Abstention Doctrine vs. The Creative Impulse
Patchy stubble around the neck, and short, stiff hairs lying in the fleece of his jacket collar. He shaved in front of the mirror in the courthouse washroom, without taking the jacket off - it was too cold. Colorado, February, high altitude, very dry, very bright. The heating system for the building wasn’t up to the task. Scrutinizing his reflection, he saw that he’d missed a spot here and there, working around the warm wool at his throat. His breath fogged up the mirror; he wiped the vapor away with one rough hand. He pulled the collar back from his neck and cleaned up where he’d missed.
He kept one eye on the door and his rifle on the counter next to the washbasin, even though he held in his grip an old-fashioned straight razor (an antique, inherited from his grandfather; the ivory handle would be illegal now), capable of slitting a jugular with a single velvety slash. Hence why he let his hands warm up a bit in his wool-lined coat pockets before beginning his shave, to get the fingers flexible and compliant. A dry shave, of course.
Hartley closed the razor and slipped it back into his satchel with the rest of his shaving kit. It’d need stropping soon; perhaps at lunch. Hartley enjoyed the careful work of stropping the blade, at once attentive and contemplative, something very Eastern about it, he thought. He strode over to the coat rack, his cowboy boots’ click echoing on the tile floor. He picked up the black gown from the rack and pulled it on, the familiar folds settling around his elbows, swaying around his legs, covering up the blue jeans. The robe’s weight helped stave off the cold, but he was keeping his jacket on underneath. White curls of fleece peeked out from the sea of black. He’d wear the robe, but damned if he’d put on a suit every day anymore. As far as he was concerned, he’d earned his casual dress.
Judge Hartley slung his satchel over his shoulder, picked up his rifle, and called out to his bailiff, waiting for the man’s response before he opened the washroom door and stepped into the hall, where the dark wood paneling glowed in the morning light coming through the windows. A nice contrast from the stark, unsettling white of the compact fluorescents in the washroom. The bailiff, hand on his sidearm, led Hartley back to his chambers. His clerk had arrived while he was shaving; he was glad he’d stowed away the cot where he’d spent the night.
His clerk rose from her desk and greeted him; he nodded. “Good morning, Malia,” he rumbled. They conferred about the morning docket. While she spoke, he thought about how young she was, how popular her name among women her age. A quarter-century ago, the little girl who was the namesake of legions had stepped into the White House. He was in private practice in Denver at the time, in his thirties, still a young man. Still married, then.
Washington still thought the problem was oil back then, he remembered bitterly.
Here in Colorado the problem was the same one it had always been, but so much worse, now, than when he was his clerk’s age. And with that decay had also declined civility, respect for the rule of law. An echo of Colorado’s very early days. Judges took precautions these days, having lost too many of their colleagues over the past few years. Who among them could give the killers an impartial trial? Criminal matters were not Hartley’s lookout, anyway. His specialty was not glamorous, but it was vitally important.
It was time. Malia slipped her 9mm into the shoulder holster under her suit jacket, picked up an armful of paperwork, and walked behind the bailiff into the courtroom, ahead of Hartley, who clutched a thick sheaf of papers under one arm, his good friend slung casually over the other shoulder.
The roomful of grim-faced men and women rose at the bailiff’s command as Hartley entered the courtroom. The Colorado state court for Water Division 7 came to order, Water Judge Hartley presiding, between the gavel and the gun.
He kept one eye on the door and his rifle on the counter next to the washbasin, even though he held in his grip an old-fashioned straight razor (an antique, inherited from his grandfather; the ivory handle would be illegal now), capable of slitting a jugular with a single velvety slash. Hence why he let his hands warm up a bit in his wool-lined coat pockets before beginning his shave, to get the fingers flexible and compliant. A dry shave, of course.
Hartley closed the razor and slipped it back into his satchel with the rest of his shaving kit. It’d need stropping soon; perhaps at lunch. Hartley enjoyed the careful work of stropping the blade, at once attentive and contemplative, something very Eastern about it, he thought. He strode over to the coat rack, his cowboy boots’ click echoing on the tile floor. He picked up the black gown from the rack and pulled it on, the familiar folds settling around his elbows, swaying around his legs, covering up the blue jeans. The robe’s weight helped stave off the cold, but he was keeping his jacket on underneath. White curls of fleece peeked out from the sea of black. He’d wear the robe, but damned if he’d put on a suit every day anymore. As far as he was concerned, he’d earned his casual dress.
Judge Hartley slung his satchel over his shoulder, picked up his rifle, and called out to his bailiff, waiting for the man’s response before he opened the washroom door and stepped into the hall, where the dark wood paneling glowed in the morning light coming through the windows. A nice contrast from the stark, unsettling white of the compact fluorescents in the washroom. The bailiff, hand on his sidearm, led Hartley back to his chambers. His clerk had arrived while he was shaving; he was glad he’d stowed away the cot where he’d spent the night.
His clerk rose from her desk and greeted him; he nodded. “Good morning, Malia,” he rumbled. They conferred about the morning docket. While she spoke, he thought about how young she was, how popular her name among women her age. A quarter-century ago, the little girl who was the namesake of legions had stepped into the White House. He was in private practice in Denver at the time, in his thirties, still a young man. Still married, then.
Washington still thought the problem was oil back then, he remembered bitterly.
Here in Colorado the problem was the same one it had always been, but so much worse, now, than when he was his clerk’s age. And with that decay had also declined civility, respect for the rule of law. An echo of Colorado’s very early days. Judges took precautions these days, having lost too many of their colleagues over the past few years. Who among them could give the killers an impartial trial? Criminal matters were not Hartley’s lookout, anyway. His specialty was not glamorous, but it was vitally important.
It was time. Malia slipped her 9mm into the shoulder holster under her suit jacket, picked up an armful of paperwork, and walked behind the bailiff into the courtroom, ahead of Hartley, who clutched a thick sheaf of papers under one arm, his good friend slung casually over the other shoulder.
The roomful of grim-faced men and women rose at the bailiff’s command as Hartley entered the courtroom. The Colorado state court for Water Division 7 came to order, Water Judge Hartley presiding, between the gavel and the gun.