Courting Disaster

Greetings friends.  Sorry this was late.  I have been happily playing dad and needed to keep the little monkey busy.  Have a great week.  See ya next Monday.

Court.  The eternal balancing act of justice.  I love court but honestly it can be like a circus.  You know, an occasional oddity displayed for all to see.  And lets not forget the clowns.  It is the clowns that make it interesting for me.  There are some downsides to court and not just for the foot-tapping defendant with his or her toothbrush in pocket waiting to see if they will be staying at the county of Marin subterranean bed and breakfast. 

No, the cops and I would argue attorney’s are vexed by a process that seems disorganized but is really harnessed frenetic energy of personalities, cultures, perspective, ego -oh and of course, the law.  It also has a certain addictive quality especially if you are the chess player and not one of the pawns.

Arrested Development.

Waiting all day on the court floor for defendants to stare you down after just getting off night-shift and wanting to sleep, sucks.  Dozing off on the stylish bench seats in the Frank Lloyd Wright spaceship building (As seen in the movie Gattica) with the submandibular secretion of saliva on your police report is just a bonus to the end of your interesting overnight shift.  The slow stringy droplet of electrolytes, mucus glycoproteins and enzymes are a challenge when you try to read the words beneath them now permanently out of focus as the toner deposit that created the type on the paper is fractured by your drool on the police report. 

Sticky Situation.

The sugar from the recent cup of coffee now potently mixed in some dark act of judicial and almighty sorcery with your saliva like some mysterious necromancy developed into a highly sweetened glue.  It falls from your face as gravity summons it from your lips after your head tilted forward for that moment you take a break and “rest” prior to testifying…The sugary glue is expended on the pages of your police report and make the pages stick together only to be discovered as you fumble on the witness-stand as you now rouse awake in front of the judge trying to pull apart page 2 from F-ing page 3! 

Red Ass.

The wonderful assortment of all innocent defendants arriving to court half dressed and some towing their babies to court a little sympathetic judicial motivator and public theater (He says with irreverence and disdain) and finally the end game – the “disposition” at times is a perpetual source of red-ass for me.

The idea that you can be put on probation a half dozen times or that you can violate it -3,4,5 times is lost on me.  I get the budget and how a healthy amount of people don’t belong in jail, so then maybe a little reform of some laws might be the magic pixie dust to sprinkle on all of us – or maybe sprinkled on me, so I don’t walk out of the hall of justice with a ream of paper clutched in my pissed off hands.  Paperwork the result of an all-nighter of interrogation now transcribed on what was once a great National Forest worth of trees sawed down to serve as my vehicle of documentation of some bad guy (or gal). 

Cold Pizza and Boxers.

I think of what is now a small baseball team of ex-girlfriends who waited patiently for me at some restaurant while some other guy made his move on them to mend the wound of stood-up disappointment while I met my obligation to do the right thing and prepared the report at the station, once again calling in my disappointing news.  

My friends and I are not the only inconvenienced servants to this little exercise.  The well-rested criminal, slightly disturbed by having to wake up at 8:30AM instead of noon who my pals and I were chasing the night before- (a real scream) and my catalyst for adventure into the “dark arts” and the impetus for buying a voodoo doll are not so happy too.  They will miss out on their ritual of Looney Tunes, or Judge Judy because of some silly crime they are accused of violating.   

Natural Fibers and Respect.

If you are summoned to the Hall of Justice for an appointment with people who went to school for a long time and wracked up student loans that their children will have to pay-off -to defend or prosecute you… have a little class and wear a freaking coat and tie!  Call me crazy but showing up in court – should require a button up shirt and shoes that might require polish from time to time.  If you’re Italian, you’re screwed.  Shirt, tie and coat baby.  All the time. 

I see the spirit of the haberdasher to the landfills when he or she makes an appearance each day on court floors across the nation as legions of “innocent” suspects flock to the “halls of justice” wearing their shorts or perhaps their size 67 pants (Jeans of course) with the crack of their ass exposed and the hair growing from between the almighty anatomical hemispherical gluetial great separator like a weed in full bloom.

Where is Mr. Blackwell when you need him?  For Christ sake this is Marin! Barbarians!

Yes, the printed shirts – billboards for the honorable man or woman (judge) who suffered through law school and the BAR exam with hundreds of hours of trial experience now elevated to that sacred altar of justice in their bespoke black robe (Armani I hope) should read and see your printed message of “If you see da cops Warn a Brother” smartly silk screened on a shirt with holes in it worn.  The shirt, usually worn by the next innocent man presented before him or her like some kind of judicial communion (Certainly not confession) – as his sponsor er, attorney squarely and stoically stands beside him earning every penny of court appointed dollars he or she can.

The hallway in front of the courtrooms is like some obscene fashion runway in Milan for the next oversized or undersized concept shirt and jeans to walk past.  The spirit of Versace and Halston are dead. 

Frankly, I like the show.  I am constantly blown away by the hair curlers, still in place, the XXXL white T-shirts on the 5-5 gangster who always…always makes a tooth sucking sound prior to answering even the simplest of questions.  I often wonder if there was a hidden camera somewhere on the court floor secretly placed by our enemy of the day, would the offending country du jour have turned their back and ran from wanting to take over this little slice of heaven?  (No offense court floor patrons…I think the same about Jerry Springer.)

Now the attorneys...that's another blog.  It is actually done.  With the exception of the ideologues look the part and almost qualify for honorary Italians. 

Of course, I could be wrong.   Stay safe.  Ralphy