Free Antiques Knock-Off by Barbara Allan Page A

processed in a quick, noisy cattle call to vehicular justice. I’d been to several of these sessions, Mother having racked up various traffic violations over the past few years. (As of now, Mother will not be eligible to drive again until she’s one hundred and nine; but since she might now go to jail for the rest of her life, reclaiming her driver’s license became something of a moot point.)
    In the afternoons, however, this same courtroom was used for felony arraignments, with the atmosphere strikingly different: quiet, somber, and decidedly depressing, due in part to the loss of morning sunlight. I’d only attended one felony arraignment for Mother—I’d been married to Roger at the time, and came back from Chicago because the diva had chained herself to a wrecking ball that was about to demolish the old red brick YWCA buildingdowntown. That resulted in a misdemeanor after a plea bargain; Mother served sixty days, and the YWCA became a parking lot.
    Not every story has a happy ending.
    The courtroom gallery consisted of two sections of benches separated by a center aisle in bride’s-family, groom’s-family fashion. I sat in the front row, facing the judge, to be nearer Mother, when she would appear.
    It was five minutes to ten and only a handful of people were present: a middle-aged female court reporter at her machine; a young male journalist from the Serenity newspaper; a male student from the community college (I deduced this from his SCC T-shirt); and nosy Mrs. Mackelrath, who (according to Mother) attended all arraignments because of her “interest in community affairs, dear.” In other words, she had nothing better to do.
    A word about court reporters: think twice before going into the profession, as some states have replaced humans with a computer system called DART. But not our state—when Mother heard about the possible transition, she sprang into action, tirelessly collecting data that the new technology was too expensive, and not as reliable as the high quality of the personal touch. This research she systematically forwarded to various powers-that-be.
    Her favorite
Perry Mason
episodes (yes, we do value those previously mentioned DVD boxed sets highly) are the ones where the judge says to the court reporter—usually a squirrely-looking gent with a twitchy mustache (the court reporter, not the judge)—“Read that testimony back.” I don’t know why Mother likes those moments the best—I prefer it when Perry leans over and tells Paul Drake to go off and do something absurd (“Paul, hire a helicopter and fly over the Grand Canyon”) that will eventually crack the case.
    Anyway, at two minutes to ten, the lawyers arrived, Mr. Ekhardt taking a seat on the aisle-end of my pew, and the county attorney—bespectacled, salt-and-pepper hair, nondescript navy suit—positioning himself directly across from Ekhardt. (No separate tables for Perry Mason and Hamilton Burger here.)
    At precisely ten, a side door next to the judge’s bench swung open and His Honor swept in, long black robe flapping like Batman’s cape. The judge was pushing sixty, and pushing it hard, with silver hair and heavy bags beneath his eyes. He took his regal place behind the raised bench.
    The side door opened again and a burly male bailiff in a tan uniform marched into the room, an army of one, taking a rigid position next to the flag of the USA on its sturdy if squat pole.
    The only noise came from a small window air conditioner, doing its best to cool the already warm room. This hum was soon accompanied by the rustling of papers, as the judge readied for Mother’s case.
    I felt sick to my stomach, and was glad I’d had the foresight to skip breakfast. Whether it was pregnancy or concern for Mother, or a combo of both, I couldn’t tell you.
    The stern-faced judge caught the eye of the bailiff, and nodded, and the bailiff stepped back to the side door and opened it. I could see Mother waiting beyond in the custody of a female