May it Please the Court

The 1L moot court competition taught me that oral arguments turned me into a litigious super bitch both in and out of our home. And while I loved moot court, I could see that cultivating the my already strong litigious side would not be a good thing. I decided then that whatever attorney I might be, I would generally avoid court. It was a surprise, then, when one of my mentors asked me to go to court for him. Lucky for Logan it was only ex parte court. No litigious super bitch needed. :)

Yet despite the simplicity of the proceeding, I was so stressed by it that I dreamed I was late and had to drive to court on a razor scooter, and lost the files, but managed to wear a really cute top with really ugly pants, and ultimately missed the entire thing. I awoke in a state of panic. About ex parte court. A court so simple that even pro se (non lawyers) do it all the time.

Anyway, I arrived by car and remembered my files and wore really innocuous black suit. I followed a herd of men past the main entrance up until the point where they--as experienced attorneys--could enter the court without being subjected to the airport security team. But not me! No, I had to wait in line and take off my freaking shoes. Lines, as you will soon see, are an integral part of going to court. I really had no idea.

I then waited in line at the information desk to find out that I needed to wait in line at the clerk's windows. Eventually I was allowed up to the court room, where there was, you guessed it! Another line. Apparently I looked so clueless that, despite my suit and neat files, I was directed to the pro se waiting area to have my "documents checked." It was mildly humiliating. As a bonus, it occurred in front of one of the attorneys at the firm that didn’t hire me. So, that was nice.

Finally, I approached the bench. It was an underwhelming bench. I had hoped, dreamed even, that the judge would scowl down at me, but instead he was right at crotch height at a folding table. Nothing in law school prepared me to have an aerial view of a judge's bald spot, and him, a view of my fly. So I gave him the two sentence summary and handed him the order. Which he read until he realized that the attorney's name on the order was a male attorney's name. Meanwhile the tweed suit crotch in front of him was decidedly not male.

"You're not Jeff." He astutely observed. He spent the next three and a half minutes becoming absolutely certain that I was licensed to practice law in the state of Oregon. Satisfied, he gave me a warm smile and welcomed me to the Lane County Bar. It would have been sweet, if it weren't for the fact that my licensure was put on trial instead of the actual issue I brought before him. Bar exam, part II?

In any case, he signed the order which I then had to file with the clerk. I was off to another line, the longest line of the entire day. The man directly in front of me was swarthy and slimy, and though he was not wearing a suit, I am almost certain he was an attorney. He harassed the people he knew in line in a bantery-way that only he enjoyed. I ignored him. So effectively, in fact, that I didn't notice the point when he left the line to sit and WATCH the line.

It was reasonable for the clerk to call me forward when she did. There were, after all, no people standing in front of me, and at least seventeen people standing behind me. Both she and I had every indication that I was, indeed, next in line. Yet, when I was called to the next available window, the slimeball attorney shouted from nowhere “Excuse me, MISS! I am next in line.” I realize now that I was supposed to track his movement from the line to the couch, mentally hold his place, and ignore the clerk signaling me forward because HE had been ahead of me at one time. The self-absorption of this man cannot be overstated.

But I was so out of sorts. I just let him take my place when I should have told him to get back in line if he was so committed to going next. And he’s probably used to stomping on women, so I’m sure that was fun for him.

Seconds later, a sweatshirt clad woman with a bad perm a tobacco stained teeth got out of line just to whisper to me. “Don’t worry about it. That guy is an ASS! He is here every day and he’s always like that.” Which cracked me up--both that she was kind enough to offer me moral support and that she is around the courthouse often enough to know that this guy is "always an ass."

Suffice it to say, I was happy to leave. I guess I'll have to return eventually to do that probate case. But at least I'll be armed with the knowledge that I'll have to remove my shoes and ignore nasty old men, and wait in countless lines, and be prepared to meet all sorts of colorful individuals on their way to traffic court.