Looking for a Good Time? See You in Court ...

Looking for an inexpensive, hilarious activity this season while staying close to Moorestown? I’ve got the perfect suggestion for you and, get this: It’s free! Really! You might be asking, “Marsia, what can I do for laughs when my wallet is a flap of empty leather, exhausted from shopping and spending?”

Last Monday, I had the opportunity to spend the morning in arraignment court in lovable Mount Holly, the heart of our county government. An official-looking document had come in the mail, inviting me to attend the arraignment of two women accused of defrauding us. Well, I never get invited anywhere, so I put on something that was meant to pass as a smart suit but ended up looking like what it was: odds and ends from my favorite thrift stores in varying shades of blue or black. The time on my invitation said the party, er, hearing would begin at 9 a.m.

I am always on time. It drives my husband crazy. At 8:50 a.m., I greeted the security guards cheerily (they were cute!) and asked if they wanted to pat me down. First thing in the morning you’d think they’d have more of a sense of humor, but these two stoics went through my tasteful handbag, then confiscated my keys. I have a tiny pink Swiss Army knife on my keychain that couldn’t maim a flea but can nab a stray chin-hair in a pinch. 

“No weapons allowed, ma’am,” said one guard, disapprovingly, before sending me through a security chute and down a maze of dingy hallways. 

I emerged on the second floor and made my way to the receptionist. When I told her I was there for an arraignment, she echoed my exact words in a way that conveyed to me her amazement that ANYONE would willingly attend an arraignment hearing. After a few minutes of scanning pamphlets about the canine flu and elder abuse, a very kind gentleman named “M” appeared to accompany me into the courtroom. He explained to me he was my very own advocate, and would be helping me to understand the proceedings.

We were the only non-lawyers in the courtroom, so I had a few minutes of downtime to fantasize a life with my very own personal advocate. “M” would go everywhere with me: work, Wegmans, the pharmacy. Whenever a question would be asked of me, I’d wave my hand in the air, like Queen Elizabeth, and tell them, “Talk to ‘M.' He’s my advocate.”

When the courtroom doors opened, the rush of humanity was tsunami-like. Seats were at a premium, so there was much bustling and shoving. Sort of like a game of musical chairs, minus the fun and cool party hats. I looked around at the people and had the odd sensation of being in the Star Wars bar, filled with aliens. As the arraignments got under way, I quickly picked up the acronymic terminology: PTI=pre-trial intervention; CDS=controlled dangerous substance. Maybe I could become an attorney! I’ve always loved acronyms! 

Back on Earth—after two hours of trying to decipher attorney double-talk, mumbles of "not guilty" from the accused, and general hubbub in the peanut gallery—“M” was notified my two fraudsters had failed to appear. When I asked what would happen next, he pressed a manicured index finger to his lips and escorted me out of the courtroom. He explained a bench warrant would be issued for the “perps” and, hopefully, they would be arrested.

As he gently moved me toward the elevator, I told “M” I was sure they’d never be caught, that they were in Bosnia by now, that the system ...

He smiled and waved at someone. “There’s my next crime victim,” he said. “I hope you get some resolution on your case. Thanks so much.” And in a cloud of pleasant cologne, he was gone. 

“Sorry you wasted your time, honey,” my husband said apologetically. 

Au contraire, my dear hub. I LOVED it! It was fascinating, it was free, and it got me thinking. Maybe I could set up a little kiosk on Main Street, near the pretzel place (in case I need a snack). Mo’towners could pay me to be their advocate. For the right price, I would willingly follow anyone and be his or her spokesperson: handle disagreements, wait forever at the lunchmeat counter at Shop-Rite, mouth off at hoodie-wearing teens.

So if this column comes to an abrupt end, you’ll know where to find me.