 fee.

All in all, it was one of Cranky's finest courtroom moments, rivaled only by the time a young male client ran from the courtroom shortly after being told by the judge that he needed to spend some time at a state facility for troublesome youths. After following his client for several hours through the picturesque Colonial Capital, Cranky was able to flag down an officer of the law, who returned Cranky and the adventurous youth to the courtroom.

But that's another story.