God, Please Save These Troubled States

    I got a gun put to my head. My life didn’t flash before me. Not that I expected something that cinematic to actually happen to me, but it’s just one of those things I’d like to experience someday. Funny how being faced with death isn’t what would trigger something like that.
    And that’s why I stood outside the Municipal Court building on Temple. I checked the subpoena the District Attorney had sent me. 210 W. Temple. I was at the right place but I didn’t want to go through the doors. I didn’t want to do this. I didn’t want a part of this. I wasn’t going to get closure and I certainly wouldn’t feel better knowing the dudes who mugged would be behind bars. Life had already changed for me and there really wasn’t anything I could do about it.
    I didn’t want to go to jail for failing to obey a subpoena, so I pulled opened the glass doors. A massive hallway greeted me. I saw of signs indicating which floor each department was located on. 101, 102, 103, 104. Fuck. Where was 31?
    Third floor. I walk down the hallway to the large open room. Men and women in suits are zipping past me, talking on Razr phones and messaging people on their Blackberries. A tall white guy with thick, black-framed glasses passes by me and I can’t help but notice how much he looks like Milo from The Descendents.
    I hop into the line to go through the metal detectors and pass through without incidence. I expected all the metal shit in my face to set off the alarms, but apparently I wear crappy jewelry that’s not actually metal. Oh well.
    The court house downtown is full of plaque-like signs that tell you where to go for each department, but it’s all still confusing. It’s an overload of information. Couple that with the fact that you’ve got hundreds of people rushing by you, half of them just as confused as everyone else, and your head starts to spin. Add to that the fact that you’re going to testify in a felony case against a Compton gang member and add to that the fact that you’re broke and that you’re sleep deprived and you’re hungry and you’re so nervous you have to take a gigantic shit and all you want to do is run far far far far away but you can’t. Signs don’t help.
    I’m 15 minutes early. I’m supposed to be in room 3-314 at 8:30. There are lawyers and LAPD officers everywhere. Lots of suits sitting along the hallway. I don’t like it. Too many people trying too hard for something that inevitably really isn’t going to matter. Well, shouldn’t matter, but it might.
    The judge’s assistant unlocks the door. She’s wearing a shirt that looks like a curtain in my parent’s house. It looks like wool. It looks ugly. She lets us in. I grab a seat in the middle and begin to tap my foot to a song in my head. I’m supposed to be in this room, but the number on the door said I was in Department 37. My subpoena says to be in Department 31. I don’t know if I’m in the right room, but I don’t care enough to say anything.
    A nervous Korean man walks quickly into the room. He sits across the aisle from me. I notice that he’s sweating. A lot. I watch a bead form on his left temple and trickle down his face. I don’t think I had ever seen that happen before then.
    He stands up and walks over to the judge’s assistant and whispers something in her ear, pointing at his subpoena. I notice that the back of his sky blue dress shirt is drenched in sweat and I almost feel bad for the guy. He can’t help that he was born with such overactive sweat glands. Plus, he seemed like an overly nervous type of guy anyway. I wanted to tell him that he should wear darker colored shirts, as that might help not make his problem so noticeable, but I decided to keep shit to myself.
    I hear the assistant tell him that he has the wrong room, that you’re supposed to look for the department number, not the room number. Thanks, Los Angeles City Justice Department! I appreciate that you’ve already assaulted me with a painfully confusing floor plan. Now I’m lost.
    I head out the door and my heart starts beating faster. I’m just realizing what I’m about to do. What if I fuck up? What if the three guys who mugged me look differently? What if they grew beards? What if I don’t properly identify them and they get set free? Is the defense going to have a field day with my physical appearance? What if they ask me to swear I won’t lie on a Bible? Does that mean I can lie because I don’t believe in God?
    I open the door to Department 31. There are about 20 people in the room. Half of them have claimed spots on the bench and the other half are lawyers milling about the room. They shake hands. The say short, courteous phrases and compliments to each other. Shop talk. There’s a lot of paper shuffling, of expanding file folders being passed through hands, of frantic phone calls to assistants and office managers. I can’t help but watch them and think how absurd they are, the way they talk, the smiles, the handshakes. I wonder if they know but they keep up the act to make themselves seem professional to everyone else. I would rather see a frenetic cat fight between two lawyers. I would have rather seen the district attorney really tell the defense lawyer how he felt about the previous days’ cases. But he smiles with irony and shakes her hand firmly. Business is done.
    The judge comes in and we rise. I forget his name. I think his first name is Hugh. He’s Caucasian. Tall. Light brown hair, almost blonde. Wiry figure. I think his face looks bored. Not boring, just as if this is what he does every day. Runs through cases, no more continuances, is this a court-approved program? He sits, and we sit. The cases start.
    My only experience with our judicial system was doing mock trial for a few weeks my freshman year of high school. Actually, I’m pretty sure that my mom forced me to quit before we even visited the court house the first time. The room looks like I imagined, just a bit smaller. There was a large sheet of square-holed grating up on the ceiling and I don’t know why it was there. The lighting was behind it. Maybe it was there in case the lighting fell. Then there’d be a way to stop it from crushing the spectators below. Maybe I was just nervous and I was trying to think of something else.
    Court is boring. I could never be a judge or a prosecutor or a defense attorney. Too many penal codes. Too many case numbers. Too much formality. I don’t know what number my case is, but they’ve got over 30 on the docket that day. I fear it’s going to be a long day, that I’m going to have to come into work on the weekend to make up the hours I was supposed to work today.
    The judge goes off the record to speak with the lead district attorney and the guy next to me scoots closer. He’s Hispanic, probably about 18 or 19. Shaved head. Dark eyebrows. He’s wearing an ECKO button-up, blue and white. He had come in with a group of about seven Latina girls, all dressed casually. But you could tell they spent a few hours in front of the mirror to get their makeup right. To arch their eyebrows correctly. To make sure their hair was shiny enough or straight enough. “Where’d you get your tattoos?” he asks, motioning towards the Xs on my hands. He’s got a slight urban accent. Small shop, I say. Near Hollywood and Vine. It’s a quiet Japanese man. He does great work. He’s done nearly all mine.
    “I like how they look, man. Good color. It’s dark.”
    Thanks man. I smile at him and turn back to gazing at the grating on the ceiling. I start theorizing about perhaps the grating is to keep us in. The man next to me speaks up again. “I think I’ve seen you before. You take the bus a lot, man?”
    I nod in affirmation.
    “Yeah, I think I seen you on the Blue Line a few times before. Maybe 7th and Metro.”
    Yeah, I used to live in Downey. I had to take that all the time when I worked in L.A.
    “Cool man.” He turns back forward and starts talking to one of his friends that came with him. I start zoning out again, reading the signs all over the room. Turn off YOUR cell phone! The judge may confiscate your phone if it goes off in his presence. Speaking with those in-custody is FORBIDDEN and you may be arrested! The Honorable Judge Hugh –
    “What other tattoos do you have?” He interrupts my nervous habit of reading everything in sight. I have a few on my neck, but they’re mostly on my arms and hands. I start to show him one of the ones on my left arm when he puts his forearms up to show me his tattoos. “I just got these a few weeks ago. Look good, no?”
    FUCK. FUCK. FUCK. FUCK. FUCK. FUCK. FUCK. WHY. WHY DOES IT HAVE TO SAY THAT. WHY THAT. FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK I AM DEAD.
    V3. A “V” on the left arm. A three on the right arm.
    FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK I AM SO FUCKED.
    I can hear them coming up the stairs. My heart hasn’t ever beat so fast in my life. This is worse than opening night of “The Music Man” when I thought I’d lose my voice on stage and Harold Hill would have to be a mute for the first three acts. This is worse than when I fell in the pool when I was 7 and I couldn’t touch the bottom and I couldn’t float to the top. I have reverted to the mindset of a child. I curl up under my comforter and pull it over my head. I think my heart is in my throat. I want to throw up. I think my blanket is going to protect me, but as soon as I hear them knocking on the door and calling my name, I know that it doesn’t mean shit. It would be like hiding under my desk during a nuclear holocaust. This is real.
    Bang bang bang. They’ve come back. They know I described the car too well. They know I described what they looked like too well. They’re coming back to get me.
    Bang bang bang. I know it’s a dream, but I can’t escape it. I’m believing it and I know it’s not real, but I can’t help it.
    Bang bang bang. My phone rings. I start to breathe heavily and BANG BANG BANG, MARK, IT’S OFFICER RIOS. OPEN THE DOOR, WE’VE GOT THEM.
    What? I bound off the couch and peer out the peephole. I see Rios and Mariano, the other guy who came to the scene after I called the cops. I unlock the door and open it. “Put on some clothes, Mark. We found them, we caught them! We need you just to ID them as the guys who mugged you.”
    I frantically pull on a pair of pants and grab a Rancid shirt to throw on. Bianca comes out and asks what’s going on. They found them, I say, they found them. I need to go. I grab my phone and keys and follow officer Mariano down the stairs.
    We found them off of Crenshaw and Olympic,” Officer Rios says to me. “Your description of the car and the license plate was so spot on that two patrolling officers pulled over a car that strangely fit the profile. To a T, man.” He speaks excitedly and they both have a smile on their face. I’m shivering because they left the window down and it’s about 60 degress outside. I forgot to grab a sweater.
    The backseat of the car is made of hard plastic, like a booster seat in a cheap restaurant. I can’t find a way to get comfortable. It makes me not ever want to be arrested. Being arrested must be uncomfortable.
    The car speeds down Wilshire and both Rios and Mariano are saying supportive things to me. “I really hope this is them,” and “I can’t believe we got them,” and “This never happens,” and “Wow, you’ve got a great memory!” None of this makes me feel better or safer. None of this is going to get the money back.
    “Apparently, these are pretty big guys,” Rios says. “Big time guys. One of them is a member of one of the Varrio latino gangs from Compton He’s got one of those V3 tattoos on his arms. I don’t know why he’d be doing these kind of robberies out here. Seems like chump change.”
    He’s in a gang?
    “Don’t worry, he won’t ever see you, “ assures Mariano. “When we bring them out to be identified, we’ll be shining our brights on them so they can’t see in the car.”
    I’m not convinced.  I think they can see me. In fact, as they bring the rear passenger up for me to ID, I can feel him looking at me. Yes, that’s him. The guy from the back seat.
    The next guy. He’s the driver, I say. He stares at me.
    The last guy. He pulled the gun on me. I am 100% sure. I see his bald head, those thick eyebrows, those dark eyes. It’s him. And he’s staring at me.
    They turn him around and I see the V tattooed on left arm, the 3 on the right arm. They’re tattooed in black. Just like this guy’s tattoos. He’s staring at me, just like the guy who had the gun. I nod. “I think they turned out pretty well,” he says.
    I lean back in my seat and I’m nauseous. I stare back up at the grating on the ceiling and I start to count the squares. The ceiling is suddenly too close and I get up and leave the court room. I head to the water fountain in the hall, next to the bathroom, but it doesn’t work. I go into the Men’s room and turn on a sink. I think splashing water on my face will make me feel better, but it doesn’t. I still feel sick and I have that sinking feeling in my gut. I want to run away. I don’t want to do this. I don’t even care if the guy goes to jail. It’s not going to solve anything and it’s not going to make me feel better. I didn’t fucking ask for this, I think. This is not free will.
    I take a deep breath and stare at myself in the mirror. I should have shaved last night. I look crazy.
    I head back into the hallway and I see Officer Mariano. He smiles at me and thanks me for coming. The district attorney comes out of the courtroom and approaches us. He reminds me of Gil Garcetti. He’s lanky and tall and wiry and he’s got that weird bald patch Garcetti had. “Are you Mark?” He asks. Yes, that’s me. “Thanks for coming down. I appreciate it. Sorry for the inconvenience, but I don’t think we’ll be having the preliminary hearing today. Only three of the 11 victims ever showed up.
    “Eleven?” exclaims Mariano. “There were eleven separate victims?”
    “Yeah,” the DA responds. “And I think because it was just a holiday weekend, no one is showing up. So we’re going to ask for a continuance and go 10 for 10. Do or die. If they don’t show up, we go ahead.”
    They talk more about possible dates and they agree on June 20th. I say that’s ok for me and the DA then tells us to join him in the courtroom so they can get this finished so we can go home.
    I walk behind officer Mariano and sit in the same spot I was in before, only because it’s the only open spot. He smiles at me when I sit down, as if we’re newly acquainted friends. I smile back.
    We wait for 20 minutes because the defense attorney is late. He shows up and the judge goes back on record to address the case. They decide that it would be best to give the witnesses a month to respond to their subpoenas, so the two dates they consider are June 30th and July 6th.
    Fuck. I’m playing Gilman on June 30th. I swear under my breath when I hear them say, not a second later, that June 30th will be best. “Is that fine for your witnesses, counsel?” the judge asks.
    The DA turns around and looks squarely at me. “Mark, is June 30th fine for you?” And I watch the guy next to me turn quickly and gape at me. His friends are staring too. They’re not smiling.
    Uh…..no. I won’t be in town. I’ll be in Northern California. I can’t get the day free.
    “That’s not good,” the DA responds. “You’re our star witness! July 6th it is, then.”
    The judge hesitates. “Counsel, could you please have the witnesses leave the room?” He doesn’t look happy. Neither do I.
    The DA turns back around. “If you’re a witness in The People V. Jesse Hernandez, please wait out in the hall for me.” I get up to looks from all over the courtroom. Jesse’s friends are here. I think the guy next to me is his brother. I walk out of the courtroom and I can’t breathe.
    I stand nervously in the hall. The father of one of the other victims, a 16 year old Jewish kid, asks where they got me. Hollywood, I say. “They got my son and his friend in West LA. In broad daylight. Pulled a knife on them.” I look at the kids. Shitty, I say. They nod in agreeance. We don’t say anything else.
    The DA comes back out, smiling. “July 6th. We’ll send out subpoenas again, but just know to be back here on that day at 8:30 in the morning.” The DA continues to tell us what we need to do, but I’m not paying attention. Jesse’s brother (or friend or whoever the fuck he is) is walking behind the DA. And he’s staring at me. It’s not the same look of mutual respect and understanding we had before. He hates me. He hates me.
    I look elsewhere, but there’s not grating to stare at. The DA is shaking my hand and telling me to leave and no sooner had he let go of my hand had I immediately began to walk swiftly towards the elevators. I brush past a lawyer holding a brown file folder and I’m pretty sure I knocked it out of her arm. I didn’t stop to say sorry or to pick it up. I slammed the DOWN button and waited. And waited. People are filing into the hallway and I won’t look at them. I just want to get out of this fucking place.
    “You’re Mark, right?” I look up to see the defense attorney smiling at me. He’s a light-skinned Latino. Salt and pepper hair. A big mouth that’s smiling. He outstretches his hand. I just stare at it. “What’s your last name?” he asks. I stare at the elevator some more. There’s no indicator to tell me what floor the car is currently on. I find this to be completely ludicrous but I don’t do anything about it.
    “You’re the one with the phone, right?”
    What? What are you talking about?
    “You’re one of the victims and you called on your cell phone right after it happened. Right? Right?”
    I look at him and give him an emotionless expression. Jesse’s friend/brother is standing right next to him.
    The elevator opens and the defense attorney simply smiles at me. He walks past me and I’m forced to ride the elevator down with him and the entire Hernandez clan of friends and family. They all stare at me. They don’t look pissed, they don’t look mad, they don’t even look interested. They just stare.
    I’m on the first floor and I’m walking and I’m out the back door in ten seconds and I walk up Temple further and further and turn down Hill St. Fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck. That’s all I’m saying. Over and over and over and over again.
    Fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK

So Lost is over for the next four months. That means I'm going to torture myself over a television program. For four months. This hasn't happened since the X-Files was on regularly and they used to end their seasons with insane cliffhangers.

I really hope Lost doesn't last nine seasons, though. This is painful.

In other news, Kenneth Lay was convicted. Motherfucker got a guilty verdict. Let's hope that he'll actually spend time in jail. You know, the world may actually feel like a better place if I know that he's behind bars getting raped by thuggish inmates. Something also tells me that's not gonna happen, but a boy can dream, no?

I was supposed to go the Champion's final show this weekend, but I received a very wonderful message from our city's lovely District Attorney, who I must meet with tomorrow afternoon. I've been subpoenaed (Is that spelled right?) to appear in court next week on Tuesday and Wednesday to testify against the sonsofbitches who mugged back at the beginning of March. According to the detective at the LAPD who handled my case, the lawyers for all three guys are saying I wasn't even mugged at all. Nice. I expect next week to be incredibly pleasant. Meaning frustrating.

So now my Memorial Day weekend plans have been thwarted. I think I'll be going to Flex Your Head Fest at The SOS Project to see Final Fight, Head High, and Dangers instead. Then I'm going with Lizy and her friend Michael to Truly Vegan to try their vegan sushi dinner.

Sigh. Thanks for your impeccable timing, American Justice System. You know how to improve the quality of my life.