Courtroom drama

Appeared in The Chronicle Jan. 22, 2007

The clock on the dashboard said 8:48.
I had 12 minutes.
I put the car in park and grabbed my umbrella. It was snowing that kind of snow that makes a woman look like a wet dog when the flakes in her hair melt.
I walked as fast as one can walk in pumps across the parking lot and down the alley.
I got to the door. I could feel my heart beating in my chest.
Elyria Municipal Court.
I walked in and through the metal detector.
It beeped.
Of course it was going to beep. I was carrying an umbrella and my purse that was so full I couldn’t pull the zipper closed.
The officer came over, took my belongings from me and set them on a table.
“Walk through again,” he said.
I stepped back through, swiveled, stood up straight and walked though.
No beep.
I picked up my stuff and looked around for the courtroom of the judge to whom my case had been assigned.
I won’t give you the gory details as to why I was summoned to court last week – I’ll save those for Nancy Grace if she calls. Let’s just say I don’t think I was as much to blame for a minor traffic accident as did the officer who wrote me a ticket.
I found the correct courtroom and took a seat outside of it.
A sign said the courtroom door was to be kept closed – and that it was.
I dug my cell phone out of my purse and dialed.
“Paul,” I whispered, “It’s Patti. Are you coming? I’m here. In court.”
“Who is this?” my lawyer-turned-friend asked.
“It’s Patti Ewald.”
“Oh, yeah, yeah. I’ll be there in about 10 minutes.”
We hung up and I sat there. There were no other people around. I spotted papers on a table outside the courtroom door.
I walked over and — as nonchalantly as I could — scanned the list of names the paper contained, looking for “Ewald.” Well, actually, I was looking for “dlawE.” The list was upside down.
“Can I help you?” a voice called from down the hall.
I moved away from the table and toward the uniformed court guy who had spoken to me. “I was supposed to appear in this court at 9 and it’s 10-after.”
“What’s your name?” he asked.
“Ewald.”
He looked at a piece of paper in his hand and said, “You’re supposed to be downstairs.”
Downstairs. Unchartered waters. I looked at him.
“That way,” he pointed.
When I got down there, it was apparent where everyone was. Both sides of a long hall were lined with chairs filled with people, people whose eyes were all on me.
A gauntlet.
I gulped and walked to the end of the hall and took a seat.
And there I sat. With nothing to read except the label on my umbrella.
I remembered seeing newspaper boxes outside the front door. I went to get one.
Once back downstairs, I took a seat in a short hall leading to the hall filled with people. I read my paper. Paul showed up a short time later. I was feeling much better.
“Just sit here. I’ll be back,” he told me.
I occasionally caught a glimpse of him darting in and out of different rooms. Finally, it was time for the attorney-client chat.
“Well, we’ll probably have to get a continuation. There are a couple things I have to do,” he told me.
“You know,” he said, “I didn’t mean for you to waste your whole morning here. You should have called first. You didn’t even have to come. I’ll take care of it.”
Now he tells me.

Patti Ewald is (not a criminal) managing editor of The Chronicle. You can reach her at pewald@chroniclet.com.