Before American Idol

I first met Harry Connick in the seventies. He and his wife, Anita were lawyers around the corner from my office. We both were neophyte lawyers, struggling to pay our bills and taking whatever case walked in the door. Harry and I both supported a man for governor, Gillis Long, and when Harry ran for the first time for DA, he picked up considerable political support from those people who supported Gillis and they became the mainstays of his future political team. He had a son, we all called Boomer, because a friend gave him a set of drums and he banged on them every time I was at Harry's home. Fortunately, one day he got a piano.

Algiers

      I felt this hand shaking me. Back and forth; back and forth, until I opened my eyes. Peering through my sleep-filled globes I recognized the offender immediately. I also recognized the voice when she said, “Get up; right now! You’ve got to get a haircut.”

      “Why?  I don’t need a haircut. I just got one last month.” Any objection voiced to this woman was a losing battle; and I knew it. When my mother wanted me to do something, it was a fait accompli. Either you did it, and did it quickly, or you suffered the unpleasant consequences that stemmed from even the slightest misdemeanor. Those unpleasant consequences were generally linked to a beating with a wooden hairbrush, causing my super-sensitive rear end to redden, like a turkey’s wattle.

     “I’m only going to say this once, boy. Get up, get dressed, and go get a haircut. You’re making your conformation tomorrow morning and Bishop Jones will be there to perform the ceremony.” The bishop’s name was said with such reverence, that I thought we could have been in a receiving line at Buckingham Palace, and as we neared the Queen, her minion announced us, “Ma’am; may I present Ilda Agnes Boylan Abadie of Pelican Avenue in Algiers.” My mother would have bowed as low as she could, which was not very low given the fact she always wore a steel-banded corset about her lower body, impeding her every movement.
     Then the Queen’s snooty minion would have looked at me and with a caustic sneer on his lips, said to the Monarch, “Ma’am, this retched thing trailing behind her is her son, Little Buddy.”

     Well, it was Little Buddy who hustled around the corner to Perkel’s Barber Shop, where a Mister Perkel and Mister Daigle plied their trade, trimming the hair of all legitimate males in our small community of Algiers. There was one other barber shop in town, but only those less fortunate went there and generally came out looking like they had just attended a private screening of A Clockwork Orange.

     As was always the case when I would arrive at Perkel’s Barber Shop, it was crowded. Inside of Perkel’s, a picture window overlooking a green park on one side of the street and the Holy Name of Mary Catholic Church stood mightily opposite the park. My mother never allowed us to enter the church or the church yard, because for some insane reason, she hated all things Catholic. The one exception to her inviolate rule was made for my father; a devout Catholic. A man who went to church every morning of lent and never missed a Sunday, even though an archaic rule in the church forbade him from taking communion because he married out of the church and to a non-Catholic. Still, my mother grudgingly cooked his fish on Fridays, made the pilgrimage on the Algiers ferry to his mother’s house (my grandmother) on alternate weekends, and only rolled her eyes up into her head when a Catholic politician, actor, or priest, said something in my father’s presence. Otherwise she would have uttered a snide comment to whoever was closest to her.

      Immediately across the street from Perkel’s, was Rosenthal’s Drug Store. Now old man Rosenthal was a rare creature himself. He had a hawk-like face with glaring yellow teeth when he smiled, which was not often enough for my taste. He could have played the part of Fagin if only we had an Algiers repertory theatre. There was a long counter in the store where Mr. Rosenthal would serve sodas, malts, and soft drinks, to wash down the over-sweet cinnamon rolls he sold and everyone seemed to enjoy. I had a minor spat with the man when I requested he put another scoop of ice cream in my soda. “Ya only gets one scoop; my boy,” Mr. Rosenthal said. When I insisted on a second scoop, I was banned from the store for a few weeks.

     Once, my father got sick and I was instructed to go around the corner and ask him for some medicine. He gave me a bottle of pink liquid, from which my father took one giant swig and vomited it back into his bed. I’m pretty sure it was the last time we bought any medicine from Mr. Rosenthal.

    On the corner across the park from Perkel’s was another drug store; Calderara’s Pharmacy. I never saw anyone go in or out of there. Presumably they had a few customers, but they must have entered under the cover of darkness. He probably sold a bunch of that pink stuff, like Mr. Rosenthal gave to my father, and that severely hindered his bottom line.

    Once I made it inside Perkel’s hair emporium, the chairs racked up beneath the picture window were filled with middle aged men waiting their turn for one of Mister Perkel or Mister Daigle’s superb coiffures. Before I had a chance to sit down, I noticed something was different. For the first time ever, the third barber chair in the shop had a young man standing behind it, attired in a white shirt and trousers, with scissors poised at the ready. The only problem was, this youthful fellow didn’t have anyone in his chair to clip, and furthermore, he had this faraway look in his eyes, that reminded one of a man in Algiers who used to bay at the moon all night. I remember waking one night to hear this strident scream emanating from in front of my house. For weeks, I didn’t sleep a wink. Finally, I told my mother about the experience, fully expecting her to explain about the horrid murder that happened on our street, but instead, she casually said, “Oh, that was just the Moon Man.” Everyone in this ridiculous village completely ignored this insane man, who nightly howled at the moon like a deranged werewolf.

       As I stood in Perkel’s, I wondered why no one was in the third barber chair for I knew at least five men were waiting for their ritual cut. Glancing around at the other men in the shop, I could see them giggling among themselves, but I didn’t think anything about it. “They are probably saying things to each other about what the older boys talk about doing to the girls in our school. I can’t imagine anyone doing that with a girl.” I must have thought that at the time.

      Finally one of the giggling men said to me, “Little Buddy, why don’t you jump up in the third chair. Mister Perkel’s son will take care of you.”

     Well I knew my mother’s instructions to me were, “Tell Mister Perkel or Mister Daigle you have your confirmation tomorrow and Bishop Gerault M. Jones (a fervent bow of her head) will be there to confirm you.” She didn’t say anything about Mister Perkel’s son doing the cutting. “Cuz if she wanted me to see Mister Perkel’s son, she would have said so,” I thought silently. Paucity of words was not one of the woman’s shortcomings; she told you what she meant and you had better listen, or else.

     “Go on son,” the Greek chorus sang from the chairs. “He don’t bite.”

      My indecision was obvious, but I was afraid to say anything to either Mister Perkel or Mister Daigle; so poor Little Buddy sauntered up to the barber chair, like Marie Antoinette climbing the steps of the guillotine, and plopped down to the elevated giggles of the men seated by the window.

      Before I knew it, Mister Perkel’s son was whipping those scissors around my scalp so fast, for a minute there, I thought he was Edward Scissorhands on one of his outings. When he finished with the scissors, he ran that buzzing thing all around my head, powdered my neck (he spilled great quantities of the powder down my back in the process), took my money and said “good bye” in the kindest fashion.

      On my way out of the shop, I glanced over at the older guys still in the chairs, and their former giggles had morphed into gales of laughter. I couldn’t imagine what was so funny.
    It didn’t take long to find out, because when I arrived home, my mother took one look at Mister Perkel’s son’s masterpiece, and she shouted, “Who did this to you? It couldn’t have been Mister Perkel or Mister Daigle; who was it?”

    “No ma’am, it wasn’t them. It was Mister Perkel’s son. The men made me get in his chair. I couldn’t talk to either of the other barbers before he called me.”

     My mother pulled me by the ear into her bedroom and stood me before a full length mirror. With the hand that wasn’t abusing my ear, she took a mirror and placed it behind my head. Immediately, I saw this checkerboard looking back of my head that had a mixture of small tufts of hair interspaced between great gaps of gouged, naked scalp.

     I was horrified. I knew I couldn’t go before Bishop Gerault M. Jones (head bowed) with my hair looking the way it did. 

     “You go back there right now and tell Mister Perkel to fix what his son did; and I don’t care what he has to do.”

     Back to the barber shop I go, my head was hanging all the way to my chest. I stopped at Rosenthal’s for a quick soda in order not to have to go into to the barber shop while the other men were still getting their haircuts. Finally I crossed the street and entered the shop with the back of my head looking like it was wacked with a meat cleaver. I pleaded my first law case with Mister Perkel and he did what any father would do to straighten out the damage his prodigal son hath wrought. Even after the expert rendering by the maestro, the back of my head still looked like a killing field in the Civil War.

     The next day, my mother was up early to inspect what an overnight elixir had done to my rear scalp as she had generously applied one of Mr. Rosenthal’s ointments to it before I was allowed to get into bed. By her tone, I assumed the ointment hadn’t performed up to its advertised high standard when I heard her say, “It looks worse than it did before. Look at all these scabs.” It appeared, once again, Mr. Rosenthal had let the Abadie clan down.

     As I dressed for the my conformation ceremony, which was to culminate with my taking communion for the first time at the alter in Mount Olivet Episcopal Church on Pelican Avenue in Algiers, my mother slammed this winter knitted cap down onto my head. It reached my eyebrows in front and the nape of my neck in the rear. It was the most ghastly-looking thing I had ever seen. “I’m not wearing this,” I wept and dragged the offending object from my head.

     “You’re wearing it or I’ll take the hairbrush to you and your back side will look worse than your head does.”

      Needless-to-say I wore the wool hat. I felt such a fool crossing the street to the church. Standing in line with the other confirmees, only the girls and I had on caps. All the boys were teasing me, calling me a girl and things like that, but I sort of rose above them, affecting an attitude of ‘I don’t care what you think.’

     Then a hush came over the parishioners as the back doors to the church opened and there in the frame stood Gerault McArthur Jones, The Exalted Bishop of the State of Louisiana Episcopal Church. He was dressed in a splendid purple robe with several red sashes ringing his massive girth. He carried a long golden staff in his right hand, and he looked capable of parting the Red Sea with it; or in our case the Mississippi River.

     I now understood why my mother lionized this impressive and august man. He smiled at the confirmees and walked among us, much like Jesus did with the lepers, as his golden staff clanged against the stone floor with each step. When he got to me he uttered a sound as if he had finally found the elusive lepers, and in his basso-profundo voice bellowed out, “Take that cap off, boy. In our Episcopal Church, men are not allowed to wear a head covering. You will not approach Christ’s alter wearing that abomination.” With one of his magnificent hands he swept the cap from my head, revealing the scarred scalp for all to see.

     However, as soon as the bishop began his rant, my mother left her prescribed pew and ran down the aisle, like a jilted bride bolting the church and snatched the cap from the hand of the bishop. She plunked the cap back down on my head, practically blinding me, and looked the bishop straight in the eye. She said in a loud voice, “Bishop, let me tell you one thing; he’s wearing this God-damned hat and that’s all there is to it.” 

     Bishop Jones’ name was never again mentioned by anyone in my house. My father must still be laughing; wherever he is.

My Own Week of Mardi Gras Madness

Since the last week and a half I have been unable to exit my street from sunup to midnight because outside, insane people flock to see equally insane groups of individuals riding on these garish portables called floats by most of the cognoscenti, and hurling outlandishly colored beads made in third world countries at those lining the streets. Over these past days, the same usually sane people lining the parade route would murder or seriously maim anyone who attempted to snatch a coveted necklace from their clutches, and think nothing of it. So I am captive on an deserted island with little to do but wait for Wednesday when this foolishness is over.

 As most of you already know I've been elevated to a status where I am only called "Chef" or "Chef Pierre" by those both near to me and those whose names I hardly remember. I've already catalogued my first cooking experience to you and am now giving you the second of my sojourns at the kiln. For those of you who haven't seen my stovetop, I will briefly explain it. It is littered with everything that will not fit anywhere else in the kitchen. To use the word 'kitchen' in my apartment is like equating a Model A Ford to a Maserati. Should I gain five or ten pounds, I will be unable to turn around without either stepping on something or knocking something over. However, one must soldier on and that's precisely what I intended to do. So, as an alternative to Mardi Gras, it's the kitchen for me as I cook another sumptuous meal. This time it was reheating some red beans and rice. Not a very formidable task one might say, but as you will see, it does take a certain amount of cunning to achieve this in my miniature cooking area. The first step in any reheating process is gather your ingredients together in one pot, push all of the accumulated flotsam on the stovetop to the rear of the stove, and turn the knob on this electric marvel to the high position. After placing the beans on the front burner, I suddenly realized that nature's call was overwhelming me and I abandoned my cooking duties to repair to my even smaller bathroom for a welcomed relief. While in the bathroom, this aggressive odor began wafting past my nose which caused me some concern since the beans and rice smelled alright when I removed them from the refrigerator; even though they were a little old. I hastily washed my hands and returned to the kitchen to see that I had inadvertently turned on the rear burner instead of the front one and all of my vitamins were now cooked to a coagulated mush. Even my Zocar (cholesterol medication) were all welded together in a separate vial. If in the next week you do not hear from me, it's because my cholesterol has shot up like a thermometer in scalding water and I am lying on my sofa with the television riveted to the king and queen of Comus bowing and scraping to the king and queen of Rex while the orchestra blasts "If Ever I Cease to Love."

Tofu Diet

While being captured by thousands of floats flowing down St. Chas. Ave. for the past twelve hours, I became indentured in my lonely apartment. Suddenly, I realized there are hidden attributes swimming beneath my persona that longed to be free. Without hesitation, I repaired to the kitchen, took out pots that had been languishing in the cupboard, unsheathed my Pyrex knife, and began slicing vegetables as if I were born to the task. "I need extra protein to go with my new life," I said. Looking through my larder, I thumbed my nose at protein sources such as cow, or goat, or God forbid, pig. Suddenly, I found the perfect ingredient. I discovered and unwrapped the elixir of life, TOFU, and voila, the prospects of a decent meal was immediately enhanced. In the pot the tofu went along with soy sauce, water, and a secret ingredient that I have sworn never to reveal. In a separate skillet the vegies are dumped, and with water added along with the tofu water that came in the package the prospects loomed great. The little tofu cubes were tossed and browned to a golden color. The entire mixture was served over re-heated wild rice. What a taste! Fantastic it was. One problem is, I haven't washed the dishes because I didn't realize how many it took to cook such a scrumptious meal. However, any or all of you may come by at your leisure (providing it's soon) and wash them up. Also, when you address me in the future, please call me "Chef," or "Chef Peter." Nothing else will do.

The Last Great Fraternity Party

During my law years I met many a character. For some inexplicable reason, society’s craziest humans all gravitate to that profession. There was this man named Lansing L. Mitchell; “Tut” to all his friends. When I first met Tut Mitchell, he was a mid-level partner in one of the largest defense firms in the city. I never could figure out what Tut did at that firm, because I never heard of him handling any case, in or out of court. The next thing I knew, he was appointed as a U. S. Federal District Judge in a court where I conducted most of my practice.
For those of you who have never met a federal judge, I will attempt to describe that particular species for you. They are the last bastion of autonomy. They do whatever they want, they say whatever they want to say without fear of retribution, and they act however they damn-well-please, all without supervision from anyone. When entering their fiefdom, or office as it is sometimes called, one would think they had immersed themselves into an eighteenth century French Royal Chamber. Why do they act that way? It’s because they are appointed FOR LIFE by the president, with the ‘advice and consent’ of the senate. Once they pass this cursory examination, they are free to say and do whatever they want until they become too old to act that way. Then they take what’s called, Senior Status, which only means they can now refuse to hear any cases at all if they don’t want to, while still retaining most of the trappings described below.
They have two or three law clerks running around doing research and telling His Majesty what the law is on any particular subject. They all have a court crier, who is generally their butler, slave, and gofer all rolled into one. To add to this absurdity, their day to day courtroom activities have now been taken over by numerous U. S. Magistrates, who do all of their courtroom work for them, freeing them up to act like complete assholes. They rarely disappoint.
I will now tell you how one becomes a federal district judge. Politics. Yep, politics paves the path to the throne. Ability is like tenth on the list of qualifications. District court judges are all recommended by one of two senators from their state and generally, the president signs the appointment paper without looking at it. One’s in-state politics have to be perfect before the recommending senator will perform his magic trick. The senators from the other forty-nine states have no earthly idea who they are ‘advising and consenting’ on, as they perfunctorily vote yea when the nominees’ names are called.  
In the case of Tut Mitchell, I think all of his fellow partners at his law firm did everything in their power to see that this lazy lawyer was appointed, because as soon as they realized he was a drag on their net profits, they saw his appointment as a way out. Obviously, the political weight of his partners had sufficient stroke with the senior senator to relocate old Tut out of their office and down the street into the federal courthouse. His percentage in the partnership was immediately distributed to the remaining partners as soon as he exited the door. What a great thing for them. The partners now had a loyal friend on the bench and just rid themselves of one of their ilk who was perceived as a drag on their profits.
One might think I didn’t like this man. They would be wrong. I didn’t much respect him as a judge; but I liked him. And I think he liked me. He affected this surly attitude whenever speaking to lawyers, which I now assume was merely a smokescreen designed to hide his insecurities. A case in point was; through the blind judicial selection process, Tut was randomly chosen to sit in judgment of one Hubert Gerold Brown, also known as H. “Rap” Brown. Rap was the chairman of the Student Nonviolent Coordinating Committee, the Justice Minister of the Black Panther Party, and a former citizen of our Great State of Louisiana.
Apparently “Rap” was caught carrying an AK-47 at a baby shower or some such innocuous event, and the Feds wanted to see him behind bars, so they indicted him.
I walked into Tut’s office shortly before the trial began and he said in an unusually soft voice, “May I help you, Paul?” Since he had always called me by my proper name, Peter, and always in the gruffest of voice, I knew something was amiss.
I went out into the courtroom, because I wanted to see the famous civil rights lawyer, William Kunstler, do his thing. The one thing Tut did not want to see was William Kunstler doing his thing, particularly before a national news audience. I never saw a man so nervous in my life. I am positive that Tut, beneath his robe, wet his pants that day. Here was a man who collected Ford Mustangs and loved to tool around with the top down, blowing his horn at young girls. His wife once called him, “the world’s oldest fraternity boy.” Rap Brown just thumbed his nose at Poor Old Tut.
The criers in most courts were innocuous people who hid behind courtroom doors until it was time to "Oyez! Oyez! Oyez!” his judge onto the bench. As soon as they pronounced those words, they escaped back behind the closed doors. Sometimes they sat in the courtroom passing documents from the attorneys up to the judge. That was true of every clerk I knew, save one.
Theophile A. Duroncelet’s official title was Deputy Clerk and Courtroom Deputy for the Honorable Lansing L. Mitchell. When Theo decided to move from the clerk’s office filing papers, to Tut’s office as his clerk, the ‘Tut and Theo Show’ became the hit of the town. As much as other clerks eschewed the limelight, Theo savored it. He would prance about the judge’s outer office greeting everyone who came in by name, shaking their hands, and then began a continuous banter of inanities that stopped only when the judge admitted the visitor to his chambers.
When you made it to the chambers, generally for a pre-trial conference of some type, the Tut and Theo main event began in earnest. I am positive Theo was the only clerk in the country who sat in on all pre and post-trial conferences in the judge’s chambers and became an active participant in the process. The judge and Theo talked non-stop, mostly at the same time. The judge would turn to Theo and say, “Theo, where’s my book?” or pencil or glasses or something else, and the redoubtable Theo would produce the object in a flash, without breaking his conversation with one of the lawyers.
One must remember the main purpose of any chamber conference was to enable the judge to strong-arm one or both parties into a settlement, so he didn’t have to try the case. Theo always participated in those roundtable discussions. It was the classic good guy (Theo) versus bad guy (Tut) thing. Ultimately Theo would pronounce his decision to Tut and generally, Tut went along with it. It was the way Theo did it, that caused no one to object, not so much the fact that he did it. When it was over, Theo salved the wounds of battle with kind words for everyone, telling both sides what a wonderful deal they had produced for their clients, as he ushered them out the door. He greeted the next group with the same familiarity as he did the preceding ones, and the process replicated itself. The Tut and Theo show went on all day long. The judge and Theo played their roles to perfection every time I saw the show.
Wednesday in the Federal Court was rule day. It was a day all federal judges in that particular district, sat in judgment of the myriad of pretrial detritus that always accumulates in civil action cases. Today, magistrates rule on the motions without oral argument. But in the old days, Wednesday was a day that the judge didn’t have jurors, or press members, or spectators to spoil their attitude, and they could act almost like normal human beings. The lawyers liked it because they could “show their asses” without fear of retribution from the federal God, seated in the pulpit. Decorum was always observed, but occasionally a snicker was heard to escape from the bench lending some credence to the human being theory.
On one particular Wednesday, I had a terrible rule to try before Tut Mitchell. My opponent filed a rule to dismiss my case, and I felt there was no way I could win, particularly if Tut read the pre-submitted briefs or heard any oral argument. The only chance I had was to divert Tut’s attention away from my case to something else that would allow him to perform for all of the other lawyers present in the courtroom. I knew Tut was a ham at heart, after all, he was the world’s oldest fraternity boy, so I devised my plan.
The courtroom was packed with my fellow barristers, who were sitting patiently on the spectator side of the railing divide, awaiting their names to be called, where they would slowly amble up the aisle like communicants going to the alter to receive the Body of Christ. Once on the other side of the railing, the two advocates began sparring from their respective lecterns, trying to convince Tut of the merits of their position.
When Theo called my case, “ABC versus XYX. Mr. Abadie and Mr. So-in-so.” I remained seated with my head down. Mr. So-in-so rose and began his slow journey to the lectern.
Theo again, “ABC versus XYZ, Mr. Abadie, your case.” Again I acted as though I hadn’t heard Theo and kept my head down.
Finally Theo screamed, “Peter, you better get up here.”
With that, I sprang into action. I raced down the center aisle and leapt over the wooden railing that separated the active from the passive participants and ran up to the lectern as though this were a normal behavior for an attorney in a federal courthouse.
Tut went ballistic, as I knew he would. “Mr. Abadie, go back to your seat the way you came and walk properly in my courtroom.”
Taking Tut’s word literally, I leapt once again over the railing and started running back to my seat. Tut screamed, “No. No. Use the swinging gates.” So I jumped over the railing a third time, and walked through the swinging gates on my way back to my original seat in the audience.
Tut screamed at my back, “Mr. Abadie. You will return to your lectern and if you jump over that railing once more, you’re going to jail.”
By now, the other lawyers packing the courtroom were apoplectic. They were laughing so hard, dropping their papers and pens on the floor, and loudly saying to the person next to them, “Did you see what that asshole Abadie just did?” Of course they all saw exactly what I did and were waiting to see what date Tut was going to set for my execution.
When I finally got back in front of my lectern, my opponent began his argument to Tut on his ‘can’t loose’ motion.
I couldn’t believe my ears when Tut cut off my opponent in mid-sentence, “Mr. So-in-so, I read your brief and you are definitely wrong on this one. Motion dismissed.” I couldn’t believe my ears. I had won. Tut was so totally distracted by my stupidity I didn’t have to say one word. Needless to say, Tut had not read one sentence of either party’s brief.
I believe I heard the phrase “you rotten son-of-a-bitch” directed at my back by my worthy opponent on the way out of the Last Great Fraternity Party.

My new novel 'Time's Up' is almost complete.

I am working on the publication of a second novel, TIME'S UP, which is set in the San Francisco Bay area. It's a story about three psychiatrists, one of whom is a serial killer. The protagonist, Dr. Michael Amoretti, is a handsome 'shrink' in Tiburon, who discovers his best friend has been murdered and he, and his family, have been targeted by the killer. 

The plot introduces a second psychiatrist, a professor of forensic psychiatry at Stanford University, who is the world's leading authority on serial killers and has offered to help in identifying the killer. 

A San Francisco homicide duo add color to the storyline in their futile attempt at solving the mystery. 

When one of Michael's children from a previous marriage is murdered in New York and a second child is killed in San Francisco, he is forced to take matters into his own hands. With the help of a female detective, Michael sets about solving the serial crimes. The plot thickens when Michael realizes that he is the powder that fuels the serial killer's explosions and an interplay between the book's characters evolves into a final scene in London's Whitechapel Road, where the plot reveals the utter mental sickness of Michael's medical colleague. 

All in all, the read should prove to be interesting at worst, and exciting at best, as the plot takes us between several northwest states, Canada, and finally, England, where the saga ends. We hope to have publication ready for the middle of 2014 and will keep everyone posted as to the exact date as the time draws near.   

My Reddit AMA starts in 30 minutes.

I'll be on Reddit for a couple of hours answering questions about my knowledge of Jim Garrison and the Clay Shaw Trials, which I sat in on in 1969.