✏️ Legal Pad
A Subpoena Is Not an Invitation to Tea
A South Carolina judge recently held “podcaster” Mandy Matney in civil contempt after she failed to appear for a deposition in litigation connected to the Murdaugh boat crash case.
The result was not subtle.
The court ordered her to pay $171,500 in attorneys’ fees and costs, plus a $5,000 fine, after finding that she deliberately disregarded a valid subpoena and a prior court order requiring her deposition to go forward.
That is an expensive way to learn a very simple lesson:
A subpoena is not an invitation to tea.
It is not a scheduling preference. It is not a polite suggestion. It is not something you can respond to by deciding you would rather appear from somewhere else because you find the noticed location inconvenient, uncomfortable, or insufficiently aligned with your personal brand.
A subpoena is a command backed by the power of the court.
That does not mean subpoenas are immune from challenge. They are not. If a subpoena is improper, burdensome, abusive, overbroad, or legally defective, there are ways to fight it. You move to quash. You seek a protective order. You ask the court for relief.
What you do not do is lose those fights and then decide the subpoena no longer applies.
That’s where people get into trouble.
Courts are generally patient with legitimate disputes. They are far less patient with defiance dressed up as principle. Once a judge orders you to appear, the conversation changes. At that point, you are no longer arguing about whether the subpoena should have been issued. You are arguing about whether you have to obey a court order.
And that is usually a bad place to be standing.
There is also a broader point here. Litigation only works if the machinery of the system is respected. Parties and witnesses do not get to decide unilaterally which obligations feel valid. The whole point of having courts is that disputes over those obligations get decided by judges.
Not by vibes.
Not by press releases.
Not by social media posts.
By judges.
A subpoena may not arrive with a silver tray and finger sandwiches, but it carries something far more serious: consequences.
Ignore one at your peril.
💡 Sidebar
Lawyer Tip No. 26: “My Esteemed Colleague”
Judges hate being referees in fights between lawyers.
They did not go to law school, become lawyers, practice for decades, get appointed or elected to the bench, and put on the robe so they could spend their mornings listening to two adults argue like children over who started it.
Which is why, during hearings, I try very hard not to look like I am fighting. Even when I am.
That brings us to one of my favorite phrases in the law: “My esteemed colleague.”
It is beautiful.
It sounds respectful. It sounds professional. It sounds like something you might say before handing someone an award at a bar luncheon. In reality, it is the legal version of “bless your heart.” Everyone in the room knows what it means.
The judge knows.
Opposing counsel knows.
The court reporter knows.
The bailiff probably knows.
When a lawyer says, “My esteemed colleague appears to misunderstand the law,” what he really means is: this man has brought shame upon the profession and should not be trusted with unlaminated menus, much less legal pleadings.
But it sounds nice. And that matters.
Because tone is half the battle in court. Judges are much more receptive to lawyers who can make their points without looking like they are personally offended by the existence of the other side. If you can calmly explain why opposing counsel is wrong, unreasonable, procedurally backwards, and currently wasting everyone’s time while still calling him “my esteemed colleague,” you have performed a small act of courtroom judo.
You get to make the point.
You get to preserve the record.
And you get to avoid becoming the lawyer the judge is quietly tired of seeing.
So yes, be forceful. Be precise. Be aggressive when the moment calls for it. But be polite while you do it.
After all, nothing cuts quite like courtesy.
⚖️ Closing Arguments
I got to see my best friend from law school, Zak, recently when I was in Columbia for a hearing.
After court, I went over to their house and got to spend the evening hanging out with him and his wife, and their almost two-year-old son, Worth.
Worth is currently in the Hot Wheels stage of life, which is to say he is operating at an extremely high level. A small man fully committed to the automotive arts.
At some point, it came up that I am looking to get rid of my 20-plus-year-old Z4 convertible (Editor’s note: my loving wife is looking to get rid of my 20-plus-year-old Z4 convertible). It’s old, impractical, unnecessary, and exactly the sort of thing a responsible adult would move along from without turning it into a family-law-adjacent property dispute.
Naturally, I told Zak and Elle that I was just going to deed it to Worth. Shockingly, Elle gave the green light.
This was unexpected. Elle is smart, reasonable, and generally far too well-adjusted to endorse this type of nonsense. But the record is clear: permission was granted. And once permission has been granted in the presence of witnesses, I consider the matter legally binding.
Zak may try to become the voice of reason. He may say things like “he is not old enough to drive” or “this is wildly unnecessary” or “please do not transfer a German convertible to my toddler.”
All fair points.
Which is why I have developed a workaround.
I plan to deed the vehicle to “Worth Dean Linowski, care of Thomas A. Haffey, Esq.”
Tommy cakes is another one of our best friends from law school, and I can think of no better trustee for a toddler-owned sports car than a lawyer who will immediately understand the assignment and make the situation worse in all the right ways.
They have no idea what they are getting into. But I do. And I am delighted.
Friendship changes as you get older. It becomes harder to see people. Harder to coordinate schedules. Harder to find entire evenings where everyone can sit around a table and tell the same stories again.
But every now and then, you get one of those nights where the years collapse a little.
You remember law school.
You remember the people who knew you before the business cards, before the kids, before the mortgages, before everyone became a slightly more tired version of themselves.
And then you look across the room at your friend’s son pushing toy cars around the floor and realize that the obvious next step is estate planning for a roadster.
Life moves fast. And so will Worth.
Court is in recess- see you next Friday.
