In July 2007, I was 30 years old and working as a paralegal to Dave DeToffol, a plaintiff's personal injury (ambulance chasing) attorney. As paralegal, I drafted various legal documents, interacted with clients in person and over the phone, scheduled Dave's court appearances, depositions, and client meetings, I pretty much did everything but argue in court. Like many in his profession, Dave was...rather unscrupulous. For example, if his client had minimal injuries, he would hire some medical expert to get on the witness stand and exaggerate the extent of the client's injuries.
Every once in awhile, Dave took a pro bono case. I suspect he did this partly to assuage his guilt at being so unscrupulous on a regular basis. It didn't bother me that he operated under the delusion that doing a couple of pro bono cases a year expunged his soul for everything else. His soul wasn't my problem, and paperwork was paperwork, right? And so from time to time, the bar association would assign him a pro bono case and that would be that.
"They've given me a pro bono case," he mentioned one Monday morning during our meeting, "have to get started right away. Client is Jenny Malone." He tilted back in his chair and put his feet up on the desk.
I scribbled Jenny Malone on my note pad and said, "Right, what's the date of accident and what are her injuries?"
"Not a personal injury case," he said, "this one's criminal."
"Oh," I said. In the time I'd been working for Dave, I'd never known him to take a criminal case. "So, then..."
"Yeah, I tried to get out of it, but it wouldn't of looked too good if I weaseled out," Dave said, "so there's no date of accident. Jenny Malone offed her husband, shot him."
"Well is she charged with murder or manslaughter?" I asked.
"Good question," he said, "knew I hired you for a reason, "she is charged with murder one. Husband was a New York City cop. She is being held in the Rose M. Singer center, the women's wing of Riker's Island, pending trial."
"What else do we know?"
"Nothing, yet," now he took his feet off the desk, sat up straight, and looked at me head on. "I'm supposed to meet with my client and get her story," he said, "but as the boss I decided that's not an effective use of my time. So I will delegate this task," and with that he pulled out a small, laminated card and threw it across the desk at me, "to you."
I looked at the card. It had my name and photo on it, and said DEPARTMENT OF CORRECTIONS, and that I was of the law firm of DeToffol & Associates. "Me," I blinked, "Dave, this isn't like dropping off papers at the county clerk for filing, this is an actual person."
"All you have to do is get the facts," he said, "a monkey could do it. Lots of actual criminal lawyers send their assistants on runs to Riker's to meet with clients. And it's a long subway ride, so you need to get a move on."
Utterly flabbergasted, I collected my purse and left. Normally, I loved the opportunity to be out of the office and away from the phone that never stopped ringing. But this was an errand that would take me into uncharted and weird territory. Two and a half hours later, I was presenting the card Dave gave me to a corrections officer at Riker's island correctional facility.
"Oh," the officer nodded, "you're here on a counsel visit. Who's your client?"
"Jenny Malone," I said.
"Wait here," he said, "an officer will escort you."
I waited, and presently a tall, black female officer in a white shirt came to collect me.
"I'm Captain Deveroux," she said, "I'll take you to the room we use for counsel visits. As you know, we are not permitted to video or tape record anything that is said in here. You and your client have complete confidemtiality." The room was a spartan room with a rectangular table, no glass divider and telephones like I'd imagined. "Your client will be brought in shortly."
"Thank you, Captain."
