People say it's drab in court. It's all oak and marble and some little guy sitting on a big bench with a long black robe. The lawyers drone on and on and on about codes and statutes and their stupid little motions they think are so important. And then there's me. In the big-ass courtroom, with all those guys in their black and gray suits, I sometimes feel like the last girl on earth. It's not that I'm the only female in the courtroom. There are some women if you could call them that., scattered amongst the attorneys. They've got big husky voices and short cropped hair, and they look stupid in their pin-striped pantsuits, trying so hard to look like the guys. Sometimes I'd fantasize about one of them women, about what the guys do to her after the judge bangs his gavel. I'd have those women doing horribly wicked things right there in open court.
In my mind, the lawyers would hold their own little sessions, throwing their colleague up on the judge's dais, ripping off her mannish uniform until she looks like a woman again, a slut on the bench ready to accept the order of the court, the rule of law, the code of man. And then they would have their way with her. They'd bind her wrists with Hermes ties, they'd put their Pradas to her throat until she gurgles and drools a little on the evidence table. Her pleas would go unheard in the great room that has heard so many pitiful pleas. And she would know who she is; the that little bitch would finally know At least that's the way I see it in my daydream. Her gray pinstripes are in tatters, strewn around the well of the court, and she finally remembers who and what she is, and why she came. We all need to remember the horrible truth. So bring back the jury and what say you all? The courtroom is hushed with only her sobs as she accepts her fate stretched out on the judge's bench, beneath those huge marble pillars. Guilty. Guilty. Guilty.
I blink a couple of times and the room comes back into focus. There's an attorney droning on about some long boring motion. Miss Prissy over there, in her pin-striped suit, hunched over a thick law tome might look just like all the guys, but I know who she really is. When I look over at her, all I can think of is that slut panting and writhing up on the bench, tied up and blindfolded, and the guys getting drunk on justice.
How a girl's mind can wonder. But I can't help it. I'm just a little girl in a big courtroom. It's true. I mean everyone thinks it's dull and boring in here. Even the slightest reference to my job, at a cocktail party, causes people's eyes to glaze over and they inevitably give me a knowing little half-smile, but if they only knew what was really stored up in my mind, what was really going through my head in the long days in court, they might see me differently. But maybe that's a good thing because if my ardent thoughts somehow came alive for all to see, I'd be blushing all the time and I'd never get any work done.
There's more to it than just my fantasies and what goes on in my head. I've learned a lot from the righteous earnestness of the prosecutors and the passionate theatrics of the defense attorneys. Like I know how to be just appealing enough to get a fair hearing in the courtroom. I've got to fix myself so I look sexy but do it in such a way that it looks like I'm oblivious to what I'm doing. It's like when one of the lawyers puts on one of their dumb-aw-shucks-I'm-just-a-country-boy-like-y'all act for the jury. That's the trick. It's like the jury will disregard. You get people to see something or feel things without them even knowing it. So they notice me even if I'm just the girl who tells everybody to rise for His Honor in the morning, the girl who takes pictures or scraps of paper over to play show-and-tell-with the jury and the girl who makes witnesses swear to God, they'll notice me. For the guys, it's more obvious. They wear power like a well-tailored suit. It's the kind of thing that when they stand up, their look says I own this place, I own the judge, I own the Truth. And if one of the lawyers were to looks at me, looks right at me while he was handing me a piece of evidence, he would probably own me too. So it's a juggling act. I have to be careful because you don't want to act demure or they'll ignore you. If you act slutty, they'll dismiss you as too easy or give you the courthouse kiss of death and brand you as unprofessional. The trick's to fix up just enough to make their hearts pound a little, to make their eyes do a little dance when they're trying to please the court. People think it's dull, that this whole court-clerking thing is dreary, but there's more to it than they think.
So one day they're trying some sad fellow for fraud, and there's this guy at the defense table, one of his lawyers, M. Mac McDonald was his name, and he was looking at me through the bluest of eyes. I'm trying not to blush, trying not to let on that I noticed him, and was especially trying to avoid looking at his cute little partner, Sarah. That would be even worse, imagining than hulking M. Mac McDonald dragging Sarah up to the bench. It was all I could do to get through the day. Like I actually had to listen to the boring monotonous testimony to keep myself from getting flustered. It seemed everywhere I went, whether it was swearing in a witness, fetching the judge a glass of water, or logging in evidence, I could feel the lawyer's eyes on me. And when the session was over, when the jury had their nightly instructions, when the defendant had gone, and people were still milling around the well of the court, M. Mac McDonald asked me if I wanted to go down to Lou's—the joint down the block where all the lawyers hung out—for a drink. It was like I'd been caught, like I'd been shackled and was being led out of court by the Marshals. I just nodded and followed him. It was like that guy has looked right into my head and saw all of my secrets come to life.
