How many times have I sat here in Judge Penn’s court? The smell of cleaning products lingering. My favorite vent directly above me always blowing cold air. The sound of his gavel determining the direction of a person’s life.
My sanctuary.
Plus I love how the bailiff always greets me with a simple nod of the head and my name: Lane. No idle chitchat like, “How’s it going?” Or “You liking college?”
Innocent until proven guilty. It’s a holistic approach, and one I don’t subscribe to. I’ve been hanging out in Judge Penn’s courtroom for years, and though I’ve never personally met him, I think he and I might be friends. He seems like he would enjoy handing out tough sentences if only the law would let him.
Jurisdiction issues, fancy lawyers, evidence mishandling . . . there are too many people who skirt by, which is where I come in.
I’ve met many a friend in Penn’s courtroom that I later dealt with like The Weasel, the rapist, and Aisha, the drug dealer. And now Mr. Oily Nose, the pedophile.
That’s right. We meet again. Last I saw him, he wore a baseball hat, and now I discover he’s got an oily balding head to match his nose.
Judge Penn points his finger. “You listen to me, you piece of trash, if I ever see you in here again, I don’t care what evidence is or is not admissible, I will take you down. Do you understand me?”
That right there is why I think Penn and I would be friends.
Mr. Pedophile Oily Nose drops his head, all submissive, and nods his acquiesce. The gavel bangs, and he exchanges a handshake with his lawyer before turning and walking down the middle aisle that leads out of the fairly empty courtroom.
Usually, I keep a low profile, but something drives me to stand, to draw attention to myself. It works because he glances up and his eyes widen when he recognizes me. The shock in his expression has me smirking.
That’s right, you ass wipe, I’m coming after you.