The Courtroom

Diary Entry: November 7, 2024

I have always been drawn to formidable coats, the kind of voluminous, high-altitude shells alpinists don when assaulting the summit of Everest. Hulking, substantial, heavy-duty materials that function as a bulwark against the winter cold, bestowing a sense of security and strength. I acquired one such piece, a red North Face Parka, back in 2016 while an LLM student here in Urbana-Champaign. It has remained a constant companion, a relic of that time that I brought with me for my JSD studies. For years, my mother had campaigned for its disposal, pointing to the accumulated toll of its long service, but I could not be persuaded to part with it. My habit was to wear it over a mere short-sleeved top, and it maintained the perfect equilibrium of warmth during the bitter Illinois winter days, when the streets were petrified in ice.

It was this Parka I chose to put on for my visit to the Champaign County Court House. My Family Law Practice class with Judge Blockman mandated at least two court visits to observe family law trials — one contested, one uncontested — and, preferably, to take notes. I had contacted the Court via email to procure the dockets for upcoming trials. The judges were all women, and Judge Blockman had previously arranged for them to visit our class for a legal masterclass.

I surfaced late that morning, steeped in an inertia that resisted any productive action. I was, however, just in time for the scheduled trial. I put on my grey suit, a red tie, and then, the Parka. I was suitably armored. Stepping outside, the Champaign breeze was a scalpel to the face. It is one of those moments of sharp, mortifying sensation, when the frigid air seems to stop the blood. I went to the bus stop and waited for the “yellow” bus. Sure enough, it soon appeared, and I was off to the courthouse.

We traveled for perhaps twenty or twenty-five minutes before the bus driver announced my stop, indicating the courthouse directly across the street. A flicker of recognition stirred; Professor Pigou had taken me to a sushi bar near here upon my arrival in Champaign. Immediately after dinner, he had taken me on a cursory tour of the city, one component of which was identifying the courthouse’s location. I retained little from that journey, preoccupied as I was with visions of shattered glass, a consequence of his indulgence in Japanese sake. I got off the bus, thanked the driver, and began crossing the street toward the court building. Before it stood a monument, etched with some requisite noble inscription about the court and its place in the American societal fabric. I entered the courthouse and was immediately processed by security, a familiar ritual, much like we have in Georgia.

I veered right, toward the stairs, and ascended to the second floor. The trial had not yet commenced, so I claimed a bench in the corridor and began the wait. Soon, two young women materialized, one of whom I immediately recognized from the Family Law Practice class. She was an American of apparent Chinese descent, a faint accent still clinging to her speech. The other was, ostensibly, American. We exchanged greetings, and they asked if I knew where the trial was scheduled. I admitted I was also waiting, and we fell into the requisite, murmured introductions. I explained my status as a JSD student and that I had chosen the Family Law Practice class out of sheer serendipity: the commendable mentorship skills of my thesis adviser.

One of the girls, the one I did not recognize, complimented the parka. “Did you buy it in America or something?” she inquired. She was a pleasant young lady, if unremarkable.

It seemed our trial was stalled before it began. Meanwhile, another judge in an adjacent room had an ongoing hearing. We attended that instead, only to see it promptly postponed. The familiar courtroom entropy had set in: one party had failed to appear, or some other procedural snag had arisen. I did notice a lawyer, one who had visited our class, representing one side. She did not recognize us. This was the advocate of the militant feminist persuasion, the one who had proclaimed in class that we should not elect old white men to government. A memory surfaced of Judge Blockman dryly scribbling a note, a perfect pantomime of striking her from future guest lists. That brief hearing concluded, and we returned to our original destination.

We entered the courtroom. The two girls sat together on a long pew, but perched on the very edge, staking their territory. This left me with the awkward prospect of either shuffling past them to the interior or forfeiting the luxury of their company. I opted for isolation, sitting on the other side to avoid intruding.

The trial commenced. This was the classic, miserable tug-of-war: a young woman and a young husband, locked in a dispute over the custody and relocation of a child. The wife, it appeared, wished to remarry and take the child with her to another state. The husband countered that the child was deeply bonded with him and his large, local family, and thus should remain. This was, evidently, the second trial, and the wife was accused of manufacturing excuses to deny the husband his visitation rights. She was representing herself, pro se, while the husband had retained seasoned counsel.

What struck me was the judge’s almost monastic patience. The woman was hopelessly disorganized. She didn’t have her evidence in order and committed a thicket of procedural blunders, especially during her fumbling attempts to question the husband as a witness. At one point, she glanced toward our pew and offered a brief, hopeful smile, as if scouting for allies, perhaps presuming we were lawyers who could offer some guidance. I felt a useless pang of empathy, but what did I know of her life, or this particular legal quagmire?

The proceedings stretched, dissolving into tedium. My two classmates discreetly decamped. I retreated to my phone. The judge’s voice sliced through the room. No phones, she stated flatly. If I wished to “play” with my phone, I should go outside. If I remained inside, my presence demanded my attention.

A bitter, private smile must have touched my lips. Little did she know she was admonishing a man who had weathered four hundred such battles over the past decade. This was, in my personal tally, my 401st trial.

I offered the requisite apology. I waited a respectable interval, and then I left.

Once outside, I walked to the bus stop and caught the “yellow” bus home. The journey back ignited a ravenous hunger. I went into a diner, the kind frequented by the town’s elderly, and ordered from a catalog of comfort: eggs sunny-side up, sausages, potatoes, and a Coke. Plus, pancakes. It was restorative. Afterward, I had a brief smoke and then went home to seek a well-deserved oblivion.