Compazine

Pronounced: KOMP ah zeen
Generic name: Prochlorperazine

Compazine is used to control severe nausea and vomiting. It is also used to treat symptoms of the mental disorder schizophrenia, and is occasionally prescribed for anxiety. Compazine may cause involuntary muscle spasms and twitches in the face and body. This condition may be permanent.

"Yes, I'll split another bottle. My own? Shheeeeeer."

It was cheap champagne, but it was free, and I was so shitty at that point I couldn't feel my hands, let alone discern good booze from bad. The combination of Glenfiddich, Jagermeister, tequila shots, multiple espressos and the shitty pot we'd bought from the wait staff rendered me walking unconscious. Bulletproof. Champagne was just something to swill to keep the lips wet. There was an iced case of it untouched from the wedding. If we didn't kill it, it would go to waste.

The last thing I recall was somebody yelling, "Let's open them all... everybody gets a bottle!"

Morning came like an upper cut to the jaw. There are hangovers that come on strong and leave after you vomit. There are hangovers that creep in slowly and catch you in the late afternoon. And there are hangovers, usually involving cheap champagne, that make you pray for death. Every system in my body was in shock. I couldn't breathe from the cigarettes. I couldn't hear from the ringing in my ears. The room was still spinning and my heart was pounding from a combination of early withdrawal, espresso and dehydration. When I tried to move, I felt the reverse peristaltic lurch of my stomach and throat muscles trying to dry heave stomach acid into my mouth. In a history of heavy weekend drinking beginning when David Lee Roth was still a legitimate rock star, this was the worst hangover I had ever had. I'd come expect pain after a wedding, but this was beyond any previous experience. We had a four hour ride home. I was certain I'd die on the way.

About two hours into the ride, I couldn't take it anymore. Each bump, each turn, each stop, started an attack of the dry heaves.

"We have to stop somewhere," I coughed, barely holding down the ginger ale I'd had for breakfast, which was all I could keep down. I knew I should have eaten, but the mere concept of entering a crowded restaurant on a Sunday morning, of listening to waitresses clanging plates and watching children dart about, chased by mothers barking "get back here RIGHT NOW" made me wretch.

"Lets stop at my brother's house. We'll get some food and say hi and you can lie down," Lilly said in the best comforting tone she could muster.

My then-girlfriend's brother was a general practitioner. I figured I was in luck. He'd probably have some decent food and a place to rest for a few hours before finishing the journey home. Maybe he'd even have a few prescription painkillers to slip me. I generally shun painkillers, prescription or over the counter, but this was an exception. It was just that bad.

Her brother recognized my dire situation as soon as we arrived. "I should admit you for an IV," he laughed, leading me into the kitchen. Before I knew it, he was pouring huge horse pills into his hand.

"Here, try this. It's called Compazine," he pressed the pills into my palm. "It's an anti anxiety and anti nausea med. I think it's also got a muscle relaxer in there. Great drug. The hospital gives it to schizophrenics and cancer patients, for chemotherapy sickness." He gave me a dozen or so pills. "This is the only hangover cure I know of. If this doesn't cure you, nothing will," he laughed. "But make sure you eat something with it. It's a pretty strong..."

"How long till it works?" I cut him off, gulping the pill down with a glass of Gatorade.

"I don't know. It affects everyone differently," he shrugged.

He was right about it being a hangover cure. By the time we reached home, my nausea had abated and I was well enough to go running. The drug was amazing. All the jitters, the anxiety, the rapid heart rate, the stomach knots, the spinning, the delirium... all gone. The amazing thing about it was, unlike other drugs which merely cure the physical ailments associated with a hangover, this stuff also killed the mental exhaustion and inability to focus that followed a day of intense boozing. After a half horsepill of Compazine, I felt as calm as I would sitting on a secluded beach with a headfull of margaritas.

Back at the office on Monday, I received the following email:

"________, I am in Minneapolis through Friday. You have to handle the motion in Carter. Get the file from Janet."

The Carter Matter was a hotly contested dispute between directing factions of a sizable company. The adversaries could not even be in the same room with each other. During previous court appearances, we had to physically restrain one of our clients from attacking one of the plaintiffs. It was the sort of case where the court didn't even bother to ask about the possibility of mediation and motions seeking discovery sanctions are filed by both sides weekly. I had to handle a partial summary judgment motion against our client seeking immediate turnover of $250,000.00.

Many young lawyers would brag about being given this sort of responsibility. Many would kill for this sort recognition from above. "My mentor really thinks I'm up to the task! I won't let the firm and client down!"

I am not one of those lawyers.

Don't get me wrong I like a challenge, and I love motion court. Oral argument is the only fun part of litigation. There is nothing I enjoy more than grandstanding and running my mouth off for an audience. Trials would be fun, but they require much more preparation and often take days. Hearings are sometimes fun, but my clients tend to lie a lot, which forces me to work hard. "You want another redirect of your client, counselor?" Motions are just the right size; one issue, one argument, and I'm doing all the talking.

I'm a huge ham at motion arguments. When I'm arguing equity, I'll slide into Southern Gentleman mode and spout off schmatltzy colloquialisms.

"Well, your honor, counsel has come to a gunfight with a knife."

"Your honor, he's not within spitting distance of the standard required for the relief he's seeking."

I frequently catch myself falling into a faux Southern accent when I'm putting on that act. Believe it or not, the Southern Gentleman bit gets results. Most state court judges are bored shitless from hearing lines of fat little clods in ill fitting grey suits and ketchup stained ties stammer and fume about discovery extensions and depositions of low grade personal injury plaintiffs. If you entertain these judges, they'll reward you... or at least hurt you less than they otherwise might.

Unfortunately, I get to use the Southern Gentleman act a lot less than I'd like. Most commercial cases have a clearly liable party and a clearly aggrieved party. Most cases are shakedowns or somebody ducking an obligation. Whether a contract is enforceable isn't decided by the tightness of its language, but the pocketbook of the party trying to enforce it. Commercial cases are never about substance, or getting to the meat of who is right and who is wrong. That's usually obvious from the outset. Commercial cases are about which side can more effectively manipulate the rules and outlast the other. Commercial litigators argue procedure from every available angle, to inflict maximum economic pain on each other until someone knuckles under. I'd object to everything, and file endless motions to bleed my opponent's wallet dry. I'd object to the release of records which helped my client's case just to force opponents to incur the cost and annoyance of filing a motion (to which I'd cross move). I'd wallpaper opponents with discovery requests for material my client didn't need and the opponent can't possibly produce. When they didn't produce it, I'd file a motion after motion demanding sanctions. Commercial litigation isn't rocket science. The only skill to it is being facile enough with the rules to ensure you file every procedural bullet available. The strategy is always the same - full court press. Drain them of money, energy and interest in the case until you can settle on the courthouse steps. Why the courthouse steps? Nobody gets paid if you settle early.

When I'm arguing procedure, I'll sometimes knee jerk into my White Shoe character. I'll cite reams of caselaw and decry my opponent's disgraceful disregard for the rules.

"Well, perhaps Rule 16(c)(iii) means nothing to Mr. Featherstone, but it is a rule, and we are obligated to follow it."

I feel guilty putting on that act, since I'm always arguing for a hypertechnical application of some commonly ignored rule to subvert an obvious equitable duty of my client. But it works. Most judges' primary concern is getting flipped on appeal. They don't want to look like an ass in some appellate opinion excerpted on page three of the local legal rag. If you can stand on a rule, no matter how bad you pervert its intent, the court will grant what you're seeking.

Motions are also wonderful billing bonanzas. What other task allows you to bill for travel and time spent reading a magazine while waiting for your motion to be heard? I'd recommend mountains of motions to all my clients. If I staggered the motions properly, I got five or six days a month out of the office, driving from court to court, reading magazines, testing my acting skills in front of judges and listening to tunes in the car. Each day is easily 9 billable hours, only two of which were actually spent thinking.

Yes, I'd argue anything to get out of the office. Anything. But $250,000.00? What the hell would I say if I lost that one? I'd been hoist on my own petard.

I would need to be absolutely lucid, totally clear in my arguments, razor sharp in all my rebuttals. There was no room for error - no allowance for ADD moments. I could not start fantasizing about the cute little Latin clerk's tits during this argument. I could not start humming "Mountain Jam" in my head while my opponent prattled on, accusing my client of being the business equivalent of a Nazi pederast. The solution was obvious; take a Compazine before Court.

"Fuck me," I barked, rummaging through the floor of my closet. "How the fuck do you lose a shoe?" I kept repeating to myself, as though the complaint would cause my right shoe to magically materialize. I finally found it, underneath a garment bag, at 8:15 - just in time to run to the car and drive to court. "Shit," I realized I'd left without picking up a bagel sandwich from the corner deli.

Court opened at 9:00 and I was second on the motion list. I took the Compazine at 8:30, figuring it would kick in just as my opponent was arguing - when I needed maximum concentration. The motion before us settled, so we took the floor early.

My opponent was "Franklin," but everybody calls him Frank behind his back. Obviously, everybody called him Frank or Frankie his whole life. Until he became a lawyer. Now he insists on being called by his full formal name. Nobody in law is "Chuck," "Pete," "Bill,"
"Dick" or "Tony." Everybody insists on full, clumsy monikers. "Excuse me, its Allejandro, not Al." If that weren't pompous enough, some insist on signing everything, including their credit card receipts, with a middle initial as well, as though they'd inherited an English Title.

The height of style is to adopt your middle name as your first name and insist that your first name be used as an initial. The lawyers who do this remind me of the kids who gave themselves nicknames when they went away to college. "I'm Irving, but people call me 'Spades'." No longer are you "Bobby Felchman," you're "Robert Thomas Felchman," or better, "R. Thomas Felchman." While you're rebranding, why not slap a "III" after your name? Who would know the difference, unless you run into someone who went to your high school? My guess is, the sort of people who insist on such formality and rebranding don't go to their high school or college reunions.

I was unfairly given a first name which can not be shortened, and a middle name so common I'd never gain any cachet by using it in place of my first name. I will never touch the rarified professional and social air of the "P. Curtis Kernitskys" or the "J. Murray Bolemonks." My uncreative nomenclature doomed me to bowl and drink Ballantine's with the Dick Joneses and Chuck Smiths of the world.

Oddly, while most of their lawyers are lengthening their titles, in a marketing scheme reminiscent of New Coke, the firms they work for are shortening their monikers to snappy one word brand names. The present advice sold by legal marketing gurus, and bought with double fisted gusto by every management committee in Philly, is to shorten the firm name to as few syllables as possible. The marketing gurus pinched the idea from New York firm slang, in which firms such as Cravath Swain & Moore and Weil Gotshal & Manges are known as "Cravath" and "Weil." No sales pitch works better in Philadelphia than "This will make you more New York." Regarding law firms, "Dechert is doing this" also works like magic. As the king goes, so the court shall follow. It's rumored one firm paid a consultant $1 million to come up with a rebranding campaign. The consultant's sole suggestion was that the firm drop an ampersand from its name. This syllabic downsizing has no economic effect, except to purchase the marketing guru a shore house. No firm is more or less respected, or considered any closer to being a competitor with Weil or Cravath, because it changes its name. New York is New York, and this is not New York. Nobody selects Firm A over Firm B because A's name is shorter than B's.

The funniest thing about the syllabic downsizing is that it's wholly unnecessary. Everybody already used the short slang titles. Has anyone ever picked up the phone and said, "Well, the papers I received from Auchincloss, Underphelpher, Gobbenstein and Von Hufnagle were quite impressive," or, "I have a deposition today at Fistelwhit, Featherstone, de Kllanger and Dehavilland." Since the days when judges here wore powdered wigs, firms have always been known shorthand by the first name on the letterhead. Pour out a 40 on the pavement for the Bockiuses, Rhodes and Heckshers of the world, and think of all those homeless "&"s out there when you're signing your fancy new letterhead.

Franklin is a newly minted partner from a solid regional firm. He's the typical kid from nowhere who thinks that, with $200K a year, a skinny wife and a slot on the waiting list at ___________ Country Club, he's got the world by the short hairs. He talks about how he's looking to buy a place in Avalon and bitches about how his Mercedes is always in the shop just loud enough for you to hear. He wears a Rolex Daytona bigger than his palm, a black flannel suit with the massive chalk stripes, a Charvet shirt and the brightest paisley Borelli tie available. He knows the King of Prussia Mall. If I asked, I'm sure he'd give me the name of his personal shopper, "Kenneth." I'm certain Kenneth would drool over me if I came to him on Franklin's recommendation. "Outstanding! I can unload those bright lavender shirts and gold embroidered ties we couldn't sell last month! I wonder if I can move some ascots his way?" Franklin gives off the appearance of a thin white Johnny Cochran with slightly better taste in clothes.

Franklin pointed his clients to the first row seats directly behind the plaintiff's table, certain that he'd be shaking their hands after beating me, a lowly associate, senseless.

Franklin's argument was predictably arrogant and dismissive toward me, while patronizing to the judge. We all put on a song and dance for judges, but I never stoop to obsequious flattery. Franklin all but offers the judge a shoe shine. "Excellent point, your honor. You anticipated where I was going next." "Very true, Your Honor. And that raises an interesting point..." "Exactly. You understand the issue better than counsel, Your Honor." He even does the forced laugh at every quip the judge offers, whether it was intended as a joke or not.

I can barely stomach calling judges "Your Honor," particularly the state court variety, who ascend to the bench by election. In most counties, these judges are crowned by local political powerbrokers. I have an obligation to respect such a person, if for no other reason than recognizing the shrewd maneuvering he employed to get to the bench. But "Honor" doesn't seem an appropriate title. I'd be uncomfortable using "Honor" with the Pope. It's not in my character to grovel without strong moral basis or guaranteed economic gain for doing so.

I talk to the judge like he's just another person, and I think this helps me in arguments. I show him the general respect I'd show anybody. I like to think this stands in refreshing opposition to the legions of lawyers like Franklin, who devolve into solicitous simps before the bench. These judges glad handed their way to the bench; they know saccharine when they see it. Patronizing a politician is the height of disrespect. You're calling him a fool, dim enough to be cowed by low grad ass kissing. But then what more would I expect of the average commercial litigator? Iguanas have better "people skills."

I got lucky. Franklin's argument was awful. He cited about 900 disputed facts in support of a motion for summary judgment - a motion which by definition can only be granted where no disputed facts exist. Every statement he made raised another disputed fact which he claimed proved my client had materially breached an agreement. He was rambling, enraptured with the sound of his own booming voice, completely oblivious to the fact that he was making an argument against his motion. Franklin presented the finest possible argument for why his client was not subject to summary judgment - why this case had to go to a jury. I was amazed at my good fortune. I stared at the one note on my yellow legal pad, "issues of fact preclude summary judgment." Toward the end of his argument, Franklin asked the court for a moment to review some notes in front of him before concluding. As he flipped through the papers on the table in front of him, he turned and flashed me a sarcastic smile. I smiled politely in return. The man's an imbecile. He's criminally stupid.

About this time the Compazine really started to take hold. I realized that I was leaning backwards in the leather defendant's chair in a slothlike position almost parallel to the floor. My feet were splayed apart and my legs felt numb. I reached for the water pitcher and found my arms were rubberized. Fuuuuuck. This stuff has me by the balls. Luckily, I didn't panic - because I couldn't panic. The higher functioning portions of my brain were in full overdrive, but the adrenaline receptors were off. How do I handle this? I'm going to fall down when its my turn to argue! I can't feel my feet! My neck can't support my head! Despite this fear gripping my brain, I felt myself sinking lower and ever more comfortably into the black leather chair. This... is... the most comfortable chair... ever. If I was in fight or flight mode, I didn't feel it, and I sure as hell didn't look it. During Franklin's conclusion, where he machine gunned my client with a litany of cheap, irrelevant shots, the judge glanced in my direction, inviting me to object. I just smiled. I couldn't do anything else. I was afraid that if I opened my mouth, I wouldn't be able to shut it. I pushed my tongue against the roof of my mouth to make sure I could feel it.

Half a pill was more than enough. What the hell was I thinking taking the whole thing?

When my rebuttal time finally came, I stood as quickly as possible, to gird against any appearance of sluggishness. The room turned pink and fuzzy, as though I were viewing it through a thick red gauze. The initial sensation was something akin to a mild nitrous oxide high. "Nooowwww weeeee'll heeaarr frommmmmm youuuuu, Mr. _____________" The room ran in slow motion. All sounds and movements were drawn out, as though the courtroom were a videotape playing a shade too slow. For a split second, I grappled with the concept that I was addressing the Court regarding complicated contract theories, at $250.00 an hour, before a room full of my peers, on a headfull of pills. They must realize I'm high. Those fuzzy pink bastards.

Then I started to speak.

I've never nailed an argument the way I nailed that one. "Your honor, I heard nothing but disputed facts from the movant. That's an odd way to request summary judgment." I then attacked each of Franklin's factual allegations, ripping them to ribbons with contradictory evidence. I even addressed them in order of weakness, ending on a high note, slamming his biggest lie before sitting down. There were none of the usual synaptic misfires, where I'd decide mid sentence that I didn't like the sound of a phrase, and restart my point differently. There were none of the usual demons running around in my head, questioning every argument before I made it. I was omniscient. I knew what the judge wanted to hear, and those were the only points allowed to cross my lips. The best part was the delivery. I'd normally make such an argument in a very impassioned White Shoe tone, haughtily scolding my opponent for misrepresenting the facts. But on the Compazine, I was James Bond. I delivered the argument as though I were relating a witty anecdote at a bar, a glass of scotch cradled in my hand. When you look that loose and calm, even if you're not 100% right on the law, you will almost always get the win. When you're also right on the law, you can decimate the opponent.

Franklin didn't even venture a reply. He stood, buttoned his jacket and snipped, "Your honor, I made my points. Counsel has not shown why the relief should not be granted. My clients are entitled to the relief sought." His client didn't even stick around to hear the ruling.

Franklin shook my hand. "Nice show, counselor."

"Well, even a blind squirrel finds an acorn now and again," I graciously offered.

Franklin didn't wait for me congratulate him on his effort. He was only interested in hearing his own words, and making sure I heard him refer to my performance as a "show" rather than an honest win.

I sank back into the chair and reorganized my papers. Damn, this feels nice. So comfortable. Maybe I should go home. I can mail it in for the rest of the week now. Maybe stop and get some new cds on the way. I need to burn a new mix disc for running. Maybe stop and rent some movies. Do I have dry cleaning to pick up?...

"Mr. ______, Mr. _______!" The cute little Latin clerk was shaking me.

"Huh?"

"The judge is hearing the next motion. You're in counsel's seat," she barked.

I looked over my shoulder. The entire courtroom was staring at me. There was a group of peeved lawyers holding exhibit cases glaring at me.

"Oh, yeh. Right. We're in court."

Definitely a half next time.

Posted by PhilaLawyer at 12:44 AM

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