As I walk inside, the building, I am struck by the cold. The kind of cold that chills you to the depths of your soul. The courthouse was not only cold because of an overzealous air conditioner, but also the fact the silence that accompanied it. All that could be heard resounding through the hall was the rhythmic clickety-clack of heels marching to hear their verdicts. Inside the cold and quiet building, I spy a young woman talking with the circuit court clerk. She is very innocent looking. Chubby cheeks coupled with naturally stark white blonde hair tucked demurely behind her ears create the appearance of an angelic persona. Though I have always been told to not judge a book by it’s cover, it’s hard not to think of this petite woman, with tears welling up in her eyes as a victim. She seems to be getting more upset by the second. Her fists were balled up, and the quiet contempt that graced her countenance was so smoldering that I was surprised steam wasn’t billowing from her ears. The woman finally erupts, yelling so that she can be heard two blocks away. Her ex-husband has not paid her child support in a month, and she cannot buy diapers for her baby. The clerk tells her that nobody can do
anything about it until he is six months behind in his support. After five more
minutes of intense back and forth arguing, the young lady, now engulfed in tears, leaves. The clerk shrugs and turns around. The eerie silence that follows is almost deafening as my mind races to comprehend the injustice I had just witnessed that ultimately is the opposite of the lawfulness that is supposed to be.
The building seems different upstairs. There is a sort of dampness in the building that is not often accompanied by such a cold draft. Down a corridor there are empty
offices and paintings of astute looking old people from antiquity. I recognize two of them as George Washington and Thomas Jefferson. In between them is a copy of the constitution. As I read it I chuckle heartily, and wonder if this government is really what they had in mind. Further down the hall I hear distant voices. The general court is in
session. Inside the courtroom, a scruffy-looking man is in front of the judge.
He has been charged with public intoxication and resisting arrest. He does not
seem nervous, and he looked as if he’d been to this rodeo more than once. His nonchalant demeanor coupled with his shredded jeans immediately has me sensing his disdain for the law. I assume he will be put in jail for a little while, at the least. The judge tells the man that he does not want to see him in court again. The man assures the judge that he will not be back. With the bang of a gavel, the judge gives him a five dollar fine, plus court
costs. The man stumbles out of the courtroom already looking half drunk again. As he staggers past me, the lingering odor of liquor and urine washes over me. If I had any doubt about his sobriety, his drunkenness was confirmed when he let out an earth-shaking belch. So much for steering clear of the courtroom.
As I walk out of the courtroom, the courthouse seems colder than ever. Not the bitter iciness of winter, but rather the chill that can only be attained by the threat of something or someone lurking in the shadows. It makes gooseflesh spring up on my arms. The idea that is not a place where truth, justice, and liberty prevail was lurking in the shadows. It is a place of tragedy. A place where innocent people suffer because of the system, and where guilty people walk free because of it.
