A Simple Case of Mistaken Identity. It Could Happen to Anyone.

Of course court started late.

We prospective jurors had to be there by 8:30, but it was 9:50 when the judge entered, and ascended her throne or bench or Mount Olympus (I am not a respected civics scholar, despite my valedictorianness). And therein lies a brief pre-tale.

Our courtroom had the tall judge's desk thingy in the middle of the front wall, with a hall hidden behind for chambers and the restrooms. In front of the judge was a lower desk area for the circuit clerk. Then a little corral area in front of it with two long wooden tables, for the defense on the left, and the prosecutor on the right. Each table had four sturdy wooden chairs, two on each side. So the people could be facing us, or have their backs to us. On the right wall was a raised pen with stationary swivel juror chairs, facing across to the left wall, with an identical pen of the same chairs, but no little wall in front. The court stenographer had a raised box area on the right wall, near the jurors. The rest of the room was comprised of twenty wooden pews, facing the front, ten on the right half of the room, with high windows letting in sunlight, and ten on the left side of the room, by the wall with the door enter the courtroom.

My seat was in the first pew on the left side of the room, the first seat on the middle aisle. Yeah. I was not so pleased at sitting in the front row. But that's where my juror number fell. In front of me was the low wooden wall that bordered the corral. There was no swinging door, but an opening in the middle, and one near each end.

While waiting for the show to get underway, we prospective jurors sat and murmured. Small talk. Only ten of us were on my half of the courtroom. Seven to a pew. Three behind us. The right side was a full house, seven to a pew, all ten pews. Except for the ONE juror who did not show up. Can you say, "Warrant for your arrest has been issued." Because it has.

There was a bit of activity to watch. The bathroom parade. The circuit clerk behind her laptop screen. The judge in and out. I knew our circuit has two female judges. I remember seeing one of them during my last jury duty several years ago. But now, she looked different. Oh, well. People change. I look different, too. Or maybe it was the other female judge. The one I voted for, but didn't remember seeing. Yeah. That must have been it. She was up on her bench. Down talking to the clerk. In and out of chambers. Talking to the attorneys briefly in passing as they put down their stacks of file folders and puttered with their female assistants.

The judge was dressed in a form-fitting red-and-blue dress. Kind of like Peggy Bundy might wear, only not gaudy. But form-fitting. Knee-length. The front half red, the back half blue. Tasteful enough, I suppose. I don't know what judges are supposed to wear. I DO know that our pamphlet told us to dress for the seriousness of the occasion. No ragged jeans, no cut-offs, no tank tops, no shorts. Yet in came my work crony at 8:29 in running shoes, shorts, and a t-shirt. Nobody said anything about it.

I will jump ahead here now, and come back to some particulars in the next few days, because I want to get to the point of today's pre-tale. Yes. There is a point.

Finally, when we were ready to begin, the bailiff announced, "All rise for the Honorable Judge Missy Miss." And in came A WOMAN I HAD NEVER SEEN BEFORE!

The "judge" I had been watching work her way around the courtroom all morning clip-clopped in her tasteful not-spike, not-platform heels across that corral and ascended the wall box.

SHE WAS THE COURT STENOGRAPHER!