A couple weeks ago, I spent part of a morning in a Fort Wayne courtroom. Went with a friend, actually, who had a court appearance. Everything went fine for him. But the judge was having a Slaughter the Infidels day.
The judge was a woman, whom I shall refer to in various ways, starting with Bride of Godzilla. I understand that a judge must keep control of the courtroom, and that it may even be necessary to strike some fear into your hapless subjects. But this Vampiress in Black proved herself to be not only unprofessional in how she treated people, but terribly childish. Like a spoiled kid around whom the universe absolutely must revolve.
For instance, Ms. Mordor despised the public defenders, all of whom (from what I could tell) were young women. She publicly mocked them over and over. I found it utterly embarrassing. If she didn’t see the proper paperwork in front of her, she might throw her head back, mouth open, like a 12-year-old who can’t believe you could actually be so stupid. She would get upset with a public defender and talk to her like she was a little kid, saying her words very slowly and clearly. “Can. You. Comprehend. Why. You. Are. Such. An. Imbecile?” If I said she was condescending, it would be an understatement akin to saying, “Donald Trump has mixed emotions about Rosie O’Donnell.”
Fifteen minutes into the proceedings, the Himmler Headcase threw a hissy fit. Let me pause to ask, is “hissy fit” a sexist term? I don’t know, and I certainly don’t want to pull an Imus. But the term aptly describes what Madam Mao regularly threw with reckless and well-practiced abandon. She declared a 15-minute recess until those incompetent public defenders could get their act together. Then she stormed out of the courtroom, probably wanting to see the second 15 minutes of Regis and Kelly while snacking on toasted lizard tongues.
It was, after all, All About Her. She felt inconvenienced, and wanted to stick-it to the public defenders–those legal peons whom she regarded with contempt. And so, she left.
Meanwhile, there were well over a hundred people all crammed into uncomfortable wood pews. I mean, crammed, hip to hip. And we just had to wait there until the hissy fit expired and Judge Jurassic once again deemed us worthy of her esteemed presence. Which, right on schedule, occurred 15 minutes later.
But nothing changed. She continued berating the public defenders and terrifying everyone present. Except me. I was just an observer with nothing to lose. I found her behavior, coming from a 50-something woman with a doctorate, extraordinarily amusing. And pathetic. A case study in upper class creeping dementia.
At one point, my friend’s public defender came and asked, “Would you mind if we put off your case for a week? The judge is really going nuts today.” She whispered it, but since we were packed together like a death train to Treblinka, plenty of people could hear. He said that would be okay. But the public defender, despite having been thrown in and out of the fiery furnace by the Traffic Court Terror, navigated his case through this judicial Bermuda Triangle without the Dragonlady severing too many heads. How’s that for a collection of metaphors?
I am sure that if you asked Judge Beltshazzar’s neighbors about her, they would say she’s kind and considerate, a wonderful mother, a neighbor who will do anything for you. You know, the same comments news reporters solicit from the neighbors of such upstanding citizens as John Wayne Gacy and the BTK killer, neither of whom, as far as I know, wore a black robe during their reign of terror.
So anyway, it was an interesting experience for me. I thought, sitting in the gallery, that I would be among the low-lifes of society. Turns out that the biggest emotional low-life in that courtroom was in charge of the asylum.
It’s 10:30 Saturday night. I’m in the computer room putting together the announcement loop and song slides for tomorrow. And out in the living room, I can hear Connor giggling up a storm. Allen and Carolyn are with him. Pam (that’s her in the upper left, with Connor) went to bed already; for CPAs, the tax season is just about over, and she’s exhausted. Connor is in his little swing, and Allen and Carolyn are doing something to get him laughing. It doesn’t take much. 
I am remiss for not having mentioned earlier an important milestone in my humdrum life. On Saturday afternoon, February 3, I changed my first diaper. Actually, it wasn’t my diaper, but Connor’s.
