by Una Tiers
I spent a half-hour looking through all the cabinets for the instruction manual without luck. While I found some neat office supplies that I would pilfer another day, I didn’t locate the manual. It should be right under the machine. In the meantime, the beeping seemed to be getting louder. Could something terrible happen if it beeped until Monday morning? Would the motor burn out or cause a fire?
Was there supposed to be paper sticking out of the top of the machine? Alone I felt like I was in charge and therefore had more confidence than was reasonable.
Carefully as if I was handling explosives, I lifted the lever marked “paper arm.” This caused the beeping to pause before a different error code message flashed, “Error Code 48.” I put paper in anyway, and closed the paper arm lever. The machine was quiet and the screen went blank. My stomach felt like the ride down on a Ferris wheel with people screaming.
Had I erased an important document? Would anything but the most insignificant of documents come in on a Saturday? Or was it there on a Saturday because it was earth shattering in terms of importance? Could they prove that I was the fax defacer? Would Paul lock me out by Monday morning? Should I take my personal things with me tonight? Would they take away my law license? Heart pounding and eyes filled with tears the machine startled me when it started to grind and paper from the top slipped inside.
The screen announced that it was, “Printing.” The page came out of the machine upside down, head first making it impossible for me to read. How did the court clerks do it?
It was a fax from Lou to me. This was good. I love receiving a fax. This was I think the third one. They were all from Lou, who had a new fax machine. It took a really long time for the cover page to finish. I waited patiently for the next page that read: Last Will and Testament of Laslo King.
Turning my head to an uncomfortable position I tried to read each page as the machine spit it out. When the last page finished, I clutched the document to my bosom, raced back to my office and locked the door.
Judge King must have lived in Lake County. I would check the machine later to see if I could erase the delivery of the document from memory.
I left a thank you message at Lou’s office. A little while later, Lou left a message because I was screening calls.
“Hey Fiona, you had a lucky guess. The judge must have had real estate up here making venue appropriate. I’m going home, isn’t working on Saturdays a pain?”
I had to learn what venue was before I talked to him again.
Chapter Five
“Counsel?”
“Yes,” I asked matching his low suspicious tone.
“This is Judge Curie.”
“Hello Judge how are you?”
“Alive thank you.” His voice triggered the memory of the twinkle in his eye even over the phone.
“Good to hear.”
“How is the new office Fiona?”
“It’s marvelous thank you. I told them I was a Democrat. Really I appreciate your help. This is a great opportunity for me.”
“Okay, you’re learning. My cousin Bob needs a new will and I gave him your name.”
“Why thank you. What’s his name?”
“Pay attention, it’s Judge Robert Curie. Did you hear from Laslo’s children?”
“I talked to them.”
“Did you sign them up?”
“Well they were only looking for the will.”
“Don’t you want the case?”
“Of course I want the case but they only asked about the will.” I omitted the part about the daughter price shopping.
“Sign them up Fiona.”
I really wasn’t sure how.
Chapter Six
January 1990
Laslo King was sworn into judicial office in a small ceremony in a courtroom in Daley Center with two other newly appointed judges.
Judge Wilson Ross, from the Illinois Supreme Court gave the oath of office, never smiling but nodding at the congratulatory stage with a firm judicial handshake.
In his oath, Laslo swore to uphold the laws of the State of Illinois, the Federal constitution and the State constitution.
His sister Sophie was there, complaining about the distance and hassle (two buses and a subway) she had to travel for such a short ceremony. Sophie complained harder when she was happy. Mr. Burns, Mr. Slotkowski and Mrs. Weber, his neighbors were there. They all came downtown together as an adventure. His daughters were not able to get away from New York and Bob arrived as the aftermath handshakes were dying down.
The Chief Judge (top banana) of Cook County was there along with the sitting probate judges, wearing their judicial robes like ominous black clouds out of a Shakespearean play. The boiling cauldron was the future, fraught with unknown events that certainly included danger and peril.
As Laslo stared at the other judges, the judicial robes seemed more like costumes than professional attire. He was thankful that wigs were not worn in the United States court rooms.
Laslo wore a borrowed robe for the ceremony. The robe was abandoned by a judge who died years before. He was not let in on the judicial humor until the next judge was sworn in wearing the ‘borrowed’ robes. When he found out, he mused at how appropriate it was for a probate judge to wear the robes from the dead.
After anecdotes and best wishes the ceremony ended. The new judges were advised that judge’s college started the following Monday. This produced a flurry of hearty laughs from the older judges.
Lunch with his family and neighbors included a lot of pride over Laslo’s success. They had lunch at the Walnut Room in Marshall Field’s on state street. Although it was usually a treat at the Christmas season, this lunch carried an omen.
Laslo noticed the restaurant was getting rundown. The fountain had plastic flowers instead of running water. The meal was less than what was advertised in the menu. The hot items were served lukewarm. The rug was stained. Still it was a special place for everyone even if out of memories. No one else mentioned the changes the restaurant suffered.
After fighting over the check, Laslo walked his guests to the subway entrance in the basement level of Marshall Fields.
Laslo wanted to order his judicial robes. One of the older judges gave him the name and address of a tailor on a slip of paper at the end of the ceremony. He wished he could remember their names. They all seemed colorless and pale, even the one with the unusually black hair and the one wearing an inordinate amount of cologne.
The tailor was in an older office building in the far south loop that was not yet visited by renovation. Even from a block away, the filthy windows announced indifference. As the elevator creaked and lunged to the seventh floor, Laslo vowed to walk down the stairs on his way out.
From the hallway, the “shop” was not impressive. The door boasted a title of “Tailor, Robes.” The words were painted in gold lettering on the glass door.
Inside, the dim lighting only partially concealed the tired brown linoleum and walls in need of a coat of paint. The hallway walls were half windows and half wood paneling in a style resembling the 1940s. Laslo thought he might see Sam Spade inside sitting with his feet propped up on an old wooden desk, smoking an unfiltered cigarette while cradling the Maltese Falcon.
When Laslo opened the door, a bell rang and the tailor slowly raised his head in Laslo’s direction with the dispatch of an unconcerned turtle. His posture was poor and his shirt cuffs were frayed. His pants were shiny and hung from his thin hips. Laslo guessed he liked soup for dinner.
In a dark corner, a rack of crisp new robes covered in plastic defied the age of the rest of the suite. An unlit glass display case held tape measures, tassels, cords, ribbons and a dollar bill that had been taped there years before with pride.
On squinted examination Laslo guessed it had been there at least forty years. At the back of the suite, there was a cloudy, yellow veined three-way mirror and an exit covered with a tired gray curtain.
What he didn’t see were bolts of cloth or a sewing ma
chine. He wondered how this man could make a living under these desolate conditions.
Despite his qualms, Laslo didn’t want to order robes through the mail. When he thought about it, that’s what the tailor would do. Still he trusted a man whose age suggested experience, and knew he would take accurate measurements.
The tailor moved methodically taking measurements and then repeated the process, muttering, “Measure twice, cut once.”
While the tailor was busy filling out a yellow or yellowed form, Laslo looked at a faded notebook with different styles of robes. The prices were blocked out with masking tape that was curled and cracked.
When the tailor looked to Laslo for his decision, he ordered two plain robes since two bathrobes at home served him well. Price was not discussed. It was too fractious to talk about with a judge. No deposit was requested. The robes would be ready in three weeks time.
“I’ll call you,” Laslo promised, “I don’t have a machine at home and don’t know my new work number yet.”
“It’s alright judge, just come back in three weeks.” The tailor smiled for the first time reflecting a man happy with a sale.
When Laslo turned to leave, the tailor mentioned, “Most judges just order one robe.”
“See you in three weeks,” Laslo responded. “And thank you.”
He cussed his decision when he walked down all seven flights to the street level as his knees issued sharp protests.
He tried to organize everything in his life that weekend, including laundry, groceries, housework and having his car serviced and washed. He was exhausted early Sunday evening but sleep eluded him.
He didn’t know much about judges. What would his days be like? How many hours would he be in the court room? Would there be department meetings and seminars with other judges to hone their skills? Would they discuss the law at lunch while smoking cigars? Did judges drive to court? Did they get a special parking rate? Was there a garage under the Daley Center? Who exactly parked under the Daley Center if not the judges?
Where did they eat lunch? Maybe there was a judge’s only cafeteria. Judges couldn’t brown bag their lunch. He couldn’t imagine a fast food lunch; surely judges didn’t eat French fries unless they had on disguises.
Restaurants downtown seemed too time consuming. His after the ceremony luncheon with Sophie and his neighbors lasted almost two hours, clearly unsuitable for a work day. He decided to eat a large breakfast every morning, just in case. He worried that his suits were as good as what the others wore. Still, no one would see his suit when he was on the bench.
He thought about his previous job, his only lawyer job, for the parks department at the City. He started and ended at the same time every day. He never missed a recital, church function or other after school activity for any of his three children. There were no late hours, files carried home or weekend work. Looking back, some of it was pretty dull. Still, working for the city had security and benefits.
Now that his children were grown and gainfully employed, he needed something more in his life. That’s what he repeated to himself to justify accepting the position as associate judge.
Judges college lasted one week. The other two judges from his swearing in ceremony were there along with new judges from all over the State of Illinois.
As he looked around, he was certain he was the oldest ‘new judge,’ older than the ‘teacher judge’ and probably older than the building where the classes were held. They talked about a judge’s demeanor and examples of impropriety at length. They were advised not to carry packages, bags or backpacks and not to wear gym shoes, excessive jewelry, loud ties, sports jackets or baseball hats. Chewing gum or tobacco was discouraged.
They talked about court reporters, the appellate court and ex parte communications.
Ex-parte communications happen when a judge has a conversation, hearing or correspondence with only one party of a case. Laslo suspected that the instructor lengthened this topic in response to the blank looks on the student-judges faces.
Recusal was discussed. It was not exactly recommended absent a challenge to the judge’s impartiality. Recusal is the judge’s choice when he or she feels they cannot be impartial on a matter. Laslo wondered if he could recuse himself if he didn’t understand the law, like a get out of jail free card.
The range of law he was expected to understand was staggering.
Tax law raised dozens of eyebrows, including one unibrow.
The next week he showed up at the Daley Center, Probate Department. He was assigned to a private office. It had ceiling to floor windows, making him feel like a goldfish. As the new leg of his career started, Laslo felt a limp approaching.
Chapter Seven
Laslo spent his second week as a judge filling out forms for insurance, retirement plans, publications, advance sheets, the daily law newspaper and judge’s notebooks. Every judge received a copy of every publication. Judges didn’t share anything.
He wondered if there was some kind of volume discount or a really generous (if wasteful) budget.
After he was issued mountains of books, notebooks and manuals, he was asked to check the inventory of books, notebooks and manuals that were assigned to him. He was provided with notebooks on policies regarding vacations, sick days, personal days, the judge’s elevator, judge’s committees, political affiliations, weekend hours, copies of office keys, hallway access, investment restrictions and ethics.
Additional notebooks were available upon request. Scanning the list, he shuddered when he saw one on constitutional law.
He was prohibited from putting a nail in the wall to hang a certificate. To do that he needed to request a form and wait until a union carpenter came to do the work. Moving furniture around the office was discouraged. His office furniture consisted of a large wooden desk, a filing cabinet, a wheeled chair and two guest chairs. There were shelves attached to the walls that extended much higher than his reach even standing on a chair. The office doors had no identification by either name or number.
No one mentioned a time for lunch, so Laslo slipped across the street to grab a sandwich and a cup of soup when he was alone. He wasn’t certain if he had to tell anyone when he left the building. Did a judge account to anyone for his time? Probably not. That likely explained why one or two of the judges came in at 7:00 AM, and others sauntered in closer to 10:00 AM.
At noon everyone disappeared, leaving only the sheriff to read the newspaper. The end of the workday, however, was etched in stone at 4:30 PM. The judges often crammed elbow to elbow into one elevator car at about 4:31 PM.
Week three of his judicial career was spent meeting individually with some of the probate judges. Each had advice ready and almost all of it was longwinded.
Laslo nodded and raised and furrowed his eyebrows a great deal. Much of the advice was not about the law, it was about appearances and the way a judge was supposed to look (again).
Some of this advice came from men who had coffee stains on their shirts and ties. Luckily the judicial robes and neckties covered both.
The judges were not shy about their opinions about lawyers and much of what they said was not kind. Judge Requin, a short bitter man, spoke in conspiratorial tones, beckoning Laslo’s skepticism. Laslo had trouble not staring at his unnaturally black hair.
Requin talked about attorney tricks.
“You have to read the fee petitions, they know what’s not allowed and they still try to slip it past you. Do you know what I mean?”
Laslo nodded, hoping to shorten the explanation.
“They are not entitled to be paid for research but watch them try to get it.”
“Alright.”
“And overhead, can you imagine counting stamps?” Requin barked.
Tuning him out for a few seconds, Laslo wondered how he would review a lengthy document while everyone waited for a decision. There certainly didn’t seem to be much time to devote to the matters that were placed before the court. Had he missed something? Were files taken h
ome at night?
Judge Fullhammer was tall, lean and confident. His posture made Laslo sit up straighter. He estimated that they had things in common although he couldn’t name one other than both of them being judges in the probate department.
Fullhammer wore enough cologne to give Laslo a headache for an hour after they met. As soon as Laslo sat down, Judge Fullhamer launched into a tirade about the internal discrepancies in the pleadings filed by attorneys.
“They make wild allegations in their complaint and then when discovery tries to pin them down, they claim they are still investigating. It’s all about delay too much of the time. If I could find a way to charge attorneys who are not prepared and ask for continuances time after time, I can tell you it would stop.”
“How would you do that?” Laslo asked.
He grinned, “I haven’t a clue.”
Laslo wasn’t certain if Judge Fullhammer was kidding but wasn’t willing to risk asking the question.
“How many cases will I be responsible for?”
“Hundreds.”
Laslo nodded, half certain his leg was being pulled. Still he tried to look scholarly and wise.
“What’s the average number of cases you hear in the morning?” He ventured to ask.
“That will vary. After you get the hang of things if you find yourself running any time after noon, talk to the clerk and set a limit of cases for the day. If the attorney is particularly long winded, suggest that they pick an afternoon time.”
“Why?” Laslo asked.
“They don’t like coming into court in the afternoons, they will move things along as soon as you suggest an afternoon time.”
Laslo nodded.
“And let me say a word about the government attorneys, well you’ll see how they can drag their feet.”
“Why is that?”
“Private attorneys are responsible to their clients, if they do a bad job, well you can see where I’m going.”
