My Brief Moment as a Courtroom Hero

The court-martial scene in *The Caine Mutiny* is unforgettable. The only way defense counsel Barney Greenwald—played by José Ferrer—can win is by dismantling Captain Queeg (Humphrey Bogart) on cross-examination, while painting his client in a sympathetic light.

I faced a similar challenge decades ago, defending U.S. Air Force Staff Sgt. Joe Patenude. He was the same sergeant who had processed my papers when I reported to K.I. Sawyer AFB as a second lieutenant in 1961.

Two years later, I got a call from the base judge advocate’s office informing me I’d been assigned to defend Sergeant Patenude, who was charged with writing a dozen bad checks. I told them there must be some mistake—defense cases were usually handled by trained lawyers, while prosecution was the job of junior officers like myself.

At that point, I had already won two convictions—essentially routine. The standing joke about military justice rang true: “Bring in the guilty son of a bitch—we’ll give him a fair trial, then hang him.” But the JAG office was short-staffed, and my opposing counsel would be another lieutenant—also with no legal experience.

I tried twice to meet with my client before the trial. He didn’t show. Our first actual conversation was in the courtroom. He was soft-spoken, clearly under financial strain, struggling to support his wife and children. A guilty verdict—almost certain—would mean a reduction in rank to Airman First Class and even greater hardship.

I remembered him as a slim, capable personnel clerk. But the truth was, he was guilty—no doubt about it. The evidence was solid. A five-member panel—three officers and two NCOs—was ready to bring the hammer down.

The prosecution laid out its case in textbook fashion, producing every bounced check. My only hope was to shift focus away from his guilt and toward his service record and character.

Luckily, the prosecuting lieutenant was an arrogant, disorganized figure—hardly a courtroom force. I suspected he’d be slow on his feet. I, on the other hand, had a performer’s instincts—and plenty of experience watching TV courtroom dramas.

My defense strategy hinged on convincing the court that Sergeant Patenude’s service record was too strong to be ignored, and that a full-rank reduction would cripple his future. During cross-examination, I pressed his commanding officer, a lieutenant colonel, until he reluctantly admitted that Patenude was a good airman.

At one point, I had to glance out the window to avoid the colonel’s glare.

My closing argument was emotional—an appeal to mercy, to second chances. I did everything I could to humanize my client.

The panel retired to deliberate. We waited anxiously in the hallway. When we returned to the courtroom and stood for the verdict, it was acquittal.

I turned to the stunned sergeant, shook his hand, and said, “Don’t ever write another bad check.”

Afterward, the presiding lieutenant colonel shook his head and congratulated me for winning what he called “a hopeless case.” He later told a fellow lieutenant—also my tennis partner—that he wanted me to transfer into his unit. But my discharge was near, and my squadron commander wouldn’t approve the transfer.

A senior master sergeant joked that I should enjoy my newfound celebrity among the enlisted ranks—the news of the acquittal had spread quickly across the base.

But the celebration didn’t last long. Higher headquarters reviewed the verdict and overturned it. Around the same time, a 13th bad check surfaced.

So ended my brief moment as a courtroom hero.

~ Alan Miller