rthur followed Martha into the judge's chambers, located just behind the bench through a
heavy wooden door. The office was spacious, lined with empty bookshelves waiting for Arthur's
legal volumes. On the massive mahogany desk sat neatly organized stacks of case files.
Martha walked him through the immediate priorities. There were two arraignments, a complex civil
motion hearing regarding property boundaries, and a sentencing for a repeat offender.
As Martha spoke, Arthur took notes, his mind shifting into gear. He appreciated her sharp summaries and
her no-nonsense approach to the schedule. She knew the players, the defense attorneys who liked to stall, and
the prosecutors who were known to overreach.
While they worked, Arthur noticed Jenkins through the cracked door. The bailiff was actively
straightening the chairs in the gallery, checking the microphones at the counsel tables, and ensuring
everything was in perfect order.
Arthur felt a profound sense of reassurance. He was the judge, but Martha and Jenkins were the engine
that made the courtroom run. He realized quickly that without them, he would be merely a man in a black
robe.
t exactly 8:30 AM, Jenkins unlocked the main double doors to the gallery. A flood of noise
immediately entered the room—the low hum of worried conversations, the clicking of briefcases
opening and closing, the shuffling of feet.
Attorneys took their places at the tables, whispering last-minute strategies to their clients. Family
members found seats in the wooden pews, some looking anxious, others stoic.
Inside his chambers, Arthur slipped on his black robe. The fabric was heavy, a physical manifestation of