Undertakers, Judges, and Defense Attorneys, Part One. Also, what not to take into a courthouse.

The undertaker and the county judge. Two respected men. Two men you hope are coming for someone else. I saw them both today, Mr. Thompson with his metal gurney and maroon body bag, and Judge Shoemaker looking down at us from behind his massive wooden desk. 

As I listen to my favorite little lady's heart last night, I wondered how many times it had beat total.  If her heart has been beating 54 times a minute for a century that's 2,838,240,000 times.

As I turn her over to look at her skin, she grumbles, "Are you trying to kill me?" 

"No," I say.  "I wouldn't try to kill anyone, but certainly not you."  She thinks I'm trying to kill her. She doesn't know I'm her defense attorney, arguing with time, for my favorite clients, making sure that her skin--her best defense  against the prison of infection--is intact. 

Across the hall, time is running out for someone else, and Mr. Thompson will be coming in the morning. But tonight for this little lady, her heart keeps beating. 2,838,240,101....2,838,240,102.... 2,838,240,103....

In the morning, Mr. Thompson rattles in with his metal and maroon, wearing his suit and his smile and his cologne. I like him. He's nice. But I'd rather his role stay in the lives of other people.

I'm arguing with time again this morning as Mr. Thompson signs paperwork, because I have to make it to the courthouse to watch a defense attorney argue in front of Judge Shoemaker for my friend who might get sent to prison. 

I jog down the cement sidewalk in the biting wind, under the courthouse trees, and up the dozen cement steps that always leave me winded.  I burst through the doors, afraid her case has already been heard, throw my keys in the plastic gray bin and step under the metal detector.

It beeps.

Oh, I forgot to take off my nametag and watch. I hurl them into the bin after my keys. I'm still catching my breath from dashing in through the cold and up the dozen steps.

It still beeps.

I pat my pockets and realize I forgot to empty them. I dump a fistful of scrub pocket contents into the gray bin--Let's get on with this--And then I see that I just threw a bandage scissors up on the courthouse counter under the deputy's eye. 

To Be Continued....