TO WIT:

TO WIT: THE DIVINE MISS J.

By S. Sponte, Esq.

Justice is the end of government. It is the

End of civil society. It ever has been, and

ever will be pursued, until it be obtained,

or until liberty be lost in the pursuit.

James Madison, The Federalist, No. 51 (1788)

Justice falls upon those who can afford it, and

a trial by jury upon those who cannot.

S. Sponte, Esq., Misc. Ramblings (1979)

In all fairness, I must concede that women have played an important role in my life. One was responsible for my birth, though she bore me no evil, and another certainly will be responsible for my demise, which, whenever it occurs, will be, for me, untimely. Yet another has been, is, and will be the pursuit of my life and the bane of my existence. I speak here of Miss Justice, of flowing diaphanous gown fame, long on beauty but short of memory. Her siren has wailed in my weary ear for far too long, and I have learned to accept her capriciousness with the same philosophy that Socrates brought to the hemlock. Although I have never seen her, from time to time I catch just the slightest hint of her heavenly perfume, all that remains of her presence as she exits the side door of the Courtroom while I am entering the front door with my clients. Like many women, she promises much but delivers little.

Her promise of things to come lured me recently into a small county some distance north of here, there to collide with a brother attorney in a Courtroom because our respective clients had done the same thing along the highway of life. It was fairly routine gist for Her mill, and while I have developed a healthy regard for the Apocalypse of creative judiciary, in this instance there was enough clear, concise, and compelling precedent to enable a conscientious jurist to decide this case either way.

Our case being scheduled for the opening day of deer season, all the prospective jurors had religiously ignored their juror’s notice and had taken up gun in hand to answer a higher calling. Neither my colleague nor I were eager to return to God’s Country at a later date so we reluctantly agreed to go non-jury before the county’s only judge, who had anticipated Milady’s demand on his time by bagging his trophy the day before. Both sides of the case went in well, i.e., without either of us being reduced to tears, and at long journey’s end, the judge promised us a prompt opinion.

Six months later, I received an invitation from His Honor to return for a “post-trial conference”. In chambers, we were advised that the judge was unable to make up his mind, and since he preferred to decide cases he could decide, he had decided to not decide our case at all. He issued an order to that effect, thereby creating the first record for the oft-rumored but heretofore unrecorded doctrine of forum non resolva. Having no practical recourse, my brother and I settled the case on the spot, each client getting less than he wanted but more than he deserved. We exchanged mutual releases and blood oaths never again to eat venison.

Weary of mind, body and spirit, I began the long drive home, stopping on the way at a tavern along the road. It was late, and I craved a beer and respite from the chase. The small room was crowded with truckers, hairy arms and loud guffaws, and they paused perceptably as I walked in. I took my drink to the booth in the rear and was silently cooling my fatigue when a woman sat down in my booth, opposite me. Apparently all the truckers’ friend, she had platinum white hair, pulled up high and tight, and a kind of green dress which failed to fully compact her sagging figure. Her makeup was a poor attempt to gloss over the ravages of time, and her false eyelashes shrieked blackly at me through the smokey haze. She was clearly at home, even though the jukebox was playing much too loud for comfort, “Handyman”, James Taylor, and I waited for her to speak. “Hey fella”, she whispered, glancing just briefly over her shoulder to her friends at the Bar, “you wanna have a good time?” I shook my head no, and waved her away with my beerless hand, but she remained just for a minute or so and smiled at me with her mouth and eyes as if to impart a secret knowledge, and they were pretty eyes too, but for the makeup. She got up then and left, saying not another word. Her perfume lingered behind though, and I felt certain I smelled it somewhere before, but when I looked up she had disappeared, taking most of her secret with her.