Sometimes you need time to absorb. Sometimes you have to step back and take a deep breath. Sometimes you have to take the opportunity to be on record when it is your one free pass to tell it like it is.
Friday was that day for me. When defense counsel begins projectile regurgitation of lies in the courtroom sometimes you take the opportunity to go on record acknowledging their bologna sandwich. This was my moment and I own it.
As case number twelve of the docket was called the stench of cheap bologna was coming up the isles with co-defendants' defense counsel. When they opened their mouths it began spewing out. And I called it. Defense counsel flat out lied to the court saying that he had not had any return phone calls from me. I log everything. He had over 46 calls from me in the past 45 days. I was diligent. I had just talked to him the day before. And out it came, "You can lie to me all you want in the hallway and I may have to pretend to consider your bologna sandwiches, but DO NOT come into the Court room and lie. Not in my court."
Yes I have had it. I said it quick and fast and I was not corrected by the Judge so I know that I wasn't that wrong. The hearing took less than 10 minutes and yet another continuance on the dragging and lingering of what could have very easily been resolved.
Walking out of he courtroom I could feel my blood pumping through my brain. I could feel my head throbbing and as I left the building I was blinded by electric pink dreadlocks and a fashion show of just plain bad. And then I took my deep breath, and decided it was Friday and my only plans the rest of the day were for my vacation next week. I choose to be in a beautiful place and I choose to leave the drama and Jerry Springer Courthouse showcase behind. I am certain, it will be here just as it is when I return.
Saturday, February 19, 2011
Wednesday, February 16, 2011
What Is Your Calendar?
Today I telecommuted because it is my day for that and because I can enjoy the preview of Spring which is just like the anticipation of opening Christmas presents while waiting for baseball in the stadium to begin.
Enjoying the outdoors exercising along the paths of the Potomac is truly beautiful and I must say that in the Palisades it escalates your feeling of safety and security so that you do not even realize you are in DC. That sense of security and rest can be pleasant but the reality and link to the real world is really not there at all. This is where I want to be today, far away from work because tomorrow will be back to the bowels.
Tomorrow is the scheduled trial date for a Defendant that has no common sense. The trial date will not proceed because he has had four different attorneys and has done everything to sabotage his own case. The trial date will end up becoming a status date, thus dragging it on for yet another season. This Defendant has sat in jail for nearly three years. He was offered a plea at the beginning where he would have been out of jail in less than six months, but instead he has chosen to go to trial and spent more than six times what he would have served on the plea before he even goes to trial. When he goes to trial he will be found guilty and he will likely spend the next 25 years in a federal prison. This is not a way for a nineteen year old to begin their adult life, but he started his behavior long before the state allows drivers' permit.
I look at my calendar and all I can do is flip forward looking at the next dates and weeks that I will be soon traveling to Spring Training. Baseball has become a way for me to get through one week to the next with something to look forward to. By the time that the regular season starts I have the entire home stand schedule memorized and adopt that as my calendar. I do not refer to weeks and dates but rather the games with names of each series. It would be Philly, The Cubs, The Mets, etc. and then I measure time with the series and that gets me through the weeks to come.
Spring Training is right around the corner and soon I will be in my own season of Christmas with every game a new present!
Enjoying the outdoors exercising along the paths of the Potomac is truly beautiful and I must say that in the Palisades it escalates your feeling of safety and security so that you do not even realize you are in DC. That sense of security and rest can be pleasant but the reality and link to the real world is really not there at all. This is where I want to be today, far away from work because tomorrow will be back to the bowels.
Tomorrow is the scheduled trial date for a Defendant that has no common sense. The trial date will not proceed because he has had four different attorneys and has done everything to sabotage his own case. The trial date will end up becoming a status date, thus dragging it on for yet another season. This Defendant has sat in jail for nearly three years. He was offered a plea at the beginning where he would have been out of jail in less than six months, but instead he has chosen to go to trial and spent more than six times what he would have served on the plea before he even goes to trial. When he goes to trial he will be found guilty and he will likely spend the next 25 years in a federal prison. This is not a way for a nineteen year old to begin their adult life, but he started his behavior long before the state allows drivers' permit.
I look at my calendar and all I can do is flip forward looking at the next dates and weeks that I will be soon traveling to Spring Training. Baseball has become a way for me to get through one week to the next with something to look forward to. By the time that the regular season starts I have the entire home stand schedule memorized and adopt that as my calendar. I do not refer to weeks and dates but rather the games with names of each series. It would be Philly, The Cubs, The Mets, etc. and then I measure time with the series and that gets me through the weeks to come.
Spring Training is right around the corner and soon I will be in my own season of Christmas with every game a new present!
Tuesday, February 15, 2011
When You Are 911
Regular bond hearings could potentially be a routine day but not in the bowels of our court system. Reality is often said to be better than fiction and today not even a marathon of SVU can beat this twist.
Valentine's Day is over, but the wearing of the green and every shade and variation of it has started a bit early. While the green defendant stands by her attorney on his bond motion to adjust the condition of her bond, I listen carefully. This one just might be a good one. The appearance alone made me take notice, usually it's only the preview of wackiness; today I am right.
Even the Defendant's nails were a bight limey frosted green specially planned and coordinated to wrongfully compliment her collage of green from head to toe including her green croc embossed pleather six inch stilettos with a gold heel. With that, a ruffled green eyelet skirt over a green leather mini and a green rabbit fur vest. Suddenly she starts addressing the court. I say addressing, but it was definitely ranting. She says, "This is interfering with my freedom and I have to be in Germany to perform. This is interfering with my ability to earn a living." The Judge asks her to explain and questions the German reference. She explains in her understanding but not his, "I am an entertainer and I go back and forth. I have to be able to go there." They go back and forth about need and necessity and the Judge is not buying it. He then hears from the government for their opposition and they are vehemently opposed to the motion. The Defendant starts going crazy. The Judge quiets her. The government asks to put on their witness and the Judge agrees to give them 30 minutes for a hearing at the end of the docket. The Defendant starts screaming her opposition, "You ain't got no withness. You be talking crazy cuz I know you aint got no witness." The motion is to be heard at the end of the docket. This one seems to be worth staying for.
The end of the docket approaches and I make sure to pop my head back in the courtroom. I have seen and heard the Defendant arguing with the attorney in the hallway. She claims the government must have a useless made up witness. I cannot figure out what the case is about but she seems rather firm and stubborn about it. I sit in the back of the courtroom wanting to listen to what on earth this reality Court episode holds.
The Judge starts the matter back on record. The Defendant's attorney makes his statement for the record. The government then tells the judge that they have three witnesses. The Defendant says, "Hell no, they said one. They can't change." The judge asks if it will take more time and is told no, it should be very brief. The Judge says, please call your first witness.
The first witness is an officer that takes the stand. He looks very young but well poised. He takes the stand and is asked a number or questions setting up the occurrence. He is then asked what he did when he got to the scene and he says, "I said somebody call 911." The government asked, "What?" He explained "As embarassing as it is, that is what I said. I had only been on the job three days and I had never seen anything like it in my life. " Then he explained that he realized he was 911. He went on to describe a horrific crime scene where a man was lying in a pool of blood with his innards being held in my the victim doubled over grasping himself in pain. He described the cut from stem to stern, how the paramedics arrived, then how he himself stepped out and became ill.
The second witness was another officer that was on scene describing the same. The defendant and her attorney were whispering to each other loud enough that I could hear the general jist of, "this is nothing that hurts you or connects you to this." The government then asks for a few minutes for the next witness. There is a slight pause and it is for the witness to come out of the witness room and walk into the court.
The next witness walks slowing into the court with two people on each side and a metal pole on wheels with an IV and colostomy bag attached. The Defendant was not looking, until the victim got closer to the stand. Then even I could not have seen this coming. The defendant stood up and squealed, "What the hell, I thought I killed you!" She turned into a rage of disbelief screaming and cursing in the court. The marshals stood behind her waiting for direction from the Judge. The last witness never had to take the stand and the bond modification was not granted, but instead the Defendant's bond was revoked.
Monday, February 14, 2011
Pitch and Catch Your Valentine
Jim Riggleman gave me the perfect Valentine today. When you expect nothing, everything becomes a pleasant surprise. Today I already had the best Valentine from Jim Riggleman -- pitchers and catchers reported to Spring Training. It was springlike weather in DC and to my surprise someone arrived back on a red eye flight just so they could take me to lunch. I had expected nothing today and I seemed so much more calm than my colleagues and friends.
Happiness filled my day today. Meanwhile I witnessed people that had the whole day of anticipation for what turned out to be an evening full of hype overflowing the with failed expectations, unrealistic expectations and let down.
I had a fabulously unexpected lunch in a nice quiet tucked away neighborhood restaurant. I did not even acknowledge that it was Valentine's Day and I wish that the waitress hadn't. It makes it awkward when you have a lot of other things going on, and you want to let the person you are with point that out.
So after a great lunch and personal lessons at the shooting range, I went for a good run along the canals of the Potomac. It was a beautiful day and I had already had my acknowledgement from someone that usually fails to do so, which was a very big deal. My treat at the end of my run was a much needed latte at Starbucks. I walked in the door and within seconds the power went out and it went completely black, so no latte.
Nearing the dinner hour, the entire neighborhood was pockets of darkness. Suddenly there is a whole new use for candles other than romance. I am saddened not to be able to go home and watch MLB network or check my email and my baseball teams' home pages, but I can have a candlelight evening at home and practice my grips on the baseball Stan Kasten signed for me and gave me at the last game. I can be the little kid that is most excited about the approach of Spring and how to me that means baseball.
I smile at the end of my day knowing that I have already had my Valentine's Day with nothing but happiness. I feel happy and fulfilled because more than a box of chocolates or flowers on this day, the best thing is really the beginning of this year's baseball!
Happiness filled my day today. Meanwhile I witnessed people that had the whole day of anticipation for what turned out to be an evening full of hype overflowing the with failed expectations, unrealistic expectations and let down.
I had a fabulously unexpected lunch in a nice quiet tucked away neighborhood restaurant. I did not even acknowledge that it was Valentine's Day and I wish that the waitress hadn't. It makes it awkward when you have a lot of other things going on, and you want to let the person you are with point that out.
So after a great lunch and personal lessons at the shooting range, I went for a good run along the canals of the Potomac. It was a beautiful day and I had already had my acknowledgement from someone that usually fails to do so, which was a very big deal. My treat at the end of my run was a much needed latte at Starbucks. I walked in the door and within seconds the power went out and it went completely black, so no latte.
Nearing the dinner hour, the entire neighborhood was pockets of darkness. Suddenly there is a whole new use for candles other than romance. I am saddened not to be able to go home and watch MLB network or check my email and my baseball teams' home pages, but I can have a candlelight evening at home and practice my grips on the baseball Stan Kasten signed for me and gave me at the last game. I can be the little kid that is most excited about the approach of Spring and how to me that means baseball.
I smile at the end of my day knowing that I have already had my Valentine's Day with nothing but happiness. I feel happy and fulfilled because more than a box of chocolates or flowers on this day, the best thing is really the beginning of this year's baseball!
Sunday, February 13, 2011
The Eve of Yet Another Hallmark Holiday
I am sure that many a person today scurried about trying to find something for their special Valentine tomorrow. There is all this built up expectation and requirement that spoils the holiday more than anything. The whole romantic gesture would be so much better if it was on any other day, and it would be more unique and mean more.
For all the happiness and joy and excitement it brings for many, it brings the same upset, regret and anxiety to others. Personally, I hide on Valentines Day. It is best described as contrasting to the person on Halloween who does not want to pass out the candy and sits home alone with the lights out. I just don't think that it is a good time; with all the over expected anticipation for something bigger or something that is not there, there is let down if you participate, so I don't.
I could tell you stories, and romantic nightmares. There is the story of the guy that put a ring on a girls' finger and said, "How do you think it looks?" She was stunned, but not as stunned when he said, "I wanted to see how it looked on nice hands before I give it to Debbie because she has stubby hands." Yes that is a true story. It happened. And then there is cupid karma that hit him when he went to Debbie and she told him. "I met someone else in the elevator." Serves him right and no I will not console you or feed your fish while you are on a broken heart bachelor trip drowning your sorrows and gaining liquid courage for anything you can score. Then there are the stories that go from broken hearts to revenge and rage. We have all heard about them, or possibly had our version of what we think was a tragic Valentine's Day.
It's all hype. It is cute that all the elementary school kids will practice their penmanship and address a Valentine to each classmate. It is wonderful when a kid brings one home to their parents or someone to whom they want to point out is their special person. I have had that joy of a three year old pointing out that they loved me more than any one else and it is quite flattering to have a three year old have a crush on you! But the reality is that for as much happiness and joy that it brings for many, it brings pain and upset for many more.
Tomorrow across The District there will be domestic calls, ranging from serious to nuisance to humor. Some of the calls will be the reporting of someone not showing up because someone thought they should; to the person that is insanely jealous and knows that there is someone else so they cause drama. Others will be for retaliation. These calls will end up in a broken hearted arraignment docket and can range from delusion to lack of common sense to plain jealously and rage.
I will go to bed and sleep soundly tonight because I have no expectations and am quite happy about it. If everyone could adopt that attitude they may find things to be a little happier for both themselves and their Valentine.
For all the happiness and joy and excitement it brings for many, it brings the same upset, regret and anxiety to others. Personally, I hide on Valentines Day. It is best described as contrasting to the person on Halloween who does not want to pass out the candy and sits home alone with the lights out. I just don't think that it is a good time; with all the over expected anticipation for something bigger or something that is not there, there is let down if you participate, so I don't.
I could tell you stories, and romantic nightmares. There is the story of the guy that put a ring on a girls' finger and said, "How do you think it looks?" She was stunned, but not as stunned when he said, "I wanted to see how it looked on nice hands before I give it to Debbie because she has stubby hands." Yes that is a true story. It happened. And then there is cupid karma that hit him when he went to Debbie and she told him. "I met someone else in the elevator." Serves him right and no I will not console you or feed your fish while you are on a broken heart bachelor trip drowning your sorrows and gaining liquid courage for anything you can score. Then there are the stories that go from broken hearts to revenge and rage. We have all heard about them, or possibly had our version of what we think was a tragic Valentine's Day.
It's all hype. It is cute that all the elementary school kids will practice their penmanship and address a Valentine to each classmate. It is wonderful when a kid brings one home to their parents or someone to whom they want to point out is their special person. I have had that joy of a three year old pointing out that they loved me more than any one else and it is quite flattering to have a three year old have a crush on you! But the reality is that for as much happiness and joy that it brings for many, it brings pain and upset for many more.
Tomorrow across The District there will be domestic calls, ranging from serious to nuisance to humor. Some of the calls will be the reporting of someone not showing up because someone thought they should; to the person that is insanely jealous and knows that there is someone else so they cause drama. Others will be for retaliation. These calls will end up in a broken hearted arraignment docket and can range from delusion to lack of common sense to plain jealously and rage.
I will go to bed and sleep soundly tonight because I have no expectations and am quite happy about it. If everyone could adopt that attitude they may find things to be a little happier for both themselves and their Valentine.
Saturday, February 12, 2011
What Would Your Theme Song Be?
Making preparations for Spring Training puts a smile on my face knowing that it will not be long before I am once again sitting with my baseball friends and having yet another season of batting music. Yes, I said it, batting music. It is almost a way of marketing yourself these days as a player; you get a theme song.
Regardless of the failure to retain Adam Dunn or Josh Willingham, I get a twangy smile when a Zac Brown song is on the radio. When I hear certain songs, it pops a slide show of being behind home plate watching Adam bat up close and personal. The music relationship to the player has taken on a life of its own. I have every Kings of Leon CD in both iPod and old fashioned CD version. When a new CD is released I buy it the day it is released almost as a patriotic ritual to Ryan Zimmerman and my happiness with him being the face of the Nationals for another year.
Knowing that within a few weeks I will be seeing my baseball family puts a great happiness on my face. It is almost as though we have a self created Spring Break for working professionals who have worked hard all through the winter to indulge in our baseball addiction. Sure, we will be there for the baseball games, but we will also have beach time, pool time and great dinners and cocktails; all of which require the annual shopping and preparation.
The connection to a suburban shopping mall has never appealed to me, but today I may have figured out why they were actually created. This creation is so selfish and yet brilliant that I have concluded it that it was never planned or thought out. It is actually quite possible that subconsciously there is more to how and why they were built than the builders even know.
Shopping in the city walking in and out of varying boutiques, I see varying homeless people. It is cold, but a warmer day than we are used to in the past few weeks of this winter. I may feel warm and comfortable with just a light jacket and scarf, but I have not been chilled to the bone day after day wondering where I will get some coffee or something that is not even my choice to eat. I have approached my day coming out of a warm bed in a nice house, and freshly showered with varying choices of clothes. I chose not to eat breakfast, but that was my option.
One man on M Street always makes me smile with the creativity in his cardboard signs, usually saying, "Need internet connection. Please help." You have to smile. You know that he has not lost everything, he still has his wit. I always get him a hot cup of coffee at Starbucks and give him a prepaid gift card which will enable him to get more coffee and a sandwich of his choice. When I do this he always recognizes me, smiles and says thank you. I walk on about my business running my errands and focusing on my mission, usually; but not today.
I go in the first store looking for new swimsuits and various other things that are being put in the front windows with the anticipation of Spring. I do not flinch at the thought of spending over a hundred bucks for less than a quarter yard of spandex to barely cover those parts that would be otherwise considered nudity; its less than one baseball game on my season tickets. I go to the next store and find a great dress to wear to dinner which cost more than the monthly car payment on my first car out of college. Leisurely walking from store to store I am passing various homeless people who are registering that it is nearing sunset and they need to find somewhere warm for the night; a place to be safe, and sleep. By the time I finish my errands, it is beginning to get dark and I attempt to go home.
Going up the steps I am doing my usual "rush to the front door to bolt through and race straight to the bathroom without taking my coat off." Not today. I cannot find my keys. Bobbing from foot to foot, I turn by bag inside out emptying it on my front steps and. . . . nothing. I have locked myself out.
Starbucks to the rescue! I dash into my usual Starbucks with a mad dash to the bathroom as though it is my own house. I made it. Barely, but I did. Whew! So I order my coffee, buy a newspaper and plant myself at a warm cozy table in the corner. No one around me knows anything is wrong because judging this book by the cover it does not look like anything is. I call a locksmith, and I have to wait for three hours. The three hours is fine, I am warm; but I realize in two hours Starbucks closes. I will be sitting on the steps in the cold waiting for my locksmith, because my cell phone battery is about to die. It is beeping at me and my phone shuts down abandoning me.
In the time without my phone, and knowing that in two hours I will be out in the cold, my mind constantly races back to the people I saw sitting on the sidewalk today. They were not sitting inside any Starbucks when it was open because they could not. I start becoming overcome with the realization that I take my morning shower (or the choice not to take one) for granted. I had the ability to make phone calls and I had the ability to call someone who could come and aid the situation. I had the ability to buy coffee and sit inside and be welcome because my appearance and scent was the customer norm and not upsetting the flow of business. I had that ability, and other people do not.
Looking back at my day after getting back in my warm house and turning on my computer, I think about what a baseball game means to me. I think about how that is my indulgence and it is not even considered a treat. On a bet with Stan Kasten, I have attended every home game for the past two years in a row. I think about how while I am at baseball games in beautiful Nationals Stadium sitting directly behind home plate and having a beer with a Judge or two, someone else possibly right outside the stadium is going hungry or not having any place to go.
I have a different experience today than others did going to a local suburban shopping mall where the stores are contained in a pretty building with inside walkways. People walking and shopping and happily scurrying about in a mall are being sold the image of a perfect world. When you only see pretty, you indulge more. You have been affected by marketing psychology in more ways that even the marketing architects planned. You have had blinders put on for you whether you knew it or not.
Regardless of the failure to retain Adam Dunn or Josh Willingham, I get a twangy smile when a Zac Brown song is on the radio. When I hear certain songs, it pops a slide show of being behind home plate watching Adam bat up close and personal. The music relationship to the player has taken on a life of its own. I have every Kings of Leon CD in both iPod and old fashioned CD version. When a new CD is released I buy it the day it is released almost as a patriotic ritual to Ryan Zimmerman and my happiness with him being the face of the Nationals for another year.
Knowing that within a few weeks I will be seeing my baseball family puts a great happiness on my face. It is almost as though we have a self created Spring Break for working professionals who have worked hard all through the winter to indulge in our baseball addiction. Sure, we will be there for the baseball games, but we will also have beach time, pool time and great dinners and cocktails; all of which require the annual shopping and preparation.
The connection to a suburban shopping mall has never appealed to me, but today I may have figured out why they were actually created. This creation is so selfish and yet brilliant that I have concluded it that it was never planned or thought out. It is actually quite possible that subconsciously there is more to how and why they were built than the builders even know.
Shopping in the city walking in and out of varying boutiques, I see varying homeless people. It is cold, but a warmer day than we are used to in the past few weeks of this winter. I may feel warm and comfortable with just a light jacket and scarf, but I have not been chilled to the bone day after day wondering where I will get some coffee or something that is not even my choice to eat. I have approached my day coming out of a warm bed in a nice house, and freshly showered with varying choices of clothes. I chose not to eat breakfast, but that was my option.
One man on M Street always makes me smile with the creativity in his cardboard signs, usually saying, "Need internet connection. Please help." You have to smile. You know that he has not lost everything, he still has his wit. I always get him a hot cup of coffee at Starbucks and give him a prepaid gift card which will enable him to get more coffee and a sandwich of his choice. When I do this he always recognizes me, smiles and says thank you. I walk on about my business running my errands and focusing on my mission, usually; but not today.
I go in the first store looking for new swimsuits and various other things that are being put in the front windows with the anticipation of Spring. I do not flinch at the thought of spending over a hundred bucks for less than a quarter yard of spandex to barely cover those parts that would be otherwise considered nudity; its less than one baseball game on my season tickets. I go to the next store and find a great dress to wear to dinner which cost more than the monthly car payment on my first car out of college. Leisurely walking from store to store I am passing various homeless people who are registering that it is nearing sunset and they need to find somewhere warm for the night; a place to be safe, and sleep. By the time I finish my errands, it is beginning to get dark and I attempt to go home.
Going up the steps I am doing my usual "rush to the front door to bolt through and race straight to the bathroom without taking my coat off." Not today. I cannot find my keys. Bobbing from foot to foot, I turn by bag inside out emptying it on my front steps and. . . . nothing. I have locked myself out.
Starbucks to the rescue! I dash into my usual Starbucks with a mad dash to the bathroom as though it is my own house. I made it. Barely, but I did. Whew! So I order my coffee, buy a newspaper and plant myself at a warm cozy table in the corner. No one around me knows anything is wrong because judging this book by the cover it does not look like anything is. I call a locksmith, and I have to wait for three hours. The three hours is fine, I am warm; but I realize in two hours Starbucks closes. I will be sitting on the steps in the cold waiting for my locksmith, because my cell phone battery is about to die. It is beeping at me and my phone shuts down abandoning me.
In the time without my phone, and knowing that in two hours I will be out in the cold, my mind constantly races back to the people I saw sitting on the sidewalk today. They were not sitting inside any Starbucks when it was open because they could not. I start becoming overcome with the realization that I take my morning shower (or the choice not to take one) for granted. I had the ability to make phone calls and I had the ability to call someone who could come and aid the situation. I had the ability to buy coffee and sit inside and be welcome because my appearance and scent was the customer norm and not upsetting the flow of business. I had that ability, and other people do not.
Looking back at my day after getting back in my warm house and turning on my computer, I think about what a baseball game means to me. I think about how that is my indulgence and it is not even considered a treat. On a bet with Stan Kasten, I have attended every home game for the past two years in a row. I think about how while I am at baseball games in beautiful Nationals Stadium sitting directly behind home plate and having a beer with a Judge or two, someone else possibly right outside the stadium is going hungry or not having any place to go.
I have a different experience today than others did going to a local suburban shopping mall where the stores are contained in a pretty building with inside walkways. People walking and shopping and happily scurrying about in a mall are being sold the image of a perfect world. When you only see pretty, you indulge more. You have been affected by marketing psychology in more ways that even the marketing architects planned. You have had blinders put on for you whether you knew it or not.
Friday, February 11, 2011
The Unintended And Unmarked Footprints In Our Lives
People can be villians and try to take a lot from you; but you cannot let them take what makes you, you. Everything that you see and every interaction you have has a footprint on your life in some way. Seeing an accident, an act of kindness or a crime impacts every person in different ways. People interpret and filter things differently. We all have filters, it is just a matter of whether they are Britta's, Pur, Zero Water or the the reliance of the mass filter at the public water treatment facility on the tap water.
Often not having any direct involvement in a matter other than the preparation and trial gets you as emotionally involved as a family member, regardless of whether you wanted it. Sometimes a case is like that relative that you just have to deal with at every family reunion that no one really wants to see. Sometimes that case eats at you because you know there is something more to it.
On any sentencing day it is always upsetting. The upset reaches far past the Defendant and the victims' families. In every courtroom on every floor there may be sentencing taken place where there will always be happy and sad people and often many overcome with emotion. In many ways people view it as resolve and being over, but for many the result has just begun.
I look around the courtrooms on sentencing days and I see more victims than the complainant. I see victims on both sides of the aisle. The Defendant goes into custody and the life of everyone one around him changes. The grandmother who already lives on a fixed income that does not make ends meet will go without even more to send money for a commissary account, she will incur the most expensive long distance collect call fees, and she will have a heartache and grief filled guilt that overcomes everything that she thought was. The emptiness in her face only is magnified by the flow of her tears while she sits with perfect posture in her best church clothes. The children are now alone in the world with one parent or often a grandparent as the sole support of their family with no financial or emotional support. The already tight belt around the finances that has suffocated every breath of hope has now been tightened. Other friends and family will incur and accept other related responsibilities; but the child will never have a bond with this parent.
Down the hall in another courtroom a mother is reading her impact statement to the Court. She is overcome with an upset and grief that has sped up the natural aging process ten fold. A man that was convicted of killing her daughter is then sentenced to sixty years in prison added to the time he is already serving for something else.
At the end of the day we all go to our respective homes and kick off our shoes. Every step each of us takes is different. Some on carpet that leaves a mark, some on tile or stone, some on hardwood, others on concrete; but what is the same for all of us is how everyone one around us has an impact in our lives in some ways, even if unintended and by observation.
Often not having any direct involvement in a matter other than the preparation and trial gets you as emotionally involved as a family member, regardless of whether you wanted it. Sometimes a case is like that relative that you just have to deal with at every family reunion that no one really wants to see. Sometimes that case eats at you because you know there is something more to it.
On any sentencing day it is always upsetting. The upset reaches far past the Defendant and the victims' families. In every courtroom on every floor there may be sentencing taken place where there will always be happy and sad people and often many overcome with emotion. In many ways people view it as resolve and being over, but for many the result has just begun.
I look around the courtrooms on sentencing days and I see more victims than the complainant. I see victims on both sides of the aisle. The Defendant goes into custody and the life of everyone one around him changes. The grandmother who already lives on a fixed income that does not make ends meet will go without even more to send money for a commissary account, she will incur the most expensive long distance collect call fees, and she will have a heartache and grief filled guilt that overcomes everything that she thought was. The emptiness in her face only is magnified by the flow of her tears while she sits with perfect posture in her best church clothes. The children are now alone in the world with one parent or often a grandparent as the sole support of their family with no financial or emotional support. The already tight belt around the finances that has suffocated every breath of hope has now been tightened. Other friends and family will incur and accept other related responsibilities; but the child will never have a bond with this parent.
Down the hall in another courtroom a mother is reading her impact statement to the Court. She is overcome with an upset and grief that has sped up the natural aging process ten fold. A man that was convicted of killing her daughter is then sentenced to sixty years in prison added to the time he is already serving for something else.
At the end of the day we all go to our respective homes and kick off our shoes. Every step each of us takes is different. Some on carpet that leaves a mark, some on tile or stone, some on hardwood, others on concrete; but what is the same for all of us is how everyone one around us has an impact in our lives in some ways, even if unintended and by observation.
Thursday, February 10, 2011
Doing The Math Does Not Equate To Common Sense
Common sense is not something that everyone has and the realization that it is more scarce than I would hope has hit me smack in the face like a shaving cream pie. When an annoyed Judge extends a scheduling date so that the parties can settle a civil matter he sends a clear message when he says on record, "This is not something you want the court to decide. You need to settle and resolve this." The message is loud and clear. The attorneys' for the defendants agree that the Judge's message was loud and clear. Nearing the next return for the court date and deadline for settlement, the clients decide to ignore the message from their attorneys and humor everyone by now claiming, "We were not there."
Hearing the "we weren't there" is common in the bluff of a criminal trial, but in a civil matter this is a whole new variety of bologna sandwich. I would take you to the drive through for this bologna sandwich, but since I had my car stolen that will not be possible unless of course you are driving.
I wasn't car jacked, my car wasn't even broken into and stolen. There was no glass, it was not parked in the wrong place, it was parked in my assigned and secure underground parking spot that I pay $200 per month for. The same spot that I have had to pay for, as per my contract, even though I do not have a car presently parked in it. My car was towed. Towed and stolen. Stolen from my residential building where eight congressmen and six senators live; most currently newsworthy, Gabrielle Giffords.
City people do not always drive every day. We are not car dependent. Sometimes we go weeks without even needing to get in our cars. We pay to make sure that our cars are safe and available when we need them. We pay premium rents to for security and piece of mind; knowing that our belongings are safe and secure. Today I feel like my car would have been safer anywhere but where it was.
Today the defense attorneys' client wants to go with "we did not have anyone working that day so we were not there." My stomach churns with bile just listening to the lie. Now they want to attempt to bluff and make a claim that opens them up to more liability. Their contract requires them to have someone manning the front door 27/7. Simple Midwestern logic questions why they don't just cut their losses and replace the vehicle. A standard replacement vehicle and rental car fees are much less expensive than paying your overpriced lawyer $400 per hour to let us prove you are a lying deceptive idiot. The log books and surveillance cameras show that you had an employee working. Your payroll records show it, the log record from the front desk and phone records show it. It has been proven that your employee was the one that participated in the wrongful tow-stealing of my car. But ok, lets just let you go with your lie and see where that gets you. Simple. It gets you to the place where your damages are far greater and more detrimental than your lack of common sense.
Asking, "Why me?" is simply answered. It wasn't just me. It was various other people that were targeted. Nice vehicles that seemed to be paid for that were not driven often by the owners. I was a target without even knowing it. My space consisted of a parking garage shopping showcase area for orchestrated thieves with a license to tow.
I don't want a new car. I never did. If I had wanted a new car I would have bought one. I wanted my car. I liked my car and had no intentions of replacing it any time soon. Now I am forced to replace my vehicle with a vehicle that I really do not covet. I now get to pay increased insurance rates for a car that I really didn't want in the first place. There is the anxiety and fear every time I go to get in my parked car that it will not be there. And there is that pain in my gut every time I will get in the new car that will be a constant reminder of the replacement loss of the car that I loved, only to be increased when I am driving in traffic past a car that might have been mine.
Hearing the "we weren't there" is common in the bluff of a criminal trial, but in a civil matter this is a whole new variety of bologna sandwich. I would take you to the drive through for this bologna sandwich, but since I had my car stolen that will not be possible unless of course you are driving.
I wasn't car jacked, my car wasn't even broken into and stolen. There was no glass, it was not parked in the wrong place, it was parked in my assigned and secure underground parking spot that I pay $200 per month for. The same spot that I have had to pay for, as per my contract, even though I do not have a car presently parked in it. My car was towed. Towed and stolen. Stolen from my residential building where eight congressmen and six senators live; most currently newsworthy, Gabrielle Giffords.
City people do not always drive every day. We are not car dependent. Sometimes we go weeks without even needing to get in our cars. We pay to make sure that our cars are safe and available when we need them. We pay premium rents to for security and piece of mind; knowing that our belongings are safe and secure. Today I feel like my car would have been safer anywhere but where it was.
Today the defense attorneys' client wants to go with "we did not have anyone working that day so we were not there." My stomach churns with bile just listening to the lie. Now they want to attempt to bluff and make a claim that opens them up to more liability. Their contract requires them to have someone manning the front door 27/7. Simple Midwestern logic questions why they don't just cut their losses and replace the vehicle. A standard replacement vehicle and rental car fees are much less expensive than paying your overpriced lawyer $400 per hour to let us prove you are a lying deceptive idiot. The log books and surveillance cameras show that you had an employee working. Your payroll records show it, the log record from the front desk and phone records show it. It has been proven that your employee was the one that participated in the wrongful tow-stealing of my car. But ok, lets just let you go with your lie and see where that gets you. Simple. It gets you to the place where your damages are far greater and more detrimental than your lack of common sense.
Asking, "Why me?" is simply answered. It wasn't just me. It was various other people that were targeted. Nice vehicles that seemed to be paid for that were not driven often by the owners. I was a target without even knowing it. My space consisted of a parking garage shopping showcase area for orchestrated thieves with a license to tow.
I don't want a new car. I never did. If I had wanted a new car I would have bought one. I wanted my car. I liked my car and had no intentions of replacing it any time soon. Now I am forced to replace my vehicle with a vehicle that I really do not covet. I now get to pay increased insurance rates for a car that I really didn't want in the first place. There is the anxiety and fear every time I go to get in my parked car that it will not be there. And there is that pain in my gut every time I will get in the new car that will be a constant reminder of the replacement loss of the car that I loved, only to be increased when I am driving in traffic past a car that might have been mine.
Wednesday, February 9, 2011
Do You Know What Is In Your Stock Pot?
Tomorrow would have been my cousins' birthday; had he not tied his shoe laces through a shotgun and stood on it in his parents dining room the summer after high school graduation. I was but a sophomore in high school then and could not imagine what provoked it. It was the choice that he made. That was what he wanted to do. And he did it.
For many years I thought I understood it. In my view his parents are a bit on the Jerry Falwell wacky side; but he was leaving for college in less than a month so that did not make sense. A few years ago, one of his best friends from high school was drinking with me via Skype on the anniversary date of his death and blurted out, "He did it because he was gay and he knew his parents would never accept that." On that, I paused and fumbled opening another bottle of wine to share via Skype. The beauty of drinking via Skype is that you get the whole bottle of wine, or more. Somehow in the fog of overindulging in antioxidants, it made perfect sense. He was a boy becoming a man but was neither a boy or would be a man. He wanted out, and made a choice.
Suicide is a tragedy that will affect you forever when it has sped across the road in front of you; while you are a mere pedestrian stopped at the crosswalk with a light flashing. It is not a choice you may have made; but when others around you make that choice, they leave and you are forever haunted with whys.
With some deep soul searching I have finally come to terms with why I have feared guns all of my adult life. I doubt I really need to explain it. I think I know why I have more trust and caring for men in blue than most would. In a sideline view of my own self analysis, without a Sally Struthers' home study certificate, the determination is that I feel more trust for someone that carries a gun and does not use it. Respectively, they get instant credit with me for not using it. There is always that added bonus that it seems to be more of a protective man around you. It may just be an impression, but it is the positive one that I have. Sure, there are bad cops and good cops; but the ones that get to spend social time around me have already been weeded out.
It seems that many an officer is from a proud generational family legacy. Sometimes they are the beginning of that legacy, and they just have a very proud family behind them. When my other cousin became a State Trooper I was, and still am, so very proud of him. It is ironic that the suicide that affected our family actually happened on what was to be his birthday celebration. Today I am proud of my cousin and looking forward to his potential visit to DC for the governors conference for work and possibly police week on a social visit. I accept that it has taken many years for this wound to scab over to the point that it does not hurt anymore and is simply something that turns in to a scar that you forget about until you choose to point it out. The realization is that I look around the courthouse and I see people who are all varying degrees of onions with many layers.
Every person in the stock pot brings something to the table. It may have been something good or something bad that happened, but what is most important is how we pivot from it and grow to become a positive contribution to our world around us.
For many years I thought I understood it. In my view his parents are a bit on the Jerry Falwell wacky side; but he was leaving for college in less than a month so that did not make sense. A few years ago, one of his best friends from high school was drinking with me via Skype on the anniversary date of his death and blurted out, "He did it because he was gay and he knew his parents would never accept that." On that, I paused and fumbled opening another bottle of wine to share via Skype. The beauty of drinking via Skype is that you get the whole bottle of wine, or more. Somehow in the fog of overindulging in antioxidants, it made perfect sense. He was a boy becoming a man but was neither a boy or would be a man. He wanted out, and made a choice.
Suicide is a tragedy that will affect you forever when it has sped across the road in front of you; while you are a mere pedestrian stopped at the crosswalk with a light flashing. It is not a choice you may have made; but when others around you make that choice, they leave and you are forever haunted with whys.
With some deep soul searching I have finally come to terms with why I have feared guns all of my adult life. I doubt I really need to explain it. I think I know why I have more trust and caring for men in blue than most would. In a sideline view of my own self analysis, without a Sally Struthers' home study certificate, the determination is that I feel more trust for someone that carries a gun and does not use it. Respectively, they get instant credit with me for not using it. There is always that added bonus that it seems to be more of a protective man around you. It may just be an impression, but it is the positive one that I have. Sure, there are bad cops and good cops; but the ones that get to spend social time around me have already been weeded out.
It seems that many an officer is from a proud generational family legacy. Sometimes they are the beginning of that legacy, and they just have a very proud family behind them. When my other cousin became a State Trooper I was, and still am, so very proud of him. It is ironic that the suicide that affected our family actually happened on what was to be his birthday celebration. Today I am proud of my cousin and looking forward to his potential visit to DC for the governors conference for work and possibly police week on a social visit. I accept that it has taken many years for this wound to scab over to the point that it does not hurt anymore and is simply something that turns in to a scar that you forget about until you choose to point it out. The realization is that I look around the courthouse and I see people who are all varying degrees of onions with many layers.
Every person in the stock pot brings something to the table. It may have been something good or something bad that happened, but what is most important is how we pivot from it and grow to become a positive contribution to our world around us.
Tuesday, February 8, 2011
Is Your Transportation Public?
Hallways overflowing with inappropriately dressed people are a normal day in Court. The spectrum has three distinct looks -- nice court suits, uniforms with a jersey worn over it, or nightclub attire. Sometimes you have a flashback to the old sitcom Night Court, but this is daytime and decades prior it has already been clearly depicted on what is now rerun tv. More than the normal day at Court and stationed smack in front of one courtroom, screams the overzealous subpoena power of a defense attorney. These are not subpoenas for anyone with anything helpful to say, but what I call nuisance subpoenas. Basically they are a $40 cash ticket voucher at the end of each day for someone that didn't have to take time off work anyway. Usually for someone that has nothing to add to the case. Often times just a way for the defense attorney to get an in with the family and friends, and help them to make more money off the Court process. On paper it looks good for defense counsel, as though they really worked the case; reality is vastly opposite.
This is unreported income for people that are already milking the system. So at $40 per day with a week long trial, that is $200 in one week of nontaxable and unreported income from our tax dollars. Jurors receive pay of $20 per day and usually all are employed and lose pay from work by doing their civic duty. It seems that there is nothing but reward for the societal leeches. Of course, we hear about how they had to sit in the courthouse all day. I have seen them all before, they don't know how to sit up or present themselves in public. They lounge. Sorry we don't have xboxes and flat screens here to peak your interest. They are here for the $40 and as one of the subpoenaed claims, "Dis be zum shitz, not nuf fur new gamzez. Wastin' myies time."
Usually I get, "Hey Lady, Hey Lady . . " I tend to act as though I have an invisible iPod blasting in my ears and I cannot hear them. It makes the day so much simpler. But sometimes you get a bold one that walks in front of you or grabs you by the top of your arm. Today was one of those days. What I do not understand is "Why Me?"
So I am walking from one courtroom to another and my path is cut off my the very reason that I refuse to ever buy a Northface product. It is the standard perp description. Large black puffy Northface jacket, dark designer denims rising just above the knees more than low on the waist, underwear completely showing, and unlaced high tops as though they just got out of jail and have not gotten their property back yet. I get the, "Wher'd I be gettn my taxi voucher?" I say, "Excuse me?" And he then gets louder and says, "Need a taxi voucher to get home." I explain to the male, who is no more than nineteen or twenty that we do not give cab fare. Then he says, "How you 'spect mees to gets home?" Part of me feels sorry for him and hopes that he just feels stranded and does not know what to do. Part of me feels guarded because I feel as though if he can afford the monthly charges on that new iPhone that he has money. Part of me has a churning stomach and feels the guilt thinking, "What if this were me? What if I were stranded and asking for help, after all he is asking and not robbing someone." So I think outside the box and I volunteer to give him a three dollar Metro card. That will take him anywhere in the city that he needs to go. I actually have a few in my pocket and I attempt to hand him one with $3.60 left on it. I say, "Here, this should help you. You can take the Metro anywhere you need to go." I think I have actually simply solved what was a big problem for him. From there it all began to spin rapidly into me being the bad person.
"You stupidz byatch, I ain't takin no public tranzpurtation!" he squeals loudly enough for the officers crew cuts to raise across the room. I simply ask what the problem is and he again repeats this louder. Then my biggest fault and flaw of being rational grows as though injected with an iv of Miracle Gro. I ask him what is wrong with taking the Metro and he repeats louder more of the same. I then say, "Well most everyone working at Court takes it everyday, including Judges, and it is fine. It is actually quicker." He boasts more of the same only louder and more escalated with his arms flailing about. The officers across the hall are watching and shaking their head in dismay but also keeping a watchful eye on me if needed. I am at wits end and this truly is my moment. Since he opened the door, I say, "Well it doesn't seem like you have a problem living in public housing, so what's wrong with public transportation to get there?" I never expected an answer, but he gave me one. "I cand be lettin no one see me on no public tranzpurtation! Dat ain't right." I am stunned. He got me there. All I could really say was that I take the Metro to work, but then again, I am a public servant so I guess that is ok.
This is unreported income for people that are already milking the system. So at $40 per day with a week long trial, that is $200 in one week of nontaxable and unreported income from our tax dollars. Jurors receive pay of $20 per day and usually all are employed and lose pay from work by doing their civic duty. It seems that there is nothing but reward for the societal leeches. Of course, we hear about how they had to sit in the courthouse all day. I have seen them all before, they don't know how to sit up or present themselves in public. They lounge. Sorry we don't have xboxes and flat screens here to peak your interest. They are here for the $40 and as one of the subpoenaed claims, "Dis be zum shitz, not nuf fur new gamzez. Wastin' myies time."
Usually I get, "Hey Lady, Hey Lady . . " I tend to act as though I have an invisible iPod blasting in my ears and I cannot hear them. It makes the day so much simpler. But sometimes you get a bold one that walks in front of you or grabs you by the top of your arm. Today was one of those days. What I do not understand is "Why Me?"
So I am walking from one courtroom to another and my path is cut off my the very reason that I refuse to ever buy a Northface product. It is the standard perp description. Large black puffy Northface jacket, dark designer denims rising just above the knees more than low on the waist, underwear completely showing, and unlaced high tops as though they just got out of jail and have not gotten their property back yet. I get the, "Wher'd I be gettn my taxi voucher?" I say, "Excuse me?" And he then gets louder and says, "Need a taxi voucher to get home." I explain to the male, who is no more than nineteen or twenty that we do not give cab fare. Then he says, "How you 'spect mees to gets home?" Part of me feels sorry for him and hopes that he just feels stranded and does not know what to do. Part of me feels guarded because I feel as though if he can afford the monthly charges on that new iPhone that he has money. Part of me has a churning stomach and feels the guilt thinking, "What if this were me? What if I were stranded and asking for help, after all he is asking and not robbing someone." So I think outside the box and I volunteer to give him a three dollar Metro card. That will take him anywhere in the city that he needs to go. I actually have a few in my pocket and I attempt to hand him one with $3.60 left on it. I say, "Here, this should help you. You can take the Metro anywhere you need to go." I think I have actually simply solved what was a big problem for him. From there it all began to spin rapidly into me being the bad person.
"You stupidz byatch, I ain't takin no public tranzpurtation!" he squeals loudly enough for the officers crew cuts to raise across the room. I simply ask what the problem is and he again repeats this louder. Then my biggest fault and flaw of being rational grows as though injected with an iv of Miracle Gro. I ask him what is wrong with taking the Metro and he repeats louder more of the same. I then say, "Well most everyone working at Court takes it everyday, including Judges, and it is fine. It is actually quicker." He boasts more of the same only louder and more escalated with his arms flailing about. The officers across the hall are watching and shaking their head in dismay but also keeping a watchful eye on me if needed. I am at wits end and this truly is my moment. Since he opened the door, I say, "Well it doesn't seem like you have a problem living in public housing, so what's wrong with public transportation to get there?" I never expected an answer, but he gave me one. "I cand be lettin no one see me on no public tranzpurtation! Dat ain't right." I am stunned. He got me there. All I could really say was that I take the Metro to work, but then again, I am a public servant so I guess that is ok.
Monday, February 7, 2011
Don't Ask For Whom The Bell Tolls
People learn how to behave when they are youngsters. There are inside voices and outside voices. Behavior in public verses playing in your backyard. What ills me most is the people that have children running about and screaming in the Courthouse hallways. These will be the same children that will be in juvenile court and then later in adult court only to be followed by institutionalization. It is a constant generational rite of passage to continue to burden our doors.
Today I watched as a mother with her four two-legged welfare checks sat in the civil filing room irritating everyone around them and disrupting business. The middle child clearly knew what he was doing, yet purposely and continuously dinged the clerks bell. It was not just any clerks bell but one at the handicapped clerks' window opposite the window his mother was. So as he dinged and dinged the bell, and the clerk had to get up from the back of the office and come up to the window. Every time she came to the window, there was no one. The delinquent was playing ding and ditch with the clerk. Every time I glared at the mother she did nothing about it. In fact, she let him do it over and over again. It got to the point that the bell was irritating me and I finally walked over, picked up the bell, and took it. I decided that I would hold onto the bell and prevent any further disturbance. This would have been a simple thing in an otherwise respectful society, but not the ghetto baby mama drama in Court. Not a chance for simple normalcy here.
The kid then tried to play it and said, "She took the bell away from me." The kid was about 8 years old and had already likely seen enough in his life to desensitize anyone so I was not falling for that. The mother started lunging and screaming at me. Then waving her nine inch curved fortune teller nails at me escalates her voice with, "Byatch, you talked to my child?" I was not in the mood. Not in the mood to hold my tongue. Today was not the day and if you are coming in my Courthouse that I pay my tax dollars for, then you are going to hear it from me.
And from there the drama on Monday in the Courthouse began. Simply said.
No, I had not spoken to her child, but since she opened the door. . . . I calmly told the mother that it was not the child's bell and that if she had been paying attention to her child, instead of talking on her cell phone in a restricted cell area that she would have seen what he was doing. Of course with irrational people, being calm just agitates them more. She then started yelling for me to give her the bell for her kid to continue the shenanigans. I looked her straight in the eye as though I was looking at Mike Tyson and waiting for him to take a bite out of me. I did not flinch. She had met her match today. I guess I won the stare down because she started screaming, "you don't be knowin' who yewd be messin with." Then she mumbles to herself something to the effect of "no man be likin' that borin byatch with no flaver." Sometimes you just have to take a deep breath and roll your eyes when they are closed in your pause; I question why in the calorie counter books they do not have an entry for how many calories you burn biting your tongue and being exhausted to your wits end.
So she decides to start screaming for security. That always humors me. When security comes they all are chummy with me, and that will send her off even more. The security guy comes but he is not a marshal, he is a rental guard in a blue polyester jacket that would likely melt on a sunny day. He has no clue what he is doing and takes the time to listen to the blah blah blah that she claims makes sense. After he pretends to listen to her, he then attempts to talk to me. He cannot hear anything he is trying to say, let alone a response from me, because of her constant babbling and input from across the room.
Finally, resolve comes. The clerk comes from behind the window and I give her the bell. I explain to her that I am holding the bell because it was the condoned behavior by the mother allowing her child to aggravate her and everyone else in the room. She has a thankful yet annoyed look knowing that is the reason she had gotten up to a ghost window some seven or eight times. Immediately and almost on cue, the complainant starts in again. Now she is yelling at both of us.
She is trying to file a civil protective order against a girl that is as she puts it, "messin with her man." She is so irrational that she is trying to use the court system to give a civil protective order that allows her to determine whether "her man" can see anyone but her. It is pretty clear why he does not want to be around her.
The clerk denies her application. She is furious and then she starts going off on another tangent. She begins screaming, of course, at me. "You betta be knowin dat yewd be how da not be tellin peeples kidz shitz." I had to pause and attempt to decipher that one. She clearly did not understand, "Pardon me." Instead she yells, "Bitch don't yewd be tellin my kidz what to do. I be raizin dem juz wite."
The only response I have to this is quite simple. Honest. True. "If you were raising your kids at all, you would not be in this building. From the looks of the other papers in your hand, and your child down in Juvenile Court, it appears that you are relying on the government to do it for you." This infuriates her and she screams, "Nobod' be tellin me how to bringz up my kids byatch. " I love how some people feel the need to clutter a simple statement with unnecessary words.
When I choose not to have a response to her unnecessary comment she gets more infuriated. The calmer I am the more out of control she behaves; not to mention her children are watching. As always, never a dull moment in the courthouse. When she realizes people are looking at her as though she has lost her mind and she knows that marshals are coming, she grabs her child by the hood and pulls him to follow her. She exits bragging to her children, "You see dat is how ya shows dem whooz in control."
Today I watched as a mother with her four two-legged welfare checks sat in the civil filing room irritating everyone around them and disrupting business. The middle child clearly knew what he was doing, yet purposely and continuously dinged the clerks bell. It was not just any clerks bell but one at the handicapped clerks' window opposite the window his mother was. So as he dinged and dinged the bell, and the clerk had to get up from the back of the office and come up to the window. Every time she came to the window, there was no one. The delinquent was playing ding and ditch with the clerk. Every time I glared at the mother she did nothing about it. In fact, she let him do it over and over again. It got to the point that the bell was irritating me and I finally walked over, picked up the bell, and took it. I decided that I would hold onto the bell and prevent any further disturbance. This would have been a simple thing in an otherwise respectful society, but not the ghetto baby mama drama in Court. Not a chance for simple normalcy here.
The kid then tried to play it and said, "She took the bell away from me." The kid was about 8 years old and had already likely seen enough in his life to desensitize anyone so I was not falling for that. The mother started lunging and screaming at me. Then waving her nine inch curved fortune teller nails at me escalates her voice with, "Byatch, you talked to my child?" I was not in the mood. Not in the mood to hold my tongue. Today was not the day and if you are coming in my Courthouse that I pay my tax dollars for, then you are going to hear it from me.
And from there the drama on Monday in the Courthouse began. Simply said.
No, I had not spoken to her child, but since she opened the door. . . . I calmly told the mother that it was not the child's bell and that if she had been paying attention to her child, instead of talking on her cell phone in a restricted cell area that she would have seen what he was doing. Of course with irrational people, being calm just agitates them more. She then started yelling for me to give her the bell for her kid to continue the shenanigans. I looked her straight in the eye as though I was looking at Mike Tyson and waiting for him to take a bite out of me. I did not flinch. She had met her match today. I guess I won the stare down because she started screaming, "you don't be knowin' who yewd be messin with." Then she mumbles to herself something to the effect of "no man be likin' that borin byatch with no flaver." Sometimes you just have to take a deep breath and roll your eyes when they are closed in your pause; I question why in the calorie counter books they do not have an entry for how many calories you burn biting your tongue and being exhausted to your wits end.
So she decides to start screaming for security. That always humors me. When security comes they all are chummy with me, and that will send her off even more. The security guy comes but he is not a marshal, he is a rental guard in a blue polyester jacket that would likely melt on a sunny day. He has no clue what he is doing and takes the time to listen to the blah blah blah that she claims makes sense. After he pretends to listen to her, he then attempts to talk to me. He cannot hear anything he is trying to say, let alone a response from me, because of her constant babbling and input from across the room.
Finally, resolve comes. The clerk comes from behind the window and I give her the bell. I explain to her that I am holding the bell because it was the condoned behavior by the mother allowing her child to aggravate her and everyone else in the room. She has a thankful yet annoyed look knowing that is the reason she had gotten up to a ghost window some seven or eight times. Immediately and almost on cue, the complainant starts in again. Now she is yelling at both of us.
She is trying to file a civil protective order against a girl that is as she puts it, "messin with her man." She is so irrational that she is trying to use the court system to give a civil protective order that allows her to determine whether "her man" can see anyone but her. It is pretty clear why he does not want to be around her.
The clerk denies her application. She is furious and then she starts going off on another tangent. She begins screaming, of course, at me. "You betta be knowin dat yewd be how da not be tellin peeples kidz shitz." I had to pause and attempt to decipher that one. She clearly did not understand, "Pardon me." Instead she yells, "Bitch don't yewd be tellin my kidz what to do. I be raizin dem juz wite."
The only response I have to this is quite simple. Honest. True. "If you were raising your kids at all, you would not be in this building. From the looks of the other papers in your hand, and your child down in Juvenile Court, it appears that you are relying on the government to do it for you." This infuriates her and she screams, "Nobod' be tellin me how to bringz up my kids byatch. " I love how some people feel the need to clutter a simple statement with unnecessary words.
When I choose not to have a response to her unnecessary comment she gets more infuriated. The calmer I am the more out of control she behaves; not to mention her children are watching. As always, never a dull moment in the courthouse. When she realizes people are looking at her as though she has lost her mind and she knows that marshals are coming, she grabs her child by the hood and pulls him to follow her. She exits bragging to her children, "You see dat is how ya shows dem whooz in control."
Sunday, February 6, 2011
The Year Of The Rabbit and A Hop Across The District
It's the celebration of the Chinese New Year and the intersection of 7th and H Streets in Chinatown will be filled with thousands of people to watch the dancing dragons and possibly catch a glimpse of the giant firecracker going off as it hangs off the elevated ladder of a firetruck. I have attended for three years in a row and every year the firecracker is a dud. I am beginning to adopt the belief that the same one is hung every year to draw in the crowd for an anticipated finale that never happens. Only then telling the crowd, "Better luck next year! See you then."
The revelers for the Chinese parade always interest me. People are full of observation and excitement on a Sunday afternoon. I see families and children and young professionals smiling and clicking cameras. I see people that are in a crowd all getting along and working together to share a place and turn at a better view from the curb. When the outdoor event is over they gather to various restaurants to taste a bit of ethnicity to celebrate the day.
What I notice most is what is not. I notice a nice pleasantness in not hearing vulgar mixes of words I choose not to have in my vocabulary. I appreciate a nice politeness that on any regular day would not be. I appreciate not hearing the yelling twang and squeals with cursing adverbs. There is no room for foul play and a street ruckus or lewd behavior. This is a day that I can like and enjoy in my city more than the usual day. It is the year of the rabbit.
While all the pleasantries are taking place in Chinatown, there is a dark contrast in nearby parts of the city. Many have no interest in knowing that it is the Chinese New Year. The focus of their afternoon has had nothing to do with anything productive or pleasant by my definition. Regardless of the afternoon events, people are gearing up to watch the Superbowl across the city. It is an event and for many a tradition regardless of your socioeconomic status.
Prior to the game the Safeway and Giant stores will sell out of party trays of shrimp and other pre-made empty-caloric deli carbs. It is not suspect to me that the Superbowl used to be the last Sunday of January when I was growing up; but now it miraculously is the first Sunday of the following month. Marketing across the masses; hence making it all the easier to swipe those food subsidy cards on all the prepared platters and trays that the normal bread earner does not entertain. But then again, you don't look at the price when you are not paying from your dollar or having to sacrifice something else for it. You just literally swipe it and get it. Yes, read into that.
During the game itself, the sectors and districts of the city that have a lot of street activity will be rather quiet. The calls will usually be for a domestic call or an argument that got out of hand, a drunk, or a fight that broke out over a bet or a gambling pool gone awry. After the game when the bets are tallied, the winners paid and the losers scorned; there will likely be some revenge stabbings or property damage over emotions and egos that were elevated by Remy Martin. Anything can escalate to a shooting and even a homicide.
While the mass of people are watching the Super Bowl in their homes or at a party, the men in blue are protecting your empty houses and confined to a squad car with a squealing police radio and a heater that usually does not work well enough in the middle of a cold damp winter. Many of the calls they get are nuisance calls or alarms going off, maybe a pizza delivery robbery or scam, but many will be a standoff among alcohol induced gibberish. The pops and bangs that possibly are heard this evening are in vast contrast to the potential ones earlier in the day.
Saturday, February 5, 2011
My Book Is Thicker Than Your Flatscreen
Not all jurisdictions have Saturday Arraignment Court; but lucky are we in DC where the tax paying residents' base is far lower than the greater base of recipients who suck every dollar they can out of it. We cannot infringe on any ones' right to bonding out from their Friday night crime to be out on the town Saturday night; hence, so there is Saturday Arraignment Court, compliments of your high taxed working persons' income.
I question why we have to pay for housing for people who choose not to work. We then feed and entertain them, giving free Metro passes to them to litter and be ungrateful. For all things handed to them, we all have to work. In this economy we struggle with good jobs to pay for and make ends meet and live within our means.
The irony this weekend is that tomorrow would have been Ronald Reagan's 100th birthday and I still remember quotes from his first state of the union address, "You cannot spend yourself rich," and "You should govern a great nation as you would cook a small fish." Both phrases come to mind when I look around Arraignment Court. Both are self explanatory. All I will add is that there are all sorts of ways to cook that fish.
I see Louis Vitton, ghetto weaves, hair extensions, fresh acrylic nails, tattoos, double dyed indigo designer jeans and specialty high tops in the latest custom design all displayed as a right on family members of the defendants; or the defendants who are all getting court appointed attorneys. What a fine system we have when tax dollars pay for prosecuting and defending the criminal while we pay for their reduced rent housing, assisted heat and electric, and food stamps all so that they can put their money towards things they choose to spend it on like going out, having designer clothes, cable and all the latest video games and a luxury car. How wonderful is that!
Meanwhile my friends get to work overnight in the least desirable areas and I get to work all day. We are tired when we get home and yet we get to be responsible and balance our bank accounts. After paying rent so that we have somewhere to live so we can go to work, we tend to laundry and personal grooming necessities to enable a good work presentation. After calculating the money left after paying health insurance and other responsible citizen bills there is that complex decision of what to do with the small denominations left for food and possibly some form of entertainment. The simple educated answer is to utilize the public library and check out a book for free to supplement the quiet law abiding citizen activities and sit home on a Saturday night reading. There is no justification for cable, after all, my job is more entertainment than you could ever get on tv. You just cannot make this stuff up! And then there is the other fact that I don't have a 72 inch flat screen tv or all the latest video games that I would need if I didn't know how to appreciate a great book or a literary classic.
I question why we have to pay for housing for people who choose not to work. We then feed and entertain them, giving free Metro passes to them to litter and be ungrateful. For all things handed to them, we all have to work. In this economy we struggle with good jobs to pay for and make ends meet and live within our means.
The irony this weekend is that tomorrow would have been Ronald Reagan's 100th birthday and I still remember quotes from his first state of the union address, "You cannot spend yourself rich," and "You should govern a great nation as you would cook a small fish." Both phrases come to mind when I look around Arraignment Court. Both are self explanatory. All I will add is that there are all sorts of ways to cook that fish.
I see Louis Vitton, ghetto weaves, hair extensions, fresh acrylic nails, tattoos, double dyed indigo designer jeans and specialty high tops in the latest custom design all displayed as a right on family members of the defendants; or the defendants who are all getting court appointed attorneys. What a fine system we have when tax dollars pay for prosecuting and defending the criminal while we pay for their reduced rent housing, assisted heat and electric, and food stamps all so that they can put their money towards things they choose to spend it on like going out, having designer clothes, cable and all the latest video games and a luxury car. How wonderful is that!
Meanwhile my friends get to work overnight in the least desirable areas and I get to work all day. We are tired when we get home and yet we get to be responsible and balance our bank accounts. After paying rent so that we have somewhere to live so we can go to work, we tend to laundry and personal grooming necessities to enable a good work presentation. After calculating the money left after paying health insurance and other responsible citizen bills there is that complex decision of what to do with the small denominations left for food and possibly some form of entertainment. The simple educated answer is to utilize the public library and check out a book for free to supplement the quiet law abiding citizen activities and sit home on a Saturday night reading. There is no justification for cable, after all, my job is more entertainment than you could ever get on tv. You just cannot make this stuff up! And then there is the other fact that I don't have a 72 inch flat screen tv or all the latest video games that I would need if I didn't know how to appreciate a great book or a literary classic.
Friday, February 4, 2011
Teaching A States Attorney How to Practice Law
Nothing is more frustrating than having to explain to someone who is supposed to be a trained professional and familiar with the lingo, the difference between a Nollie and Dismissed. There is clearly a defined difference. If there were not, they would not have two separate words. Explaining that to a newbie in an adjacent jurisdiction is so frustrating that you find yourself questioning how the individual figured out how and when to take the LSAT exam. Quite possibly they may have had over involved parents that did that; now, I am having to become their mother to walk them through how to prosecute the drunk driver that hit me as a pedestrian.
While I was working away on Tuesday, a first return for the criminal defendant drunk driver that hit me was taking place in the neighboring jurisdiction. Although I had diligently called the States Attorney that was said to be handling the case some fifteen or more times, I had not gotten one return call or acknowledgment. Today I got the acknowledgement from an immediate return call from a supervisor who was puzzled with confusion. I said, "It is quite simple. Not prosecuting this matter is not optional. I have a court transcript with Judge Wilcox specifically stating to the prosecutor what he expected to be coming." I took it as my responsibility to put those wheels in motion since no one in the States Attorneys office took the initiative to follow the judges orders. The commissioner was more than happy to file the charges and shocked that no one had done so prior to me spending my morning sitting before her. So now the charges are in the system and it gets shuffled to yet another paper pushing slack; and the drunk driving defendant manages to get a Nollie based on their lack of preparedness and the defense attorney crying and lying to the court. The supervisor agreed, looked into it and called me back with a, "You are correct." Of course I am correct, if I wasn't I would not have spent the mass of my day exfoliating my every nerve on the bark of your tree lined docket.
What this really means is that I get to spend hours of my day devoted to making sure these charges end up back in the system, the defendant is served again, and there is a trial. It also means that I get to go through the upset of having to tell the step by step details of the case again to yet another male who wants to know if I was "bleeding." It also means that I get to point out to them that "yes, I was hit so hard by the F150 in my abs and I went over the hood that after I fell to the ground and survived, I stood up only to have blood gush out of me and cover my shoes." I then get the joy of explaining this to yet another male that "no, it was not my period." Some people may not be sensitive about that, and there is many a guy who is not, but I am. To this day I cannot just go into the store and buy a box of tampons, I have to buy a basket full of items to surround and hide the tampon box. I would never want the embarrassment of someone seeing me actually buy tampons; gawd forbid that anyone thought that I had a normal occurrence like every other female. Nope, not me; that is my hang up. I cannot recall ever letting a serious boyfriend know about that very personal part of my life, and now somehow I have to talk about this natural female occurrence with guys that I do not know as a result of getting hit by a drunk driver. Now I am really questioning how they passed the logic portion of the LSAT.
This also means that once again I will get to go and sit in the neighboring jurisdictions' courtroom for a day or more on a cold hard bench in a room of defendants and cops and a few scarce victims. I have already had to go through this once, and now here it comes again. I get the joy of being the odd person in the courtroom. I am not a defendant and the wall of cops know that. They look at me like I am fresh meat and might be a tasty prey. While we wait for the cases to be called the boredom in the room for the officers has turned to fun. I realize that they are looking at me head to toe. I feel like by the time the docket is only a third of the way finished that any one of them could have met with a crime scene sketch artist and had a portrait made of me with specific measurements and cup size. My stomach turns because I do everything I can to avoid looking at them. I just want to have my case called, testify and be done.
The Judge then announces at the end of the morning that the docket is too long and he has to continue all matters that were not called to yet another day. To me this means that I have to come back and go through this all over again. To the defendant, he has the opportunity to hope this slips through the cracks. The officers get to see me and size me up again, so I take a mental note that I am going to have a morning transformation on that day to more of the Lillith look from Cheers.
While I was working away on Tuesday, a first return for the criminal defendant drunk driver that hit me was taking place in the neighboring jurisdiction. Although I had diligently called the States Attorney that was said to be handling the case some fifteen or more times, I had not gotten one return call or acknowledgment. Today I got the acknowledgement from an immediate return call from a supervisor who was puzzled with confusion. I said, "It is quite simple. Not prosecuting this matter is not optional. I have a court transcript with Judge Wilcox specifically stating to the prosecutor what he expected to be coming." I took it as my responsibility to put those wheels in motion since no one in the States Attorneys office took the initiative to follow the judges orders. The commissioner was more than happy to file the charges and shocked that no one had done so prior to me spending my morning sitting before her. So now the charges are in the system and it gets shuffled to yet another paper pushing slack; and the drunk driving defendant manages to get a Nollie based on their lack of preparedness and the defense attorney crying and lying to the court. The supervisor agreed, looked into it and called me back with a, "You are correct." Of course I am correct, if I wasn't I would not have spent the mass of my day exfoliating my every nerve on the bark of your tree lined docket.
What this really means is that I get to spend hours of my day devoted to making sure these charges end up back in the system, the defendant is served again, and there is a trial. It also means that I get to go through the upset of having to tell the step by step details of the case again to yet another male who wants to know if I was "bleeding." It also means that I get to point out to them that "yes, I was hit so hard by the F150 in my abs and I went over the hood that after I fell to the ground and survived, I stood up only to have blood gush out of me and cover my shoes." I then get the joy of explaining this to yet another male that "no, it was not my period." Some people may not be sensitive about that, and there is many a guy who is not, but I am. To this day I cannot just go into the store and buy a box of tampons, I have to buy a basket full of items to surround and hide the tampon box. I would never want the embarrassment of someone seeing me actually buy tampons; gawd forbid that anyone thought that I had a normal occurrence like every other female. Nope, not me; that is my hang up. I cannot recall ever letting a serious boyfriend know about that very personal part of my life, and now somehow I have to talk about this natural female occurrence with guys that I do not know as a result of getting hit by a drunk driver. Now I am really questioning how they passed the logic portion of the LSAT.
This also means that once again I will get to go and sit in the neighboring jurisdictions' courtroom for a day or more on a cold hard bench in a room of defendants and cops and a few scarce victims. I have already had to go through this once, and now here it comes again. I get the joy of being the odd person in the courtroom. I am not a defendant and the wall of cops know that. They look at me like I am fresh meat and might be a tasty prey. While we wait for the cases to be called the boredom in the room for the officers has turned to fun. I realize that they are looking at me head to toe. I feel like by the time the docket is only a third of the way finished that any one of them could have met with a crime scene sketch artist and had a portrait made of me with specific measurements and cup size. My stomach turns because I do everything I can to avoid looking at them. I just want to have my case called, testify and be done.
The Judge then announces at the end of the morning that the docket is too long and he has to continue all matters that were not called to yet another day. To me this means that I have to come back and go through this all over again. To the defendant, he has the opportunity to hope this slips through the cracks. The officers get to see me and size me up again, so I take a mental note that I am going to have a morning transformation on that day to more of the Lillith look from Cheers.
Thursday, February 3, 2011
What Is In A Name
I understand that some people have parents that have no common sense; or a sense of humor that is homely. That has to be the explanation. There is simply no understanding of some people; much like the saying about a homely child -- they have a look only a mother can love. With names these days, they clearly have a pronunciation and spelling which is in comparison, homely.
When the court docket is called, or I should say attempted to be deciphered, sometimes the cluster of letters that people have decided were a name can cause humor, the shake of the head in dismay, and, with a long docket, a headache.
The cluster of letters make no sense, even in a foreign language. My light bulb goes off and the sense it does make to me is why so many people mumble. It is easily explained now; even they cannot understand or say their own name, hence bringing the dreaded street name.
Big Ed, Shorty, Slim, Gman, Shoes, Doc, Rims -- none of these names are part of my language or belong in my social setting but they are names that we can pronounce and understand. Sometimes part of a good days' testimony of a witness on the stand is how or why someone is called a certain street name. I have been humored by many. I nearly broke into laughter after the shock of disgust when a girl on the stand explained, "she goes by Shoes." When asked why the guys call her shoes she explained very abruptly, "cuz I be likin shuz and they ain't gettin' nonz of my brown sugar 'less they get da shuz. Da' be knowin da betta get me shuz I want if they want some of dis." If there was ever a time that I would have supported an overdose of Botox before Court, this would have been it. I am sure the Judge was just waiting for me to have a moment of Courtroom turrets, but I somehow managed to pinch myself and convince myself that I would look like the bigger idiot if I seemed shocked.
As horrified as I was, I gladly accept and welcome the continuation of my sheltered simple life. I stopped myself before I asked about Rims. All good legal professionals know that you do not ask questions when you do not know for certain and have an answer locked in. In my naivety, prior to this I would have predicted that it was about tires on a car; but after the last answer I was taking no chances of getting on a toll road with no exits.
When the court docket is called, or I should say attempted to be deciphered, sometimes the cluster of letters that people have decided were a name can cause humor, the shake of the head in dismay, and, with a long docket, a headache.
The cluster of letters make no sense, even in a foreign language. My light bulb goes off and the sense it does make to me is why so many people mumble. It is easily explained now; even they cannot understand or say their own name, hence bringing the dreaded street name.
Big Ed, Shorty, Slim, Gman, Shoes, Doc, Rims -- none of these names are part of my language or belong in my social setting but they are names that we can pronounce and understand. Sometimes part of a good days' testimony of a witness on the stand is how or why someone is called a certain street name. I have been humored by many. I nearly broke into laughter after the shock of disgust when a girl on the stand explained, "she goes by Shoes." When asked why the guys call her shoes she explained very abruptly, "cuz I be likin shuz and they ain't gettin' nonz of my brown sugar 'less they get da shuz. Da' be knowin da betta get me shuz I want if they want some of dis." If there was ever a time that I would have supported an overdose of Botox before Court, this would have been it. I am sure the Judge was just waiting for me to have a moment of Courtroom turrets, but I somehow managed to pinch myself and convince myself that I would look like the bigger idiot if I seemed shocked.
As horrified as I was, I gladly accept and welcome the continuation of my sheltered simple life. I stopped myself before I asked about Rims. All good legal professionals know that you do not ask questions when you do not know for certain and have an answer locked in. In my naivety, prior to this I would have predicted that it was about tires on a car; but after the last answer I was taking no chances of getting on a toll road with no exits.
Wednesday, February 2, 2011
Felony Fashion Citations
You wake up, prepare, and yet when you are entering DC Superior Court you really cannot brace yourself for the multitude of possibilities and realm of shock. Part of me quotes to myself the constant echo of Professor Polsby in 1L Crim Law saying, "Michelle, this is not Mystery Science Theater, this is Crim Law." No, my name is not Michelle (thank gawd) but for anyone that was at Northwestern Law that year we all know precisely who I am referring to.
Far past the halls and library at Lakeshore Drive and Chicago Avenue, decades have passed and we are at 600 Indiana Avenue in a whole new world. The contrast is vast and shocking. I humor myself waiting in line to go through the metal detectors and in my head write felony fashion citations. I find myself puzzled as to where these clothes are actually found, let alone purchased. I take notes in my head and silently smile on the inside making sure to have no expression on the outside.
After the metal detectors and into the hallways, outside the courtrooms is much of the same. I have a safety mechanism in the citation area; secretly noting the felony fashion citations of the defense bar. As much as I want this to be a minor infraction, some of these get ups might just be Capitol cases.
I make sure to never let the judges see me changing from commuter shoes or wearing anything in the courthouse that would be deemed inappropriate. I would be embarrassed and horrified if they saw me in electric colors or anything that would cause one to take notice. Yet, I see the plethora of fashion delusion that starts with the defense bar and trickles down to the defendant.
Sitting in the front row waiting for motions hearings I see the defense counsel that I mistake for a cross dressing male prostitute; or, in my head, Rue Paul in drag before the court. Today instead of the usual spandex dress that fits like a stuffed sausage with glass-heeled pole dancing shoes, she is wearing a suit that may have fit her when she got out of law school. That was fifteen years ago and certainly not bespoke. The slit up the back of the skirt (lining included) probably was a nice two inch kick pleat when it started on the rack at Casual Corner, but now it has grown and crept it's way up nearly to meet her inseam. All I can think is, "Thank goodness it is winter and she is actually wearing opaque tights." The suit jacket is in far worse form and fits like last year's fashionable shrug. In its origin it probably had a better chance of actually having the lapels meet and lay properly. When she fumbles and fidgets through her bag pulling out her shoes to change, I think to myself, "Ditch the pole dancing patents and leave on the metallic flats, you would be doing us all a favor." No deal. She is marching herself right into the land of felony fashion citations; before the court, not just in the hallway.
The foundation alone was a disaster, but with the lesser included charges that go with the citation, I find myself horrified. It is never simple. Here the details are in her failure at coordination. It's the five inch electric-blue french ghetto manicure, the hot pink lipstick and the false eyelashes with glitter dusting that peek out when she whips her hair extensions over her shoulder still having the mass of them hanging before her eyes in what I feel she has termed "her sexy look for the judge."
When the case is called she and her client take their table. Compared to the defense counsel, I find myself not minding the jeans that are five sizes too big with an disheveled rhinestone studded Obama t-shirt. I find myself choosing the lesser of two evils. I can actually avoid rolling my eyes before the judge when she walks forward if I just focus on the unlaced high tops that the defendant wears street strutting. I zone out and find great comfort seeing a white shirt and tie under a black robe take the bench. I focus silently with questions of, "How do the Judges deal with this every day and keep their sanity?" Then I remember a fifteen year old defendant last year that asked me in his own most polite way, "Bitch, you be fine, why you caught up wearin' doz stupid white people clothes?"
Court ends up in recess and I walk outside only to catch a reflection of myself in the large plate glass windows and I think, "What am I doing here?" I am my own worst critic and as humorous as I am about the felony fashion citations, I can be honest about myself. It is simple. I don't fit in. I look like I am going to a members' business luncheon at a country club. I have the Talbot's coat from the front wish window, the subdued black Coach briefcase and the perfect little pair of conservative pumps. My hair is as simple and conservative as it gets. So simple, the color grows out of my head. I am too shy to ever wear anything more than a french manicure and a light pink lip tint. Under my coat it screams shades and tones of black, grey or navy. As I reach up to push my hair back, I realize that I have one pair of earrings. I wear the same pair of Mikimotos every single day of my life. It is not like I even make an effort to wear them. They are just in my ears permanently like I am waiting to always be prepared to go to a luncheon at the country club that I will never belong.
What puzzles me most is that out of the entire courthouse and the hundreds of people that come and go throughout one day, I am the one that is dressed to blend in with the walls; yet I am the one that sticks out like a sore thumb. It seems that the people dressed in the pick up clothes are the norm. My desire to blend into the walls is not met. I am approached in every corridor of every floor by someone in uniform or a suit with a legal gun. Most of it is just courthouse banter and flirting of the blue. Somehow in the chaos you have to feel that you are alive and not in a bad dream. After all, just in case, you have to hope it is a dream or your reality could easily turn to a nightmare.
Far past the halls and library at Lakeshore Drive and Chicago Avenue, decades have passed and we are at 600 Indiana Avenue in a whole new world. The contrast is vast and shocking. I humor myself waiting in line to go through the metal detectors and in my head write felony fashion citations. I find myself puzzled as to where these clothes are actually found, let alone purchased. I take notes in my head and silently smile on the inside making sure to have no expression on the outside.
After the metal detectors and into the hallways, outside the courtrooms is much of the same. I have a safety mechanism in the citation area; secretly noting the felony fashion citations of the defense bar. As much as I want this to be a minor infraction, some of these get ups might just be Capitol cases.
I make sure to never let the judges see me changing from commuter shoes or wearing anything in the courthouse that would be deemed inappropriate. I would be embarrassed and horrified if they saw me in electric colors or anything that would cause one to take notice. Yet, I see the plethora of fashion delusion that starts with the defense bar and trickles down to the defendant.
Sitting in the front row waiting for motions hearings I see the defense counsel that I mistake for a cross dressing male prostitute; or, in my head, Rue Paul in drag before the court. Today instead of the usual spandex dress that fits like a stuffed sausage with glass-heeled pole dancing shoes, she is wearing a suit that may have fit her when she got out of law school. That was fifteen years ago and certainly not bespoke. The slit up the back of the skirt (lining included) probably was a nice two inch kick pleat when it started on the rack at Casual Corner, but now it has grown and crept it's way up nearly to meet her inseam. All I can think is, "Thank goodness it is winter and she is actually wearing opaque tights." The suit jacket is in far worse form and fits like last year's fashionable shrug. In its origin it probably had a better chance of actually having the lapels meet and lay properly. When she fumbles and fidgets through her bag pulling out her shoes to change, I think to myself, "Ditch the pole dancing patents and leave on the metallic flats, you would be doing us all a favor." No deal. She is marching herself right into the land of felony fashion citations; before the court, not just in the hallway.
The foundation alone was a disaster, but with the lesser included charges that go with the citation, I find myself horrified. It is never simple. Here the details are in her failure at coordination. It's the five inch electric-blue french ghetto manicure, the hot pink lipstick and the false eyelashes with glitter dusting that peek out when she whips her hair extensions over her shoulder still having the mass of them hanging before her eyes in what I feel she has termed "her sexy look for the judge."
When the case is called she and her client take their table. Compared to the defense counsel, I find myself not minding the jeans that are five sizes too big with an disheveled rhinestone studded Obama t-shirt. I find myself choosing the lesser of two evils. I can actually avoid rolling my eyes before the judge when she walks forward if I just focus on the unlaced high tops that the defendant wears street strutting. I zone out and find great comfort seeing a white shirt and tie under a black robe take the bench. I focus silently with questions of, "How do the Judges deal with this every day and keep their sanity?" Then I remember a fifteen year old defendant last year that asked me in his own most polite way, "Bitch, you be fine, why you caught up wearin' doz stupid white people clothes?"
Court ends up in recess and I walk outside only to catch a reflection of myself in the large plate glass windows and I think, "What am I doing here?" I am my own worst critic and as humorous as I am about the felony fashion citations, I can be honest about myself. It is simple. I don't fit in. I look like I am going to a members' business luncheon at a country club. I have the Talbot's coat from the front wish window, the subdued black Coach briefcase and the perfect little pair of conservative pumps. My hair is as simple and conservative as it gets. So simple, the color grows out of my head. I am too shy to ever wear anything more than a french manicure and a light pink lip tint. Under my coat it screams shades and tones of black, grey or navy. As I reach up to push my hair back, I realize that I have one pair of earrings. I wear the same pair of Mikimotos every single day of my life. It is not like I even make an effort to wear them. They are just in my ears permanently like I am waiting to always be prepared to go to a luncheon at the country club that I will never belong.
What puzzles me most is that out of the entire courthouse and the hundreds of people that come and go throughout one day, I am the one that is dressed to blend in with the walls; yet I am the one that sticks out like a sore thumb. It seems that the people dressed in the pick up clothes are the norm. My desire to blend into the walls is not met. I am approached in every corridor of every floor by someone in uniform or a suit with a legal gun. Most of it is just courthouse banter and flirting of the blue. Somehow in the chaos you have to feel that you are alive and not in a bad dream. After all, just in case, you have to hope it is a dream or your reality could easily turn to a nightmare.
I go back into the courthouse and through the metal detectors after learning from a Google alert that Punxsutawney Phil has not seen his shadow. Spring is coming. For some of us, sooner rather than later. I pull myself together telling myself that today is just another day and I have made it through.
Wrestling with Punxsutawney Phil
I wake up and I hear the crackling of the icing rain coming down outside; much like the world is crying, as am I. Today is the day that my mother died. Regardless of what today is for me, everyone else equates today with Groundhog's Day. If the groundhog, a/k/a Punxsutawney Phil, sees his shadow there will be winter for six more weeks. To me, if the groundhog sees his shadow, my mom gets to die for the next six weeks in a row. I hear the icing rain and my heart tells me that metaphorically the world is at a loss because my mother was truly one of the best people anyone could have ever known.
By all accounts of the looks outside and every weather report across the country, it does not matter who sees their shadow. We are having a brutal winter and even Wrigley Field is not sacred from the elements' damage. Icons in history may fall, but the community around them lifts them up; and they, in turn, lift themselves for their community.
Being a grab-and-grip-your-bootstraps type person I focus on what I can do. I focus on how I live my life and how I am a reflection of my parents. I know that what I do lets my mother live on. I know that what I do is done because of the way I was raised. I am proudly my mother's daughter. I go out of my way just a little to add some niceness to someones otherwise ordinary day for no reason other than it is what mother would have done. I do this because I learned by example, not by being told. I am who I am because I had the best parents in the world who actually parented.
Just as I attended school the very next day after her passing, I will go to work today and bear the elements to get there on time as always. Not because I want to, but because I do. This I do because that is how I was raised and that is what we Midwesterners of origin do. That is what my mother would have done.
Today I will listen to Defendants and defense counsel orchestrate bologna sandwiches far before lunch and long past breakfast. I often wonder if it is somehow a worldly metaphor that while the Defendants are in the lockup they are fed a bologna sandwich for lunch. I wonder if their attorney ever actually thought of that, or if he completely overlooked the irony while he was busy making a bologna sandwich for the court. Sometimes I want to just pack a grocery bag in the morning instead of my briefcase. I want to pack bologna sandwiches and pass them out to all the defense counsel and say, "Here! I already have plenty of bologna sandwiches, I don't need yours!"
However tempted I may be to add some humor to DC Superior Court today, I refrain from going to the kitchen and preparing these actual meat and bread metaphors. Today is not the day. The Judges are in a much better mood during baseball season, and we are not there yet.
Today again I will hear every excuse for being late. I will hear every excuse as to how the defendant did not do it, how they need more time or how they have "found a new witness." Just once, I want to hear someone stand up and say it like it is. Just once I want to hear a domestic violence case where the Defendant stands proud and says, "Yes, I hit the bitch. After listening to her go on and on and on, don't you understand why?" I want to hear the Defendant tell the Court that he could not take it anymore and he found more peace being in jail than spending the night listening to the blah blah blah of baby mama drama. I want to hear the Defendant in a bad divorce case point out to the Judge that in a 20 year marriage of hate he could have served less time if he had killed her. I just want today, for once, for someone to have their lightbulb light up, Instead I will be forced to be entertained with low wattage; or worse, possibly the loss of electricity.
Tuesday, February 1, 2011
Do you know your white picket fence?
I come home from a grueling day mentally exhausted. It is nearing 9:30 at night and am so numb with upset that I am barely able to keep my eyes from welling up with tears. As I ride the Metro home I look amongst the other riders and wonder if any of them can find the white picket fence that I grew up thinking existed in the world. When we hit the Metro Center stop I realize by observation that many other people have no concept of the white picket fence; they are better compared to a real life Jerry Springer Show. I cannot understand their arrant behavior nor do I want to.
By the time I walk in the door I have spent over fifteen hours today dealing with things that I never wanted to know existed in the world. I walk in the door and simply change clothes and go to bed hoping that what I see and deal with everyday really does not exist and it is just a bad dream. My nerves are shot and I know that today I am more than spent because tomorrow it is the anniversary date of my mother's death.
I accept that I am numb tonight and I cannot write. I want my mom. I want to be able to call my mom and talk to her and I cannot. I want to go back to that comfort and safety that I felt before the word cancer came into our world and took her away from me. I want to try to understand why my last memory of my dying mother is of her volleying a laundry basket across the kitchen floor; because if it was the last thing she did, she wanted to wash my uniform for school. I want to know why my mother would put others first, even if it was with her last bit of strength. I want to know why my mother had the energy to be a good parent while on her death bed; yet the people I deal with on a regular basis are lazy and uninvolved in being responsible parents when they have nothing but time. I want to know why my mother had to be taken away when she was so good; yet all she ever really wanted to do was live to watch me grow into an adult.
Tonight I want, yet I want nothing material and nothing that can ever be replaced or solved. My white picket fence was taken away from me when my mother died. Reality is that the white picket fence does not exist.
By the time I walk in the door I have spent over fifteen hours today dealing with things that I never wanted to know existed in the world. I walk in the door and simply change clothes and go to bed hoping that what I see and deal with everyday really does not exist and it is just a bad dream. My nerves are shot and I know that today I am more than spent because tomorrow it is the anniversary date of my mother's death.
I accept that I am numb tonight and I cannot write. I want my mom. I want to be able to call my mom and talk to her and I cannot. I want to go back to that comfort and safety that I felt before the word cancer came into our world and took her away from me. I want to try to understand why my last memory of my dying mother is of her volleying a laundry basket across the kitchen floor; because if it was the last thing she did, she wanted to wash my uniform for school. I want to know why my mother would put others first, even if it was with her last bit of strength. I want to know why my mother had the energy to be a good parent while on her death bed; yet the people I deal with on a regular basis are lazy and uninvolved in being responsible parents when they have nothing but time. I want to know why my mother had to be taken away when she was so good; yet all she ever really wanted to do was live to watch me grow into an adult.
Tonight I want, yet I want nothing material and nothing that can ever be replaced or solved. My white picket fence was taken away from me when my mother died. Reality is that the white picket fence does not exist.
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