You were doing okay until you said that thing about Jesus

I’ve been meaning to take an improv class for years, and after several false starts, I went to watch a friend’s class the other night. It was exactly the kind of environment I’ve been looking for: a small class, a professional instructor, lots of fun, and students who have far more dorky charm than actor egos. Seemed like a great creative outlet, the kind of place I could make an idiot of myself, and best of all, make friends with intelligent people who aren’t lawyers.

I forgot that some of them might be clients.

One of the students– let’s call her Simone– got there late; I was having too much fun to pay much attention to her, except to notice that she kept making the obvious sex jokes that you hope everyone gets out of their system by the second or third class. She was kind of stilted and a little more aware of herself than the others, too, and it was obvious that she got on their nerves. That’s all I noticed until the end of class, when she asked me how she knew me. A lot of times this just means that the person has seen me on my bicycle or that they frequent the same bakery where I basically live. Other times I can tell that they’re lawyers. And then there are people like Simone. This chick knew me from the courthouse or the jail, I’d bet good money on it. It was partly because of her general weirdness, partly how she asked me (“You look very familiar. You look like you should be famous. I know I know you from somewhere.”), and partly– I don’t know, but I’d have bet on it. I decided to alert her to the likely connection and give her an easy opportunity to laugh it off.

“Well, do you work for Fulton County?– or hang out at the jail?” I added, melodramatically sotto vocce . Normal people would realize “Jesus God, that’s right, she was at the jail when I got hauled in for that DUI.” Normal people would then laugh and say “Yeah, that’s it– you got me off that murder charge.” Maybe follow up by asking if I play trivia at such and such a bar on Tuesday nights. But this lady was not normal.

“That’s how I know you!” she beamed. “I’m there all the time! You wear those cute little suits!” This is a typical reaction when my repeat clients recognize me in public. They act like second graders seeing a teacher at the grocery store. At this point, I want to leave. I don’t want to give this woman the idea that I’m her special lawyer– not that it isn’t too late for that, but maybe if I leave, she won’t start stalking me. Class is over; I had fun; I’ll be back for the graduation show– I’m heading for the door. My friend Craig wants to go get dinner. Sounds great. Let’s go now. He lingers a bit, wanting to ask the instructor to join us. But Simone is talking to the instructor about what to wear for the show. I inch towards the door, ready to ditch Craig if I have to bolt. And Simone gives me a reason.

The instructor tells her not to wear a hat; people need to be able to see her eyes for the show. Simone tells him: “But I’m a prophetess; I have to wear a head covering.”

I leave. Until now I’ve wondered exactly what sort of behavior gets Simone arrested so much. She’s apparently got a job; she has the wherewithal to decide to take an improv class, find one, and pay for it. In spite of her weirdness, this is all unusual for one of our frequent flyers. Now it all makes sense. I don’t know exactly what sort of behavior gets Simone arrested. I don’t need to know. I just know that she probably claims to be not subject to the laws or courts of the United States or the State of Georgia. She may claim that her name is a registered trademark. She is apparently part of one of a few groups that operate, at least in Atlanta, under the guise of a religious organization, but that seems to boil down to doing whatever the crap you want and claiming that the laws don’t apply to you. I see them in the jail or at the courthouse more and more frequently. The best thing about them is that they sometimes challenge my law license, based on the authority that issued it, and refuse my representation. (“The flesh and the blood always represents himself,” one told me. I happily told the judge that she’d have to deal with him without me.)

One of the things that’s most interesting about this group is that they tend to be like our paranoid schizophrenic clients who have some sort of religious mania, at least in one regard. They appear perfectly functional, if a little weird, and make absolute sense, until they start talking about Jesus. Maybe the schizo guy is complaining to the judge about a psych eval that’s keeping him in custody. He wants to take a plea and can’t, because his competency is challenged and we’re waiting on the doctor’s evaluation. The social worker gets calls from his mother saying please don’t let him out; he comes here and just starts tearing my house apart, trying to get in and hurt me. He tells the judge that his mother is unhinged and imagining things; he worries about her, but if he has to leave her alone, he will; he’s been held forty days on a criminal trespass charge and wants to take a plea. “And Your Honor,” he adds, “I’m a prophet king. Tupac’s father needs me to clear him in the death of his son. It’s imperative that I get out to deal with this.” Once you get them on the Jesus thing, there’s no putting the crazy back in the box.

As for Simone, Craig gave me a nice example at dinner. She has been late to class before. She explained that she’s a cab driver and her pet turtle had gotten lost in her cab. So she had to drive to Savannah because that’s the only place where they have an X-Ray machine big enough to X-Ray a cab and find her turtle. I have a feeling that I will be seeing these facts in a police narrative soon, under “suspect statement,” and that she’ll want me, her special lawyer, to tell the jury why she had to speed.

Advertisement