COUNTY COURT VIGNETTES

I’d like to share with you six memorable vignettes from my earliest days on the bench as a County Judge in Lee County, Florida, from January 5, 1985 through September 30, 1986.

I. DISAPPOINTED BAILIFFS

In those days we had a shortage of bailiffs.[1] They had to be moved around as needed. On any given week I might work with as many as a half dozen different bailiffs, all of whom worked at the chief bailiff’s direction – not mine.

One day I was presiding over Small Claims Court.[2] In one particular case a woman, claiming to be a model, was suing a photographer for breach of contract, claiming he botched a photo shoot. Without my asking to see them, she plopped her portfolio of about two dozen 8” x 10” color glossies on my bench and demanded I look at them. I explained that today is not the trial day, only a conference to determine if a trial is necessary. The photographer denied the claim, so I set a trial date, handed the portfolio back to the plaintiff and told the her to bring it back to the trial as evidence.

Now, a word about the plaintiff. She was a blonde – allegedly. Her coiffeur contained enough lacquer to qualify as a bicycle helmet. She appeared to be in her mid-twenties and I think she had an attractive face, but it was hard to tell due the considerable makeover of cosmetics and other facial accessories masking her real face. But what caught everyone’s attention were the voluptuous breasts straining to pop out of the tight cleavage of her skimpy dress.

At the trial, I noticed the same bailiff was on duty, and that was no coincidence. The plaintiff, again sparsely garbed, brought her portfolio and moved it into evidence. It was marked and placed on the clerk’s desk, whereupon the bailiff immediately left his post and wandered over to the clerk, pretending to be engaging in some official business. He opened the portfolio and slowly flipped each page. About five minutes later a second bailiff came in to relieve the first. Without bothering to man his post, he headed over to the clerk’s desk and gandered through the portfolio. Soon thereafter, a third bailiff, then a fourth, and I believe even a fifth bailiff took a turn at securing my courtroom, all within about a half an hour.

When each bailiff had finished taking his peek, the expression on their faces told me they didn’t get what they came for: nudity, and perhaps even porn. Instead, they saw what were indeed cheesecake pictures, but the kind one sees on any wall calendars hanging in auto body shops. In every photo she was clothed in either lingerie, a bikini or other revealing clothing, but no nudes and no porn.

I ruled for photographer. The problem was not the photographer’s failure to perform. It was the plaintiff’s disappointment that her unrealistic expectations were not met.

The same can be said for the five disappointed bailiffs who trekked through my courtroom.

 

II. IN-LAWS IN MY COURTROOM

When I decided to run for County Court Judge in 1984, Rick, my more-like-a-brother-than-a-brother-in-law, convinced me to come up to New York City to produce my TV ad. Rick was an advertising executive with a big firm and his wife, Val, was making documentary films at the time.  Rick offered to conceive the ad and write the copy; Val would produce and direct it. He assured me the cost would not be high and guaranteed an ad far superior than anything Southwest Florida talent could produce.

Diann, the boys, and I went to New York, had a lot of fun for a couple of days, and then I went to a small film studio on 42rd Street to “shoot” the ad. The evening before, Rick came down with food poisoning and spent the night driving the porcelain bus. Nevertheless, he and Val showed up and the ad was produced. The ad was outstanding (despite the talent – that would be me) and, with more pro bono help from Rick’s firm, the ad was strategically placed in time slots which achieved the optimum benefit for the price paid. In my judgment, that ad got me elected.

Several months later Rick and Val visited us, and, naturally, they wanted to see the fruits of their labors in action. I’m sure many people have the image of a judge sitting magisterially behind an elegant mahogany-paneled bench in a palatial courtroom populated with elegantly-dressed lawyers and clients, engaging in intelligent discourse and civil debate. I suspect Rick and Val were expecting something much more closely resembling that image than what they actually encountered. Their first clue that something was amiss must have been the body odor emanating from the 30 or so bodies that either came directly to the courthouse from a morning of laboring out in the hot, humid Florida sun, or from the un-airconditioned jail, or simply having gone unwashed for a day or more. Second, the clothing; not the kind one would ever expect to see in a courtroom, a church or a funeral parlor. Third, the noise. People’s Court courtrooms are not quiet spaces. Even when court is in session, someone, somewhere in the gallery is talking. Therefore, with eyes, ears and noses experiencing unexpected sensations, they along with my wife sat in the front row to observe a Friday afternoon docket of non-jury misdemeanor trials.

One case on the docket that afternoon was a man accused of simple battery. This defendant, having waived his right to counsel, was trying to convince me that this whole episode was no big deal – a very popular defense offered by batterers. When he rose from counsel table to address me, I noticed he was wearing a horizontal-striped t-shirt so undersized for his bulk that it barely covered his navel but could not reach his jeans, thereby treating me to a hairy, low-hanging pot-belly. From my vantage point all I could see was way too much tummy flesh that I cared to look at. From behind, Rick, Val and Diann were up close and personal with his plumber’s crack and the upper half of his buttocks.

Now Rick and Val are not prudes, but they were grossed out, not so much as coming face-to-buttocks with a substantial plumber’s crack, but that it happened in a courtroom – my courtroom, of all places – the courtroom they worked so hard to put me in! After several months on the job, I had become accustomed to seeing society’s underbelly, pardon the double entendre, in my courtroom. Seeing a man’s partially exposed belly no longer bothered me. I was just thankful there was no obscene language printed on his way-to-small t-shirt.

That evening I recall Rick questioning me, and it went something like this: When you came up to New York to make the ad, did you know you signing up for what we experienced this afternoon? I think he needed reassurance that all the work he and Val put into helping me get elected didn’t put me into a hole that his sister and I couldn’t climb out of. For me, the reality jolt they received that afternoon was just another leg on my journey to my planned final destination, the Second District Court of Appeals.

Where nary a plumber’s crack has ever been spotted.

 

III. DECISIONS, DECISIONS

In just one week, a County Judge could make as many as 1,500 judicial decisions, possibly more. The vast major are small ones. Some not so small. One of the more important decisions we make are whether there is probable cause to issue search warrants and arrest warrants. Perhaps the most peculiar warrant to hit my desk was an arrest warrant for the crime of sale of obscene materials.

A couple of years before I was elected County Judge, our local Sheriff, a crusader for morality as well as the county’s chief law enforcement officer, led a movement to persuade our County Commission to enact an ordinance prohibiting the sale or distribution of obscene books, magazines, and other materials.[3] The ordinance requires the judge to review the allegedly obscene material and make a determination whether it meets the Supreme Court’s three-prong test: the alleged obscene material must be prurient in nature; completely devoid of scientific, political, educational, or social value; and violate the local community standards.[4]

Reviewing applications for arrest warrants falls upon the duty judge, a responsibility each judge in the county must undertake on a rotating basis. One afternoon midway through my week, I return to my office from a long court session and find on my desk a packet containing an affidavit for an arrest warrant for violation of the obscenity ordinance along with the alleged obscene material in a plain brown envelope (I kid you not). Inside were two magazines: one, entitled “Honcho,” was filled with pictures of well-endowed, naked men having oral and anal sex; the other was “Hustler,” a magazine for straight men. I reviewed them, put them back in the envelope and, wondering if the images would forever remain burned into my retinas, began to contemplate the three-prong test, but decided to put off a decision for a while.

The next afternoon, a Circuit Court Judge, paid me a visit. He heard I had some obscene materials in my office and came over to offer his “consultation services.” I pointed to the brown envelope. He opened it, took out the contents, flipped rapidly through them, tossed them back on my desk, thanked me, and left without offering an opinion. Obviously, he was merely curious.

I found both magazines to be prurient in nature and devoid of scientific, political, educational or social value, but I was conflicted on whether it violated local community standards. For sure, it violated the Sheriff’s standards, but it didn’t seem to provoke much of a reaction from my consulting colleague, whom I must stress is a very decent, honorable man, who, like many men, which includes judges, simply enjoys a little titillation now and then.

Because I’m straight, I confess the gay men’s magazine repulsed me somewhat, but to gay men it was just soft porn, not much different than what Hustler was to straight men. Who’s to say whether either one violates community standards? If poor taste were one of the three prongs, my job would have been easy, but “community standards” is a much broader matter, fraught with nearly total subjectivity and is nowhere described, defined, or articulated. Here’s another question: because these magazines targeted only men, are the obscenity standards of women in my community relevant? I didn’t know.

Hustler was Playboy on steroids, and I was certain that, while it easily failed the taste test, it did not violate the community standards test. But what if I found Hustler not obscene, and found Honcho to be obscene? What am I saying to the gay community about my so-called judicial neutrality?

Did I sign the arrest warrant? No. Did I deny it? No. This warrant came to me in my rookie season as a judge, and I felt ill-equipped to decide what were our community standards. Instead, I left the packet on my desk until my duty week ended, and I passed it on to the next duty judge. If memory serves, nothing ever came of the Honcho/Hustler Affair.

That was only time I distinctly remember dodging a decision.

 

IV. LILY’S ELBOW

Every summer, law students flock to State Attorney and Public Defender Offices throughout the state to work as interns. In my county they worked exclusively in the County Courts, always under the supervision of a licensed assistant state attorney or assistant public defender. Law students, eager to become trial lawyers, jumped at the opportunity to receive academic credits while playing lawyer.

In my second summer as County Judge, a very attractive, friendly and very self-confident young woman, Lily (not her real name), interned in my court with the State Attorney’s Office. She performed impressively right from the start, and was soon given a lot of responsibility. Lily’s self-confidence grew so much over that summer that she believed she had earned the privilege to become chummy with me.

There are times when the court is “at ease,” and judges will engage in small talk with any lawyer friends who happened to be present. The implicit rule is that only lawyers who knew the judge pretty well before they went on the bench are welcome in these little chats. Lawyers who only know the judge as judge would not approach unless it was business related. Lily thought differently. During lulls in the action, she would often join in these informal tête-à-têtes, and even felt she could approach me to talk about anything, whether business or not.

Before proceeding further A quick digression: there are three sections in a courtroom. First is the “gallery” where the public can sit behind the railing, or bar, [5] to watch or wait for their case to be called. Second is the “well of the court,” that space between the bar, and the third section, the “bench.” It is there the lawyers roam and ply their trade. Finally, the bench is that large, elevated desk, behind which the judge sits, often with attached work spaces for court clerks. It is exclusively the judge’s domain. Just as tradition does not allow John Q. Public to pass at will beyond the bar, lawyers do not penetrate the invisible shield that surrounds the bench unless granted permission to approach and place something, usually a document or piece of evidence, in the judge’s hands. These demarcations are deeply embedded in the culture of the judicial branch, but, apparently, Lily either didn’t know about the rule and didn’t care much for it.

One morning I was having an informal sidebar conference (a quiet conversation at the bench outside the hearing of everyone but the participants). Lily was present as were a few other lawyers. During the conference Lily nonchalantly leaned against the bench and rested her left arm on top of my desk, the bench, which lies beyond that aforementioned invisible shield. Noticing it, I gently tapped her elbow with the back of my fingers and politely asked her to move her arm. Lily did not take kindly to my admonition. She jerked her arm away from the bench, and gave me that “nobody-treats-Lily-that-way” look. I couldn’t tell if she was angry, embarrassed or chastened because I had drawn a line which neither she nor any other lawyer, especially law students, was allowed to cross.

The next time Lily was in my courtroom she handed me a button which had a picture of a gavel and beneath it the words “I Am the Judge.” I kept that button on the bench for years, and I still have it. Whenever I made a ruling or a decision that did not go Lily’s way, she would stare at me and I would pick up the button and, I’m sure with a wry smile, display it to her. Whenever she wanted to re-argue a ruling that I had already made, I would again show her the button. By summer’s end, her friendly, chatty attitude had disappeared, and she behaved like I was her ex-boyfriend. Fall arrived and Lily was gone.

Lily did not return to Southwest Florida to practice law, and I heard nothing about her until about 25 years later. Apparently, Lily had done quite well in the practice of law in Fort Lauderdale, but the news I received was not good. Lily had been elected Circuit Court Judge in 2012, despite there being an ongoing investigation by the Florida Bar into some very serious professional ethics violations. After she was elected, the Florida Judicial Qualifications Commission joined in and opened a concurrent investigation into the same complaints.[6] Long story short, the Florida Supreme Court stripped Lily of her judgeship, and the Florida Bar disbarred her.

I guess Lily never cared much for professionalism.

 

V. THE MANDARIN INTERPRETER

Every person in Florida who is in jeopardy of losing their liberty is entitled to an interpreter if they cannot sufficiently understand, read or speak the English language. We had Spanish and Creole interpreters on staff and ready on a moment’s notice. Interpreters of other languages become more problematical.[7] One day I encountered a defendant charged with drunk driving who only spoke Mandarin Chinese, the Chinese dialect spoken mainly in Taiwan and Hong Kong.

At arraignments that day, when the bailiff called the case of, let’s call him, Mr. Wong, the young man came forward accompanied by a young, Oriental woman. She explained that Mr. Wong’s native tongue is Mandarin Chinese and he will need an interpreter. Because this was an arraignment and not an evidentiary hearing, and I did not require a neutral, professional court interpreter, I asked her if she would interpret. She replied that she only spoke the Cantonese dialect and could not adequately translate for a Mandarin speaker. Then she told me her boyfriend out in the gallery spoke some Mandarin Chinese. I summoned the young man forward, and he volunteered to interpret. I’ll call him Mr. Chang.

Great! Problem solved – or so I thought. The colloquy with Mr. Wong went something like this:

Me (to Mr. Chang): Sir, please translate these words, and nothing more, to Mr. Wong: “You are      charged with driving under the influence of alcohol. How do you plead, guilty or not guilty.”

Mr. Chang turned to Mr. Wong, who turned to face Mr. Chang. Mr. Chang, his face now        animated, eyebrows raised high, his head vigorously nodding up and down, shouted: “Geelty,            yes?”

Mr. Wong, his face exploding into the same grin and head gestures, parroted Mr. Chang:       Geelty, yes!

Mr. Chang, apparently satisfied that he had down his job, turned to me and said: “Geelty.”

Laughter erupted from the gallery. Mr. Wong stood there grinning, completely oblivious to what he had just done. It took no deep thinking on my part to conclude that a certain amount of due process of law was lacking. I asked Mr. Chang if he was fluent with the Mandarin dialect. He too was a Cantonese speaker knew only a little Mandarin.

I was forced to treat Mr. Wong the same as any defendant who could not or would not answer me: I entered a not guilty plea on his behalf, appointed the Public Defender’s Office, and gave him a new court date with instructions to Court Administration to find a qualified Mandarin-to-English interpreter. Mr. Wong’s case moved to another judge’s docket and I never heard what happened.

I wonder if he was geelty after all.

 

VI. THE CITIZEN OF THE REPUBLIC OF FLORIDA

A popular court gambit back in the 80’s and 90’s was claiming immunity from Florida’s laws on grounds that the State of Florida lacked sovereignty. They posit that the U.S. Constitution was fraudulently ratified, and thus the illegitimate Congress in Washington could not grant statehood to any territory, including the Territory of Florida (which gained statehood in 1845 – allegedly). Therefore, the current government of the State of Florida was without the sovereign authority to enact and enforce its null and void laws in its powerless courts. They further claim that Florida is an independent republic, with its own government, and it is to that nation they claim citizenship and bear allegiance. Consequently, only the Republic of Florida can prosecute its citizens for crimes.

I’d heard and read about these people, and then I finally met one. Before me stood, let’s call him Mr. Beavis, accused of petite theft. Tall, pale and thin, Mr. Beavis was holding a manilla file folder stuffed with over fifty unbound, tattered and dogeared sheets of paper. Unlike most misdemeanor defendants appearing at arraignment, there was no attorney at his side. I had assumed he had waived counsel and decided to represent himself. Unaware that Mr. Beavis was one of “them,” I began the colloquy that went something like this:

Me: Mr. Beavis, you are charged with petite theft, how do you plead?

Beavis: You have no jurisdiction over me.

Me: I beg your pardon.

Beavis: I’m a citizen of the Republic of Florida. I do not recognize the illegitimate State of Florida. Your courts have no power and no jurisdiction over me. This charge is null and void, so I’ll be on              my way.

Me: I’m afraid you can’t do that.

Beavis: You must. I have proof that your court is a fraud.

Mr. Beavis then grabbed a handful of papers from his file folder, held them high over his head, and began stepping closer to the bench to hand them to me. The bailiff, who suspected something hinky about Mr. Beavis, was already standing close by his side. When Mr. Beavis headed toward me, the bailiff, as he is trained to do, stepped in front of him because it is his duty, as a safety precaution, to hand all documents to the judge. Mr. Beavis would not surrender the documents to the bailiff, and continued to press forward. When that happens, the bailiff is required to physically block his path to the bench. With that, Mr. Beavis, pretending he had been assaulted by the bailiff, flung the documents high into the air and thrashed about, shouting incoherently. Because the papers were not bound together, for a moment, 8 ½ x 11-inch confetti rained down in my courtroom.

I finally discerned that Mr. Beavis was crying police brutality. Joined by a second bailiff, they executed a “take down,” gently lowering him to the floor and handcuffing him. Mr. Beavis continued to struggle and protest. The bailiffs brought him to his feet but they had to drag his limp body off to a holding cell. In his absence I entered a not guilty plea on his behalf and set his next court date. His documents were gathered up and given to him once he was seated in the holding cell. I instructed the bailiffs to release him once he calmed down and signed for his next court date,[8] and I went back to work arraigning citizens of the sovereign State of Florida.

It wasn’t too long before the Republic of Florida defense faded into oblivion, perhaps because its citizens derived far more grief than benefit from asserting it.

 

 

[1] The bailiff is a court security officer responsible for the security in the courtroom and for the safety of all participants, maintains order in the courtroom, and removes disruptive persons from the court.
[2] A specialty court, usually without lawyers, where disputed civil claims under $1,500 are handled. Often referred to as “The People’s Court” or “Judge Judy’s Court.”
[3] This is no lie: on the day of the vote, as the Sheriff walked through the crowd to the county commission chamber, they sang “Onward Christian Soldiers.”
[4] Actually, I prefer Justice Potter Stewart’s definition: “I can’t define it, but I know it when I see it.”
[5] When someone passes the bar exam and becomes a licensed attorney, they earn the privilege of “passing the bar,” allowing them to freely enter the well of the court.
[6] Judges can be disciplined for misconduct that occurred when they were practicing law if said misconduct would likely undermine the public’s confidence in the judiciary.
[7] There is solution, and, depending on the language, could become quite expensive and time-consuming.
[8] Technically, his conduct constituted contempt of court punishable with jail time, but judges usually do not prosecute unless the disruption is marked by violence, threats or foul language causing a significant delay in the court’s normal operations. I usually gave a pass to people who harmlessly make fools of themselves while taking up very little of my time.