Thursday, March 13, 2008

The Limits of Poetic Justice

And that’s why the prosecutor was smirking. His high-profile bête noire, having made a seemingly inexcusable error that would get a rookie fired, now had no choice but to beg the indulgence of the very judge whose admonitions he’d serially flouted. It was delicious. Deep down, whispering beneath the heat of battle, the prosecutor knew the defendant shouldn’t be penalized for the lawyer’s dereliction. But to hell with that: The law didn’t require it and this was now about comeuppance. The prosecutor insisted that default was default, case closed.

Fortunately, the judge was far wiser than the prosecutor. I know because I was the prosecutor.

Read the rest of Andrew C. McCarthy on prosaic justice.

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