![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
Testify, my brother me!
Today I returned to court. I spent three hours in the cramped hallway outside the courtroom, waiting to testify. Sporadic arguments broke out as accusers and defendants crossed paths now and again in the hall. A rodential Van Gogh with a cauliflower ear sat next to me and impressed me with his courthouse sagacity: "Yeah, that sounds open-and-shut. That'll get him one to twenty-five. Higher if there was kicking."
After all that, I was on the witness stand for no more than ten minutes.
Entering the courtroom, I was told to walk toward the judge, and didn't know where to stop; the bailiff accosted me with "Do you swear..." etc. while I was still in motion, so I halted to a stop there in the middle of everybody, half in and half out of the little swinging gate that led to the bench. I waved my hand in the air (there was no Bible) and neglected to mention that, as a Quaker, I'd really rather affirm than swear.
I sat in the witness stand and stated and spelled my name. The judge (a stern woman with short-cropped hair who reminded me of my Aunt Martha) scolded me about my iPod, mistaking it for a recording device. The lights were surprisingly bright. I sweated, not sure how loudly I needed to speak into the mike, worried that I would somehow screw this up. Paul Elrod was there watching me, not fifteen feet away, and I was asked to point him out and describe his clothes; the victim was in the back row, looking like Gene Wilder, thoughtful and sickly. The prosecuting attorney didn't quite have his facts straight; his questioning was disorganized, which points up the difference between this and the civil suit I was deposed for in February: civil suits have more money to throw around on preparation. My civil deposition was thorough and careful; this seemed haphazard.
I didn't get half into my first sentence before the defense attorney rose from her seat to object; "One of my employees told me..." was hearsay, she claimed, though the judge allowed it as groundwork. I then told them, plainly, what happened. Elrod's reactions were strange, comic rue: he actually hung his head when I related that he'd called me "bitch"—but exaggeratedly, like a sitcom character. When I described his clothing (gray suit, flowered tie) he looked down at himself, then spread his hands wide as if to say, "Yep, that's me!" (Which reminds me—I didn't mention here that he pulled up alongside me two weeks ago, as I was walking to KFC for lunch after the adjournment, and offered me a ride home. I politely declined.) I think he's adopted a persona of cheerful apology for the trial, an "Aw, shucks" pose.
The defense attorney was concerned with my duties at the theater and whether anyone had complained about anything that night (other than the fight). She was antagonistic, but imperfectly; a chuckle slipped out when I told her that my job title was largely meaningless. At one point I used the word "chased" instead of "followed" when talking about tailing Elrod, and she quickly asked me, "So Mr. Elrod thought you were chasing him?" "I really don't know," I answered, and felt I'd dodged a snare.
Then I was released; the detective thanked me, said I'd done well. As I was walking out, the victim, in the last pew, caught my eye and winked—just a flickering of one eyelid. That's the only contact I've ever had with him.
I shook a little once I got outside, but only a little. With Rush's La Villa Strangiato blaring in my ears and a breeze running through the spring day like a kid through a sprinkler, I set off along the highway. There's something about walking in the gravel and grit of a highway verge that makes me feel like a young buck again; it reminds me of high school, probably, walking to the mall to raise a ruckus with Greg and Joe, fascinated by the bits of metal and unspooled cassette tapes that live beside the road—the former are still there, the latter have passed. You'd expect me to feel slow and sorry as I trudged past drainage ditches while car after car whizzed past, but I felt puffed up.
Being sans Kendra and near a shopping center, I took the opportunity to get a beef-n-cheddar at Arby's (with curly fries and a big Mr. Pibb) and do some self-indulgent geek shopping. I found Star Wars mini Lego sets at Toys-backwards-R-Us, and bought the Snowspeeder/AT-ST set; the Snowspeeder is an inch and a half long, and cute as the dickens. (They're here on my desk now.) At Borders I bought the new Neal Stephenson book (The Confusion, sequel to Quicksilver and prequel to Cryptonomicon), then browsed the used video game store (without buying anything) and looked for iPod accessories at Circuit City (without finding anything). Had Kendra been here, she'd've been giving me The Look after ten minutes, but I took my time as I searched (fruitlessly) for an 80s collection with Mexican Radio on it.
I took a little too much time, so let that be a lesson—I missed one bus by moments, and had to wait an hour for the next. That one got me home halfway into Smallville. Alas. I watched the latter half, then Angel, then (finally) finished touching up my photos while waiting for Kendra to call.
Kendra is in Saint Louis for a conference, and will be until late Friday night. I miss her already, which I suppose is sweet when viewed from the outside. I also miss a lot of other people; looking over a year's worth of photos will do that. Pinewoods lassies in tank tops and bikinis; Swarthmore friends walking through dances on the lawn of PPR; Kendra's niece with chocolate cake all over her face; geek girls wearing hardly anything at ConFusion. I'm a weird mix of wistful, happy, lonely, horny.
Mostly, though, I'm tired. So goodnight.
Today I returned to court. I spent three hours in the cramped hallway outside the courtroom, waiting to testify. Sporadic arguments broke out as accusers and defendants crossed paths now and again in the hall. A rodential Van Gogh with a cauliflower ear sat next to me and impressed me with his courthouse sagacity: "Yeah, that sounds open-and-shut. That'll get him one to twenty-five. Higher if there was kicking."
After all that, I was on the witness stand for no more than ten minutes.
Entering the courtroom, I was told to walk toward the judge, and didn't know where to stop; the bailiff accosted me with "Do you swear..." etc. while I was still in motion, so I halted to a stop there in the middle of everybody, half in and half out of the little swinging gate that led to the bench. I waved my hand in the air (there was no Bible) and neglected to mention that, as a Quaker, I'd really rather affirm than swear.
I sat in the witness stand and stated and spelled my name. The judge (a stern woman with short-cropped hair who reminded me of my Aunt Martha) scolded me about my iPod, mistaking it for a recording device. The lights were surprisingly bright. I sweated, not sure how loudly I needed to speak into the mike, worried that I would somehow screw this up. Paul Elrod was there watching me, not fifteen feet away, and I was asked to point him out and describe his clothes; the victim was in the back row, looking like Gene Wilder, thoughtful and sickly. The prosecuting attorney didn't quite have his facts straight; his questioning was disorganized, which points up the difference between this and the civil suit I was deposed for in February: civil suits have more money to throw around on preparation. My civil deposition was thorough and careful; this seemed haphazard.
I didn't get half into my first sentence before the defense attorney rose from her seat to object; "One of my employees told me..." was hearsay, she claimed, though the judge allowed it as groundwork. I then told them, plainly, what happened. Elrod's reactions were strange, comic rue: he actually hung his head when I related that he'd called me "bitch"—but exaggeratedly, like a sitcom character. When I described his clothing (gray suit, flowered tie) he looked down at himself, then spread his hands wide as if to say, "Yep, that's me!" (Which reminds me—I didn't mention here that he pulled up alongside me two weeks ago, as I was walking to KFC for lunch after the adjournment, and offered me a ride home. I politely declined.) I think he's adopted a persona of cheerful apology for the trial, an "Aw, shucks" pose.
The defense attorney was concerned with my duties at the theater and whether anyone had complained about anything that night (other than the fight). She was antagonistic, but imperfectly; a chuckle slipped out when I told her that my job title was largely meaningless. At one point I used the word "chased" instead of "followed" when talking about tailing Elrod, and she quickly asked me, "So Mr. Elrod thought you were chasing him?" "I really don't know," I answered, and felt I'd dodged a snare.
Then I was released; the detective thanked me, said I'd done well. As I was walking out, the victim, in the last pew, caught my eye and winked—just a flickering of one eyelid. That's the only contact I've ever had with him.
I shook a little once I got outside, but only a little. With Rush's La Villa Strangiato blaring in my ears and a breeze running through the spring day like a kid through a sprinkler, I set off along the highway. There's something about walking in the gravel and grit of a highway verge that makes me feel like a young buck again; it reminds me of high school, probably, walking to the mall to raise a ruckus with Greg and Joe, fascinated by the bits of metal and unspooled cassette tapes that live beside the road—the former are still there, the latter have passed. You'd expect me to feel slow and sorry as I trudged past drainage ditches while car after car whizzed past, but I felt puffed up.
Being sans Kendra and near a shopping center, I took the opportunity to get a beef-n-cheddar at Arby's (with curly fries and a big Mr. Pibb) and do some self-indulgent geek shopping. I found Star Wars mini Lego sets at Toys-backwards-R-Us, and bought the Snowspeeder/AT-ST set; the Snowspeeder is an inch and a half long, and cute as the dickens. (They're here on my desk now.) At Borders I bought the new Neal Stephenson book (The Confusion, sequel to Quicksilver and prequel to Cryptonomicon), then browsed the used video game store (without buying anything) and looked for iPod accessories at Circuit City (without finding anything). Had Kendra been here, she'd've been giving me The Look after ten minutes, but I took my time as I searched (fruitlessly) for an 80s collection with Mexican Radio on it.
I took a little too much time, so let that be a lesson—I missed one bus by moments, and had to wait an hour for the next. That one got me home halfway into Smallville. Alas. I watched the latter half, then Angel, then (finally) finished touching up my photos while waiting for Kendra to call.
Kendra is in Saint Louis for a conference, and will be until late Friday night. I miss her already, which I suppose is sweet when viewed from the outside. I also miss a lot of other people; looking over a year's worth of photos will do that. Pinewoods lassies in tank tops and bikinis; Swarthmore friends walking through dances on the lawn of PPR; Kendra's niece with chocolate cake all over her face; geek girls wearing hardly anything at ConFusion. I'm a weird mix of wistful, happy, lonely, horny.
Mostly, though, I'm tired. So goodnight.
