December 1999 

The Judge Goes to Court

By Earl "Red" Lyons

At 82, my dad could easily have been one of those drivers whose gravestone reads, "I had the right-of-way." Eighteen years as a judge on the district bench convinced him that if he put his signal on within the proper interval, that it was his legal right to move into a lane -- even if it was already occupied. Mom relaxed only when he was parked. Our pleas to have him give up his license were judged, "Out of order."

Then, in the afternoon of a clear August day, he drove down the wrong exit ramp and found himself on the freeway, facing 60-mile-an-hour traffic, going the opposite direction.

Having been gently reminded by oncoming traffic that he might find it more serene to be on the other side of the freeway, he drove down and up the grassy divider and made his way onto the adjoining freeway, only to find that a police car had witnessed the entire maneuver.

My mom reported that when the angry officer asked him what the hell he thought he was doing, the Judge barked back, "What the hell did you expect me to do? I was going the wrong way!" Not overly impressed with this logic, the officer issued him a ticket for reckless driving.

The family greeted this news with relief. Now, he would agree to give up driving, at least that’s what we thought. Instead, my dad, the Judge, decided that this would be his day in court and, to our dismay, he urgently began to prepare his case.

Came the trial date we prayed the court would chastise him and revoke his license; however, we also realized that his was a case that could be won. His record was spotless, his knowledge of the law superb, and his confidence unshakable. It was possible he could pay the fine and return to torpedo freeway drivers.

The traffic judge was stern, officious, and curt. When two of the preceding cases added justifications, she cut them short, by telling them that they should save their digressions for a trial by jury. Knowing that my Irish father was not an advocate of brevity, I could hardly watch, as he shuffled to the front of the courtroom. With him he had several sheets of notes, which he began to read in his finest judicial, stentorian manner:

"If it please the court, your honor, I began my career of public service when I entered the Marine Corps in 1917 . . .." Oh, my god, I thought.

The judge quickly admonished him to stick to the facts. He didn’t seem to have heard her, for without a catch in his breath, he droned on, "Appointed to handle juvenile affairs I began to alter court procedure...." The frustrated trial judge tried again, but could not silence him. He thundered on. "When the governor appointed me... ."

Earl "Red" Lyons is a retired English teacher who taught English in Bloomington for 36 years. His father served first on the Minnesota juvenile court bench and was appointed to the district court in 1954, where he served for 18 years.

This article first appeared in the November 1999 issue of California Lawyer and appears here by permission of the author.

"I was prepared to fit my dad for striped pajamas"

I can’t remember ever having been more embarrassed. Although I was in my 40s I was suddenly whisked back to those agonizing days of my childhood when it seemed my parents were often doing something to mortify me. Everyone seemed to be laughing at him.

The trial judge tried a tap of the gavel, which only signaled him to raise his voice. "Having saved the state of Minnesota thousands of dollars by trying . . .." The trial judge began to look around the courtroom looking, it appeared, for some help.

The entire courtroom was sitting forward in their chairs. People seemed both amused and scornful of his performance. I put my head down and wondered if I should rise, and try to lead him back to our chair, an act that would never be forgotten by either of us. Then, I started to smile, and I’m still smiling today thinking of it. Here was this 80-year-old guy completely controlling the whole situation. He was going to have his say and there wasn’t a damn thing anybody could do about it. Short of manacles, no one quite knew what to do with him. Even the trial judge seemed powerless. She finally waved a court official up from the back of the room, whispered something to him, took a breath, and announced, "The court will take a brief recess."

While my dad was, evidently, reloading, a court official took my sleeve and whispered that the judge would like to see me (just me) in her chambers. I plodded back as though I were wearing leg irons, for somehow I felt guilty as well. I was prepared to fit my dad for striped pajamas, but as nervous as I was, I resolved not to apologize for him, but to stick up for him as he had for me for so many years. The trial judge sat clutching a cup of coffee; several others lurked in the back of the office.

I walked over to her and said, "He’s a great man, but he’s an old man."

She smiled and asked me to sit down. "No one knows that better than I do," she said. "I have had the privilege of trying several cases before your father, and he was one of the best we had at the courthouse."

Then, as we sat across from one another, I participated in what I believe was the most perfect example of what the legal process could be. We discussed his individual situation and what the law could do to protect other drivers and prevent him from injury, physical or emotional. Her solution was to restrict his driving to the nearby grocery store, which was a solution that even my mom could live with.

My dad and I left the courtroom and walked out into the sun. It was a day in which I was proud of the trial judge, our legal system, and, as I now look back at it, a day in which I was proud of my father. Justice had been served.