Evasion

For the first time in my life, I was inside a federal court building on Monday. The public entrance is astonishingly unimpressive. (On the back side of the building, along the street where we lucked into a free parking spot, are several grand old doors, one set of which I think is for prisoners.) A few steps sidle up to a single set of glass doors, which open into a bootroom-sized entry. Another set of glass doors led us to a small security desk and its accoutrements.

K- and I were cleared for entry--we were asked to show ID; I had considered leaving mine in the car, for the very reason that I wanted to be able to protest if I were asked to show it, but I didn't really think we'd be asked; I was then glad I had it with me, since we were running late and I didn't want to waste time with a production. A short older man in a wilting uniform gave us directions to Judge S-'s courtroom, third floor.

It was a silent hallway. The dark-wood-of-course-paneled walls and wine-colored carpet might have had a soporific effect, had I not been so focused on the events about to unfold in the courtroom we aimed toward. No one sat, morose, on the few benches; no suited lawyers strode by with 14-inch legal pads; no fervent voices and shadowy figures haunted the grainy glass windows of all the doors we passed.

The windows of the doors to Judge S-'s courtroom were of clear glass, and K- and I could immediately see M- sitting beside his lawyer at the table on the left. This was the day of his sentencing, and we brought equal parts curiousity and desire to be supportive. He is, after all, our employer.

The judge arrived soon after we did. Before M-'s case, a prisoner in a gray and black striped uniform was led into the courtroom from the rear. He was cuffed at the feet and hands. It took one minute to grant him a continuance--through the lawyer, of course; he didn't speak at all--then he was led back out.

As he moved down the carpet, he glanced past me to some family members or friends farther down the bench--a long moment of something: sorrow? apology? request for understanding? His forehead was not wrinkled, there was no tightness in his face. His eyes were dark hazel, but seemed lighter in contrast to his skin. He had another month of being somehow a hole in the lives of those people.

M-, unshackled, in a suit of his own choosing with a lawyer and letters from doctors, received 5 months in prison, 150 days of monitored house arrest and 3 years of probation. K- and I tried to console his lady friend in the hallway afterward. Some man was handing her a business card as she began to cry. M- and his lawyer sat down in a little room, made for the purpose of lawyer and client deliberation. We left quickly. Behind us, in Judge S-'s courtroom, another man in black and grey shuffled down the aisle.

Message to the World

Please, everyone, please listen to Brahms' "A German Requiem." Take it in segments if you want: one or two movements a day. Turn it up really loud when no one's in the house. Sit on the sofa and stare at the wind-rustled leaves outside.

(I have John Eliot Gardiner conducting the Monteverdi Choir and the Orchestre Revolutionnaire et Romantique, but only by circumstance; I didn't search out any particular recording.)