Why It Matters
Scott Berger Weinberg
I just got back from the hospital. I held my former client’s hand, my friend’s hand, and told him his lawyer says he has to fight, and his friend wants to see him again.
I met Justin 16 years ago. It was one of my first criminal cases. He had just gotten out of prison when his house was raided. Deputies found a trafficking amount of Percocet in the living room. The pills weren’t his, and I’m not just saying that because the check cleared. Justin had been running around like a maniac before he went to prison. He’d even been shot. Around town, he was persona non grata.
I filed some motions. We fought a little. Eventually, he pled down to paraphernalia.
After that, he swore he was going straight. And he did. He really did.
He was charming, funny, and determined never to go back to prison.
We ended up in the same flag football league and became friendly. Over the next 16 years he’d call me with legal issues, sometimes his, sometimes one of his crazy exes, sometimes one of the exes of his exes. He’d send people to my office constantly. Seventy percent of them didn’t have two nickels to rub together. But I could tell he liked being able to say, “This is my lawyer.” It mattered to him.
And we genuinely were friends. We’d talk on and off. We would exchange Facebook reels. Every time his page went dark for a while, I’d reach out to make sure he was still alive.
He had a lawn business, quasi-successful but real. I’d use him to cut the grass at my fishing camp. We’d run into each other around town and talk law. He was smart. And the cycle repeated: he’d bring people to my office, we’d reconnect, life moved on.
Then I ran for judge.
My first speech was at St. Mary’s Baptist Church, a Black church. I gave a fire and brimstone speech and Justin was proud. He told everyone he’d known me back when. He helped the campaign.
Put signs in great spots. When I lost, he reached out to make sure I was okay.
After the election, my business exploded. I was busy, constantly. He’d reach out more, but I could tell something was different. He’d started drinking… a lot. Mowing lawns in Florida will break you down. And my best friend died from alcoholism, so I recognized the pattern immediately and didn’t want to deal with it.
The more Justin called drunk, the more dismissive I became. Not openly. Not rudely. But the shift was real. I used to answer on the first ring. Then I returned his calls the next day. Then a few days later. I was tired of broke clients. Tired of nonsense. Still loyal, but worn down.
So when he called me twice in a row, I ignored it. I assumed it was another fight with another girlfriend.
Then I got the text:
Massive heart attack.
In the hospital.
Probably won’t make it.
I called a mutual friend — someone who knew Justin like I did — and asked if he was going to visit. He said no. He’d had enough.
I decided I had to go. Someone had to.
The scene at the hospital was exactly what you’d expect from a big Black family in crisis — loud grief, quiet grief, protective grief. I walked in wearing my Rolex and my gold signet ring. I played the “lawyer” part, not out of ego, but because I knew it mattered to him. It gave his world weight.
His aunts, cousins, nephews, and sons greeted me, the women gave me giant bear hugs. Some I recognized. Most I didn’t.
But over and over, I heard the same thing:
“Oh, you’re Scott Weinberg. Justin always talked about you.”
And that’s when the shame hit. Not because I ever disrespected him. But because I’d committed the sin in my mind. I’d been annoyed at his double calls. Annoyed that nothing ever panned out. Annoyed by the chaos.
I realized then that my friendship was a lifeline for him — a window into a world he felt he could never truly enter. I was a legitimate attorney in town. I treated him like an equal. And he “trafficked” in my name. It boosted his credibility. It made him feel connected to something bigger.
He was on a breathing machine when I stood beside him. I told him I was praying to the Jewish God while his family prayed to Jesus so we had the bases covered. He’d always liked that I was Jewish and he’d joke about it harmlessly.
When I told the same line to his family, they laughed and thanked me. And of course, a nephew pulled me aside to ask about an eviction. Naturally. He didn’t take no for an answer.
Story of my life.
I got to my car and cried.
I cried because he was a character in my show, and now he was gone.
I cried for his family.
I cried because he thought so much of me, he told everyone about our friendship.
After years of practice, you go through phases as a defense attorney, eagerness, burnout, cynicism, and then a return to the work because it matters again.
And it does matter.
Our interactions matter.
We are a bridge for many people into a world they only get to see through us.
We don’t realize how much weight our small acts carry.
I’m sad I was annoyed with him in my mind.
I’m grateful I was his friend.
And I hope, wherever he is, he knows I came to his side in the end.
Scott Weinberg practices with Suarez, Rios and Weinberg in Punta Gorda.
