In which they fill the canals of the roots.

I have forced myself to attend my scheduled root canal.

Taking one look at my terrified face, the dental assistant immediately gives me sunglasses and headphones, and starts the laughing gas via a bizarre face mask that looks like the future.

I resemble a deer in headlights.

Except that I am not delicate, a quadruped, or fawn-colored. Actually at this point, my face might be fawn-colored. I check for hooves.

Styled like Tom Hardy in Batman, I switch through the dreadful music options as the endodontist (who, I calculated, is getting paid more than $800 per hour for all this fun) starts the numbing process. Peculiarly, one option is a calypso station. I was not aware that anyone wanted to hear all calypso all the time. But it beats out soft jazz and mediocre classical. A few songs in, the Cure's "Close to Me" starts playing. I love this song, but I was not aware it was calypso. God bless algorithms.

I have had a lot of laughing gas at this point, in case you hadn't noticed. The doctor returns to begin the procedure.

"How are you doing?" he asks.

"Fine!" I say.*

He performs the root canal.

They slow down the gas as he finishes. Life seems bleak.

I stumble out of the office, somehow grateful to have spent half a month's salary to have my head battered. The fact that he successfully numbed me made it all worth it. In the past, midway through drilling, a different dentist hit a nerve that was not numbed. My expectations have been low thenceforth. My brother pointed out that while he would hate dental school, he would have to work exactly one day per year to earn what he currently earns as a professor. "And I would have all year to prepare for that day!"

When I arrive at work, my boss takes one look at me and sends me home. Was it the drooling or the fact that I'm listing left?

*If by fine, you mean envisioning a series of goats dancing like the Rockettes.

Victory

In a shocking departure from my usual in custody court experience, the judge released everyone who should have been released.

"I could kiss you!" said one defendant.

"God bless you" and "thank you" rang out as I left.

Quite gratifying, as it turns out.

Shifting Horizons

Typically when I see clients who are in custody it is in a small, controlled environment with several corrections officers on hand. Today, for the first time, I visited a client in the area of the jail in which the incarcerated spend most of their time.

I was shown to a concrete room swarming with inmates, probably 100 or so. Once I was shown to my client, the corrections officer disappeared. For a moment, I just took in the scene. It could have been my perspective, but everyone looked so ... criminal. Tough, tattooed, unwashed, wearing striped suits that were almost a parody of jail. Perhaps I should have been unnerved. I am afraid, though, that I was entertained. I felt like I was on the set of a black comedy about prison.

My client was delighted to see me. He (understandably) had little faith that asking to see his lawyer would actually result in seeing his lawyer. I whipped out my big yellow legal pad and listened. The forthcoming story did little to change my impression of being in a black comedy set in prison.

Accused of stealing liquor from a Safeway, my client was adamant he had not committed the crime. "I'm 48! I never been in jail for something I ain't done! And ma'am, I been in jail a lot."

I informed him that I needed his help to get him out. I explained repeatedly that it was up to the prosecutor to prove he was guilty. Beyond a reasonable doubt. Again understandably, he was suspicious of this. We carried on. With great verve, my client acted out the scene in Safeway. He had a credible story. Somewhat undermined by the fact that he seemed to be gauging my reaction and embroidering or recanting when I appeared dubious or confused.

An example:

Me: "So, was anyone with you during this whole thing"
Client: "No."
Me: "Because it would help our case if we had witnesses who could testify for you."
Pause.
Client: "Yeah! My girl was there that day! She went into the dollar store while I went to Safeway."

The deck is stacked against my guy. He's poor. He has a record. He has an incriminating police report that may or may not be accurate. He would get out of jail sooner by pleading guilty. But he says he's not. And so I'm going to try to show that. And anyone who can maintain something approaching hope here when the city wants to put him in jail for 150 days for merchandise worth $100 that he returned ... deserves that.

Finally, a corrections officer appeared to let me out. I waved dramatically at the many inmates and departed with fondness for my client.

Perspective

In court today (why do I feel like 90% of my boring sentences start in this boring manner?), a client agreed to enter into a stipulated order of continuance. This meant that as long as he took required classes, paid a fine, and did not get caught committing another crime, the one at issue would disappear after 24 months. The explanation went fairly well. He seemed to understand.

So we went on the record. The judge quizzed him to make sure he understood every aspect of the contract.

"Wait," said my client as we were about to wrap up. "So... no criminal law violations. That I understand. But... what if I, drive and I... kill someone?"

The judge was taken aback.

"Well, if you get a speeding ticket, that's ok, but yes, VEHICULAR HOMICIDE would be a problem."

"I see," said my client thoughtfully, clearly pondering the small chance he had of getting through two years without a vehicular homicide.