JUDGE STANLEY WEISBERG WAS NOT at all happy with defense attorney Leslie Abramson. "You tend to shake your head negatively when the court rules against you," he said sternly. "You had better stop doing that, or the court is going to find you in contempt."

Abramson was neither contrite nor intimidated. She leaned back in her chair in the crowded Van Nuys, Calif., courtroom and folded her arms across her chest.

"Well, the court may be finding me in contempt pretty soon," she shot back. "Because I'm finding the court's rulings astonishingly biased."

Such aggressive tactics are Leslie Abramson at her best—or worst, depending on your point of view. Described by an admirer as "a tough little minx" and by one of her detractors as "a fabulous trial lawyer and a horrible human being," Abramson is the undisputed legal star of the highly publicized trial of Erik and Lyle Menendez, who face the gas chamber for killing their wealthy parents in 1989.

Her skillful approach may draw the wrath of judges and prosecutors, but it tends to work. In 14 high-profile capital murder trials, only one of her clients received the death penalty. "Maybe they're used to people rolling over and putting their feet in the air and playing dead," she says. "But I don't think that's representing my client."

Abramson, 50, is pushing the boundaries of defense strategy for her client, Erik, 22, and, by extension, Lyle, 25, who has his own lawyers. The brothers readily admit they shot their mother and father. But the defense argues that they did not commit the crime for money, as the prosecution contends, but rather in self-defense, much like an abused wife who kills to protect herself from further torment at the hands of her spouse. Last week, Abramson coaxed Erik Menendez through painful, emotional testimony about the sordid sexual abuse the brothers claim led them to shoot their parents 15 times with two 12-gauge shotguns.

During breaks, Abramson often stroked Erik's hair, whispered in his ear or flicked lint off his shirt. Last week such behavior prompted Judge Weisberg to warn her that lawyers should act like "professionals, not nursemaids or surrogate mothers." Abramson denies she has become maternal about either brother. "That's one of the myths, one of the vast piles of B.S., that if you're a woman, you get emotionally attached to your clients, but if you're a man, you don't," she says. Besides, she adds, "I don't think Erik and Lyle have a good enough experience with a mother to see anyone as a wise mother [figure]. I think that's one of the tragedies here. They don't have any parent models who are whole-some or who could be a source of support."

Abramson was born in New York City during World War II, the second of three children. Though her father all but abandoned the family when she was 6. Leslie found a role model in her grandmother, Fanny Kaprow, a left-leaning organizer for the International Ladies' Garment Workers' Union. "She believed in women making their own way," Abramson says. "She was willful and stubborn."

During the '60s, Abramson married a pharmacist and moved to California, enrolling at UCLA law school just after her daughter, Laine, now 28, was born. In 1969 she divorced her husband and joined the Los Angeles public defender's office. "Because I was raised to have empathy for ground-down people, it was easy to become their lawyer," she says. "I didn't judge them."

Eight years later she went into lucrative private practice. That same year she married Tim Rutten, now a national correspondent for the Los Angeles Times. It was a whirlwind courtship—lasting only two months—and a whirlwind wedding. They got the judge presiding over one of Abramson's murder trials to marry them in his chambers during the lunch hour. After California reinstated the death penalty in 1977, Abramson began handling capital cases. "If someone is going to die, it's serious business," she says. "I guess the peril brings out the rescuer impulse in me." (In the Menendez case, Abramson's $1 million retainer and fees are being paid by the boys' family.)

Now her task is to save Erik and Lyle. If they get off, as she hopes, she doubts she will ever see them again. "I've represented a lot of really nice people who should go on with their lives," she says. "They don't have to stay attached to me. I'm trouble. I'm part of the worst part of their lives. Sometimes they'll say, 'Oh, I'll never forget you. I'll write you.' And I'll say, 'You don't want to do that. Put that behind you. I'm the plumber. I fix the plumbing. Now the house is running. Go live.' "

DAVID ELLIS
JOHNNY DODD and LYNDON STAMBLER in Van Nuys