Decade: Back in Alexandria

They conduct their business at the Alexandria Federal Courthouse. Have you ever been there? Cellphones and Blackberries are not allowed. You might also want to check your sensibilities at the front door too. I have never felt more alienated in a public place than here.

Nothing is on a human scale or street standard: Escalators, elevators, distances between being a citizen and being judged. High windows, ceilings, big doors. People who seem to belong here are not like you: speak like they know each other, dress alike, know where the elevators go, know where they themselves are going, know what’s about.

Young man, you went to a good law school and your family is very proud. It hasn’t been that long since you talked with classmates about “dispositional justice” – that you could be a part of this with clear conscience – no, more than that – your abiding sense of fairness and what the world should become will benefit everyone, even criminals; yes, you will know how to pull the levers to bring about the correct result (by the way, thanks). Well, the public defenders are in the same sort of position, but you will get to count more wins. And be more eligible for promotion to judge or elected office.

And the judge up there now – how can he sleep? No, I mean he is nodding off while someone testifies. In front of everyone. Technically, he is not supposed to snooze while administering justice, but no one will complain because that might make him mad.

Now, m’am, what are you doing here? The lawyer you have never seen will meet you here. But he is late and maybe you are in the wrong place and everyone around here has come into this courtroom. The lawyer is not here because he is chatting with a Marshal one floor below and because he has so little to say to you he has forgotten about your meeting.  Your son/brother/cousin/boyfriend/father – whoever – will be arraigned/denied bail/tried/sentenced – whatever. Your presence is not significant. Your concerns are marginal, at best. You yourself don’t even know enough to wear the right clothes to this place, reinforcing that your kind gets what’s coming to you. That’s why you are here.

When will they bring him, you ask. What door will he come through? By the back stairs, side door, from a holding cell, like the others. The same way he’ll leave. No, you won’t be allowed to speak to him. You can visit him in jail, maybe Saturday, anyway you have to get to work as soon as this is over. Save yourself, this is only the beginning. You don’t see or hear the steamroller but it’s moving toward him, and you. You can’t stop it. Someday this day will be a long time ago.

The lawyers will be back tomorrow.

Lisa Stand, October 2007