So my friend and I showed up at the courthouse yesterday, properly (or rather improperly) disarmed. She even left her nail file in the car, just in case, and I carried a purse (I never carry a purse) that was so light I felt naked. No flashlight, no pepper spray, no multi-tool, no spring-assisted pocket knife, no hardware whatsoever.
The courthouse, in a bigger county than this one, was a “real” courthouse — swarming with lawyers and built to impress 19th century citizens. Domes and grand staircases and mosaic floors and all that.
In the courtroom, the ceiling soared to 20 feet to make room for a pair of murals meant to convey the Majesty of Justice. On one side of the judge’s bench, a gaggle of Greek ladies stood in Renaissancy poses, balancing scales and reading big books al fresco. They appeared quite uncomfortable despite their sunny day. But they were better off than the folks in the other mural.
On that one, a host of avenging angels wielding swords, torches, and daggers took off after some naked-except-for-strategically-placed-drape guy like a mob of peasants after the Frankenstein monster — except airborne, as angels are wont to be. The guy in the mural had just murdered another guy and now he was running like hell. (I think it might have been Cain and Abel, but since the muralist didn’t include any symbolic hints like scattered produce from Cain’s garden, I’m not really sure.)
Above the judge in foot-high letters was a motto (I paraphrase): “To the just, justice is a holy blessing. To evil-doers it is righteous vengeance.”
This was Superior Court and everything about the place was meant to convey that it’s superior to you, indeed, little peasant.
Beneath all this, a bored and mumbly judge and a weary flock of public defenders gave 30 seconds each to a parade of mostly young, mostly male, mostly haggard, sometimes ragged, often not too bright looking “evil-doers.” That is, they gave 30 seconds (sometimes as much as two minutes) to the ones who showed up. About half on the docket didn’t — which seemed to be such business-as-usual that the drooping judge didn’t even pause before calling out the next defendant’s name.
Even sitting in a forward row, we could hear only snippets of the proceedings. Those 20-foot ceilings play havoc with the acoustics. It seemed pretty clear, though, by the way they trooped in and out of the courtroom on their own, that this pack of “evil-doers” … well, wasn’t.
At least not of the level requiring heavenly hit squads.
All we really knew was that my friend’s son — the person for whom we conducted our entire exercise in disarmament and submission to the state — wasn’t there.
He wasn’t in the bizarre conga line of chained county jail inmates in teal jumpsuits shuffling out as we entered. He wasn’t among the bedraggled, humbled, or swaggering defendants who approached the bench in civilian clothes. Nor was he among the orange-suited and chain-trussed few who came in with cops on all four sides of them, officers grimly clearing the hoi palloi out of the way. (We were imagining each and every one of the orange-suiters a Hannibal Lecter, but when they stood before the judge we occasionally caught terms like “malicious mischief” and “assault.”)
We’d already discovered her son wasn’t on the docket before we went into the courtroom. We stayed around a while just in case he and his attorney turned up unscheduled, as a nice woman from the county clerk’s office said sometimes could happen.
But nope. He was in jail because he’d missed his November court date on theft charges. And now he’d done it again. He’d told his mother he had a hearing today when in fact it’s next Monday. Yeah. He’s a flake. Next time, she’ll check with his lawyer before making the trip. Next time, it’ll be without me.
Anyhow we spent the day going to thrift stores and consignment shops instead. We met no more avenging angels. And no evil-doers, as far as we could tell.
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Oh yeah. Even in the “real” courthouse — no metal detectors, no searches. We could have walked in with Tommy guns under our skirts and nobody would have given a hoot. (Nor should they have given a hoot, I hasten to add, because we’d be strictly responsible Tommy gun owners, ready only to aid the cause of justice by defending the innocent.)
In fact, their Big City courthouse had even more liberal weapons rules than our local backwoods one.
Our local Palace of Justice has also been known to indulge itself in a mural or two, but mostly depicting grubby 19th century loggers (though the two-man saws they bear are more useful than angel swords, all things considered). The edifice, such as it is, is primarily a place to renew car tags and get marriage licenses. It’s a very much more workaday building for very much more workaday rednecks. Yet it forbids all weapons within its very doors. (A rule I’m sure gets broken six times before breakfast every day, and thank heaven it does.)
The Courthouse of the Avenging Angels only forbade weapons on the floors housing the courtrooms and apparently had no problems with Tommy gun-toting ladies in the administrative areas.
