We rise early. Each morning, the group convenes in the hotel lobby at 8:30 and heads toward the Metro station at Foggy Bottom-GWU.
I spend less time watching my feet here. Though D.C. is close to home and I’ve been here often, there’s always something to look at. It may be one of the thousands of new faces I pass on the street or the facade of a building I didn’t stare at the day before. Not a single thing bores me in this city.
I step onto the escalator, going beneath the sidewalk. I ride to the left in the morning when my excitement for the day motivates me to walk down the stairs; when we return home at nine o’clock tonight, I’ll likely stand to the right, just riding the escalator that moves far slower than practicality should allow. I’ve got my fare card and I’m excited to insert it into the slot that allows me to continue toward the train. Professor Locy hollers, “To the right!” We go down one more escalator, turn to the right just in time to see the next blue line train pulling into the station.
The doors open and people rush out, not one looking like another. We file on quickly before the speakers bing and say, “Step back. Doors closing.” People on the train don’t like to make eye contact, but they are rarely unfriendly.
After we’ve changed trains at Metro Center, we’re on the red line bound for Judiciary Square. My thoughts become less focused on my surroundings as I try to refresh my memory. I’ll be covering at least one case today. Reviewing in my mind the hundreds of pages of legal documents I have read is no easy task. I enjoy it, though.
■□■
U.S. Court House in D.C.
We get to the U.S. Court House and pass easily through security. We bring our things to the Media Room, confirm our cases on the court calendar, and head our separate ways. We’ll reconvene at lunch, sharing food and stories about the things you can only see in court.
■□■
I’m in Judge Leon’s courtoom. A man seated behind a computer makes a phone call. Court is to begin in two minutes and the defense attorney is missing.
“Mr. Jenkins, I just wanted to see that you were on your way to court…”
He’s on time, walking through the door only a minute after the clerk hangs up the phone. Court may begin, but it doesn’t. We’re now waiting on the judge.
■□■
This courtroom is much different than Chief Judge Lamberth’s courtroom. (I covered a trial there yesterday.) Here, the floors are covered with a terrible carpet in kelly green and the benches, tables and walls are all made of an uninviting oak paneling. Behind the bench rests a marble-faced wall–green, but not matching the floor in the slightest. Indirect fluorescent lighting shines on dirty, tiled ceilings that severely show their age. The room isn’t ugly, though, because of what takes place inside. People search tirelessly for justice and it is almost always served.
■□■
The prosecutor and the defense attorney chat freely at one of the tables before the bench. They seem to be friendly with each other, unlike anything you’d see on television.
There’s a loud rapping on a door to the right of the bench. It’s only day two, but I instinctively rise immediately from my seat. The judge enters, intimidating in his black robe and in his presence: wide and grumbly at first blush. He sits in his chair and looks through round glasses at his fiefdom, the court.
The court marshals bring in the defendant. He wears an oversized orange suit and a downtrodden expression. He does not look where I sit. He barely looks at his counsel. His mind is not on this proceeding, it seems. I can’t possibly know what he has gone through today, even though I’ve read far too much about his life before now in court documents.
The man in front of me is a child molester. He served several years in prison and is probably headed back. He filed a phony civil suit, unknown to the judge that awarded him $3 million dollars for a day. Today he faces five years in prison for scamming the government, and (pardon the pun) his face shows it.
His attorney goes before the judge and makes a motion: He asks to be removed from the case. I am shocked! I’ve waited two weeks to cover this status update, hoping to hear information on psychiatric evaluations. Instead, the motion is granted, court is dismissed, and the lawyers begin to leave.
I catch the ex-counsel in the hallway and he agrees to an interview. I’ve got my story.
