A Divorce Decree

An intro to something that's been running around in my head for a while.

The cart I take is the one with the errant wheel. Thirty-two divorce files perched haphazardly, and I've got the blind-luck of getting this cart.

"Please God, let the elevator be a smooth ride today." I mutter to myself, one hand steading the pile, the other with a death-grip on the cart handle.

 

"Good morning Miss Clare. Looks like you got a pile of doozies there." Steve, one of the Court Service Officers holds the elevator door for me.  They all know me.  They all know I am harbinger of paperwork death. 

"Hey Steve.  Another fun day in divorce-land." I smile when I say this.  We both get the joke.

 

There is nothing quite like the four o'clock delivery of the divorce files.  Any clerk who's rode the divorce desk will tell you there is no faster way to become known, and thereafter avoided, by the judiciary.  Uncontested Divorces are the great paperwork hell in this hallowed place.  The blameless, "do-it-yourself" divorce for the public; a nightmare for the judges stuck with deciphering them.  A never ceasing stream of faultless, blamless, undoing of marriages, complete with spelling mistakes. 

 

"So who's the lucky judge this week?  Watts? Owens? Just don't say Rubins, she's had Case Conferences all morning and she's already in a mood."  Steve reaches out to help me steady the pile as the elevator car jerks it's way up to the fifth floor. 

"McCutcheon is on this week."

I'm sure Steve already knows this.  I saw him chatting up my desk-mate Jules earlier, and information like this is extremely valuable on a Monday morning.  Worth at least two coffees.

"Ah, the Right Honourable Justice Bruce McCutcheon. Fine judge. I believe he'll go Supernumerary next year." 

Steve fills the rest of the ride with polite small talk, in a way only the pleasant part-time court officers can.  They are the friendly faces of the courts, assisting public and judiciary, looking distinguised in their blue blazers.  Unlike me, a high-strung, slightly dishevleved court clerk who has mastered the "what-the-hell-do-you-want" look.

 

But he's right about McCutcheon.  The Right Honourable Bruce McCutcheon is well liked amongst all the staff here, and he's never complained once when I've darkened his doorway with my cart.

 

I'm buzzed in through the security door, and follow the tall narrow hallways down to McCutcheon's chambers.  I politely knock at the open door seeking permission to enter.  Protocol is always followed here. 

 

"Come in." McCutcheon's calm voice resonates throughout the dark chambers.

 

"Good Evening Your Honour, I'm just delivering... " The rest of my statement is lost as the errant wheel snags in a ripple in the carpet and at least 20 of the files slowly give way.  I spastically lunge at them, attempting to save a few.  But they scatter, purging their paperwork, as the pile on the floor.