The Judge

Judge Jonathan Summers was an imposing figure. Now in his early seventies, his 6’4”, 240 pound frame that had made him

a steel wall in his college football days had not diminished with age. He was also, to people who knew him, a curmudgeon.

During his many years as a superior court judge he had run his court with an iron hand. No one had dared question any

decisions he made in his desire to always follow the letter of the law.

Now retired, he reigned over his vast estate in the same, imperious way he had reigned over the courtroom. The few people

who got to know him well appreciated his intellect and his little known philanthropy but found his gruff churlishness hard to

take.

His philanthropy had many tentacles. The one that had a great impact on my life, and on hundreds of other young men and

women, was his generosity in making his home a home to top law students during their several years of study at Yale. Many

of these students went on to become outstanding names in the world of jurisprudence.

My own selection as a recipient of Judge Summer’s generosity had come as a surprise to me. My major was not law, but

literature and creative writing; in my own mind I was going to be the next Hemingway, or Faulkner. Perhaps he recognized my

talent and some day would want me to write his life story.

I had lived in his huge manor for three years while pursuing my dream of a top flight education in my field, doing odd jobs

around the estate as token repayment for his being the Good Samaritan in my life.

Shortly after completing my course work at the university in May Judge Summers asked me to join him in his den, which he

also used as an office. He opened a bottle of ice cold wine and handed a glass to me.

“I understand you have received your degree and graduated near the top of your class.”

Amazed that he had kept track of me that closely, I paused briefly before stammering, “Yes, Sir. I’m surprised that you know

so much about me.”

“I’ve followed your college career quite closely through one of your professors and have been quite pleased at what you’ve

accomplished. Not that I’ve singled you out, understand. I do that with all my boys. And now that your studies are completed, I

would you like to work for me. I need someone capable to handle my affairs.”

“Thank you for the offer, Sir, but I’m not into law; I don’t see how I could possibly fit in here. Besides, I would like to do some

traveling before I seriously begin my writing career. If I can visit other countries and become familiar with their geography and

customs I think it would enhance my writing. I also need to become more familiar with this country.”

“I agree with that idea wholeheartedly,” he replied. “But let me explain my thoughts further. I think you agree that most lawyers,

and most law students, are a bit stodgy. And I know most people, probably including you, consider me a grumpy old bastard”

At this pronouncement, I managed to hide a grin.

He continued, “I’ve noticed that, in spite of all the solemnity that is the usual state of affairs here you have maintained a lighter

approach. I can recall many instances, at dinners we’ve shared, when you had some of the staid attorneys- to- be laughing.

That’s what is needed here, someone with a lighter touch who can find things to laugh at, which, in turn, encourages others to

laugh. I like that in a person.”

“Judge Summers, I do enjoy making people laugh and hope to incorporate humor into my writing, but my dream is to be a

writer of consequence. In what genre I can’t say, but it will be far from the field of law and jurisprudence.”

“So you say, but what if I could provide you with enough interesting details of jurisprudence to create the background for a

number of stories? And all I would ask of you is that you stay here for a while to help me shed my well-earned reputation as a

cantankerous old man.

“I’ve been asked to speak at a number of gatherings of other old, retired judges, and at commencement programs, but the

few speeches I’ve given in the past have been much too dry, and humorless. I would like you to help me write speeches,

staying as far away from jurisprudence as my audience will allow. Let me show you something that might influence you to

accept my offer.”

He then proceeded to open a drawer in one of the large filing cabinets that lined the walls of the room. From this file he

withdrew a large file folder that, when opened, I could see was crammed with typed papers, all dated June, 1975.

“These are the transcribed records of each case from my first month on the bench. I have one for each month of my tenure.

While a lot of it will be dry reading, I think you will find some juicy tidbits in each one that would provide good material for a

number of books, and a number of speeches. I rest my case.”

He had not mentioned financial considerations, and I had not asked. I’m certain he believed that the allure of reading the

cases would pique my interest, and he was right; I had to at least look. I reached for the folder, and for the first time since I

met him there was a big grin on his face.

I put the folder on a chair near me and, with a grin of my own, said, “You are a hard sell, Judge, but I’m not going to commit so

easily. I’d like some time to look at this folder and then, if I’m interested, present you with a counter-offer.”

“Take as much time as you need. I’m not scheduled for anything until the Fourth of July week.”

“Okay, I promised my brother that I would go fishing with him for a couple of weeks in northern Maine. May I take the folder

with me and discuss it with him?”

“Certainly, as long as you take good care of it, which I’m sure, you will.”

* * *

The two weeks with my brother, Bob, were relaxing ones. He was 7 years older than I and recently divorced so he needed

family time, as did I. Because of our age difference we had never been close but he had always been a strong booster of my

academic achievements.

We spent some time on the river catching an occasional fish but nothing to get excited about, and some time in a boat trying,

unsuccessfully, to catch a bragging size landlocked salmon. The rest of the time we hung out; relaxing, occasionally reading

transcripts from Judge Summers’ file.

As the good judge said, most of it was dry and undramatic. When we were almost at the end of the fishing trip we discovered

one case that had possibilities of providing the basis for a good story. It was about two brothers who were being sued by a

woman who had been married to each of them at different times. She wanted possession of a pit bull the brothers owned that

had once attacked her.

“I guess none of them had a brain in his head,” was Bob’s comment.

The idea of being able to have first-hand knowledge of Judge Summers’ case files was intriguing. Bob and I discussed it at

length so that when I returned to the Judge’s estate after the two weeks I was ready with a proposal.

Judge Summers and I again met in his den and shared a glass of wine. When he asked what my decision was I replied, “I

agree to accept your proposal to be your aide, or Man Friday, or whatever you wish to call it, with certain conditions, none of

which has to be in writing. In addition to my work for you, I would like to have the freedom to spend time to research my own

writing and/or on occasion, for relaxation. Also, I would like my stay here to be open-ended; in other words not set a definite

period of time in which I will work for you. After a few months one or both of us might decide it’s not working and that I should

move on. As for compensation, I’ll be satisfied with whatever you decide.”

This time the judge had more than a grin on, he had a huge smile that lit up his face. “My boy, I’m so pleased that you have

accepted my offer. I think we’ll both enjoy the experience. I see no objections to your conditions; you can have all the freedom

that you wish, with the few exceptions of when I need you to tune up my speeches.

“For compensation, what I had in mind was to set up a bank account in your name and to deposit a substantial amount in it at

the beginning of each month and add your expenses to that as needed. The number I have in mind is $6,000. Does that

sound satisfactory?”

I had to catch my breath before replying, “Yes, Sir! I think I can manage on that.”

I then mentioned that I had not seen a computer in his office. “Is there one elsewhere I will be able to use?”

“Tell me what you need and I’ll have it delivered, tomorrow if possible.”

“I’ll check around and let you know.”

We shook hands to complete the agreement and I left the office to return to my room. From my room I called a friend of mine

who was a computer geek and asked him if he would be available the next day to help me choose a computer for Judge

Summers’ office.

“Sure, Charlie. Why do you want a computer for his office?

“I’m going to work for him. I’ll tell you about it tomorrow.”

* * *

During the three years I had been partaking of Judge Summers’ generosity I had not spent much time on the grounds. Each

of the three or four students living there had a private room in one of the many wings of the manor and usually ate breakfast

and dinner in a large kitchen near the central part of the manor. On rare occasions, perhaps every three or four weeks, we

had dinner with the judge in the main dining room, his way of getting acquainted.

Other than noticing there were several outbuildings I hadn’t paid much attention to anything else. I was too busy, I guess, with

my studies to pay much attention.

Now, with college work concluded, and no students in residence, I had the wing to myself, and the rest of the estate. With no

other plans for the rest of the afternoon I decided to see what was out there. I called Judge Summers to see if he had any

objections.

“No, my boy, explore to your hearts content. Take my Labrador retriever with you. He likes to romp. My gardener, Tony, will

introduce you to the dog and also give you information about what to see. Don’t be late for dinner. It’s served at 7 o’clock

sharp. The cook, Mrs. Sharp, gets upset if anyone is late.”

“Thank you, Sir. I hadn’t thought about dinner, we hadn’t discussed meals.”

He replied, “Since you’re now a member of the family I would like you to have dinner with me when you don’t have other plans.

And, this evening, why don’t you drop in about 6:30 for a glass of wine.”

“Thank you, I will.”

Tony, a bearded, husky man in his fifties was busy replacing a plant along the driveway when I found him.

“Tony, I’m Charlie Ashton. I’ve been a resident for the past three years and now Judge Summers has hired me to work with

him on speeches and other odd jobs. I want to explore the estate and he suggested I take the Lab with me to show me the

way.”

“Sure, glad to meet you, Charlie. I’ll get Champ for you and meet you in front of the garage.”

While I was waiting near the garage Champ came bounding up to me his tail wagging so hard his rump moved with it. Tony

gave me a leash and said, “You don’t have to use the leash on the property. Just the fact that you have it shows Champ he’s

going for a walk. I suggest you take the path that heads out from back of the garage. It loops around the property, down to the

river and comes back to the north side of the manor. It’s about three miles.”

I thanked Tony; then Champ and I took off, him bounding ahead of me a hundred yards or so and then running back to see

why I wasn’t keeping up with him.

As I romped through the beautiful forest with Champ I realized I missed having a dog to play with. My family always had dogs,

usually two or three, and one time a beagle that had eight puppies.

We headed out in a westerly direction, through deep woods which were a mix of conifer, maple and oak. Squirrels

scampered everywhere and scolded us from their safe tree perches. Having been raised in upstate New York, the forest was

quite similar to the one I roamed in my childhood. This was Connecticut, and throughout the northeast the forests were much

the same. Not all as grand and glorious as this stretch of woods.

In a little over a mile we came to a small stream, not more than 15 feet across. Champ wasted no time and was in the water

before I could say a word, startling a family of ducks that had been peacefully drifting down the stream.

After about a half hour I noticed that it was after 4 o’clock; time to head back. A leisurely return brought us back to the manor

before 5. I returned to my room, showered and dressed for the evening.

I knocked on the door of the den a few minutes before 6:30 and when I entered was delighted to find a visitor. My former

Creative Writing professor and mentor, Dr. Rolf Adams clasped me by the shoulders and said, “Charlie, I’m so pleased to

see that you have allied yourself with Judge Summers. I’m certain that you won’t regret your decision.”

Professor Adams and Judge Summers, as it turned out, had been friends for many years. They had been close neighbors

before the judge retired and moved to his present location. They had shared many Sunday afternoon barbecues and

belonged to the same golf club.

It was Professor Adams who had submitted my name to Judge Summers as a needy candidate who would benefit greatly

from his philanthropy.

“How did you happen to go to work for Jonathon?” the professor asked me. “I would think that it was far from your basic

interests.”

“He dangled a worm in front of me and I took the bait. He gave me one of his case files to read, knowing that I would find

some fascinating story ideas, and I did.”

I described the case of the two brothers being sued by their ex-wife to get their ill-tempered pit bull from them.

“And how did Judge Summers rule in the case?”

“He ruled, not in his exact words, that if she was dumb enough to want a dog that had bitten her, she deserved it.”

Both the judge and the professor had a good laugh at this. Professor Adams then turned to Judge Summers and said, “I told

you he has a keen mind and an excellent sense of humor.”

I replied, “Thank you, Professor, but as you know, the secret to being able to communicate humor to others is all in the sense

of timing. I think I’ve developed that by watching the pros. I’m hoping I can teach Judge Summers how to insert humor into his

speeches at the proper time. As I haven’t seen or heard any of his speeches I’ll have to wait and see.”

The judge then, with a twinkle in his eye, said, “What if you find, when you read one of my speeches, that there is no place to

insert humor?”

“I guess some re-writing will be necessary. Again, we’ll have to wait and see. Which reminds me, this is now June 18 and you

told me your first conference is 4th of July week. Have you begun that speech yet?”

“No, I haven’t,” the judge replied. “I must admit to being a procrastinator at times.”

“Aren’t we all,” I replied. “Like the old song says, ‘Manana is good enough for me’. Speaking of manana, I have an

appointment with a friend tomorrow to go computer shopping, and we haven’t discussed where it’s to be installed.”

“Let’s go look at the room next to this one,” said the judge. “It’s smaller than this and has a few furnishings that can be put

elsewhere.”

The room was as the judge described. It was somewhat smaller than the den, and was furnished with two lounge chairs and a

few odds and ends of tables and lamps. It would be very suitable if one of the chairs and some of the tables were removed

and one entire wall made available for a computer desk and the files now in the den.

“This would be perfect,” I said. “I would like one of the lounge chairs left in here. I do some of my best writing when I’m sitting

in a comfortable chair.”

“Whatever you wish, my boy,” the judge replied. “And I will leave it up to you what to buy in the way of computer and

attachments you need.”

“I think that, in order to have a computer that’s adequate for the task, and a computer desk to match the décor of other

furniture in the house, it should come to less than $5000.”

“Use your own discretion,” he replied.

During dinner I sat quietly while the judge and the professor reminisced about old times. At one point Professor Adams made

a comment, “Do you remember the time the cat jumped onto the barbecue and burned its feet?”

“I do,” said the judge, laughing. “And for the next few weeks we called her ‘Puss in Boots’ as her feet were bandaged.”

Here I interjected, “that’s exactly the kind of story that can be inserted into a speech.”

* * *

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