Bobo was a grade “A” jerk.
I needed five seconds with him to arrive at that conclusion. He was not the type you want to meet in a dark alley or under anything other than purely business circumstances. And this creep was about to be indicted on something. Nobody walks through my office door because they like the decor.
However, my personal feelings about a road apple like Bobo have nothing to do with defending him. The law is meant to protect everyone, nice or nasty, pretty or pallid, and it is my business to be a good defense attorney right up until the day they execute my client.
Bobo was a candidate for such a fate. Like Tom Jones, he was born to be hanged. I don’t always call ‘em exactly, which is one reason I don’t gamble; but I get real close, which is one reason why I do gamble. In the parlance of an early math teacher of mine, Bobo was a fertilizer person. He was put on this earth purely to contribute night soil to the vegetative process. As long as he left behind as much as he took in, he struck a balance in nature.
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A scammer constantly at work trying to change the balance in his favor, Bobo’s type is known as an “escomoso” in Latin American countries. Usually his schemes come back to bite him in the butt, the world is marshaled against him, his birthright a huge cosmic joke. He was unwilling to work for wages, but it never occurred to him he was putting as much into avoidance as he would if took a steady job. Nor was he the brightest bulb in the auditorium.
