Blunt Darts

this, the Fourth District Court of Western
    Norfolk, now sitting in Meade, within in and for our county of Norfolk, the Honorable Willard J. Kinnington presiding, draw near, give your attention, and you shall be heard. God save the commonwealth of Massachusetts and this honorable court. Be seated.”
    I watched the judge as the court officer spoke; he didn’t twitch during the entire soliloquy. In Massachusetts, there is a district-court system, which handles lesser matters, and a superior-court system, which handles graver matters. Each district court is in an important town and includes several smaller towns within its jurisdiction. The superior courts are countywide courts. Until court reorganization becomes a functioning reality, the major difference between the two systems is that whereas the district court is apparently less prestigious, the superior-court judges have to ride the circuit, rotating every month or so all over the state. The district-court judges sit almost exclusively in one district court. Accordingly, some district-court judges, appointed for life, have built up substantial little fiefdoms over which they exercise almost unbridled control. I’d been in a dozen district courts and every superior court in eastern Massachusetts during my time with Empire. Although the full “Hear ye, hear ye” salutation is occasionally heard in superior court, I’d never before heard it used in a district court.
    When the court officer ended, the judge sat down briskly and spoke a name quickly. The clerk had materialized in the wooden kangaroo’s pouch immediately in front of the judge. He turned to Kinnington and began giving short, nervous answers to whatever questions the judge was asking.
    Meanwhile, I caught sight of the back of a huge court officer who was sliding down the left-hand side aisle toward the judge’s bench. He looked to be my height, but he was enormously thick across the back and bottom. He clicked open a side gate and entered the bar enclosure and moved up next to the clerk, who literally cringed away from him. Seeing him standing with his back to me and looming over the clerk, I pushed him up to six feet five. The giant’s head bobbed up and down a little, as though he were talking. The judge’s expression clouded, then cleared, and he muttered something to the giant. The giant nodded and backed away as the clerk called the first case.
    A couple in front of me popped up with their son and blocked my view of the bench momentarily. They said their lawyer would be late, the judge asked the clerk if the lawyer had called the clerk’s office, and the clerk said no. At that point the judge stated that their son’s case would not be heard until 3:00 P.M. The father began to say something, but the clerk had already begun calling the next case.
    As the trio hesitatingly sat back down, I saw the giant court officer in the side aisle pull even with my row and roll his gaze toward me as he walked back toward the only public entrance. His was the beefy, now not-quite-as-stupid face I’d seen in the car that had swerved at me the day before. He had a fringe of wispy blond hair around, and combed in ridiculously long strands across, his balding head. I didn’t follow him with my eyes to the back of the room, but no sound came from the central door, which had squeaked a bit when opened by a latecomer a moment before. So much for my concerned-parent cover.
    The next case was a Bonham police matter. The defendant’s name was called, and the defendant and her attorney answered “Ready.” No one, however, answered for the Bonham police, which, like most Massachusetts departments, prosecutes its own minor cases through a senior officer instead of tying up an assistant district attorney. A young, clean-cut guy within the bar enclosure (who turned out to be the Meade police prosecutor) stood up haltingly. He said, “Your Honor, I believe the Bonham police prosecutor is on the telephone arranging to bring in a witness.” The judge glared down at him. “Case dismissed for lack of prosecution.” I was stunned, but the young cop/prosecutor gamely tried a stall. “If Your Honor please. I can run back and—”
    “Case dismissed!” boomed the judge, whose microphone was set, I suspect, a bit higher than anyone else’s. The defendant and her lawyer got the hell out as fast as their feet would carry them.
    And so it went. Of the twenty or so preliminary rulings I saw Kinnington make, at least six