Thursday, April 05, 2007
Here Comes The Judge, There Goes My Case
Well, that was a bust. All in all, the afternoon that started out holding a great deal of promise, both from the standpoint of venting my spleen and getting something done about her Kristiness and from getting a little free entertainment in on the side (at the expense of the others present for their day in court) turned out to be pretty much of a loss, and I feel rather like a deflated balloon.
The courtroom didn’t look much bigger than the classroom that housed my first grade class in 1963, so I’m guessing that this was Inferior Court rather than the Superior one. The place was absolutely jam-packed, seemingly with people who had bona fide business there rather than the press and your average court groupies.
First thing, the court clerk instructed everyone to turn off cell phones and pagers, warning us that the judge does not like to be interrupted by them and, should he hear one go off in his courtroom, he is likely to put the offender in jail for 20 days. (Would that we could do that when people come through line at my bookstore talking on the damned things while we are trying to conduct business!) People started scrambling into their purses and pockets to turn their electronic gizmos off, and even though I had already turned mine off before even going into the room, the mere threat of 20 days in jail was enough to make me double-check.
Second thing, the clerk told us where we would stand when the judge called our case, with the complainant (formerly known as plaintiff) on the right and the defendant on the left of the podium in front of the judge. She then said that because the judge could possibly literally hold the lives of these people in his hands, there was to be no talking whatsoever in the courtroom when the judge was in the courtroom, other than from those whom he was addressing, so if there are adults in the room who could not refrain from making comments or talking during the proceedings, they should leave the room or risk the wrath of the judge.
Third, the clerk said that we are all courteous to one another in this courtroom, and there would be no interrupting when someone is talking and no confrontational remarks. The tone she used brooked no argument, but it also sounded a little like Romper Room once removed, and I would not have been surprised if she had ended it with, “Now, children, play nice.”
Because I have a total terror of standing and speaking in front of large numbers of people (anything larger than three qualifies), I was hoping to have the luxury of observing a few of these episodes go by before it was my turn so as to see exactly how it was done and perhaps get an idea of what else not to do that the clerk might have omitted from her instructions. The more people who went before me, the less of a packed house I would play to, so this was a factor, as well. I also admit that as we were waiting for the games to begin, I was observing a few situations in the embryonic stages that I thought might be interesting to watch unfold, so I was hoping to see at least some dramas come to fruition. (No, I don’t stop at wrecks on the highway; why do you ask?)
One scenario was developing right before my eyes. A lady who sat down in front of me was having a very serious case of the twitchies, and was almost convulsing. I surmised this was an attack of nerves, since I was apprehensive about my own upcoming ordeal, even though I knew I was in the right. (DTs also came to mind, but I was not the judge there, so I didn’t.) When they began calling out the names of all the players, one man’s name was called and the person had trouble pronouncing it; the woman in front of me pronounced it for them, and the man didn’t answer the call. Obviously the flipside of why she was there. A few minutes later, a man entered the room and took the only empty seat in the place, a chair at the end of the bench where I was sitting. They asked him his name, and he said the name the woman in front of me had said previously. A little while later, another woman came in, wearing long, curled-under fingernails and other accoutrements of tackiness; when they asked if she had business here, she said no, she was “with” someone, located him in the court and came around to the other side of the guy in the chair beside me and we scooted down to make room for them to rotate. A few minutes later, the woman in front of me (the one with the severe twitchies) turned around and gave the two of them an “if looks could kill” glare and held it on them before turning back around. Presently the man said something to the woman with him, and the one in front of me turned around and hissed, “Liar!” So much for playing nice and not talking. A couple dozen possible plotlines went through my mind as to who they might be to each other and how this would play out, but alas, I didn’t get to stay and watch.
When the roll call was given, Kristi’s name was called and no one answered. I, of course, showed up with my CD, police reports, notes, photographs of my deck to show that even if the latticework weren’t in place, it’s much too close to the ground for anyone over the age of three to be hanging around under it and a couple of pictures to show that the latticework was in place when I bought the house, as well as a CD player upon which to play the 7-call CD in case they had no such in the courtroom. So being the first one called (but of course!), I had to climb over the people who were a soap opera waiting to happen, complete with my folder and purse and CD player.
The good news is that unlike almost every other occasion in my life when speaking before more than three people at a time, I didn’t hear my heart thundering in my ears like a teenager’s car radio turned up full-blast, my breathing was normal and the butterfly farm normally present in my gut on such occasions was blessedly absent.
The bad news is that the whole thing was a bust. The judge said since I don't know Kristi and can't prove that she is the one making the calls, I can't have her arrested. He is going to "look at this case a bit more" and ask the police to get "a little more involved and investigate some more", and get back in touch with me. I offered to let him listen to the CD and even take it with him if he didn’t want to hear it there in open court, and he declined. I came to the realization that it was a typical case of American blind justice, and there wasn't nothing he could do about it, and the judge wasn't going to look at the twenty seven eight-by-ten color glossy pictures with the circles and arrows and a paragraph on the back of each one explaining what each one was to be used as evidence against us. No, wait, where did that come from? (Apologies to Arlo Guthrie, but the whole thing just seemed so damned familiar, I had to include that!) In other words, I'm screwed. Thank you, judge, I appreciate throwing away $15 ($10 for filing and $5 for parking) and half a day's leave, for not one damned thing. So now I’m back to wait-and-see. The police would have had a lot more to go on if the judge had listened to the CD (the last policeman that answered my call to arms declined to listen to the extended dance version and listened only to the most recent call that was still in my voice mail), including the PI’s number, with which I can do absolutely nothing but which might have been at least moderately useful to the cops.
Since I would have had to take my purse and folder and CD player and climb back over the seething threesome to get back to the only vacant seat in the courtroom, I elected to make a graceful exit and not stay to watch the rest of the show.
I did realize later that the judge’s last name was the same as my great-grandmother’s maiden name; I wonder if things would have gone differently if I had asked him where his family was from and intimated that we might be forty-seventh cousins twice removed?
The courtroom didn’t look much bigger than the classroom that housed my first grade class in 1963, so I’m guessing that this was Inferior Court rather than the Superior one. The place was absolutely jam-packed, seemingly with people who had bona fide business there rather than the press and your average court groupies.
First thing, the court clerk instructed everyone to turn off cell phones and pagers, warning us that the judge does not like to be interrupted by them and, should he hear one go off in his courtroom, he is likely to put the offender in jail for 20 days. (Would that we could do that when people come through line at my bookstore talking on the damned things while we are trying to conduct business!) People started scrambling into their purses and pockets to turn their electronic gizmos off, and even though I had already turned mine off before even going into the room, the mere threat of 20 days in jail was enough to make me double-check.
Second thing, the clerk told us where we would stand when the judge called our case, with the complainant (formerly known as plaintiff) on the right and the defendant on the left of the podium in front of the judge. She then said that because the judge could possibly literally hold the lives of these people in his hands, there was to be no talking whatsoever in the courtroom when the judge was in the courtroom, other than from those whom he was addressing, so if there are adults in the room who could not refrain from making comments or talking during the proceedings, they should leave the room or risk the wrath of the judge.
Third, the clerk said that we are all courteous to one another in this courtroom, and there would be no interrupting when someone is talking and no confrontational remarks. The tone she used brooked no argument, but it also sounded a little like Romper Room once removed, and I would not have been surprised if she had ended it with, “Now, children, play nice.”
Because I have a total terror of standing and speaking in front of large numbers of people (anything larger than three qualifies), I was hoping to have the luxury of observing a few of these episodes go by before it was my turn so as to see exactly how it was done and perhaps get an idea of what else not to do that the clerk might have omitted from her instructions. The more people who went before me, the less of a packed house I would play to, so this was a factor, as well. I also admit that as we were waiting for the games to begin, I was observing a few situations in the embryonic stages that I thought might be interesting to watch unfold, so I was hoping to see at least some dramas come to fruition. (No, I don’t stop at wrecks on the highway; why do you ask?)
One scenario was developing right before my eyes. A lady who sat down in front of me was having a very serious case of the twitchies, and was almost convulsing. I surmised this was an attack of nerves, since I was apprehensive about my own upcoming ordeal, even though I knew I was in the right. (DTs also came to mind, but I was not the judge there, so I didn’t.) When they began calling out the names of all the players, one man’s name was called and the person had trouble pronouncing it; the woman in front of me pronounced it for them, and the man didn’t answer the call. Obviously the flipside of why she was there. A few minutes later, a man entered the room and took the only empty seat in the place, a chair at the end of the bench where I was sitting. They asked him his name, and he said the name the woman in front of me had said previously. A little while later, another woman came in, wearing long, curled-under fingernails and other accoutrements of tackiness; when they asked if she had business here, she said no, she was “with” someone, located him in the court and came around to the other side of the guy in the chair beside me and we scooted down to make room for them to rotate. A few minutes later, the woman in front of me (the one with the severe twitchies) turned around and gave the two of them an “if looks could kill” glare and held it on them before turning back around. Presently the man said something to the woman with him, and the one in front of me turned around and hissed, “Liar!” So much for playing nice and not talking. A couple dozen possible plotlines went through my mind as to who they might be to each other and how this would play out, but alas, I didn’t get to stay and watch.
When the roll call was given, Kristi’s name was called and no one answered. I, of course, showed up with my CD, police reports, notes, photographs of my deck to show that even if the latticework weren’t in place, it’s much too close to the ground for anyone over the age of three to be hanging around under it and a couple of pictures to show that the latticework was in place when I bought the house, as well as a CD player upon which to play the 7-call CD in case they had no such in the courtroom. So being the first one called (but of course!), I had to climb over the people who were a soap opera waiting to happen, complete with my folder and purse and CD player.
The good news is that unlike almost every other occasion in my life when speaking before more than three people at a time, I didn’t hear my heart thundering in my ears like a teenager’s car radio turned up full-blast, my breathing was normal and the butterfly farm normally present in my gut on such occasions was blessedly absent.
The bad news is that the whole thing was a bust. The judge said since I don't know Kristi and can't prove that she is the one making the calls, I can't have her arrested. He is going to "look at this case a bit more" and ask the police to get "a little more involved and investigate some more", and get back in touch with me. I offered to let him listen to the CD and even take it with him if he didn’t want to hear it there in open court, and he declined. I came to the realization that it was a typical case of American blind justice, and there wasn't nothing he could do about it, and the judge wasn't going to look at the twenty seven eight-by-ten color glossy pictures with the circles and arrows and a paragraph on the back of each one explaining what each one was to be used as evidence against us. No, wait, where did that come from? (Apologies to Arlo Guthrie, but the whole thing just seemed so damned familiar, I had to include that!) In other words, I'm screwed. Thank you, judge, I appreciate throwing away $15 ($10 for filing and $5 for parking) and half a day's leave, for not one damned thing. So now I’m back to wait-and-see. The police would have had a lot more to go on if the judge had listened to the CD (the last policeman that answered my call to arms declined to listen to the extended dance version and listened only to the most recent call that was still in my voice mail), including the PI’s number, with which I can do absolutely nothing but which might have been at least moderately useful to the cops.
Since I would have had to take my purse and folder and CD player and climb back over the seething threesome to get back to the only vacant seat in the courtroom, I elected to make a graceful exit and not stay to watch the rest of the show.
I did realize later that the judge’s last name was the same as my great-grandmother’s maiden name; I wonder if things would have gone differently if I had asked him where his family was from and intimated that we might be forty-seventh cousins twice removed?
Labels: Nutty Neighbors
# posted by Anne Arky @ 6:56 PM 
