The courthouse was nestled in the busiest district of downtown Honolulu on a Seussian, wet, rainy day.
There we sat. Criminals. Awaiting our judgment. Hoping the gavel wouldn’t bruise as it came down to crush us. I did all I could to occupy my mind as I waited for the judge. I studied the walls—”nice Koa.” I counted the light fixtures—13. I cautiously glanced at the sorry sap to my right and the woman to my left who didn’t look like she belonged there, much like myself. I sat uncomfortable in the non-cushioned, need-another-coat-of-shellac wooden torture chair (ok, bench), trying desperately not to wrinkly my freshly pressed pants and tucked-in lavender shirt with matching tie, hoping the more surly of the criminals wouldn’t beat me up because I looked and dressed more like an attorney than a fellow law-breaker.
The young prosecuting attorney laid out her ever-important files and folders, pens and clips, pads (now I know why they call them “legal” pads) and post-its, all held neatly in what appeared to be a Hello Kitty bag with matching plastic pencil box, preparing herself for what would surely be a lengthy and tongue-twisting process ahead of her.
The public defendant sat playing with his phone, blatantly ignoring the myriad faded yellow sheets of paper taped elegantly around the room, stating clearly in black block lettering, “Turn OFF all phones and pagers.” He’s the criminal, not me.
I watched, and studied, and pondered the dynamic in the room. How one small divider with a little wooden swinging door could cut the line between dramatically differing sentiments and emotions at that moment. A separation of the Judged and the Judges. The bailiff joked with the clerk. The PD flirted with the DA. And there we sat. Criminals.
Arriving 20 minutes late, the “no-nonsense” judge ushered in our nightmare, and the inquisition began. We were called one-by-one to line up at the firing squad behind the little wooden swinging door. They went alphabetically. (Thank you, Dad, for giving me a name that begins with C). But this is Hawaii. And there are a LOT of Chois, Chens, Chows, Chings, and unpronounceable Samoan names that inexplicably begin with B. All of us, criminals.
A few cases in, it became clear that the Judge was in no mood for questions or dialogue. He wanted to get through this docket and get back on the links. We were ordered to have our documents ready. Approach the bench when called. State our full name. Hand over the appropriate materials to the DA. Hold our breaths as longs as possible. Stand in the Uttanasana yoga position. And prepare ourselves for instant death. I couldn’t stop thinking about Seinfeld and the “Soup Nazi”. It made me want to eat Lobster bisk soup…with bread. My stomach gurgled.
There was the case of the 30-something vietnamese man who operated a motor vehicle without being properly examined and approved for that class of vehicle. There was the case of the young Japanese girl who go caught driving 95mph in a 45 zone. May she rest in peace. A few of them needed interpreters. Others, obviously ESL, needed additional explanation about what a plea of No Contest meant, as opposed to Guilty or Not Guilty. Another 7 cases. Anther 9. 12 more dismissals. 3 bench-warrants for non-arrivals.
Then I arrived at the front of the line. My knees gently touching the swinging divider in front of me. My hands firmly grasping my umbrella. Partially for balance, and partially so that I would be prepared to fight off the bailiff and her minions if things turned ugly.
I took four steps forward to the edge of the bench. I handed over my documents and stated my name in the microphone aimed at my belly button, only hesitating for a moment when I realized that I reversed the order and should have stated my name first. MAN! No soup, one year!
It took three seconds, maybe four, for the DA to look at the affidavit I provided her and speak the delightful words to the austere, Japanese judge sitting five feet above and behind her, “your honor, I move to dismiss on proof.” Whatever that meant, it sounded good. It was. Before the judge could even finish speaking the official judgment, dismissing me of any wrongdoing, saving me from a cold, lonely evening with a 400 pound man called “Biscuits”, with whom I was sure to be sharing a cell, I sat down next to the bailiff, waiting for her to run me through the final check-out stage of my acquittal.
Though I was fairly certain of this outcome, relief was all I could feel at that moment. The nightmare. Over. I stood to leave only to glance back at the sorry souls whose names were unfortunate enough to begin somewhere behind the letter D. And there they sat. Criminals.
