Out of Order

A Claim to Shame

By Nick Pro Tunc

You may have heard or read about the Milwaukee judge who creatively sentences habitual drunk drivers. The offender's jail sentence can be reduced if the offender wears a sandwich board proclaiming his or her status as a repeat OWI violator.

The idea started me thinking. A year ago Wisconsin was contemplating using the chain gang. Both the sandwich board concept and the chain gang are alternative forms of punishment that have one thing in common: public shaming. Why not combine them both into the Sandwich Board Brigade, a kind of walking Burma Shave ad for penitents?

I approached local jurist Vance Speedo with my suggestion. Judge Speedo quickly warmed to the idea.

A week later I heard the beating of a drum outside my office window. Looking out, I saw a sheriff's deputy pounding a big bass drum (sort of like the EnergizerTM bunny). Another deputy marched behind, carrying a large banner that read: "Here come the Chapter 943 Bad Boys." He was followed by four ragtag prisoners, each wearing a sandwich board.

The boards read, respectively:

"I've been cheating on my taxes all the live long day."

"I've embezzled big bucks, just to pass the time away."

"Someone blew the whistle on us, he got up mighty early in the morn."

"Now you folks are jeering at us, heaping ridicule and scorn."

Judge Speedo decided the Sandwich Board Brigade wasn't enough. The next day in the town square I encountered three OWI convicts with their heads hung low.

The first offender wore a sign that read: "Oh, no, point one-oh." He was dressed in a Jacob Marley outfit, complete with chains that were attached to empty liquor bottles. The bottles loudly clinked. He cried out, "Booze! Booze!"

The second offender's sign read: "Point one-five, but still alive." He was hoarsely singing, "Ten thousand bottles of beer on the wall, ten thousand bottles of beer."

Offender number three's sign said: "Point two-three, shame on me!" Like a latter-day Sisyphus, he was pushing a full half-barrel of beer up a steep ramp, only to have the barrel roll down as he reached the top. As if to add insult to injury, he was weakly murmuring, "Roll out the barrel, we'll have a barrel of fun."

Unfortunately, Speedo's creativity was contagious. The judge was consulted by the Board of Attorneys Professional Responsibility.

The next thing I knew, a likable but misguided colleague stopped by my office. "This is so humiliating," he wailed. "I need your help."

He was dressed up like a giant tuna and sported a sign that stated: "I illegally dove into my clients' trust fund, and now I'm all wet. Ask me to recite SCR 20:1.15(a)."

"What happened?" I asked.

"BAPR told me it was either this or a three-month suspension. I can't take this anymore."

I quickly called BAPR and lodged a protest, citing cruel and unusual punishment and a denial of substantive due process. BAPR backed down a bit. Under our plea agreement, my errant colleague has traded in the tuna outfit for a pair of swim fins. He must continue wearing the sign, except BAPR deleted the part about reciting the code violation on demand.

After a while I figured the trend in creative sentencing had run its course. One day I was in Judge Speedo's court. I heard an unusual sound that I couldn't place at first. A new attorney had just entered the courtroom wearing a sign. Glancing down, I discovered the source of the sound - the unmistakable slapping of swim fins on the courtroom floor.

Wisconsin Lawyer