Courthouse Conundrum

The County Courthouse is located in A-Town. It’s a beautiful and majestic building. When we first moved back here six years ago after living in a larger-city suburb, I felt a small thrill each time I drove up our new street returning from work in the evenings: It was winter, so I could see the Courthouse dome beaconing through the leafless trees. My heart would swell with love for A-Town and I would sigh—sometimes out loud, sometimes just inside myself—and say, “I'm home.”

In those days, I often romanticized about what it felt like to be living back in A-Town. I am not exaggerating when I say that my feelings of affection for this place sometimes swept over me in a such a way that I likened our first few months here to a honeymoon between me and my hometown. Fellow A-Town-ites tease me about this, particularly “Purple Eagles” (yep—our school mascot) who have flown away to the ends of the earth. One childhood friend is living in Los Angeles; my former next-door neighbor currently resides in London, England; TK lives in Detroit, RC lives in Phoenix, JD lives in Washington, D.C. ... (Of course, I have scrounged up most of this information from Facebook, the amazing classmate connector. But FB is a topic for another day ... perhaps even a dissertation!)

But back to A-Town Square: I admire the Courthouse so much for its architectural ambiance that I frequently forget its somber purpose of upholding the laws of the land. About two years ago, I was called for jury duty—my first opportunity since our fourth grade school tour to actually set foot inside the structure. On that day, sitting through the tedious proceedings of jury selection in an accident-injury case, I realized that not everyone has warm-fuzzy feelings each time they cast their eyes on this glorious edifice. In fact, it is a dreaded place of prosecution for many people whose actions and/or circumstances force them to face the halls of justice. That those halls have been beautifully crafted and carefully preserved likely serves as little comfort to those who pass through them only to “serve time.” Nor to the victims whose anguish cannot be assuaged by cold marble columns, no matter how elegant.

This week, my work prompted me to visit the Courthouse again in an official capacity, and I was reminded of the reality that A-Town is not a charmed place where everybody lives happily ever after. There are problems here—painful ones, troubles of which I know not.