A tale of rediscovered love and architectural criticism made my waiting for two hours atthe county courthouse Tuesday morning a little easier to bear.
I was there as a reporter to cover a hearing in a lawsuit, but once I finally found theroom everybody was meeting in, the bailiff told me it was closed to the public.
No problem. "There isn't a back door, is there? I mean, they have to come out this way, right?" He said yes, so I settled in to wait. I would ambush the participants on their way out, paparazzi-style, heh heh.
The upstairs area where the courtrooms are could use some diversions. Even a TV that only plays Fox News would have been welcome, but it probably would have gotten me thrown out by the bailiffs, since I tend to yell hysterically at Fox News.
I sat on the hard wooden bench for a bit. Looked underneath. Somebody must have vacuumed, for there were no coins or rubbish. There went my lunch plans. The lack of coins, I mean.
A man and a woman left together, and a minute later a bailiff came out of a courtroom looking for them. He remarked to another bailiff that they were supposed to be here for a divorce. "Maybe they fell in love all over," the second bailiff said dryly. "Are they out there kissing in the car?" We all looked out the window at the parked cars below, but we couldn't see any kissing people.
I walked around and read everything that was posted.
The signs at the top of the stairs kept me diverted for a good 12 minutes. Per local court rule 9.4, "All persons entering courtrooms shall be dressed in clean appropriate attire."
I wondered if the poor guy who has to smell people to make sure they're clean is also the lucky guy who gets to decide what attire is appropriate. "Hey, you in the clown suit! You can go on in. You guys in the wingtips, hit the road!"
It's not part of rule 9.4, I don't think, but another sign says "No shorts or cutoff's (sic) allowed beyond this point."
I looked for a pile of shorts and cutoffs that might have been removed and left there because of the sign, but I didn't see any. I wondered if the bailiffs got to take them home or if people picked them up on the way out.
I wondered what situations prompted these rules. Was there some fellow who, in an effort to get a lighter sentence, figured he'd be wise to show His or Her Honor a little leg? Or is there a lawyer in town who dresses too casually for court? I bet I know who it is.
The docket listings outside the courtrooms were boring. People were having disagreements about their marriages. Other people were suing each other. Why can't we all just get along?
I saw the names of a couple of lawyers I know on the docket outside Judge Winfrey's courtroom. I looked through the door glass and saw His Honor on the bench. I wondered if he'd mind if I popped my head in to say hello to the guys. Maybe. I chickened out.
If I carried a cell phone, I thought, I could call down to the public administrator's office and see if one of the folks would bring me a cup of coffee. Standing at the railing, I could see their window through the open stairwell.
But there are no food or drinks allowed up there. Could it have been the infamous Attorney Food Fight of '92 that resulted in this prohibition?
I leaned on the railing and thought about how hard it would be to get down from here without using the stairs. It looked like you could climb on the ledges separating the windows, but you would have to be pretty agile.
I noticed that the railing that runs across from the judges' chambers and Courtroom B is just a little crooked. It looks like years of worried, bored people have leaned on it and bent it slightly. It occurred to me that a person would have to be pretty bored to notice that.
I had a reporter's notebook with me. I tore out a page, wadded it up and put it in my jacket pocket. My colleague, Fines Massey, was due to come to the courthouse at some point this morning to check for probable cause statements.
From my vantage point upstairs, I could stand at the railing and nail him with a paper wad when he entered the building through the glass double doors. Then I would duck out of sight.
I got tired of waiting for Fines after about 20 minutes and wandered off.
I thought about a nap. If I taped a note on my hat asking for someone to wake me up if anybody came out of the meeting, would they do it? I reckoned not.
You can't play Hangman with yourself because you already know the secret word. On the positive side, when you lose, no one else ever needs to know.
Dum da-dum. I whistled for a while.
Why did they mount the electrical outlet sideways at the entrance to Courtroom A? Why didn't the other courtrooms have plugs by the doors?
I caught an apparent architectural error. A light near the ceiling was there for indirect lighting, but it wasn't shining on a reflective surface. It illuminated a small area of medium-dark wood. "Aha!" I cried.
A family with a little boy, maybe 2, came in and sat on the bench next to mine. The little boy dropped a dime, and it rolled over near me. He looked solemnly at me, not wanting to go near a stranger but wanting his coin back.
I pretended I was going to pick it up. In a flash, he was off the bench, grabbing the dime, and retreating to his folks.
I wasn't going to keep it, honest.
Around 11, a guy came out of the room where the thing was that I had nearly forgotten about by now. I asked him what was going on and he said, not much. So I left.
Hard to believe I get paid for this sometimes.
Ken York's column appears in The Daily Record, Lebanon, Mo. It is reprinted here with permission.
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