I hadn’t been to justice court since 2002 after my mom died and I had to go for a probate hearing.
It’s such an adventure going down to court. The hoi polloi of Vegas society hangs out there. It’s quite stimulating. I met up with my homeless guy friend again. Right on schedule, he was searching through the trash bins located outside the courthouse.
He remembered me!
He’d wondered aloud last month when he saw me waiting for my ride why I wasn’t wearing a jacket that day, but our Vegas December wasn’t so tough. Then, this last Thursday, my rather grizzled friend walked up next to me because I was sitting near his last bin.
I reminded him we’d spoken before, and he said, ‘We must be hexes, because each time we meet the m———–g wind is blowing.”
How romantic is that?
The first time I went to court, I found out that stealing shopping carts occupies way too much of our system’s time. An older man, in a Two and Half Men Charlie-type shirt, was telling his attorney why he felt it necessary to steal them.
He didn’t really have a good excuse, I must say. I wouldn’t like to try his case. I mean, how many shopping carts does one person really need? Maybe two, tops.
There were a bunch of prisoners in brown outfits sitting in the front of the court, mostly men, two women behind them. One was a very young woman, who was crying and looked very distressed. Maybe it was her first time there.
At my hearing there was a fourth grade class and their teachers visiting jail and court. One boy told the bailiff, as they all trooped into the court room, that jail was ‘scary, and he didn’t want to go back there!’
I’ve never even seen the inside of a jail. It isn’t fair. I don’t remember going on field trips like this. Once in the fifth grade, my class went to a concert, but I don’t remember much about it. I’d remember a trip to jail in the fifth grade.
They sat down and listened to my case, then the class trooped out after, and I got to listen to the case of two women, one of which was harassing the other, her former sister in-law.
She’d told the woman’s five year old daughter to “Tell your mother I’m going to kick her ass.” The mother’s. Not the five year-old’s. Isn’t that charming? The little girl didn’t want to go to school, anymore.
I don’t know what she was burned about, seeing as how the other woman was married for a short time to her brother twenty years before. What could be so bad after all that time?
I had to leave before I could hear the end of the story. I didn’t hear the Kicker’s excuse. So, I’m free to wonder about that.
And the judge! What a hoot he was. Told me he still used a rotary phone. I don’t know whether that’s true, but all in all, he was very sympathetic.
I also got to try a schwarma. It’s delicious! It’s really spelled shawarma, but it sounds so Jewish, like calling someone ‘a schwarma’, that I prefer my spelling.
“You’re a schwarma, Finkelstein. Get over yourself.”
I’d been smelling this divine scent drifting in the wind while I was waiting outside, close to lunch time. There’s a Mediterranean restaurant across the street. I’d been wanting to try a shawarma since Robert Downey mentioned it in one of the Justice League movies.
“Let’s take a day,” he tells his fellow superheroes, when the intergalactic battle has wound down. “Get some shawarma.”
Sounded good to me. Justice League? Justice Court? Coincidence? I don’t think so.