Week 11: Is it okay to cry in court?

It was all I could do to hold back from throwing myself onto the row of chairs in the courtroom and letting loose the sobs swelling in my throat. That is to say that the proverbial hormonal roller coaster has not slowed.

Three hours earlier I arrived at the municipal court, fifteen minutes early and hoping to be in and out in time to get home and make dinner. I sat toward the back, one polite chair between myself and another person. There were over a hundred people in the room, fathers and sons, middle aged women, young ment and most of them sat tensely in silence. I guessed many of these people were not here for a simple traffic ticket.

Ten minutes after court was scheduled to begin the mediator ambled into the room and took a seat in front of us. The door opened behind me and in my peripheral vision I saw a tall, slim girl scanning the room for a seat. She tapped her fingers on her thigh as her eyes darted around the room.

“There’s a seat here.” I whispered.

“Thanks.” She breezed by me, wreaking of cigarettes. She sunk her frame in the seat and curled over herself, jammed her finger nails between her teeth and waited.

“This seems like it might take a while.” I whispered to her.

“We could be here until nine.” She sounded well-informed.

The mediator began to call names and meet with each person to discuss their case. Sarah was called and uncurled herself from the seat next to me.

“What’s going on, Sarah?” The mediator asked as she approached him. The familiarity was distinct. I could not hear the entire conversation, but I did hear the words community service and criminal record pass between them. As she stood there, I noticed the multitude of bruises and cuts on each of her arms.

Sarah returned to her seat and her nail biting. A moment later she began to leave and return every five minutes, returning each time with a more pronounced smell of cigarettes than before. At one point she whispered to me, “I’m sorry, I just get nervous and I have to walk around.”

An hour later my name had not been called and a mediator called a recess. At the beginning he said the names would be called in roughly alphabetical order, which made me think, not for the first time, I had married well.

“I wonder if I have the right date.”

“Come here, hon.” Sarah squeezed her way through the crowd and out the door. When I reached her she had a list of names in her hand, which she had taken from a slot next to the door. “Check if your name is here. If it is, then you have to stay... Not that I’m a pro or anything.” We both laughed and sat on the stairs as I looked until I found my name.

Time crept by and I finally saw the mediator. He offered two terrible options -- a $400 fine and no points, or a $100 fine and 2 points -- for the tiny slip I had made as a driver. I picked one and returned to the court room. There five, out about 150, people were still waiting. Sarah was one and she was sitting in the front row, almost bounding out of her seat with anxiety. When she was finally was called she stepped up to the table with weak confidence and the mediator sat beside her.

“Judge, Sarah has been here many times over the years, always for something related to alcohol. Please consider that she is a single mother and has some, well, some other issues—if I may approach you.” He stood up and went close enough to mutter something to the judge.
The judge rattled off typical consequences for the offense and then recommended a mental health center in the area, “Do you have insurance?”

“N-no, I don’t. But I will go to AA.” I could hear the tears breaking her voice. "I'll do anything. I'm trying..."

They reached a conclusion, but it was before the conclusion that I wanted to lie down and cry for her. There she stood, fragile in every sense and desperate for a change. Responsible to raise a child, she was unable to care for herself. I chided myself for my impatience at having to wait in the courtroom for three hours. I would leave that courtroom and return to my good life and she would leave to desperately try to continue hers.

As she left to go to the court clerk I wondered if I should go after her. I could offer to help her find services—counseling, medical, shelter—whatever she needed. Instead I prayed, remained in my seat and waited stiffly.

When it was my turn to see the county clerk I found that Sarah was still there. She paid her fine and I followed her out the door.

"I work in human services,” I offered, fumbling through my bag to find a business card. “I might be able to help you find the services you need.”

“Would you?” She asked, taking my card. "They just don't understand that I can't afford--"

“Just give me a call.” I smiled.

Walking into our house, I smelled dinner. I closed my eyes, in awe of even the basic luxuries I have everyday. I collapsed into Dave’s lap and sobbed as I told him about Sarah.

“You’re sweet.” He said generously as I mopped my face with my fists.

I would have felt sorry for her no matter what my emotional state, but it was just the thing that my fragile emotions needed to tip me into profound commiseration.