Tweety's Mom was a divorced mother of two sons who lived and worked in PG County, Maryland. It was the Eighties, and for a brief time PG Co. was, arguably, the PCP and crack cocaine capital of the world. Mom's older son was a model student who had never been in trouble. But her younger son was Tweety, and Tweety was always in trouble, usually drug related trouble.
Tweety came by his nickname naturally. He was small and skinny, with a big round head and a squeaky voice like the yellow canary of "Tweety and Sylvester' cartoon fame. He was also nearly blind and wore thick glasses.
Tweety's Mom had hired me to represent him twice before, while Tweety was still a juvenile. I hated juve court because the standard of proof is lower for the State and many of the rules of evidence don't apply. But I had pulled a rabbit out of the hat on both previous occasions, and now Tweety's Mom wanted me to represent him on a charge involving drug-related violence. As he was now 18, he was charged as an adult.
I didn't want to take the case. I explained to her that if I got him off of this one there would just be another and another. He was in a violent gang and if I beat the charge he would go right back to being a gangster. I told her to stop taking responsibility for him. I told her it was time to let him take the consequences on his own. The public defenders in PG Co. were very professional. I seriously doubted I could get any better result than a PD in Tweety's case. I explained that if she paid my fee, Tweety, not she, would be my client. I knew she was poor, and couldn't really afford my fee even on a reduced basis.
But she insisted.
So off I went to visit Tweety to see how he was enjoying his first prolonged stay in the county jail. He was enjoying it just fine, it seems, but he wanted to get back out on the street. I had the impression it was because he wanted to settle some scores.
I talked to Tweety's Mom. I told her that despite his small size I thought he would probably be safer in jail, but as his lawyer I had to honor his wishes. She couldn’t bear the thought of her baby in jail with all those bad guys. I got a hearing and got the court to set bail, but it was high. She had to post her house to make the bail but we did all the paperwork to spring him.
One day I get a call from Tweety's Mom. Tweety's dead. He was shot in the head while sitting on the curb of a suburban street. She asked if I would come to the funeral, perhaps say a few words. She told me, or maybe I just guessed, she didn't want to be the only white person there.
I had other clients die; it was a time of many shootings and overdoses on the streets of PG Co. But Tweety's was the only funeral of a client that I ever attended. The church was packed and indeed, of the four hundred or so present only a handful were white. Women were wailing, girls were crying and teenage gangsta wannabe types were trying to look brave and hard.
It was an open-casket funeral. The mortician had done his best, but it was apparent that a big hunk of the top of Tweety's head above his right eye had been blown off. I could estimate where the entrance and exit wounds would have had to be. I saw that it was what the morgue guys call a through-and-through.
The preacher gave an interminable sermon of Baptist theology which I will refrain from characterizing, and I and dozen or so others stood and said a few words about how Tweety would be missed. It wasn't what I really felt needed to be said. But it wasn't the time or place, and I wasn't the right messenger. So finally, just when I think it's over, four men stand up in front of the pulpit and everyone gets quiet.
They began to sing, a cappella. It was the most beautiful music I have ever heard. I was absolutely transfixed, transformed, elevated, inspired and . . . words fail me. I will never forget it.
After the funeral I spoke to Tweety's Mom briefly to tell her how sorry I was about her loss. What I was really sorry about was the part I played in getting Tweety out of jail. But I didn't tell her that.
A few months later, after finishing up another case, I was walking through the courthouse and I met Tweety's Mom. It was the day of the murder trial of the boy who shot her son. She asked me if I would sit with her during the trial. I couldn't say no. I cancelled my appointments. We went to sit in the gallery after the jury had been selected. We were the only two spectators in the gallery.
Representing the defendant, Shooter, was a very accomplished public defender we will call Brian. The State was represented by a very able prosecutor we will call Gwynn. The trial began, after opening arguments, with Gwynn calling Buddy as her first witness. Gwynn got Buddy to testify that he and Tweety were sitting peacefully on the curb when a big, fancy new car screeched to a halt across the street and Shooter got out and started blasting away. Buddy testified that he jumped up and crouched behind poor blind Tweety who probably had no idea what was going on. And Buddy testified that he ran for his life when Tweety was hit and slid into the gutter. When Gwynn was finished asking questions of Buddy, Brian got up from his seat beside Shooter and asked only two questions on cross-examination.
Brian: "Buddy, when Shooter started shooting, did you have a weapon?"
Buddy: "Yes."
Brian: "When Shooter started shooting, did you shoot back?"
Buddy: "Yes."
At this point Gwynn's head sinks onto her arms on the prosecution table. Her witness, Buddy, obviously didn't tell her he was shooting too, or maybe he lied about it to her. It was the only time I ever knew Gwynn to be less than completely prepared for a trial. Later she became a judge, and I'm sure a good one. She asked the court for a bench conference. In the gallery you can't hear what's being said by the lawyers in front of the judge's bench. But I imagine Gwynn confessed either that there had been no autopsy or the autopsy had not been performed by a forensic pathologist, and that she had no evidence on ballistics, and even if she did it would likely be inconclusive because the wound was a through-and-through. So she had no choice. She had to dismiss the case.
You have probably never seen anyone happier that Shooter when Brian went back to defense table and explained what had just happened.
You have probably never seen anyone sadder than Tweety's Mom at that moment. But she maintained her poise. I don't remember ever seeing her again after that day. She called me once to thank me for what I had done for Tweety. I felt like I should apologize somehow, but I didn't.
Tweety's Mom was a good person, a loving mother and a remarkable, strong woman. She deserved better from her society, her community, the criminal justice system and me.
This one's for Tweety's Mom. I'm so deeply sorry.