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.
