Judge Not, Lest Ye Be Judged

A long, long time ago, in a galaxy far, far away, I had my acting debut, in a play called Mr. Grumpy's Toy Shop. Haven't heard of it? Don't be surprised. It was a school play -- a Christmas play patterned on A Christmas Carol, to be exact -- and I was in the third grade. The gist of the plot is that this old, Christmas-hating coot, a crusty character based on Scrooge, owns a toy store. On Christmas Eve, when the store is closed, the toys come to life and sing and dance about how wonderful Christmas is, and blah, blah, and blah. Mr. Grumpy, who sleeps upstairs, is awoken by the commotion. He comes down from his apartment, sees all the toys singing and dancing, and throws a fit. Eventually, as usually happens in Christmas stories, Mr. Grumpy is magically transformed by the sight of his toys' happiness and the Joy of Christmas into an enlightened, happy fellow. At least that's how I remember it. It's been awhile.

In order to give acting parts to as many students as possible, grade school plays typically have a bunch of extraneous characters in them, minor players who contribute little to the plot, but who add sufficient interest that the parents of said students will feel that it was worth sitting through a boring ass play for three hours, just to see little Jimmy mumble his two lines. These borderline parts typically take the form of "townsfolk," or something similar, and they're usually played by the younger kids who have no acting experience.

Mr. Grumpy's Toy Shop was no exception. It contained several "townspeople" parts, and yours truly occupied one of them. In my auspicious acting debut, I played Judge Wise, the town judge. I, along with Dr. Bonesetter and the Mayor, whose name now escapes me, visit Mr. Grumpy's toy shop for some reason the day before Mr. Grumpy has his hallucination.

Now, Judge Wise was not as minor a character as you might think. Not only did I have more than four lines, but I actually had to sing a song. Me. Singing. In public. Before puberty. Looking back, I can't for the life of me understand why I would have volunteered for something like this. In fact, it's possible that I didn't volunteer at all, but that I was pushed to do it by my third grade teacher, Mrs. Murphy. Not pushed pushed. Obviously, I had the option not to do it. But Mrs. Murphy, a young divorcee on whom I had a bit of a crush (as much of a crush as a third grader can have), urged me out of my comfort zone, and I, a sucker for an attractive woman's urging me to do most anything, willingly went along.

And I took the part damn seriously. For weeks I memorized all six of my lines and practiced hard. They gave me a robe and top hat to wear, but I had to find my own glasses. So Moms took me to Zayre's, a crappy discount store that's been out of business for 30 years, and we looked for some suitable specs in the discount rack. Foreshadowing my future metro ways, we spent over an hour surveying the plastic frames lined up one on top of the other in the rotating white stand. I must have tried on 30 of them. My poor mother. None of them made me happy. (What a fastidious little prick I was.) We finally settled on these thin, oval, gold frames that I deemed appropriate for the shape of my head. When we got home, I decided the fake plastic in them was too blurry and hard to see through, so Moms popped them out for me, and I went lens-less. It felt a little silly without, but at least I could see.

On the night of the play, I donned my robe, top hat, and cheap, lense-free glasses and waited nervously backstage for my moment. On the appropriate cue, Dr. Bonesetter, the Mayor, and I marched on stage and introduced ourselves in song. Dr. Bonesetter went first. Each of us had been instructed to go to the front of the stage when it was our turn to sing, so we'd be separated from the other two. Dr. Bonesetter did as he was told and belted out his song.

Then it was my turn. I stepped forward into the blinding lights -- in retrospect, I don't know why I didn't keep the plastic lenses, I couldn't see a fucking thing anyway -- and crooned the following ditty:

And I'm the Judge of Law --
I send the folks to jail,
When I walk in the courtroom,
All the pris-o-ners turn paaaale!
Buuuut, if they have a reason,
Or just a good excuse,
I give them first a lecture,
And thennn I turrrrn themmm looooooose!

Pretty lax standard there, Judge. 31 years later, it's funny I can still remember the words. Each of our individual songs was followed by one that we sang together. When I was doing it, I don't remember being anxious at all. Today, unless I was drunk and doing karaoke, I would need a diaper to pull it off.

Judge Wise.

Sadly, my childhood foray into the persona of Judge Wise pretty much ended my judicial experience from that side of the bench. Once I became an attorney, I learned that appearing in front of a judge is quite nervewracking. Here's this man or woman, sitting on this wooden throne waaaaay up above you, with all the power to make it a really shitty day (or year, in some cases) for you and your client. Your client's case is riding entirely on you, and what you say and do before this demigod will directly impact your client's situation, for better or worse. Across from you, typically, is a much more experienced attorney with gray hair who's been doing this song and dance for years, and therefore doesn't appear remotely intimidated by the courtroom, the judge, the case, the client, or anything. He's nonchalant, relaxed. Sometimes he knows the judge by name, and they banter a little before getting to the merits of the case. I hate that.

Some judges are nice. They remember what it's like to be on the other side of the bench, and they understand that their role is to do justice, not get off on their own power. Some of them aren't so nice. I've seen lawyers embarrassed, humiliated, yelled at. Fortunately, I haven't been ripped hard myself (yet), but I've had my share of sharp glares and clipped words. Like Forrest Gump said, going in front of a judge is like a box of chocolates, you never know what you're going to get. It gets easier the more you do it, but it's never easy. You have to be prepared for anything or you'll look like a horse's ass, and worse, hurt your client's case.

Last Saturday, however, a rare opportunity presented itself to return to the judge's side of the bench, and revisit my old friend Judge Wise for a day. A couple of months ago, I signed up to be a judge for the American Bar Association's Law Student Moot Court Competition at the United States Courthouse for the Eastern District of New York, in Brooklyn. This time I couldn't just sing my way into power. I actually had to familiarize myself with a 30-page packet of legal issues that the law students were to argue before myself and four other judges, who, together comprised a make believe "Supreme Court." Make believe is fun.

When I arrived at the courthouse on Saturday, I ventured to the designating meeting place for all the judges, a back room located behind the building's cafeteria on the third floor. Walking through the cafeteria, I saw 40 or so law students nervously chattering as they prepared for their arguments. It actually made me a little nostalgic for law school. When I got to the judge's "chambers," I was handed a black robe, which fit like a glove. I nearly broke into song "And I'm the judge of Law, I send the folks to jail...." This time I had my own glasses, real ones.

The administrators gave us some instructions and then took us to an actual federal courtroom for the oral argument. The five judges took our seats at the bench, whereupon I finally got to see the courtroom from the perspective of a federal judge. Let me tell you, it's fucking sweet. They sit even higher up than I thought. Everyone in the courtroom looks tiny and unimportant. The plebieans!

Sitting up there imbued me with... with... how shall I put this? Powerlust. There's no other word for it.

So when the students came in, looking confident, ready, and a tad nervous, that's when the fun began. Each of them had to argue for 15 minutes. Fifteen minutes is an eternity in a courtroom, particularly in front of a group of appellate judges.

We'd been instructed by the ABA to act like a "hot bench," i.e., to actively engage the students with questions, and not sit there like five bumps on a log. Alrighty then, I thought to myself. Of the five judges in our group, one of whom hadn't even read the problem and had shown up looking unkempt and in jeans, I was the most vocal. Oh, I was nice at first. I let each of the students settle in without interruption, so they could warm up and get comfortable.

Then, like the Norse god Thor himself, I brought Judge Wise's hammer DOWN on their sorry asses! Just like a real judge would do, I began cutting the students off mid-sentence with probing questions that took issue with their legal position:

"Counsel, how do we have jurisdiction over this appeal?" I asked the first student. "Isn't this issue more suited for the BIA who heard the case below? Isn't the agency closer to the unique immigration issues than we are as an appellate court?"

To another: "By what you're saying, are you conceding that this is a 'substantial' case within the meaning of Section 1103(b)(42)?"

To one who tried to handle my question by answering a question I hadn't asked: "Counsel, I understand your position on that point, but I'm asking about something else. Can you tell me whether Mr. Chan has a fear of future persecution if he is sent back to China, yes or no?"

Oooh what fun!

I'll tell you, it's a hell of a lot easier to be a judge than it is to be an attorney who has to advocate a position, whether the law supports it or not. And that's what I told the students at the end of the argument, when we gave them our comments. I told them that I was very impressed with the way they handled themselves (and I was), and in particular, how they handled questions under fire. I sure as hell wasn't that good on my feet in law school. They were great, and I graded them accordingly.

Then, when it was all over, we left the courtroom and retired to our "chambers," where I reluctantly had to give back the robe and all the faux power that went with it. Sigh.