If you don’t go they can fine you $50.  One would think the penalty more severe for not showing up in Brooklyn Supreme Court.   Especially as a witness.  They faxed me an official subpoena and everything.   Disappointed to learn that the fine was a mere $50 as compared to, say, a beheading -- I still thought it in my best interest to attend.  I took the day off from work, deciding that I’d rather be biking but not rather be at the doctor, and appeared in a white button-down shirt with my hair tied back like on one of those “Don’t” fashion pages.  The lawyer even made me remove my black choker, the only link to style I had left concerning my outfit, and I resolved myself to a day of boring.  The case I sat in on was long-open and abruptly slammed shut.  I was never even called to the witness stand.  I am not at liberty to discuss further details. (Quite frankly, it would make me too upset.)  I can, however, share some of my observations.

First things first -- it is reinforced why Court Street is called Court Street.  That mystery is thankfully cleared up and I shall once again be able to sleep.  I will continue to ponder, however, as to the origin of Coney Island’s “Stillwell Avenue” especially since it is home to the sickly-sounding and boarded-up “Terminal Hotel.”

Second things second.  “You can always tell the defendants,” my boyfriend pointed out as we sat  chain-smoking outside the side entrance to 360 Adams Street.   At that moment, a man ambled by with one of those generic blue things on his foot.   Those factory foot braces.  No one was wearing a neck brace but I did see a couple of pair of crutches.  And a cane.  “That’s a lawyer,” my boyfriend remarked on the cane man, inhaling our last cigarets before we hit the hours’ worth of “no smoking” any stint in court is sure to bring, “an old lawyer.”

Unlike the glitzy showrooms on “Law and Order,” the courtroom was a ramshackle hovel remnant of where they cram you for summer school or study hall.  The judge’s name placard was taped to the front podium over year’s of past sticky remnants.   It was a slip-shod operation, complete with wind-tunnel fan that was trying its best to muss my plastered-back hair.

The “jury of my peers” didn’t look particularly “peer-like.”   Perhaps “contemporaries” would be a better term for them.  I will not go into great detail regarding their appearance lest they read this and decide to --gasp -- sue me (perhaps they learned a lot at the courthouse?).  I will say, however, that a mini-scandal erupted when juror number one was called away.  She was then sent back to her prominent seat at the head of the jury section, only to be called away again...never to return.  She must have been beheaded, I thought, later learning that she had fallen asleep -- and then admitted to -- falling asleep while the judge was charging the jury, or giving them instructions on the law.  Good time to fall asleep.

The only reason I would ever want to  become a judge was so they couldn’t start proceedings without me.  The term “wait for me” actually carries some clout there.   Oh, yea.  I also like their robes and England’s version with powdered wigs.

Also in the courtroom was an American flag stuffed to the right near the front corner.   I wondered if having an American flag is actually a law in an American courtroom.   I also recalled an incident in a government office in which a worker rearranged the whole outlay of the office, right down to the very last file cabinet, but failed to leave room for the state flag.  It stood in the middle of the room for a while until it was crammed neatly near the air conditioner.

The courtroom players looked true to form.  Lawyers had that lawyer look.  And regardless of how bad and bored I felt I could instantly feel better by glancing at the face of the court stenographer.  He hated his job and, with his permanent grimace, would have clearly lost at poker at every time.

The trial itself felt like a game of chance.  Russian roulette in the American court system.  In this case, the chances ended up being worse than the chances of winning a fancy Spanish doll at the 18th Avenue feast where we blew $3 several weeks ago.   Today I go back to work -- believe me,
something I would not be doing at all if the case had been resolved as  hoped.   But at least I did not have to pay the no-show penalty of $50.  And at least I am not the court stenographer.