Harry Potter and the Lost Crusade

The countdown has begun. After years of buildup, the final chapter is at hand. Crowds are forming, many camping out for days in anticipation of the opening of doors. All minds are on the conclusion of the saga, with little talk of anything else. It is the most anticipated media event of the year.

And it will take place the same week as the release of the final Harry Potter movie.

Orlando is a city renown for entertainment. Its amusement parks draw millions of visitors annually, with The Wizarding World of Harry Potter the latest and most popular of Universal Studios’ attractions. Yet the focus of most Orlando eyes this week will be not on amusement park rides or cinematic premieres, but on the doors of the county jail, from which Casey Anthony will soon emerge a free woman.

It was not supposed to end this way. The talking heads at HLN (new motto: “All Casey Anthony, All The Time”) assured us that she would be convicted of first-degree murder. When the CNN affiliate decided to alter its format from news to scandal, it expected to carry the story through its logical conclusion: Casey Anthony’s death at the hands of the State.

Yet something happened on the way to better ratings. Despite all assurances, despite network plans to further enhance its coverage of the story, a jury of twelve convened and found Anthony “not guilty” of the most serious charges against her. They acknowledged that she lied to police, and Anthony’s final days in custody will complete a four-year sentence imposed by the judge on those charges. But there will be no execution, no stories about death row appeals or Anthony’s last days on earth. Instead, Anthony will emerge from the Orlando jail to face angry crowds, civil litigation, and disappointed “journalists.”

The media personalities at HLN are trying to make the most of a bad situation. With their credibility questioned, they are attacking the intelligence of the jury and the effectiveness of our judicial system.

HLN’s Nancy Grace, the self-anointed leader of the “Anthony Death Sentence” movement, an apparent graduate of the Hogwarts School of Journalism, would prefer to believe that Lord Voldemort cast a spell on the proceedings. It would be easier to blame the “not guilty” verdict on dark powers, rather than inconclusive evidence and prosecutorial overreach.

But, with Anthony’s image fading from our television screens, the focus of public frustration and scrutiny is increasingly shifting to television commentators and legal analysts. The public feels manipulated and misled by Grace and her counterparts, who may have violated a public trust by placing self-interest before journalistic integrity.

Nancy Grace refuses to acknowledge either responsibility or defeat. She continues to highlight Anthony on her nightly show, refusing to refer to her by name, and instead calling her “Tot Mom.” She has gone on the offensive against those who would find fault with her approach to the case – yet arrogance and self-righteousness make for bad television.

After the jury returned its verdict, a friend confessed that she would watch Nancy Grace that evening because she wanted “to see her head explode.” Had HLN’s management arranged for such a spectacle, ratings would have been substantially higher.

Storm Warning

We seldom recognize evil at its birth. We see warning signs, but fail to grasp their meaning. It is only later, when the unthinkable occurs, when lives are shattered and we stare in disbelief at the desolate landscape left behind that we realize the significance of what we have witnessed. Yet by then it is too late and we are left to wonder whether things might have been different had we seen through the façade to the darkness that lay within.

In 1933, President Franklin D. Roosevelt appointed William E. Dodd as United States ambassador to Germany. Dodd was not Roosevelt’s first choice for the post. His was the third name on a list of possibles, and he was selected only after the first two turned the President down.

Dodd was an academic, a University of Chicago professor whose principal goal was to write a history of the South during the Civil War. He had no political aspirations and no desire to represent the U.S. abroad. He accepted the post due to a sense of patriotism and out of deep respect for Roosevelt, who personally entreated Dodd to take the position after being rejected by his preferred candidates.

Dodd and his family arrived in Berlin at the outset of the Nazi regime. He was skeptical of rumors about Nazi mistreatment of Jews, and assumed that they were exaggerated. His daughter Martha, a twentyish divorcee with liberal sexual attitudes and a thirst for adventure, immediately fell for the pageantry of Nazi parades and the contagious excitement with which the German populace embraced their leader, Adolph Hitler. Over the next three years, however, the veil of deception lifted and the Dodds were able to witness firsthand the brutality and amorality that would eventually define the Nazi government.

The story of the Dodds and their time in Berlin, during the formative years of Nazi Germany, is powerfully related by Erik Larson in his gripping In the Garden of Beasts: Love, Terror, and an American Family in Hitler’s Berlin (2011). Larsen, the author of The Devil in the White City: Murder, Magic and Madness at the Fair that Changed America (2003), one of the better works of American non-fiction of the new millennium, uses journals, correspondence and writings of the time, to bring to life the tale of the Dodds’ awakening to the evils of the Nazi world.

Told in a style reminiscent of the stories of spy novelists John le Carre and Len Deighton, In the Garden of Beasts reads like a work of fiction. Larson’s short, unswerving chapters operate as a series of doors opening gradually to the reality of Nazi Germany. Dodd’s growing alarm at the unabashed violence around him is at times matched by the apathy and thinly-veiled anti-semitism he encounters within the American State Department. His warnings are not heeded, and the Nazi brutality against Jews, Americans and all who pose opposition to the National Socialist German Workers’ Party continues unabated.

The story climaxes in what has become known as The Night of the Long Knives, Hitler’s purge and execution of actual and potential political opponents between June 30 and July 2, 1934. Shortly after the bloody events that cemented Hitler’s grip over the German nation, Dodd was recalled by Roosevelt at the urging of State Department officials who felt he had become too critical of the German government. History tells us what followed, but that part of the story falls outside the pages of Larson’s enthralling tale.

Larson’s story is filled with historical figures who today seem a distant memory: Hitler, Goring, Goebbels, Himmler – all the Nazi leaders are there, interacting with the Dodds and members of their social and diplomatic circles. We know who and what they are because we have the benefit of hindsight, which Dodd lacked. His was a gradual awakening to the horrors of Nazism, and that awakening is vividly related in the pages of Larson’s book. We see the evil as it grows, and the lapse of nearly eighty years is insufficient to insulate us from the feelings of unease we experience as the curtain draws upon a world soon to be forever altered by a monster in its formative stage.

Oh Canada!

Nothing happened. There were no reports of riots, no instances of tourist attacks in an area that historically has seen its share of street violence.

When the Miami Heat, consensus favorites to win the NBA championship, blew the final series and lost the deciding game at home to an underdog and less talented Dallas team, fans strolled out of the American Airlines Arena, got into their cars, exited lots with inflated prices, and quietly drove home. There were no demonstrations of angst or anger outside the sporting venue, no confrontations with men in blue. All that police officers assigned to the event were left to do was stop traffic on Biscayne Boulevard long enough for departing fans to cross safely.

Contrast this with images from Vancouver a few days later. The Canucks attained the best record in the NHL during the regular season, and marched to the Stanley Cup finals as the favorite to defeat the Boston Bruins, a team with more grit than goals. The series went to a deciding game seven, played in Vancouver, where the home team had not lost. Then it all fell apart. Roberto Luongo, the all-star goaltender whom many have for years contended is the best in the game despite a scarcity of playoff accomplishments, gave up four goals to an underwhelming Boston offense. The rest of the Canucks team fared no better, succumbing 4-0 to the Bruins.

While the visitors celebrated their first Stanley Cup championship in nearly forty years, taking turns skating around the playing ice with the trophy held aloft, things quickly turned ugly outside the Rogers Arena. Film and photos from Vancouver displayed a city in chaos. Disgruntled fans looted nearby businesses, vandalized property and set police cars on fire. Police officers squared off against rioters, dodging flying objects, while non-participating fans stood by and watched.

Vancouver officials have blamed the violent display on fifty thugs whom they insist do not represent Canucks fans or the city of Vancouver. But in 1994, when the New York Rangers overcame a three-games-to-two deficit to defeat the Canucks in the series finale, Vancouver fans had a similar reaction.

I have been to Vancouver twice and my memories of the area are quite different from the media images of recent days. I recall a clean, inviting, pedestrian-friendly city with ethnic neighborhoods, restaurants and parks overlooking a picturesque bay. People were so friendly that it aroused my New Yorker’s mistrust: surely, the strangers who came up to us and offered help when they saw us struggling with a city map were up to no good!

The riots which last week engulfed the city were likely the result of national frustration. It has been nearly two decades since a Canadian team took home the ultimate prize in a sport Canadians claim as their own. Since 1993, five Canadian teams reached the Stanley Cup finals, all losing to American teams, with four of the five series extending to seven games. The latest near miss caused an eruption of emotion by the frustrated Vancouver fans, ardent in their support of their sport and their team.

There is a reason why Miami fans reacted differently. The city has long been dubbed a haven of frontrunners, with sporting events routinely playing before half-empty stadiums and arenas. The season-long excitement caused by LeBron James’ decision to bring his talents to South Beach waned as fans began their parade from the American Airlines Arena with time expiring in game six.

Miami fans will not change. They will exercise selective passion and sell out only big events, not the Thursday afternoon matchup of losing teams. Thus, Miami will never match Vancouver as a sports town. After all, nothing says “fan loyalty” like burning police cars.

Money Matters

“It’s not about the money, it’s about the principle.”

The client is sincere. It is the outset of the litigation and he feels wronged, violated. He wants his day in court. He demands justice and financial considerations are far from his mind.

But that will change. As the case progresses and hits the inevitable roadblocks, as resolution is delayed by rules intended to assure fairness often achieving the diametric opposite, the bills will add up. And what was once inconsequential will assume paramount importance.

It is my job as counsel to focus the client on the financial realities of litigation. It is sometimes said that a bad settlement is better than a good trial, and there is truth to that. Settlement stems the financial bleeding, ensuring that the parties will survive to live (and possibly litigate) another day.

And so, at the outset of litigation, I focus the client on both the legal and financial aspects of the case. Because, in the final analysis, it is about the money and the principle. The two are often inseparable.

There was a time when wars were waged to strengthen struggling economies. The Romans, for example, used war to bring new riches into the empire. Triumphant parades were held in which the vanquished enemy was displayed in chains, surrounded by gold and other valuables forfeited to the conquering legions. Plunder routinely followed victory. The goods of the defeated became the assets of the victors.

But all that has changed. Today, victory in war is routinely followed by rebuilding of defeated nations, at least for Americans. Wars are expensive, and the financial bleeding does not end when the last shot is fired. Thus, success in war is no longer measured by the outcome on the battlefield. Human casualties are almost an afterthought. Success in war today is measured by dollars and cents.

Which is why the federal government’s prosecution of steroids users in sports is perplexing. Barry Bonds, Roger Clemens and Lance Armstrong have become the new public enemy, pursued relentlessly by prosecutors intent on making them examples for their lack of candor in the government’s steroids investigations. The message is clear: if you lie to the federal government, we (the government) will come after you, especially if you are a public figure and your fall from grace will be spread across tabloid headlines.

The federal government pursued Barry Bonds, the all-time baseball home run king, for more than half a decade because of his perceived lies to a grand jury over his personal use of performance enhancing drugs. A few weeks ago, after years of pre-trial proceedings, rescheduled trial dates, appealed court decisions, and a one-week trial in which the defense did not introduce a single witness, the jury deadlocked on the most significant charges against Bonds and found him guilty only of obstruction of justice, a result which will likely lead to probation, and no jail time for the athlete.

The cost to the taxpayer of Bonds’ prosecution is estimated to exceed 10 million dollars, which raises the question: in a difficult economy, where Congress spends most days cutting social programs to try to bring the federal deficit within some measure of control, should we be spending such amounts pursuing professional athletes for disrespecting authority? We can all agree that lying to the federal government is a bad thing, but does it justify the government’s pursuit of the perceived liars at all expenses?

If government were run like business, the pursuit of Bonds would have been subjected to a cost-benefit analysis at the outset. The correct business conclusion would likely have been not to spend so much on the prosecution and instead redirect funds to more profitable ventures.

Government is, admittedly, not business. The social contract that exists between a government and its people must be considered alongside issues of finance. The correct decision for government will not always be the most fiscally sound, particularly when issues of national defense are at stake.

But Bonds, Clemens and Armstrong pose no threat to national defense. They are athletes whose questionable actions have little discernable impact on societal norms. That is why finances must be considered by prosecutors deciding the extent to which they will pursue such athletes for lack of candor.

Bonds, Clemens and Armstrong are clearly being made examples by prosecutors intent on proving that no one, no matter how wealthy and famous, is above the law. But those prosecutors, as representatives of the people of the United States (the case is, after all, United States of America vs. Barry Bonds) owe a duty to the people to make decisions that are in the people’s best interests. And, in the present economic climate, finances must be considered.

Principle does not override all, not even for government employees intent on making a statement. Prosecutorial restraint must be employed to ensure that correct decisions are made, even if it means abandoning pursuit of public figures caught in a public lie. Money does matter, after all, despite our often cavalier attitude about its impact on what we perceive to be important.

Reunited

I never check baggage at airports. I usually pack everything needed for a short business trip into a carry-on and store it in the overhead compartment. I can then relax in my aisle seat, confident of no problems upon arrival.

My recent trip was different: three cities in seven days (Palm Springs, St. Louis and San Francisco) with connections on all but the last leg. Three of the flights had departure times before 6:30 A.M. Even before I set foot on the first plane, I knew this was going to be a rough week. I was forced to check my garment bag – no way to pack a week’s worth of provisions into a roll-on.

At first, all seemed promising. I met my friend Jennifer, a fellow attorney who would join me for the first two legs of the trip, at MIA. The electronic board assured us that our 2:10 P.M. American Airlines flight to Dallas-Fort Worth, where we would catch a connecting flight to Palm Springs, was scheduled to leave “on time.” We boarded on time and departed the gate on time. Then all changed.

The plane did not head to the runway, but instead circled the outskirts of the airport and returned to the gate. The pilot announced that, due to bad weather in Dallas-Fort Worth, the flight would be delayed several hours – more information to follow. I then received an e-mail that our connecting flight, the last American flight of the day from DFW to Palm Springs, had been cancelled. There was no way we would make it to Palm Springs in time for our morning meetings if we stayed on this flight.

So Jennifer and I got busy. We called American reservations and explained the circumstances. We were placed on a flight to San Francisco, scheduled to leave in an hour, with a connecting Alaska Air flight to Palm Springs to depart soon after our arrival at the City by the Bay. The only problem: my bag would remain on the flight to DFW. I was told that it would likely arrive in Palm Springs the next morning.

We made our way to our new gate. The electronic board again assured us that the flight would leave “on time.” We boarded on time and departed the gate on time. Then, once again, all changed.

The pilot announced over the loudspeaker that, because of bad weather in Dallas-Fort Worth, our departure would be delayed by two hours. This meant that we would miss our connecting flight, unless it was similarly delayed. This time, we were offered no alternatives. We sat on the runway for two hours and hoped for the best.

When we landed in San Francisco several hours later, Jennifer checked the status of our connecting flight. It too had been delayed and had not yet left the gate. Because we had been placed on the San Francisco flight at the last moment, our seats were near the rear of the plane. Thus, we waited for the nearly thirty rows ahead of us to empty before we managed to exit the plane, Jennifer all-the-while checking her smart phone for the status of our connecting flight.

We arrived in Concourse D. Our connecting flight, which Jennifer’s phone told us had not yet departed, was to leave from Concourse A. We asked, and were told that, in order to get to Concourse A, we would have to exit security. We ran for what seemed a half-mile through the emptying corridors of the airport (it was now nearly 9:00 P.M.), our roll-ons trailing behind. We again passed through security, where I was stopped briefly for a quick check of my carry-on. When we finally arrived at the departure gate, the plane was no longer there. We had missed it by a few minutes.

We learned that there were no other flights from San Francisco to Palm Springs that night. Jennifer suggested skipping Palm Springs altogether and flying to St. Louis, the next leg of our trip after our scheduled one-day stop in Palm Springs. However, neither of us wanted to miss our meetings the next morning. And there was another problem: even if we circumvented Palm Springs, my garment bag would not. It was still scheduled to arrive there the next day on an American flight from DFW.

We spoke with a local who suggested that we fly that night to Ontario (California) the closest airport to Palm Springs, about 90 miles away. We made our way to the American ticket counter and requested that they check for flights to Ontario on other airlines (there were none that night on American). After what seemed like hours, but was probably no more than a few minutes, we were placed on a United flight scheduled to depart at 10:40 P.M. While I dealt with the ticket agent, Jennifer was on the phone with her husband Bill, arranging for a rental car for the drive that night from Ontario to Palm Springs.

We eventually left the American counter, and headed to yet another airport concourse, where we would again go through security. This time, it was Jennifer’s turn to be stopped for a bag check. We arrived at our new gate on time, and even squeezed in a few minutes to eat. Our flight left on time, and landed in Ontario at around midnight. We then picked up Jennifer’s rental, which Bill had reserved for us, and began our 90-mile drive through desert roads to Palm Springs.

By the time we arrived at our hotel, it was nearly 2:00 A.M. We both had early morning meetings. With the time change, I had been up for nearly 24 hours. This was going to be a short night, and coffee would be at a premium the next day. My garment bag, presumably, was sitting in Dallas-Fort Worth, waiting for a morning flight to Palm Springs.

I awoke the next morning feeling surprisingly rested. Before I left for my meeting, I called American Airlines to check on the status of my bag. I was told that, because our last flight the previous day had been with United, I should check with them. I pointed out that American, not United, would transport my bag, but that did not persuade the American agent to provide additional information. I then asked whether the bag would be on the morning flight from DFW, as I had been told. The agent responded that I should check back after 10:40 A.M., when that flight was due to arrive and all bags would presumably be scanned.

After my meeting ended at 11:30 A.M., I again called American and asked whether my bag had arrived on the morning flight from DFW. The agent could not answer my question. Like the previous agent earlier that morning, he suggested that I contact United. I called United and explained the situation. I was told that there were no records of my bag anywhere at any time. It seemed to have vanished, quite literally, into thin air. I asked the United agent whether I should drive to the Palm Springs airport, less than 10 minutes away from our hotel. He responded that it would be a waste of time, assuring me that he would have a record of my bag if it had arrived.

I decided not to heed the agent’s advice and drove to the airport. I asked Airport Information for the proper procedure on filing a claim for my lost bag. I received conflicting responses from two representatives: one said I should file with American, the other with United. The one thing they agreed on was that the morning American flight from DFW had arrived a couple of hours earlier.

I was scheduled to leave for St. Louis the next morning, and had no other changes of clothing. As I pondered my options, I strolled through the baggage claim area. And then I saw it. In an inconspicuous corner, sitting in the company of two other bags, unguarded and unattended, was my garment bag. I grabbed it and made my way out of the airport, back to my hotel and the rest of the day’s events.

And so, after the bad weather, cancellations, runway delays, mad dashes through airports and midnight drives through the desert the previous day, the story had a happy ending. My bag and I were together again, ready for the next leg of our trip.

A Gap in Time

Some days are difficult. He struggles to his feet in the morning, rear legs shaking, barely supporting his weight, as he stiffly, slowly makes his way to our pool area. The Carprofen prescribed by his vet alleviates the pain, but not the years. He is nearly thirteen, an advanced age for large dogs and Cheddar, the yellow lab who has lived with us since near birth, feels the passing of time with each rheumatoid step.

Other days are better. He rises with anticipation, looking ahead to meals, daylight, and the comfort of our large yard, where he will spend his time walking, sleeping, and taking in the sun. On his best days he will move with ease and alacrity, taking us back nearly a decade, to a time when youth, passion and curiosity defined his life.

Age affects all, including the inanimate. It has been more than six weeks since we learned that our home, built in 1957, wept hot tears of age. Our hot water pipes had corroded, requiring the re-piping of the entire house. The decision was made to work through the attic and avoid ripping up floors to access the concrete foundation, where the original pipes had been laid.

After some haggling with our insurer, work began. We decided to combine re-piping with the remodeling of our bathrooms, something long overdue. We began with our master bathroom, which can be accessed directly from our pool area, behind our house. We opened the side gate to our yard fence to give workers direct access to the bathroom without affecting other portions of the house. This meant, however, that our dogs’ access to the yard would be limited. They would spend most of their day, while the work was in process, confined to a small area of our covered patio.

Cheddar was miserable. His mornings became more painful and his days less active. He seemed disoriented and lethargic, leading one of the workers to express surprise one morning, when he saw Cheddar emerge from the house. He had been convinced that Cheddar would not make it through the night, so evident was his affliction.

We then made some changes. The side gate remained open to allow workers to come and go with ease, but we placed a small gardening fence across the gap, which allowed Cheddar to again roam the yard.

The change was immediate. The spring was back in his step. He was more focused, more active. He looked ahead to each coming day.

The work on our home continues. It will likely be another month before re-piping and remodeling is completed and we again have two fully functioning bathrooms. My wife and I think back to the days before our home became a construction site and wonder when our lives will return to normalcy.

Cheddar does not mind. He greets workers daily as they enter the yard and spends most of the day observing them from his favorite spot on the lawn. He is visibly happy, contented by the feel of grass against his body, the security of routine and the soothing comfort of the familiar.

Silent Partner

Players and owners talk late into the night, discussing ways to split the substantial pot that constitutes National Football League profit. The weeks-long owner-imposed lockout gave rise to union decertification, litigation and, most recently, a new round of labor talks. While uncertainty surrounds the upcoming NFL season, few seriously believe that the games will not be played. There is too much money at stake, too much to be lost at a time when the impact of a cancelled mid-1990’s World Series and a cancelled mid-2000’s NHL season remains fresh in all minds.

The NFL season will be played. After weeks of media and negotiating room battles, players and owners will eventually put aside differences and announce to the world that they have entered into a partnership for the coming years. All’s well that ends well, as Shakespearean scholars might say. Backs will be slapped, hands shaken, greenbacks exchanged, and players will march onto the field in full uniform, secure in their share of the billions that ticket sales, television and advertising revenue provide annually to the sport of football.

Neglected in this scenario is the fan – the third party to the contract that makes possible the sharing of wealth between players and owners. If sport is purely entertainment, as many insist when justifying high player salaries (if rockers and actors can make millions, why shouldn’t professional athletes?), the fan is a necessary part of the show.

There is a reason why games are played in front of packed stadiums, with cameras spanning the rabid crowds and quarterbacks’ calls unheard over crowd noise. It makes for better television, and football, above all sports, is very much a creature of the tube. Sundays are no longer days of rest; they are days of football doubleheaders (tripleheaders, if we count the league’s Sunday night entry), replete with pre-game shows that open with the rising sun and commercials that pad the pockets of players and owners with advertising revenue.

Would the effect be the same if the stadiums were empty? Would players elevate their performance to their present levels if the cheers were not there? Would home viewers tune in to watch games played with “canned” background crowd noise?

As an integral part of the broadcast product, the fan is very much a partner in the business that is professional football. Without the fan’s contribution (both financial and spiritual) to the sport, football does not exist.

Yet, when the time comes to negotiate finances, the fan is a silent partner. He is not privy to the numbers exchanged between players and owners and has no say in the gathering or distributing of revenue. His principal role in the partnership is that of investor, and he will never see a penny of the billions of dollars he pours into the industry. His benefit from this partnership will be unquantifiable - a vague notion that somehow, by investing money and emotion into the NFL season, the quality of his life will improve (a questionable premise for fans of the Detroit Lions, whose teams are routinely amongst the worst in the league).

The fan has not been invited to NFL labor talks. He sits outside the meeting rooms while players and owners discuss how they will divide the money he will invest. Eventually, when players and owners reach agreement, he will be told how much he will pay for a ticket to a Sunday game. And he will accept his fate reluctantly because, in a world where only the loudest are heard, no one will listen to one who has no voice.