There must be something in the water at the Lexington Fayette Urban County Government.
I had a court appearance last Thursday. This time before presiding Circuit Judge Ernesto Scorsone regarding the instance where I was that 6'4" light-skinned black dude with gold teeth, green eyes and hair who tried to kidnap some pregnant chick in the middle of the Downtown Lexington Transit Center in broad daylight, but managed to avoid every single one of the sixteen cameras comprising their multimillion dollar, state of the art surveillance system.
You heard me...Somebody remind me to add shapeshifting ninja to my resume. Here's a refresher for you amnesiacs.
So I'm standing in front of Scorsone with my two public defenders, Chris Tracy and Chad Butcher.
My previous attorney, David Zorin and I parted ways for reasons we most certainly won't agree upon. He thinks we parted ways because I couldn't afford his tab. And I think we parted ways because I was better off with the public defenders.
Incidentally, I got drunk with him a couple of weeks ago and he expressed some interest in pursuing another civil suit against the City of Lexington for ruining my life the last five years. I indulged the conversation because he's good company - plus, he was buying the drinks, so what the hell - but I'm pretty sure I'm better off seeking competent representation elsewhere.
Anyway, we're standing before the judge; me and my two guys, but the specially assigned prosecutor from Nicholasville, Robert Gullete Jr., otherwise known as plain old Bobby Gullette, is nowhere to be found, which isn't, actually, unusual. I used to think it bizarre that he could just elect not to appear like he was skipping first period, but have since come to expect his absence because he's only attended maybe two appointments since I got charged with this nonsense last December and it's starting to get under my skin because every time he doesn't show, Scorsone just shrugs and schedules another appointment for me as if I have nothing better to do with my time than brighten the courtroom with my pretty face.
Where in the hell did my speedy trial run off to?
Apparently, Mr. Gullette didn't look at his calender properly the night before and now we're all standing around twiddling our thumbs wondering what in the hell we're doing here. Meanwhile, I can't, for the life of me, figure out why we just don't have him drive the 15 miles to Lexington so we can reschedule my trial date, which had originally been scheduled for November 17th but had to be extended because David Zorin took an obscene amount of time to withdraw and basically prevented the Public Defenders from having sufficient time to prepare; none of which has anything to do with me, of course, except that it's my life that hangs in the balance of all this bullshit.
Not to mention, why doesn't Scorsone ever reprimand the prosecutor for missing court? He hasn't mentioned it once. Is this what passes for professionalism around here? Even now I can't figure out why we didn't just call Gullette to find out when he would be available for a trial and saved ourselves the trouble.
So, once again, the judge suggests we schedule another date to meet just to schedule another trial date and then, I guess, we'll cross our fingers and hope the prosecutor shows up. Believe me, it's as stupid as it sounds.
The three of them begin bantering about availability until Scorsone suggests that we reconvene the very next day. As they consider it, I whisper to Chris Tracy that I am scheduled to be out of town and won't be available.
He then suggests to the judge that the three counselors be allowed to coordinate the new trial date in my absence, which seems reasonable enough since I, frankly, couldn't care less when the trial happens granted I'm provided ample notice beforehand.
But for reasons unbeknown to the rest of us, Scorsone disagrees and insists that that I am present for the scheduling of the new trial and informs my representatives to discuss the matter with Mr. Gullette and to keep the court informed. We leave and all seems well.
Just as I'm on my way out of town, Mr. Butcher informs me that they've conversed with Mr. Gullette and rescheduled for the following Monday. En route to Key Largo, I learn that my transportation won't be available to return on Monday and that I am essentially stuck in Florida until Tuesday. So I call the PD's office and leave a message. No reply. I call again on Friday morning and the secretary assures that she'll deliver the message, so I forget about it and spend some time writing on the beach.
But when the weekend is nearly passed and I haven't heard back from either of the Public Defenders, I begin to wonder. Finally, on Sunday, I decide I'm better safe than sorry and basically guilt a friend of mine in Florida into driving me all the way to Kentucky. She's a good friend, indeed. I definitely owe her one.
By the time I've hitched the ride, we're already behind schedule. After I'd driven a good deal of the way, she insists on driving. We switch places and I'm napping on the passenger side when the next thing I know, this woman is barreling down the highway at ninety-seven miles an hour and, naturally, the popo stops us. She yanks the ticket, hits the gas, but there's just not enough time in the day.
A couple of detours and a few traffic jams later, it's becoming readily apparent that the Monday appointment is, simply, not a possibility. I alerted the lawyers to the news and they informed Mr. Gullette who, with his characteristic indifference, expressed no problem postponing Monday's appearance until Tuesday. You can imagine the collective gasp when Scorsone declared that a warrant would be issued for my arrest if I was not in his courtroom at 3pm sharp Monday afternoon.
My attorneys later described his rather bizarre determination as uncharacteristic and were at a loss to explain it. For my part, I've seen some members of the Fayette County Judiciary do some very strange things and while this definitely hovers near the top of the list, I have my own theory as to why, but that's another blog altogether. Anyway, they opined that all was not yet lost.
My understanding is that as I was stampeding up I-75, Mr. Butcher and Mr. Tracy had met with Scorsone at 3pm hoping to dissuade him from issuing a warrant, but that their pleas fell on deaf ears. Incidentally, Mr. Gullette declined to grace the courtroom, once again, but that fact went unnoticed even as the ink on my warrant was settling in. Still, my ever optimistic counsel surmised, we would go to the Judges' Chambers tomorrow after he had a chance to reconsider and surely the man will have come to his senses by then.
The next day, we chatted in the lobby for some twenty minutes before a petite secretary approached and politely informed us that the judge was neither inclined to speak with us nor to lift the warrant. She smiled awkwardly and left the three of us alone with the crickets.
As we trudged back to the office, Mr. Tracy remarked that he and I hadn't had much luck with judges lately, to which I expressed doubt that the treatment we'd been experiencing had much to do with luck at all.
Ironically, it turns out they were able to set a new trial date after all, for February 23rd, without me and over the phone to boot, per Mr. Tracy's original suggestion. At the end of the day, the only thing that anybody seems to have accomplished for all the extra trouble is the promise of me in a cell. Who needs prosecutors with judges like these? While I have no doubt that Mr. Scorsone is a generally evenhanded and honorable man, there is something bad wrong with this picture.
According to Mr. Butcher, there is no pending status date or bond revocation hearing scheduled for the $3000 my brother put up to ensure my freedom pending trial. That will undoubtedly change in the near future, but it's almost as if the judge got so beside himself in his eagerness to land me in a cage that he abandoned the official particulars in the process.
As last December made many well aware, a warrant for my arrest in Lexington is tantamount to a license to kill in the eyes of some highly antagonistic public servants. One can only hope that it was a failure to realize this which allowed Scorsone to jeopardize my life as flippantly as one flushes excrement.
Maybe that's what he thinks he's doing...
So that's the story. I am a fugitive, once again, for reasons that have absolutely nothing to do with fairness or truth or any high ideal whatsoever. Ladies and gentlemen, this is what passes for justice in Fayette County, Kentucky.
I had a court appearance last Thursday. This time before presiding Circuit Judge Ernesto Scorsone regarding the instance where I was that 6'4" light-skinned black dude with gold teeth, green eyes and hair who tried to kidnap some pregnant chick in the middle of the Downtown Lexington Transit Center in broad daylight, but managed to avoid every single one of the sixteen cameras comprising their multimillion dollar, state of the art surveillance system.
You heard me...Somebody remind me to add shapeshifting ninja to my resume. Here's a refresher for you amnesiacs.
So I'm standing in front of Scorsone with my two public defenders, Chris Tracy and Chad Butcher.
My previous attorney, David Zorin and I parted ways for reasons we most certainly won't agree upon. He thinks we parted ways because I couldn't afford his tab. And I think we parted ways because I was better off with the public defenders.
Incidentally, I got drunk with him a couple of weeks ago and he expressed some interest in pursuing another civil suit against the City of Lexington for ruining my life the last five years. I indulged the conversation because he's good company - plus, he was buying the drinks, so what the hell - but I'm pretty sure I'm better off seeking competent representation elsewhere.
Anyway, we're standing before the judge; me and my two guys, but the specially assigned prosecutor from Nicholasville, Robert Gullete Jr., otherwise known as plain old Bobby Gullette, is nowhere to be found, which isn't, actually, unusual. I used to think it bizarre that he could just elect not to appear like he was skipping first period, but have since come to expect his absence because he's only attended maybe two appointments since I got charged with this nonsense last December and it's starting to get under my skin because every time he doesn't show, Scorsone just shrugs and schedules another appointment for me as if I have nothing better to do with my time than brighten the courtroom with my pretty face.
Where in the hell did my speedy trial run off to?
Apparently, Mr. Gullette didn't look at his calender properly the night before and now we're all standing around twiddling our thumbs wondering what in the hell we're doing here. Meanwhile, I can't, for the life of me, figure out why we just don't have him drive the 15 miles to Lexington so we can reschedule my trial date, which had originally been scheduled for November 17th but had to be extended because David Zorin took an obscene amount of time to withdraw and basically prevented the Public Defenders from having sufficient time to prepare; none of which has anything to do with me, of course, except that it's my life that hangs in the balance of all this bullshit.
Not to mention, why doesn't Scorsone ever reprimand the prosecutor for missing court? He hasn't mentioned it once. Is this what passes for professionalism around here? Even now I can't figure out why we didn't just call Gullette to find out when he would be available for a trial and saved ourselves the trouble.
So, once again, the judge suggests we schedule another date to meet just to schedule another trial date and then, I guess, we'll cross our fingers and hope the prosecutor shows up. Believe me, it's as stupid as it sounds.
The three of them begin bantering about availability until Scorsone suggests that we reconvene the very next day. As they consider it, I whisper to Chris Tracy that I am scheduled to be out of town and won't be available.
He then suggests to the judge that the three counselors be allowed to coordinate the new trial date in my absence, which seems reasonable enough since I, frankly, couldn't care less when the trial happens granted I'm provided ample notice beforehand.
But for reasons unbeknown to the rest of us, Scorsone disagrees and insists that that I am present for the scheduling of the new trial and informs my representatives to discuss the matter with Mr. Gullette and to keep the court informed. We leave and all seems well.
Just as I'm on my way out of town, Mr. Butcher informs me that they've conversed with Mr. Gullette and rescheduled for the following Monday. En route to Key Largo, I learn that my transportation won't be available to return on Monday and that I am essentially stuck in Florida until Tuesday. So I call the PD's office and leave a message. No reply. I call again on Friday morning and the secretary assures that she'll deliver the message, so I forget about it and spend some time writing on the beach.
But when the weekend is nearly passed and I haven't heard back from either of the Public Defenders, I begin to wonder. Finally, on Sunday, I decide I'm better safe than sorry and basically guilt a friend of mine in Florida into driving me all the way to Kentucky. She's a good friend, indeed. I definitely owe her one.
By the time I've hitched the ride, we're already behind schedule. After I'd driven a good deal of the way, she insists on driving. We switch places and I'm napping on the passenger side when the next thing I know, this woman is barreling down the highway at ninety-seven miles an hour and, naturally, the popo stops us. She yanks the ticket, hits the gas, but there's just not enough time in the day.
A couple of detours and a few traffic jams later, it's becoming readily apparent that the Monday appointment is, simply, not a possibility. I alerted the lawyers to the news and they informed Mr. Gullette who, with his characteristic indifference, expressed no problem postponing Monday's appearance until Tuesday. You can imagine the collective gasp when Scorsone declared that a warrant would be issued for my arrest if I was not in his courtroom at 3pm sharp Monday afternoon.
My attorneys later described his rather bizarre determination as uncharacteristic and were at a loss to explain it. For my part, I've seen some members of the Fayette County Judiciary do some very strange things and while this definitely hovers near the top of the list, I have my own theory as to why, but that's another blog altogether. Anyway, they opined that all was not yet lost.
My understanding is that as I was stampeding up I-75, Mr. Butcher and Mr. Tracy had met with Scorsone at 3pm hoping to dissuade him from issuing a warrant, but that their pleas fell on deaf ears. Incidentally, Mr. Gullette declined to grace the courtroom, once again, but that fact went unnoticed even as the ink on my warrant was settling in. Still, my ever optimistic counsel surmised, we would go to the Judges' Chambers tomorrow after he had a chance to reconsider and surely the man will have come to his senses by then.
The next day, we chatted in the lobby for some twenty minutes before a petite secretary approached and politely informed us that the judge was neither inclined to speak with us nor to lift the warrant. She smiled awkwardly and left the three of us alone with the crickets.
As we trudged back to the office, Mr. Tracy remarked that he and I hadn't had much luck with judges lately, to which I expressed doubt that the treatment we'd been experiencing had much to do with luck at all.
Ironically, it turns out they were able to set a new trial date after all, for February 23rd, without me and over the phone to boot, per Mr. Tracy's original suggestion. At the end of the day, the only thing that anybody seems to have accomplished for all the extra trouble is the promise of me in a cell. Who needs prosecutors with judges like these? While I have no doubt that Mr. Scorsone is a generally evenhanded and honorable man, there is something bad wrong with this picture.
According to Mr. Butcher, there is no pending status date or bond revocation hearing scheduled for the $3000 my brother put up to ensure my freedom pending trial. That will undoubtedly change in the near future, but it's almost as if the judge got so beside himself in his eagerness to land me in a cage that he abandoned the official particulars in the process.
As last December made many well aware, a warrant for my arrest in Lexington is tantamount to a license to kill in the eyes of some highly antagonistic public servants. One can only hope that it was a failure to realize this which allowed Scorsone to jeopardize my life as flippantly as one flushes excrement.
Maybe that's what he thinks he's doing...
So that's the story. I am a fugitive, once again, for reasons that have absolutely nothing to do with fairness or truth or any high ideal whatsoever. Ladies and gentlemen, this is what passes for justice in Fayette County, Kentucky.
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