Nothing But Love :: golf blogger

In the Courthouse Hallway

Waiting for the court administrator to finish up her meeting with the judge so that we could set a hearing date to get a settlement approved, I sat in the hallway outside the courtroom with three other lawyers. Seated directly across from me was a girl, dark hair cut short, probably about 17, wearing blue jeans with a pink sweater over a white blouse, dirty pair of Nikes on her feet. Next to her sat a skinny guy, maybe 18 years old, closely cut red fuzz hair, like on a G. I. Joe doll, with a few red hairs masquerading as something of a beard on his chin and a metallic stabbing weapon sticking out of his skin just under his bottom lip. He had an "x" tattooed on the web between the thumb and forefinger of his right hand, wore a pair of jeans with gashes in the knees, a t-shirt with a band name I didn't recognize and don't remember emblazoned above some colorful graphic with a skull and fire and maybe trolls frolicking around under a black unzipped hoodie.

Before they sat down, he had asked, "Where's juvenile court?" I replied, "Check in through that door," which apparently cemented our relationship as good friends because he told me when they emerged from the door, "They'll call us," like I was now a part of his legal defense team.

The other three lawyers gossiped about a lawyer, who had once been involved in our case. He had parted the company of the group of lawyers with whom he was associated, and they were laughing about a letter I had sent him in response to an insult he had cast my way in correspondence to me. They opined that his brazen style didn't fit in with the law firm. The kid with the deadly weapon sticking out of his face chipped in, "Lawyers can be real assholes," which is not a good thing to say to a group of lawyers.

"What are you here for?" I asked the boy.

"Petty theft," he replied, just as the juvenile court bailiff came out of the courtroom and asked the girl in the pink sweater for her name. She told him, and the bailiff invited her to walk through the metal detector. As she stood up, the red-haired kid stroked her on the butt with his left hand; then, he stood up and took a step toward the metal detector.

"Who are you?" the bailiff asked him with an authoritative air.

"I'm her stepfather. Her mom couldn't make it."

Posted by Bill at April 17, 2006 11:30 PM