Lawyers Uniform Quotes

Sadly, dissent nowadays is considered unpatriotic, and in our post-9/11 atmosphere any criticism of those in uniform, any uniform, is stifled. Being labeled soft on crime or soft on terror is a politician’s curse.

If the ghost that haunts the towns of Ypres and Arras and Albert is the staturory British Tommy, slogging with rifle and pack through its ruined streets to this well-documented destiny ‘up the line’, then the ghost of Boulogne and Etaples and Rouen ought to be a girl. She’s called Elsie or Gladys or Dorothy, her ankles are swollen, her feet are aching, her hands reddened and rough. She has little money, no vote, and has almost forgotten what it feels like to be really warm. She sleeps in a tent. Unless she has told a diplomatic lie about her age, she is twenty-three. She is the daughter of a clergyman, a lawyer or a prosperous businessman, and has been privately educated and groomed to be a ‘lady’. She wears the unbecoming outdoor uniform of a VAD or an army nurse. She is on active service, and as much a part of the war as Tommy Atkins.

The [ military ] lawyers I saw there had about as much in common with the man who had defended me at fifteen as automated machine rifle fire has with farting. They were cold, professionally polished and well on their way up a career ladder which would ensure that despite the uniforms they wore, they would never have to come within a thousand kilometres of a genuine firefight. The only problem they had, as they cruised sharkishly back and forth across the cool marble floor of the court, was in drawing the fine differences between war (mass murder of people wearing a uniform not your own), justifiable loss (mass murder of your own troops, but with substantial gains) and criminal negligence (mass murder of your own troops, without appreciable benefit). I sat in that courtroom for three weeks listening to them dress it like a variety of salads, and with every passing hour the distinctions, which at one point I'd been pretty clear on, grew increasingly vague. I suppose that proves how good they were.

The moonlight fell upon the earth like a magic unearthly dawn. It wiped away all rawness, it hid all sores. It gave all common and familiar things--the sagging drift of the barn, the raw shed of the creamery, the rich curve of the lawyer's crabapple trees--a uniform bloom of wonder.

My mom tells me I look handsome in the school uniform. She says that a tie is very distinguished. That may be true for a businessman or lawyer, but mine clips together around the back of

Sadly, dissent nowadays is considered unpatriotic, and in our post-9/11 atmosphere any criticism of those in uniform, any uniform, is stifled. Being labeled soft on crime or soft on terror is a politician’s curse. I’m

One is wearing a uniform of green-and-gray camouflage, as if he were hunting deer in the woods. The other is wearing a uniform of brown-and-beige camouflage, as if he were hunting insurgents in the desert. These two clowns are standing in the driveway of a suburban home, about fifteen minutes from downtown, in a well-developed city of a million people, and they’re wearing camouflage. The sad and scary thing about this image is that these guys have no idea how stupid they look. Instead, they’re proud, arrogant. They’re on display, tough guys fighting bad guys. One of their brethren has been hit, wounded, fallen in the line of duty, and they’re pissed about it. They scowl at the neighbors across the street. One wrong word, and they might start shooting. Their fingers are on the triggers.

Face the facts. Your life is too perfect. You probably lie awake at night, fantasizing about spicin’ up all that lily whiteness you live in.” But damn it, I get a whiff of vanilla from her perfume or lotion. It reminds me of cookies. I love cookies, so this is not good at all. “Gettin’ near the fire, chica, doesn’t necessarily mean you’ll get burned.” “You touch her and you’ll regret it, Fuentes,” Colin’s voice rings out. He resembles a burro, with his big white teeth and ears sticking out from his buzz cut. “Get the hell away from her.” “Colin,” Brittany says. “It’s okay. I can handle this.” Burro Face brought reinforcements: three other pasty white dudes, standing behind him for backup. I size up Burro Face and his friends to see if I can take them all on, and decide I could give all four a run for their money. “When you’re strong enough to play in the big leagues, jock boy, then I’ll listen to the mierda flyin’ out of your mouth,” I say. Other students are gathering around us, leaving room for a fight that is sure to be fast, furious, and bloody. Little do they know Burro Face is a runner. This time he’s got backup, though, so maybe he’ll stay to duke it out. I’m always prepared for a fight, been in more of ‘em than I can count on my fingers and toes. I’ve got the scars to prove it. “Colin, he’s not worth it,” Brittany says. Thanks, mamacita. Right back at ya. “You threatening me, Fuentes?” Colin barks, ignoring his girlfriend. “No, asshole,” I say, staring him down. “Little dicks like you make threats.” Brittany parks her body in front of Colin and puts her hand on his chest. “Don’t listen to him,” she says. “I’m not afraid of you. My dad’s a lawyer,” Colin brags, then puts his arm around Brittany. “She’s mine. Don’t ever forget that.” “Then keep a leash on her,” I advise. “Or she might be tempted to find a new owner.” My friend Paco comes up beside me. “Andas bien, Alex?” “Yeah, Paco,” I tell him, then watch as two teachers walk down the hall escorted by a guy in a police uniform. This is what Adams wants, perfectly planned to get my ass kicked out of school. I’m not falling into his trap only to end up on Aguirre’s hit list. “Si, everything’s bien.” I turn to Brittany. “Catch ya later, mamacita. I’m looking forward to researching our chemistry.” Before I leave and save myself from suspension on top of my detention, Brittany sticks that perky nose of hers in the air as if I’m the scum of the earth.

She looked up, hoping to see Hiram Caro. She was disappointed. Hiram didn’t walk through the door. Instead, his personal bodyguard stalked in. Joey Roman. CHAPTER 90 JOEY ROMAN closed the office door and locked it. Then he leaned against the door, folded his arms across his chest, and gazed down at Jenny. Roman’s attire distinguished him from the other security personnel. He was dressed in a slim-fit sport coat over a crisp white shirt paired with indigo jeans. Joey didn’t need to wear a security uniform or badge to give off a dangerous vibe. She knew he wanted to intimidate her. Locking her into a room with three men and blocking the door so she couldn’t get out—it was an act of aggression. Jenny was determined to send a message right back: I’m not scared of you. She gave Roman a side-eye before returning her attention to the advertising brochure. Reading aloud, she murmured, “‘Loosest slots and hottest table games in Biloxi.’ Wow. Impressive.” Silence in the room. She counted to ten before she spoke again. “Is Hiram on his way down?” Roman sounded almost friendly when he said, “Mr. Caro’s not available. What do you want? I can pass along the message.” Jenny’s impatience gave her voice a sharp edge. “I don’t want to go through the messenger boy, Joey.” The two young security guys tensed up and exchanged a look of surprise. Jenny noted their reaction. She figured it meant that Joey Roman was rarely disrespected on casino property. She would have to proceed more cautiously. She forced a smile. “Joey, you know I’m a private

The next song was “Lawyers, Guns and Money” by Warren Zevon. Bosch hadn’t heard it in a while and he remembered how it had been an anthem among the uniforms back when he had worked patrol.

went home, called election lawyers, and delivered the lists as promised. When Bush’s lead was down to a mere 537 votes out of about six million cast, the reexamination of ballots was stopped. Florida’s secretary of state, Katherine Harris, also the co-chair of Bush’s Florida campaign, declared Bush the winner. Calls for a recount were deafening, and supported by the Florida Supreme Court. However, the U.S. Supreme Court ruled 5 to 4 that there was no uniform recount standard to meet the equal protection clause, and no time to create one. Therefore, the recount was stopped. It

replaced by what felt like a dispiriting uniformity, the kind of overwhelmingly white and male tableau I’d encountered so many times in my life—especially in the more privileged spaces, the various corridors of power I’d somehow found my way into since leaving my childhood home. What I knew from working in professional environments—from recruiting new lawyers for Sidley & Austin to hiring staff at the White House—is that sameness breeds more sameness, until you make a thoughtful effort to counteract it.

We are asked to hold the people in uniform in high regard because they keep us safe, but never asked whether or not we actually feel safe or what we would need in order to feel safe. “Police are not public, nor good,” writes movement lawyer Derecka Purnell in Boston Review, if we genuinely consider the definition of “public” as encompassing all of us, which history shows we do not. The police are the enemies of black people, Latinx people, trans people, and poor people. Is it our duty to revere them, even as their presence conflicts with our freedom? After Ferguson? After Baltimore?

the school uniform. She says that a tie is very distinguished. That may be true for a businessman or lawyer, but mine clips together around the back

The building is buzzing. Offices overflow with staff from every corner of the earth. Soldiers in colorful military uniforms move with martial discipline but stop smartly in the hall to let secretaries wrapped in Cambodian silk pass. Police in blue berets brief earnest young lawyers in khakis. Everyone has a military-issue radio glued to their ear. It looks like it could be a colonial administration in India or Kenya, except instead of British rule, it’s the whole world, and instead of imperial occupation, we’ve invaded in the service of peace.

As it happened, neither of them was wearing any clothes. As a result, one of the charges against him was for “being out of uniform.” The officer’s lawyer argued that the lieutenant was not out of uniform, as the regulations read: “Naval officers must be at all times appropriately attired for the activity in which they are engaged.” The lieutenant was acquitted.

A man in the hideous striped pants and top of the Buchenwald prisoner’s uniform—the liberation had been so recent that other clothing was not yet available—now yielded to an inner urge so antic as to chill the onlooker’s blood even more than had the gruesome sights we had just beheld. In health and in normal life he must have been a tall man, and hearty, fiftyish perhaps, and of dignified bearing. A businessman, a lawyer, or of another of the professions. He was stooped now. His shoulders and chest had slumped into his abdomen which was flabby, not fat at all. He resembled a walking withered gourd. In the chaos that followed the liberation of Buchenwald Concentration Camp, and in the scrounging that must have followed upon that, this once sedate and intelligent man had somehow come upon a high silk hat such as men sometimes wear to the opera or to a wedding, or another formal occasion. Perhaps a mischievous serviceman had come upon it, and given it to him. With it was a fine ebony and gold-headed walking stick. The man rubbed the nap of the foolish headgear round and round with the fore-sleeve of his striped and hideous jacket; round and round. He had owned one of these articles of headgear in a former day, and knew how to handle it. Now he clapped it on his head at a rakish angle. He had got hold of a cigarette. He was shoeless. Thus accoutered, puffing the cigarette and flicking the ash elegantly, gold-headed cane in hand, he stepped down the dusty road toward the city of Weimar and its burghers who had claimed to be quite unaware of the presence of this man and millions like him; and of the stinking gas chambers and the ovens so near the lovely city of Weimar. You knew that this man now was bereft of the dignity and sense which once had been his. He was grinning as he walked, but the face had, too, a kind of noble decency and you could no longer watch as the grotesque figure padded down the road in its futile gesture of defiance.

Germany is asleep. Like this bomb. You saw the young longhairs throwing stones on the television?’ ‘Yes.’ ‘They are paid by Moscow to promote communism. And the fat poltroons who now run Germany allow them to spread their poison unopposed.’ ‘Not exactly unopposed,’ Agnes said, reluctantly drawn into the man’s diatribe. ‘The police arrested a lot of them.’ ‘Those are not police,’ he retorted. ‘They are packets of lard in uniform. Soft. And the agitators will be out of their cells by teatime, freed by their Jew lawyers.

My mom tells me I look handsome in the school uniform. She says that a tie is very distinguished. That may be true for a businessman or lawyer, but mine clips together around the back of my neck and constantly loosens. This wouldn’t be such a bad thing if we were allowed to unbutton our top button, but we can’t. The top button is part of the uniform according to Sister Ellen. So my malfunctioning tie does not make for the most suave look when it droops down on my still-buttoned collar.