POLKA DOTS
There is a reason I have never sought to become a judge: I wouldn’t be very good at the job. Judges must at all times display a judicial temperament creating an illusion of impartial, unemotional neutrality. When a defendant who has just murdered 16 people in front of a dozen witnesses enters the courtroom, a learned and seasoned judge will refrain from displaying his or her true feelings, and will effortlessly refer to the accused as “sir” or “the defendant.” The judge will assure the perpetrator that he has all sorts of rights and that for the moment he is presumed to be innocent.

When a baseball hero hits an historic record-breaking, game-winning home run, thousands of spectators at the ballpark display their emotions with abandon. But there’s one exception: the umpire standing closest to the action at home plate. His adrenalin may be flowing too, but he must hide his feelings. He’s the only person who can’t jump up and down.

Judges are umpires who never get to swing a bat or cheer. They can neither laugh nor cry at the comedic tragedy unfolding before them.

Furman Dingelacher and his wife, Sylvia, had run out of luck, not that they had much to begin with. Two months ago, Furman lost his job packing cans of horsemeat on night shift at the dog food plant. His lack of formal education limited his search for new employment. But his four small children needed to eat, as did Sylvia, who suffered from life-threatening ulcers in her intestinal tract, a condition that had occasioned multiple surgeries, with more possibly to follow. They no longer had health insurance.

“How are you folks?” I asked, still unaware of their problems.

Sylvia picked up an infant who was stirring in a beat-up stroller. She gently rocked the baby as Furman did the talking.

“The sheriff served these papers on us,” he explained as he pushed a thick legal-size document across the table in my direction.

The title in bold print at the top of the formal complaint left no doubt regarding the severity of the problem:

IN THE COURT OF COMMON PLEAS
OF NORTHAMPTON COUNTY, PENNSYLVANIA
CIVIL DIVISION - LAW

ACTION IN MORTGAGE FORECLOSURE
NUMBER 20053 OF 2007

FEDERATED UNITED BANK, Plaintiff
vs

FURMAN DINGELACHER, and SYLVIA DINGELACHER
Defendants.

“I’ve been late payin’ the bank,” Furman admitted. “Lost my job. With her in and out of the hospital and no insurance, things have been tight.”

I paged through the complaint. They were seven months delinquent on a mortgage secured by a row home located directly across and downwind from the city dump. They had purchased this shack three years ago for $18,000 by paying $1,000 down and taking out a $17,000 mortgage. With interest, back payments, penalties and bank legal fees added on, they now owed $21,709 on a hovel worth about $20,000, if the prevailing winds were to blow the other way.

“We don’t know what to do. I got two toddlers and two pre-schoolers and no place to go. Can they throw us out of our home?” Furman asked.

“Can you pay anything toward the debt?”

“Not right now I can’t. Maybe when I find a job.”

I decided it wasn’t the time to ask if they could afford a lawyer. Another pro bono case.

That afternoon I telephoned Dalrymple, Kresge, Forrester and Sheetz, a mega-lawyer Philadelphia law firm representing the bank. One of the junior associates in their mortgage foreclosure department took my call. Cranston Summerfield, Esquire, and I exchanged the usual pleasantries. But when I asked him if he might delay throwing my clients into the street, his voice took on a degree of formality.

“No can do, counselor,” he responded. “They already got a seven-month free bite at the mortgage apple. I have a responsibility to the bank whose loans are federally insured by public taxpayer monies, so my obligation also extends to you and the other fine citizens of this great country.”

“But Mrs. Dingelacher is sick and there are four young children,” I interjected.

“Federated United isn’t a charity, Fox. It’s an internationally traded institution. If you were in my place, would you counsel the bank to look the other way? Suppose the bank gave your clients more time? Wouldn’t such a dangerous precedent become a valid defense for every other debtor who made a late payment? We can’t just discriminate in favor of your clients, now can we?”

What a glamorous, self-righteous, and advantageous position being legal counsel to a bank. The client’s got money - lots of it. That meant this guy Summerfield would probably get paid, no matter what. Perhaps some day, I might be lucky enough to foreclose on some procrastinating debtors, throw them and their worthless dog into the street, all the while knowing in my heart of hearts that I have done the right thing by protecting the rights of countless stockholders and the good citizens of this fine country.

Three weeks later, Attorney Summerfield sent me notice he was beginning eviction proceedings. That afternoon I got a call from luckless Furman. Some constable had just nailed a sign on his front door scheduling a judicial sale of the home.

“Can’t you do something?” he pleaded. “We’ve got nowhere to go.”

“Are you absolutely sure you’re unable to pay anything toward the delinquent mortgage?” I inquired.

“Nothing at all right now,” he confirmed.

I pushed 10 files belonging to paying clients toward the corner of my desk and began to draft a “Petition For Emergency Relief.”

I had, once upon a time, taken a creative writing course in college, and since there was no theory in law I knew of to rescue my clients, I hoped the muse of originality might enter my brain and help me formulate something helpful to assist Mr. and Mrs. Dingelacher.

I wrote that the Dingelachers were nice people and that they had every intention of paying their mortgage, just as soon as Furman found a job. I noted that Mrs. Dingelacher wasn’t feeling well and that they had four young children. I explained that since the bank had lots of money, it didn’t need the paltry sum allegedly owed by the defendants. I concluded the petition by reminding the court that my clients had a dog that, similar to the Dingelachers, had no place to go.

I filed my creative petition at the courthouse, sent Attorney Summerfield a copy, and listed the matter for an emergency hearing on the following Monday, just two days before the scheduled judicial sale. I told the Dingelachers to be present in Courtroom Number One at nine a.m. sharp.

“We’ll be there,” she assured me in her soft voice. “And don’t you worry. We have faith that everything will be okay.”

I didn’t sleep Sunday night, knowing that while faith works fine in church, we wouldn’t be talking to a priest on Monday. In 24 hours, the Dingelachers would probably be homeless.

The next morning I climbed the familiar worn marble steps leading to Courtroom Number One. As usual, this great chamber was rapidly filling with scores of people, all of whom sought relief in one form or another. There were young parents hoping to adopt an infant, criminals trying to make bail, property owners arguing over disputed boundary lines, parties to a condemnation proceeding, applicants for protection from domestic abuse, beneficiaries seeking distribution from an estate, parties pursuing a divorce or spousal support, applicants attempting to schedule an arbitration, police officers waiting to be called as witnesses, and assistant district attorneys objecting to attempts by public defenders to suppress evidence. And there were Mrs. Dingelacher, Attorney Summerfield and me, convening to consider whether a judicial sale would take place, thereby dumping my clients and their gaggle of offspring into the street.

“Where is your husband?” I inquired. “He must be present as well.”

“Downstairs in the lobby with the children. I didn’t want them running around getting into mischief. When the hearing starts, I’ll get Furman and the kids.”

I introduced myself to Summerfield. He was what I expected. About 27, just out of law school, wearing the requisite big city, nondescript tweed three-piece I’m a go-getter new associate in a large Philly firm suit. He had probably set his alarm clock for five a.m. so he could commute the 60 miles through heavy traffic to arrive on time here in the hinterlands. Stupid. We shook hands.

“This is my first time in Northampton County,” he admitted as he surveyed the ceremonial chamber and the throngs of litigants and attorneys milling about. “How do we get assigned to a judge and a courtroom?”

“The president judge will ascend the bench in a few minutes and will call each case listed for today to determine if the parties are ready to proceed. There are usually five judges available. He will assign each case to a specific judge.”

Soon the president judge made his appearance. Everyone stood up in respect to the court, so the judge sat down. The assembled multitude did the same.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” he announced, “because of the significant number of cases to be heard, we have enlisted the services of Senior Retired Judge Truman Garbonne, who, until a few years ago, presided in Tioga County. Judge Garbonne has graciously agreed to assist us all week and will be hearing cases in Courtroom Number Three.”

As luck would have it, the Dingelacher’s case was assigned to visiting Judge Garbonne. We filed out of Courtroom Number One and journeyed down the hall toward Courtroom Number Three. Mrs. Dingelacher grabbed my arm and pulled me aside.

“Is Garbonne a good judge?” she inquired.

“Mrs. Dingelacher, all of our judges are wise and compassionate. I must admit, though, I’ve never heard of Judge Garbonne. I don’t even know where Tioga County is located.”

I pointed to Courtroom Number Three.

“Okay. I’ll go get Furman and the kids. We’ll be back in a minute.”

She disappeared down the hallway as Summerfield and I entered the courtroom. I found a seat in a nearby pew, as did Summerfield. Judge Garbonne had not yet taken the bench. Soon I would have the opportunity to study the unknown jurist - to evaluate his demeanor and his judicial temperament. Was he patient? Arrogant? Kind? Burned out? Hard of hearing?

Fifty or sixty more people shuffled into the courtroom. There were bailiffs, deputy sheriffs, lawyers, tipstaffs, a court clerk, a stenographer, plaintiffs, and the ubiquitous defendants accompanied by their usual entourage: curious family members, the interpreter, and the guy who drove the defendant to the courthouse since no one else had a car that worked and the conscripted chauffeur possessed the only unsuspended driver’s license.

“Please rise,” the tipstaff sang out, as if he were a baker begging the dough in his oven to do the right thing.

Garbonne appeared at the door behind the judge’s bench and waited as the tipstaff announced his presence, accompanied by a prayer that implored God to save this Honorable Court and the Commonwealth of Pennsylvania. Then Garbonne walked a judicious walk to his seat and sat down.

“Please be seated,” the tipstaff instructed.

His Honor might have been 65. He had the mandatory grey hair, bifocals and extra chin-neck skin that wobbled back and forth whenever he spoke.

The bailiff ushered before the judge a luckless fellow dressed in a shirt previously used to polish bowling balls. Judge Garbonne began to review a computer printout.

“It says here you owe $3,014 in back child support,” the jurist observed.

“I do? Man, I must have gotten behind or something.”

“Your kids gotta eat, mister. What can you pay today toward this delinquent account?”

“I can probably get five bucks from a friend, Your Judgeship, sir.”

Garbonne studied the bum standing before him. It was time to say something judicial and wise - something that might succinctly capture the moment.

“Did you bring clean underwear and slippers?”

“Bring what?” The bum appeared to be slightly confused. The sheriff’s deputy moved closer to the defendant and started to reach for the shiny handcuffs hanging from his thick leather belt.

“I find you in contempt of court for failure to pay your child support. I didn’t produce these kids - you did. Thirty days in the slammer.” The judge closed the file as they dragged the first victim out the door, past the Dingelachers who had just found their way into the courtroom.

I now had a perspective on how Garbonne conducted hearings. He had seen it all before, thousands of times. No emotion, no fanfare, just pay what’s due, or ba-da-bing ba-da-boom.

The Dingelachers sat in a back pew, accompanied by their four girls. Each child was about one inch shorter than the next older sister. They were all attired in the same red-and-white polka dot dresses that Mrs. Dingelacher had acquired at the dollar store.

“Federated United Bank versus Dingelacher,” the tipstaff called out.

We were up to bat. I made my way to the bench, accompanied by Attorney Summerfield. Garbonne didn’t bother to look up. His grim, all-business face was studying my emergency petition for special relief - the petition that didn’t contain a single valid legal argument - the petition based upon mushy sentimentality for my clients who last tendered a mortgage payment the previous winter.

The judged rubbed what was left of his hair. “Who’s who here?”

“Cranston Summerfield for the bank, Your Honor.”

I looked at this kid standing next to me, full of himself and his new diploma. Had I ever been 27? Had I ever been so completely self-assured, yet so blind?

“Lawrence Fox for the defendants, Your Honor,” I announced.

The judge stared at me as if his x-ray vision were studying the inner workings of what was left of my brain.

“Interesting petition, Fox. Still, I didn’t come across any citations to case law or any statutory language.”

“That’s true, Your Honor. Sometimes such things aren’t very helpful. Sometimes I just let the facts speak for themselves.”

“Are your clients present, Mr. Fox?”

“Yes, they are.”

“Why not have them join us here at the bench?”

“Certainly, Your Honor.” I turned and motioned for Mr. and Mrs. Dingelacher to come forward. They did as requested, accompanied by their bashful daughters. The oldest, who only came up to her father’s waist, led her sisters in a chain of little hands. The girls, resplendent among a multitude of red-and-white polka dots, now fidgeted before the court. The judge adjusted his glasses as he bent over the bench to get a better view.

“Mortgage foreclosure,” he mumbled to himself. “You’ve scheduled a sale of the house?” Garbonne inquired of Summerfield.

“Tomorrow,” the three-piece-suit responded.

“And your clients haven’t been able to pay the bank for seven months?” the judge questioned.

I thought about the bum His Honor had just locked up for nonpayment of child support. I pondered what the proper answer might be. I wondered what I was doing here, with this stupid expression on my face. Suddenly, there came a tiny voice out of nowhere.

“Daddy says we’ll be living in our car, unless the judge is wise and good. Mommy cries at night.”

It was the tallest of the small fries.

“What’s your name?” the judge asked.

“Rebecca, but everyone at school calls me Becky,” she responded politely, as her siblings hid behind her.

“Rebecca,” the judge echoed, gazing out over the courtroom. He was suddenly a thousand miles away recalling another Rebecca he once knew. Was that a tear glistening in his eye? Then just as fast, he snapped his gaze on Summerfield.

“You plan on putting these polka dots in the street?” he demanded of the neophyte lawyer, who still thought he was attending a legal proceeding.

“You see, Judge, the bank has shareholders who do not expect to subsidize charities. And by failing to take action, a dangerous precedent may be set ... ” It did not appear that Garbonne, who was lost among the polka dots, was listening to this well-reasoned argument.

“The bank has been very patient in this matter,” cold-blooded Summerfield continued. “The case law is clear that where a default in payment occurs - ”

I decided to step in. “Hey, pal,” I whispered to the boy genius, “I’d give it a rest. You don’t want to upset the judge, do you?”

I, too, was in a vulnerable emotional state. All those client interviews, the petition full of nonsense and now this difficult hearing, and yet I hadn’t been paid a dime. Probably never would be. A tear of self-pity began to form in my eye as well.

“We’ll take a five-minute recess,” Garbonne proclaimed as he stood up, blew his nose and exited the bench. A few minutes later, the tipstaff approached Summerfield and asked him to join the judge in chambers alone for a little chat.

I never became privy to what was discussed behind those closed doors. Actually, I never saw Summerfield again. He simply disappeared, as did his action in mortgage foreclosure.

Not long ago the Dingelachers sent me a Christmas card. They reported that the bank’s foreclosure notice blew away during the last snowstorm, and that Furman recently found a job working night shift at the varnish factory. There was a five-dollar bill tucked inside the envelope. Paying clients.

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