“All Rise! The Circuit Court for Baltimore City is now in session….”
After 32 years of trial practice, my adrenal glands still inject the equivalent of 5 shots of espresso into my system with that announcement. Courtroom awareness requires focus on everything and nothing, all at once. The call to “All Rise” is enough to throw the switch.
This courtroom is familiar to me. Hundreds of my trials have resonated against its dark burnished mahogany walls, including terse exchanges with a hot bench, the rising drama of a cross-examination, and the edge-of-the-seat attentiveness of jurors sitting shoulder-to-shoulder in the jury box as I walk them through the evidence.
The opening moments of past trials were noisy. The judge swept in, the door to chambers slammed shut, the jury, and spectators rose as one while rushing hushed conversations to abrupt conclusion. The lawyers pushed out their chairs, stood and gulped down one last paper cup of water before the room was called to order.
Today, I rise to heed the Bailiff’s call to order and hear only a series of clicks, the hum of electrical current and the buzz of lights.
In front of me, the bench shimmers as a hologram of Judge Jackson suddenly appears, projected from a box secured to the ceiling. Her black robe appears bluish in hue, surrounded by the white halo of projected light. To my right, a half-dozen Dell monitors stutter on and flash brightly to form the faces of eight jurors, disembodied images transmitted from the individual juror rooms located in the courthouse basement, each no bigger than a Target dressing room. Each juror is isolated from the others, but physically seated within yards of each other in separate booths.
I am alone at the trial table. I am alone at both trial tables, in fact, because only one lawyer at a time is permitted in the well of the court. As Plaintiff’s counsel, I will present first, and so my learned opponent, someone I have battled here in close proximity for several decades, is sequestered in the next door war room with his client and papers. My client sits in a corresponding war room, across the hall.
I move to my left, toward the podium. The overhead constellation of cameras hum and buzz, rotating in precise unison to follow my movement. I am alone, but I am closely observed by Judge Jackson, opposing counsel, the clients and the jury.
“Good morning, Judge.”
My voice reverberates within the empty room, projected to fill the space, exactly as I learned to do in the early 1980's.
“No need to shout, counsel, the microphones are sensitive and working just fine. Now, we will pick up with our next witness. What do you have for us, today?”
The familiar begins, my heart rate slows:
“Yes, my first witness will appear live, from the in-court projection booth. I ask that the court permit simultaneous display of her portrait on the monitors so they, the jury, may identify the witness behind the N95 mask….”
Judge: “I agree, what next?”
The light on top defense counsel’s monitor flashes red, and his buzzer sounds sharply.
Judge: “You have an objection, counsel?”
Opposing counsel: “The defense invokes the rule on witnesses, and asks that all persons who may testify be sequestered.”
Judge: “I expected that request. The Bailiff is instructed to cut the external video and audio feed to the witness rooms.”
I thank the judge, and call my first witness. The glass doors at the rear of the room slide open, and my witness walks out of the air lock toward the witness stand. The buzz and whir of the overhead cameras are audible above the rub and rustle of the yellow paper hazmat suit encasing the witness.
Judge: “The Bailiff will swear the witness….”
Another day in COVID Court begins.
