Dressed for Court

We're running late so I drop the others off at the courthouse and go looking for a place to park. I hate the city because it always fucks with me. It knows I'm there and changes random streets to "one way" and shit like that.

Finally, I find this parking garage about three blocks from the courthouse. It's a tall, narrow structure and the ramp spirals upward through a seemingly endless series of turns. At the very top, I find a parking space and take what I soon realize is the world's slowest elevator back to the street.

But the city isn't done with me yet. About two-thirds up the block, Bob the Builder has his truck across the sidewalk. Too late, I notice the makeshift barrier of construction vehicles, sawhorses and yellow caution tape, between sidewalk and street, that forces an untimely about-face at the truck.

Talking sailor talk under my breath, I backtrack about half a block to get around the job site. I'm about to pass this woman, who's headed into the dead end that I'm walking out of, when I realize it's our lawyer.

"Diana!"

"Oh, hi."

"You can't get through that way."

"Then we'll have to cross the street."

Jeez, I'm thinking, I hope yer not gonna charge me for that flash of judicial brilliance. And weren't YOU supposed to be in court about ten minutes ago? I KNOW we're paying for THAT.

But after that I relax a little. She does look all business-like, dressed for court. (In the office, she'd worn blue jeans.) And she is good with the small talk. Very amiable, with a wry sense of humor, but still focused.

Within the hour, she's gotten a preliminary ruling in our favor. The little boy stays with us, protected by court order, for the next few days. Which I now hope will be time enough for my son to understand how precious those days may be.

Unless he already does. And has simply been fearful, as I once was, to experience them fully. For fear of what may, in the end, be taken away...

LPK
LiveJournal
11.9.2005