👾 (No longer) an alien, part four 🇺🇸
Catch up on parts one, two, and three first . . .
After shaking off our umbrellas, my husband Michael and I entered the security line at 500 Pearl Street, the courthouse for the Southern District of New York (hello, Chuck Rhoades, our favorite gravel-voiced grump!). It’s a tall granite building situated just across from City Hall, where we got married six and a half years earlier.
“Why are you moving up?!” one cranky employee snapped as we eagerly advanced in the security line inside the building. “Did I tell you to move?? Step back!”
Others were kind and jovial, mirroring our mood. After passing through the metal detector, we were directed to a small kiosk to check all electronics. The besuited attendant smiled warmly, revealing dimples as he exchanged our belongings for a small brass coin debossed with Michael’s lucky number.
Strangely liberated, with no ability to record what was about to happen, we turned the corner to approach our next designated line.
“Congratulations!” one guy cheered as Michael approached.
“Thanks, man! How’d you know?” Michael replied, opening his arms wide for a fist bump and a hug. “What are you here for?”
“Day one of jury selection for Diddy.” He wasn’t a journalist, just a spectator, happy to attend because “it’s free and open to the public.”
Gotta love America, we all joked. No voir dire for us; we were heading to another courtroom down the hall for very different reasons.