Situational Ethics

By Henry Simpson

A wry legal tale about an abusive husband, a reluctant victim, and a lawyer caught between duty and conscience.

A stranger named Victor Lyons called me one morning. He said that Johnny had recommended me as his lawyer.

“Which Johnny?” I said. “I know a few.”

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“Johnny Hargood Junior. You know, Hargrove’s kid. Like, who did you think I meant?”

“I know both of them,” I said. “What’s the deal, Victor? Are you in trouble with the law?”

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“Well, yeah, I guess. My wife got the police to arrest me on some trumped-up domestic battery charge. Then the D.A. charged me with it, and then he got this judge to go along with that shit. I said not guilty and paid my bail, so I’m out, but a trial’s coming up, so I need a hotshot lawyer like you to handle this mess.”

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I knew the Hargroves. Their family owned a big construction company. Senior was a major developer, and his son managed the business.

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“Drop by my office and let’s talk,” I said. “The sign on my door says, ‘David Leigh 24/7, Attorney at Law.’”

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An hour later, Lyons appeared. He was a big, red-faced man in his late forties, in worn and discolored overalls, who resembled a construction-site enforcer. A dented hardhat was all his ensemble needed. He stomped into my office and dropped his six-foot-plus, 250-or-so pounds into the chair across from my desk. Without prompting, he told a well-rehearsed tall tale about how his wife had locked him out of the house after an argument and then called a domestic abuse hotline, whose counselor then reported the wife’s story to the police. They visited his workplace, questioned him, and arrested him on one charge of domestic battery. At that point, Lyons quit talking and stared at me in complete, and welcome, silence.

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“One question, Victor,” I said.

“It’s all lies,” he said. “Me and the missus, we have our little spats, just like all married couples do. They never go nowhere, ’cause she hits me more than I return the favor.”

“Are you saying she attacks you?”

“Why not? It’s true.”

“This time, before you were arrested, did you hit her?”

“I slapped her a little, is all, just enough to get her attention.”

“Did it work, getting her attention?”

Victor smirked. “Not so good. I must be losing my tender touch.”

“How big is she?”

“Average, but she’s strong. We got two big boys. She handles them fine.”

“How old are they?”

“Eight and nine.”

“Have you and your wife tried counseling?”

“That’s against my religion. We don’t need no mumbo-jumbo bullshit.”

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“Was alcohol involved in your fights?”

“I run a business, so I drink a little sometimes to relax. I don’t get drunk except on St. Pat’s Day. Can you blame me?”

“Do you expect me to defend you based on a self-defense claim against a woman?”

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“Why not? My wife got pissed off and lied. She beats on me a lot, and I ignore it. I ain’t no alcoholic. She’ll get over this and change her mind, and then we’ll be together again just like we always do. You can trust me on this. Go with the self-defense thing. Even if I lose, it’s no big deal. A slap on the wrist is the worst they can do to me.”

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“If things get iffy, will you consider a plea bargain?”

“No way, and I want a jury trial.”

“Why not a judge?”

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“Judges look down on the working man. People like me are the salt of the earth. I trust them more than any judge.”

“We’ll need character witnesses. Friends, co-workers, people who can testify to your character and say you’re not a violent person or alcohol abuser.”

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“I don’t socialize much, Mr. Leigh. All my relatives live in Arizona.”

“How about Johnny Junior and his dad?”

“I subcontract to them. I don’t want them. It would be bad for business, and embarrassing besides.”

“Can’t you think of anyone?”

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“Sure, my high school football coach and people in Seattle I knew. I’ll have to find them first. Anyway, I’m a good storyteller. I can be a witness.”

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“If you’re a witness, the prosecutor will cross-examine you. That’s not good. He or she might get under your skin.”

“Those guys don’t scare me.”

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And so we went to trial. Irene Gonzales, the prosecutor, was a short, serious woman in her mid-thirties who favored comfortable clothes and flats. In her opening statement, she claimed that Lyons was an alcoholic who regularly abused Mrs. Lyons verbally and physically.

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I based my opening on Lyons’s story: “According to Mr. Lyons . . . little spats . . . never went far . . . she was the aggressor . . . he took it . . . only responded in self-defense . . . slaps, not fists, etc.”

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The prosecutor’s first witness was Mrs. Lyons. She was a frail-looking woman, possibly once a looker, now haggard and browbeaten. In response to a series of Gonzales’s questions, she made little fuss over the fight except that it had angered her enough to contact a domestic abuse hotline afterward to blow off steam, as she often did after fights with her husband. She said she was surprised that the hotline counselor had reported her confidential call to the police because it was against hotline policy to report complaints to legal authorities. Without being prompted, she said she regretted that her husband had been arrested.

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At that point, I found her testimony disappointing. She probably feared her husband and was concerned about what would happen to her and her kids if Victor got convicted.

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During the lunch break, the courtroom emptied. Lyons turned to me and said, “My wife made this whole thing up, you know.”

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“All of it?” I said.

“I never lied to you.”

“The drinking?”

“Sure, I drink, a little. I already told you that. Everyone does it. Ask around, man. You’ll see for yourself. What happens now?”

“After lunch, I’ll present your defense.”

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As I left Lyons on my way to the cafeteria, I spotted Ms. Gonzales in a hallway. I walked over and greeted her.

She cast me an evil eye. “Don’t you say a damn word to me, Danny.”

“My client’s a liar, and Mrs. Lyons is too scared to nail him.”

“How long have you been out of law school?”

I smiled. “Forget that old chestnut. You know I’m right.”

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After lunch, Ms. Gonzales got Mrs. Lyons to answer “yes” to several direct questions: yes, that her husband frequently got drunk; that he was usually drunk when he beat her; that she had called the hotline several times; and that she had been hospitalized after two of the beatings.

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Her second witness was the hotline counselor who had answered several of Mrs. Lyons’s calls, including the one that led to Lyons’s arrest. During such calls, Mrs. Lyons reported that her husband worked long hours, often came home late and drunk, raged at her, and physically beat her. The counselor testified that she reported the last call to the police because she believed that Mrs. Lyons suffered from battered-wife syndrome and would not act on her own behalf because she believed her husband might kill her.

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The counselor reported Lyons’s abuse of his wife despite hotline policy.

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I called Lyons as a witness and asked him a series of questions based on what he’d told me earlier. As he repeated his improbable story for the court, I did not interrupt him and allowed him to hang himself.

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Ms. Gonzales began cross-examination by asking Lyons if he regretted abusing his wife. He said, “It never happened like she told it, and there’s nothing to regret.”

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When asked why he had no character witnesses, he said, “They’re working folks, too busy to come to court.”

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When asked how he got along with people generally, he said, “Pretty well, mostly.” He laughed and said, “Not so good with lowlifes, busybodies, lazy persons, or in-laws.”

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“Your employees?”

“Every goddamn one of them hates a boss, ma’am.”

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The jury found Lyons guilty of a single charge of domestic battery, treated as a misdemeanor, and sentenced him to a year in prison.

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I wondered what Mrs. Lyons and her kids would do without their abuser and provider.

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I was surprised that Johnny had recommended me to Lyons as his lawyer after I had failed to get another one of his cronies off on a DUI charge. This made two losers. Perhaps he had used me to get rid of those two instead of having to confront and fire them himself.