The Courthouse

• Author: Kenneth P. Nolan
• Pages: 23-28

The Courthouse

23

When you first march into a courthouse—be it a tiny, battered

bandbox with worn, scarred tables and squeaking juror chairs, or a

majestic new federal one with carved, gleaming benches and plush

dark carpets, you never know whether you will find justice and

integrity, or whether you’ll be home-jobbed, your arguments scorned,

your case deep-sixed.

Yes, courthouses are strange places, secular churches really,

built to inspire awe and reverence with priests in black vestments

looking down on the masses. The walls are lined with paintings of

somber saints, and on the altar sit implements of power—a gavel

and tomes which contain the Gospel according to Congress. Sin-

ners stand before these judges and plead their cases. They confess

and beg forgiveness. Penance is dispensed publicly and sternly in

fines or years, and, of course, you must obey.

For some lawyers and clients, it is an alien place to be avoided,

since only bad can result. For others, it is a nurturing home, a den

where disputes are resolved equitably, where the cold statue of Lady

Justice comes alive and justice is dispensed with wisdom and com-

mon sense.

As with any other adventure, you rarely know what awaits you

when you climb the stone steps and pass through the metal detec-

tor. The reasons for uncertainty range from the facts to the law, to