Most of us have been there. You are at trial. The jury is in the box. Things have gone poorly. Your client, the plaintiff, was late, and showed up dressed in a pink oxford shirt and saddle shoes. (Your mistake, by the way. You told him to dress like he was going to church.) His wife, who has the disposition of a rattlesnake with a fresh boot print on its back, does not bother to hide her distaste for the proceedings, you or her husband.
The jury consists of twelve stone-faced people who all live or who aspire to live in 37027 (Brentwood), each of whom has the compassion of an investment banker (and, indeed, two of them are). These folks watch Fox News, listen to Rush Limbaugh, and believe that, had the editorial writers of the Wall Street Journal been born a few centuries earlier, they would have been amongst the contributors to the Good Book. They each think that “damn Democrat” is one word and that the only human being lower than your client is you, his pond-scum sucking trial lawyer.
The defendant, the minister for the largest church in the community, happened to run a stop sign on the way to visit a parishioner in a local hospital. His co-defendant is his church, the largest church in the community, the supplier of his 1995 Chevy Corsica and the immediate employer whose interest he was advancing on the day in question (there being substantial difficulty getting service of process on the ultimate Master). The good reverend is a gentle, kind-faced man of God who may well have ousted Charlton Heston for the lead in “The Ten Commandments,” had he not been hospitalized for diphtheria contracted while doing missionary work in Africa at the time of the casting call. His wife, who stands dutifully by his side at every break, looks like Aunt Bea in her church clothes.