Brief.
Brief. “Be brief.” Briefs. In brief. Briefly.
It’s not my strong point. I’m the go-to when you want the kind of in-depth analysis you can’t get anywhere else. Rabbit holes. Fox holes. Worm holes. There’s a reason I’m referred to as “Alice in Wonderland.” Off I go on these journeys. You don’t hear from me for however long, and I pop up, out of thin air, filled with tales of just how bad it is “out there.”
The past 90 days were the fox hole of the preliminary battle plans that started June 6, 2022. That day, NYS Governor Kathy Hochul signed the first bills against firearms dealers that had me jerk my head up as news of it came across the airwaves as far south as I am, in coastal North Carolina. It was on the regular TV news here, if that tells you something about what folks in the South think about the crazies “up North.” Down here, when I utter words “lawyer fighting for the Second Amendment in New York,” people’s eyes get wide, they drop their heads and softly shake ‘no’ in sympathy, and literally come back around to me to tell me that they’ve offered up a prayer for me at the church.
Last night I turned in a 13,771 word count “Brief” to the Second Circuit Court of Appeals at the Thurgood Marshall Courthouse in New York City on behalf of my clients in the landmark case of Gazzola v. Hochul. There was a 14,000 word count limit; all is well. The Brief was filed as the start of the run-up to the oral arguments that will take place, live, on Monday, March 20, 2023. I will be part of those arguments. There are four cases to be heard “in tandem” on that day.
And, by March 20? I had better learn how to be brief. Oral arguments take place on a literal timer with red and green lights.
It has been a straight 90 days that I’ve been in this trench. Hundreds upon hundreds of pages of analysis and argument and testimony via affidavit has been written by me. Just me. Only me. I’m it. No paralegal. No intern. No junior associate. Not even a secretary. Definitely a small and dear to me group of friends willing to read drafts and debate and philosophize and muse about just what the hell is going on with this Governor and the spell she has fallen under from outside influence that is not so outside the capitol in Albany. But, at the end of the day, in the dark of the late hours and four all-nighters, there’s me.
Ninety days of just this one case, and very little else. I’ve got my flip-flops on as I write this, but can’t remember what the beach looks like. Kevin keeps bringing me ingredients for my beloved protein fruit and peanut butter shakes, plus local whole milk, local farm eggs and meat. We plug in the Crock Pot covered in a polka dot pattern, et voila! My favorite relic of female work outside the home is as celebrated as chicken soups, chilis, and stews. All bone-in. All farm-to-table.
So just this little note to y’all. A postcard to let you know I’m still here. The battle is more brutal by way of pace and magnitude than my career of 30+ years in courtrooms foresaw. The results are still nil, and I do mean absolutely nothing. I’m so sick of the word “deny” that it’s literally where I ended my Brief last night. “Deny.” But, this morning, I’m smiling, because I’ve reread that last sentence that seemingly defeatist word ends.
Justice can do better than “deny.”
How’s that for brief?
