Charm School

For most of my life, my associations with the term "charm" have been positive. Shocking at it may be to those that know me well, I was often described as a "charming" person when I was younger. I had always considered it close kin to "pleasant", "kind", and "genial". Call it a bit of egomania if you will, but because the term was pointed at me, I always considered it to be a positive thing. In fact, I went out of my way to be charming. It is a behavior that I studied and honed over time. It became one of the primary tools in my toolbox in terms of dealing with people.


I recently read a very interesting defensive tactics book by Rory Miller. His description of charm is an interesting one. While he describes it in the terms of a tool that predator uses to get close to a victim, he makes an interesting discussion of charm as a whole.


The short version of his theory: charm is not a natural behavior for human beings. It is a goal-oriented manipulation tactic. The goal need not be nefarious. People use charm to calm tense situations, fit into new social groups, and advance their careers. While these may seem different from the rapist trying to get close to a victim, I think Miller has right about the underlying mechanics being the same.


Charm is a subtle attempt at controlling another party.


This theory jives with my own life experience. I am not charming when I am taking out the garbage, doing the laundry, or buying groceries. I am not charming to people who do not have anything that I want. I don't really describe any of my close friends as charming, and I find that I do not (these days) employ any of my childhood tactics on them to "win them over". With those that I feel safe around, I simply do not exhibit charming behaviors.


(Here's a fun exercise: ask my wife if I am charming. Report back here with the response.)


While charm does work to an extent, I think somewhere in our lizard brains, humans recognize these attempts for what they are and either reject them or dole out a heavy dose of distrust to the would-be charmer. While I think some people are more susceptible to charm than others, I think this natural resistance is something common to humanity.


My reliance on this behavior has waned over the years. I understand why I did it as a child. I had a lot of uncertainty and anxiety in my home life, and I did not have any other tools at my disposal (wasn't faster, stronger, bigger, smarter, or better funded), so I used charm. It became a compulsive habit, a manifestation of my inherent insecurity. I controlled with charm for not reason other than that control made me feel safer. I did it unconsciously.


The first place I encountered where my charm hit a brick wall was martial arts. My teacher, and to a greater extent, his teacher, recognized the behavior for what it was immediately. Both made damn sure not to let it work on them even a little bit, openly pointing out my subconscious attempts to control situations. I ended up looking like an ass quite often. (We tend to adhere to our childhood safety strategies well beyond the time when they stop working.) Time passed, though, and instead of charm, I tried honesty, sincerity, commitment, and willingness to be vulnerable. Those worked a lot better, and infected the rest of my life. (But that is another book, in and of itself.)


In the earlier days of my law practice, I leaned on the charm tactic heavily in front of juries. After prosecutor gave a relatively dry and exhaustive voir dire to a jury pool, I'd get up and make them laugh. I'd joke about the free coffee, the boring nature of the process, and the bizarre little world the potential jurors had been thrust into. I used to attribute some of my victories to that charm, but in light of the revelations above, I've changed my mind.


Like my teachers in law, I've come to the conclusion that evidence wins cases, plain and simple. (I once had a juror tell me, after finding my client guilty, "You made a fine speech, son, but that guy was as guilty as the day was long. Better luck next time.") I've seen a mediocre attorney easily win a case against a magnificent one because of the evidence. If a lawyer's personality has something to do with an outcome, it is a very, very small percentage of that outcome.


Interestingly, a lot of professional jury analysts and behavioral scientists agree. I have recently started studying the scientific research that has been conducted regarding the jury system and why results happen the way they do. While I do not agree with all of it, these conclusions seem to keep repeating themselves in the literature:


1. There is a powerful negative stereotype about two types of lawyers - criminal defense lawyers and plaintiff's lawyers in injury cases. Criminal defense lawyers are hired guns that will get any hardened criminal off for a buck, and plaintiff's lawyers are parasites that grow rich the suffering of others. (Having been both, plaintiff and defense, I'll tell you that this is horseshit, and you'll get an earful from me if you suggest it around me. Regardless, this is the public perception, whether I like it or not.)


2. The hours or days you have for jury selection will not be enough to counteract this stereotype, no matter how persuasive you are.


3. Utilization of charm and other overt manipulation tactics in picking juries just confirms the negative stereotypes, and harms the attorney's credibility from the outset.


I've tried to tailor my approach to one that is more of a "just the facts" approach. I think this is helpful, because it builds credibility and, more importantly, allows the jurors to draw their own conclusions based on the evidence. I think this is a much more powerful and engaging approach. It goes back to what I was taught in law school: "Never tell, always show."


So, that is why I thought Miller's description was so interesting. It helped me articulate a revolution that has been going on in my own life, as well as my professional practice. I encourage you to look at your daily behaviors, and see if you utilize charm, or one of its cousins, as a habit.


And I'd further encourage you to see what happens if you stop. You might be surprised.

Rups and Government Coffee

At the tender age of two, I drank my first sippy-cup filled with coffee. My parents always told me that this was just a normal Cajun thing. I have no idea if this is true, or if it was just something to shut my toddler yap and make me happy. Regardless, my auspicious brewing childhood has given rise to an oddesey in coffee experience.

Since that time, I have experienced damn near every variety of coffee imaginable. I've tried Turkish, Cuban, Cajun, Columbian, Jamaican, Ethiopian, Virginian (yes, it is unique), and even a cup of coffee that one gentleman in the French Quarter suggested was "from space". (For what it is worth, I think it was just Cafe Du Monde coffee with bourbon in it. If that is the case, nearly everyone that I'm related to has tried and enjoyed "space coffee".)

My experience of coffee has even transcended geography and even become situational. I've had "My Mom made this and she is happy" coffee, and I can tell the difference between that and "Mom made this and she's pissed" coffee. I've enjoyed "I just got a glimpse of enlightenment coffee" and dredged through "I haven't slept in three days" coffee. On three occasions, I savored a cup of "I can't believe I didn't get blown up doing that" coffee. Heady brew, let me assure you.

The only experience that I've never had is decaf. I'm rather proud of that.

As I sat down for my nightly exercise in expression, I asked myself what was the most unique coffee that I've ever experienced. My mind suggested all kind of tantilizing, awe-inspiring stories of coffee bliss. Stories that would almost be the java-nese equivalent of smut. Sadly, none of those won the little twisted election in my head. The front-runner in that particular special olympics is the most bizarre and intimidating coffee that I've ever drank, and it is that noxious brew that I will try and describe for you tonight.

Government coffee.

If you have worked for a government agency for any extended period of time, you can stop reading this essay right now.

Seriously, stop. I'd hate for you to re-live this horror. I only share it here because everyone else needs to know what we go through.

How to express government coffee?

No tale of myself and government coffee would be complete without a mention of Rups. I invoke Rups name only sparingly and with great caution. The usage of the name is not unlike invoking the name of the Devil. You do it sparingly lest you draw his attention.

Rups began its life as a Krups Coffee-Maker. It lived on the fourth floor of the old public defender's office, a building that now stands derelict and condemned. I deeply hope that Rups remains within that old building (though I sometimes have nightmares to the contrary). That old hulk of a government office is a fittingly black and rotting tomb for Rups, a foul creature that will plague the nightmares of dozens, if not hundreds of employees.

At some point and time before I first encountered Rups, it lost its "K". While I did not witness this event, I visualize it very much like the scene in Raiders of the Lost Ark where the divine power of the Ark of the Covenant burns the Nazi symbols off its little wooden bower. I like to think Rups destroyed his "K" as a statement to the world that it had attained its own malevolent self-awareness.

And make no mistake, Rups hated humanity. It expressed this hatred through its production of the most... government-y government coffee that I have ever encountered.

Know how plastic is porous? Know how cheap coffee exudes a lot of oil? Do you know that funky taste your coffee starts to get if you go through three pots without the application of soap and water to your components? I want you to envision a set of porous plastic components that had not seen soap or water in literally hundreds of pots of coffee. These components kept absorbing Sam's Club Coffee oils, and eventually, hatred as well.

When Rups exuded its black liquid, it had a rainbow-colored skein of oil on top. This is government coffee.

"Fixins" for the government coffee were extremely limited.

Creamer only existed in the non-dairy variety, and it was not effective. You probably don't analyze creamer in terms of "effectiveness", do you? Let me try and illustrate. Government coffee is the only coffee that I've ever experienced that would literally laugh off creamer. You heard me. Know how you pour in creamer, and the darkness and light swirl and yield a nice, beige-colored liquid? When creamer was added to government coffee, the liquid would say in a small Russian voice, "I must break you..." The coffee would briefly lighten... and then return to dead black. No creamer exists that can in any way gain the upper hand over government coffee, and as I've said, Rups' government coffee was its own unique creature.

Sugar wasn't usually an option. Any sugar present would be quickly used by your fellow desperados. The only packet you could find would be in the very back of the cabinet. Said packet said, "Elect Jimmy Carter" on it.

Sugar can go bad, my friends. True fact. Carter sugar makes you hallucinate. This condiment blight only added another layer to the horror of government coffee.

"Why would anyone consume this noxious liquid?" you may ask yourself.

The answer lies in one of those old cliches you may use but never think about. Ever told someone you wouldn't sleep with them "even if they were the last other human being on the planet"? Think about that. Sure, for the first few years after the apocalypse, you might hold true to your promise, but as time and desperation, and perhaps necessity, eroded your willpower, you might eventually have an existential crisis. You would start thinking about the continuation of human race and your duty. Time would twist your perception, and suddenly, horrifically, this non-attractive person would start singing their siren song until you forswore yourself in a flopping, desperate, thirty-eight second session of passion.

Same with Rups. You did what you could to avoid that poison. But eventually, you would have that day when you were really tired and had something important to do. It was the end of the month, and your cash was too low for you to go buy coffee from a reputable business. In that long, dark night of the soul, you would go to Rups for the caffeinated release that only his government coffee would provide.

Afterwards, like a bad one-night stand, you would regret it. Ironically, you would have that same feeling of being gut-punched afterward. The oil would perform a number on your stomach. It would curdle anything else in your stomach, whether such things could be curdled or not. (Yes, this coffee could curdle meat. I experienced it. It happened.)

In our office, there were all manner of public defenders, ranging from the shiny and brand-new (me) to the ones so weathered, skilled, and experienced that they resembled extremely determined leather bags with brilliant legal minds. One of the baliwicks of these "old school" PD's toughness was there ability to pound government coffee without even wincing. This evinces a level of toughness that I still can't fathom.

Hopefully, my accounting of this horror leaves you shocked and, on some level, deeply grateful for your regular morning cup. Perhaps the best side effect of being exposed to government coffee (other than the x-ray vision I've developed) is deep appreciation for non-government coffee. I have literally stood at the Fresh Market with tears in my eyes, thanking the acne-faced teenager who gave me my little paper shot glass of good coffee while I shopped.

You have to know the horrific to appreciate the decent.

Stages of Post-Trial Recovery

A friend asked me to detail this whole process, so I will do so here. I should point out that the severity and length of these phases are directly proportional to the length and intensity of the trial.

1. Immediately Post-Trial: Beer and Recap

In my experience, two things are absolutely necessary after nerve-fraying time spent in front of a jury. The first is a cold beer. Preferably on tap, but something in a bottle will do if it tastes decent, so long as it is transferred to the mug of my choosing. For me, cracking open a beer after a trial is the psychological reverse of putting on the suit before jury selection. As one begins the process, so the other ends it.

The beer must also be paired with another human being. After any trial, I've got something to share. Maybe it is funny. Maybe it is sad. Maybe it is just confusing. Regardless, something noteworthy happened, and the noteworthy thing was wrapped up in a veritable sea of other data. Having another set of ears is critical to the whole mess making sense and slowly forcing its way into my cosmology.

2. A Few Hours After the Fact: Holy Shit, I'm tired!

I can't speak for other trial attorneys, but in the days immediately preceding the trial, as well as during the trial itself, my body and I make a bizarre compact. My body will, for the duration of the trial, overlook its usual demands such as food and sleep. This can be extremely useful in those frantic hours of preparation before and during. However, there is the price afterwards.

The first thing I get back is my appetite. I've been known to overlook multiple meals during the trial period. Usually a few hours after the trial, I get insanely hungry. I'm talking "eat a large pizza by myself" hungry. I've been known to go to a restaurant and order dinner twice, much to the confusion of my server.

It is worth mentioning that the food eaten in this period is not healthy food. This is 100% indulgence-ville, population: Me. If it isn't fried, bread-related, cheese-bearing, tasty meat, or Japanese... I probably don't want it. In my old age, I've at least started to exercise some restrain in my diet. Phase 2 is my brief respite from that, so that I can appease the stomach gods.

Usually this gorging is immediately followed by the the other thing I've been putting off: sleep. Once I'm no longer adrenalized, my post-adjudicatory feast is followed by at least six or seven hours of sleeping like the dead. Sad as it is to say it, that's a long period of sleep for me. I'm usually a light sleeper, but this is different. My wife coming in or getting out of bed won't wake me up. Nothing short of physical blows will. Evidently, last night, I inadvertently locked our bedroom door while she was out watching TV. No amount of knocking could wake me up, so she unwillingly slept on the couch... I'll be bringing her Starbucks at work this afternoon.

Moving on...

3. The Morning After: I can brain again!

Post-trial, my various systems come back online in order of complexity, with the most sophisticated, my mind, coming back at the last.

A jury trial is an extraordinary mental exercise. You've got to know your case backwards and forwards: all the facts that you are using, as well as your opponent. You pass them through the filters of evidence law and theatrical showmanship. You do all that while making a proper appellate records. You also have to function as a sort of half-assed psychologist, helping your client keep it together in front of the audience (read: jury).

In short, you spend hours being as brilliant, persuasive, intuitive, and cunning as you possibly can. It is exhausting.

I retain my mental agility for phase 1, but once I hit phase 2? Forget it. I'm a mindless oaf. My brain has done its work. It is no longer scared or excited. It just wants to rest. You doubtless would not enjoy my company at one of my post-trial "double dinnners", because I eat like a man doing a job.  A man possessed, even. There's no witty discussion. Just food.

After food and a decent night's sleep, I start acting like my normal self. Once properly caffeinated, I may even attempt jokes and witticisms. That said, this "mental recovery" can get pretty squirrelly. Depending on the level of strain, it might take as long as two days for the brain to regain its full capacity. At present, I'm two days out from a trial and I still feel a smidge dumber than usual.

4. The Evening After: Jesus Christ, look at all this shit that has piled up!

Of course, affairs such as a jury trial are labor intensive. The practice of law consists of a thousand little jobs that you regularly do to keep clients happy and cases moving. Trial preparation and practice force you to put about five hundred of those jobs on hiatus so you can be ready. The problem is that the workload does not know that you are at trial, and frankly, it doesn't care. It keeps piling up like a petulant, scorned mountain.

Once you've mostly regained your faculties, you start to notice all the stuff you haven't been doing it. After a trial week, my voice mail and letter bin are usually explosively full. That has to be dealt with. There are new cases to review and clients to talk to.

Your reward for working your ass off is to work your ass off some more, catching up.

It is no different at home. If there are a thousand little jobs that keep a law practice running, there are a million required to run a house with a toddler in it. There's a certain amount of triage that goes on when I am at trial. While I marginally give a damn about dishes, laundry, and vacuuming when things are normal, that quantum of "give a damn" dwindles down to nothing during a trial. As a result, my home is usually a reeking pit once I am done with a trial.

That said, all that mindless manual labor is good opportunity for brain recovery.

And that concludes it. By the time I get everything caught up, the roller-coaster is over and I am back to situation normal. I am sure most other trial attorneys have their own unique phases of recovery, and the associated practices to go with them, but those are mine.