The Sorcerer's Apprentice

Tales out of Court

by J. D. Collins © 1995 by J. F. Clennan, Esq. all rights reserved.

In August in the mid 1970's, an Appellate Court was an air conditioned mausoleum. Most of the 12 Law Assistants, the worker bees of the court system crammed into a band box room, were away on six week vacations. Only the burly Deputy Clerk and short quiet Abelard Richter were at work with me. Another Law Assistant bobbed in and out of the courthouse.

Abelard Richter served an unusual function in the court. In his middle fifties with balding red hair, Richter, away from law most of his adult life, had been employed at court for about two years.

The court had tried to use him as a Law Assistant. He could not keep pace with the volume. They tried to use him as a law clerk in chambers. He had found review reports, no easier than writing them.

Under political pressure to retain Abelard, the Clerk of the Court gave Abelard the task of reviewing and synopsizing decisions of the High Court in Albany. This decision promoted Abelard to a title third in rank in the court. No one seemed particularly concerned with the prospect that Abelard, who busied himself with make-work in a corner might ascend to acting Clerk of the Court. Richard Blount, the burly Deputy Clerk, and the Clerk of the Court isolated in some divine seclusion on a first floor office rarely took vacations.

One sultry August morning, while the Clerk of the Court was away on family business, Richard Blount sprained his ankle. Abelard was now in charge.

This presented no immediate difficulties. No sessions of court sat. Few visitors were expected. The duty judge of the week, pompous and aloof Mr Justice Frederick Bartlett cloistered himself in his chambers. The two aging court officers played cards in the robing room.

Abelard could quietly take over the Clerk of the Court's magnificent mahogany furnished office, temporarily.

The law assistant's room was now empty, except for me and another law assistant. While we watched the clock, we quietly worked on reports. Within one hour, Abelard came into the room wearing a green sports coat with his tie neatly knotted. Mr Justice Fredrick Bartlett, the duty judge had called Abby in.

Mr. Blount's vacant desk was piling up with motions. With a great deal of authority, Abelard motioned with his file for me to take over the motions on Blount's desk. An attempt at pleasant chit-chat was rebuffed.

Within an hour, Abelard returned. "Mr Justice Bartlett," Abby pronounced in a deep voice simulating authority, "the duty judge wants copies of an 800 page transcript circulated to the entire panel of five judges."

On the ancient photostat machine the court used, that could take a week. "Tell the clerical staff, you have me on motions," I protested.

"Do it and try not to give me any arguments," Abelard comanded imperiously raising a finger. Abby clasped a file under his arm.

I shrugged my shoulders. Abelard was making a serious error. Judges made unrealistic requests on an hourly basis. Seasoned court officials, like Blount, knew how to set priorities and deal with judge's ridiculous demands with finesse. They practiced their art with the wisdom of sorcery. Abby, whom they shielded, was a mere apprentice.

I had been photostating on the old wet paper copier which creaked as it moved from side to side for several hours when Abelard came to get me.

"I want this motion reported to the duty judge," Abby ordered waving his file.

"Abby, I have reports for the September Term, motion decisions to prepare, photostating and now you want the motion reported to the judge. Why don't you ask the other Law Assistant?"

Abby looked at me sheepishly. "The other Law-man went to lunch and hasn't been seen since. I can't find him."

I was reviewing the motion and preparing an outline when Abby asked me to go over to Kings County Supreme Court to fetch a record.

I looked at the sheet Abby handed me. "Abby, this is a closed case. What does the judge need to see it for?"

"Mr Justice Bartlett remembers good language in one of the court papers."

"You have me tied up here. Can't you tell him the record is unavailable?" I suggested.

"Just do it and stop arguing with me," Abby commanded with a wave of that file.

As I walked out of the building, one of the two grizzled court officers on duty at the desk called me over in a corner.

"Abby has been busting our chops all day. He made us put on the uniform blouses, inspect the visitors log and patrol around the building. Tomorrow we're calling in sick. Like to join us?"

I laughed.

After retrieving the records the judge wanted, I went back to photostating. At 5 p.m., I was getting ready to leave when Abby told me to finish the motion decisions and stay to supervise the night cleaning crew.

"We're on summer hours. The Clerk of the Court allows us to go home at 3:00 p.m. I stayed only to make a dent in photostating."

"I'm the Clerk. You do what I say." Abby pointed with his file at the ground.

"Good night, Abby," I called to the Acting Clerk.

The next morning when I arrived, the front desk was unmanned. The two clerks in the clerk's office were lounging at the counter drinking coffee and laughing. Standing alone arguing into a telephone, Abby was pulling out the remains of his hair.

"Where have you been?" Abby demanded. Abby raised his file in the air.

"Abby, I'm a half hour early."

"The duty judge ordered a hearing on a motion and both court officers called in sick. Find a uniform," Abby pointed his file at me, "put it on and you're a court officer today."

"Abby, ask one of the clericals. They've been court officers."

"We're civil servants," the clerical smiled and said, "We can't be ordered to do out-of-title work."

"And I cannot wear a badge or carry a gun." I protested. "What good is the uniform going to do?"

"Mr Justice Bartlett, the --- judge," Abby waved the file around wildly, "will see you in there and assume you're the genuine article."

I looked at Abby closely. Without fear of repercussions, I could have disappeared like the others. Although Abby had been annoying, I felt sorry for him. This was his only chance to make an impression to prove himself capable of taking on responsibility. Abby probably didn't realize that Mr Justice Bartlett was so arrogant and imperious that these efforts were in vain anyway. I decided to collaborate in the charade.

The court officers kept extra uniforms in a closet in the judge's robing room. All officers were dowdy, overweight old men. I could not hold up the trousers. When I got a pin from the secretary on duty, the secretary whispered to me that she was going home sick. "I have all these reports to type for the September Calendar and Abby keeps sending me back a letter he wrote to a state prisoner unable to decide whether the title is Acting Clerk of the Court or Acting Comma Clerk of the Court."

The hearing in Chambers before Mr Justice Bartlett, a portly pompous man was long and drawn out. I stood in blue uniform at the back of the room with my arms crossed to hold up the pants and to hide the missing spot where the shield should have been.

Holding his file in one hand, Abelard stood rigidly poised behind the forbidding, frosty Mr Justice Bartlett. With the other hand, Abby obsequiously turned papers before the judge as the attorneys spoke. When the attorneys concluded, the judge announced his decision in general terms, but added, "I would have to speak to the Motion Clerk to work out the technical details."

As the attorneys filed out, Abelard's frigid expression of pretentious gravity melted into consternation when Mr Justice Bartlett judge sternly commanded, "Fetch me the Motion Clerk right now."

Abby held his file up in a gesture of surrender.

After pointing the lawyers to the elevator, I joined Abelard who shivered as he sat in one of the chairs in front of the Judge. The file had dropped to the floor.

Mr Justice Bartlett looked at me quizzically, "Shouldn't you escort the visitors to the lobby?"

"I am the Motion Clerk." I growled.

"Then, Mr Motion Clerk," Mr Justice Bartlett ordered, "Draft the decision up for the typist and have me take a look at it."

"It'll take some time..." I replied, "I can only hunt and peck... I'm the typist too." I turned to Abelard. "Your secretary went home sick, while we were sitting here."

"You're the typist," Justice Bartlett leaned back in his chair, "the court officer, the motion clerk. You do everything here? When you get a moment, I have some material I need photostated. Do you do that too?"

"No." I shook my head, "That I can't do. You ran out of photostat paper with the project of yesterday." The judge looked at me with total surprise. Mr Justice Bartlett had forgotten the massive project of yesterday.