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deaf-mute. Sign language explained the proceedings to the accused. “Don’t tell the accused what I’m about to say,” the judge warned the translator before he passed sentence.
    “The sentence imposed by this court is that you be taken from here to the place whence you came, and there be kept in close confinement until the first day of the next month, and upon that date that you be taken to the place of execution, and that you be there hanged by the neck until you are dead. And may God have mercy on your soul.”
    The judge grinned slyly. “I’ve always wanted to say that,” he said. Then he passed the real sentence, a nominal fine, and told the translator to translate to the deaf-mute.
    There must be a kick to be had from passing a sentence of death, for the next time I sat in that judge’s court I witnessed a variation.
    A member of a youth gang taunted the judge. “This is my first offense. You can’t do nothin’ to me. Let’s get this over so I can party, eh?”
    The judge pronounced the same death sentence that he had on the deaf-mute, then swept his arm toward the holding cell. “Take him down,” he ordered.
    No sooner was the stunned teen whisked away than the prosecutor was on her feet. “You can’t do that, Judge. We don’t have the death penalty, and the maximum for that offense is six months.”
    “The court of appeal will reverse me,” agreed the hanging judge. “But I sure put the scare of hell into that little jerk.”
    You think I’m kidding?
    I shit you not.
    Except for the nuthouse, prison, and the stock exchange, the legal profession has more psychopaths than anywhere else.
    The word “fuck” plays a major role in court. I sat in on a new judge’s first day on the bench. Having just thrown the book at an armed robber, he realized that he had failed to ask the convict if he had anything to say before sentence. So he asked him after.
    “Yeah, I got somethin’ to say,” the con shot back. “You’re a fuckin’ asshole!”
    The judge got up from the bench and was leaving court, then he stopped, turned, and said to the man, “That, sir, was just a lucky guess.”
    Another day, I had a seat in Tin Ear’s court. He was dubbed Tin Ear because he was hard of hearing. “Do you have anything to say before I sentence you?” asked the elderly judge.
    “Fuck all!” replied the con in the dock.
    “What did he say?” Tin Ear asked the court clerk.
    “He said, ‘Fuck all,’ my lord.”
    “That’s strange,” retorted the judge. “I was sure he said something.”
    Another day, I was sitting in Prissy’s court. The judge got the name Prissy because he didn’t like dirty words. A complainant in a rape case was on the witness stand. She testified: “Then the accused said something disgusting to me.”
    “Stop!” ordered Prissy. “There are students in my court today. Crown counsel will give you pen and paper to write down what he said.”
    Scribble, scribble. The witness wrote.
    The note with the offending words passed from the complainant to the court clerk, then up to Prissy, who shook his head with disgust, then down to the lawyers, who held it so I could see the words from the gallery, then across to the jury, where, juror to juror, it was passed along.
    What the woman had scribbled was this: “Hang on to your hat, baby. I’m going to fuck you till your ears fall off.”
    Seated in the back row of the jury box was a buxom babe. Bouffant red curls tumbling down in ringlets. Green eyes buried behind false lashes. Bee-sting lips and tits out to there. She read the note and raised a brow that said all men are pigs, then nudged the juror beside her in the ribs and passed it on.
    He was a geezer, Methuselah’s age. Bald but for a fringe of hair, with a big Adam’s apple. The trial had put him to sleep and he awoke from slumber to find the babe in the next seat slipping him a note. Reading it produced an effect like Viagra. He gave her a smile, gave her a wink, then folded the