For the weekly docket the court jester jester wore his standard garb of well-used and
deeply faded maroon pajamas and lavender terry-cloth shower shoes with no socks. He
wasn't the only inmate who went about his daily business in his pajamas, but no one else
dared wear lavender shoes. His name was T Karl, and he'd once owned banks in Boston.
The pajamas and shoes weren't nearly as troubling as the wig. It parted at the middle and
rolled in layers downward, over his ears, with tight curls coiling off into three directions,
and fell heavily onto his shoulders. It was a bright gray, almost white, and fashioned after
the Old English magistrate's wigs from centuries earlier. A friend on the outside had
found it at a secondhand costume store in Manhattan, in the Village.
T Karl wore it to court with great pride, and, odd as it was, it had, with time, become part
of the show. The other inmates kept their distance from T Karl anyway, wig or not.
He stood behind his flimsy folding table in the prison cafeteria, tapped a plastic mallet
that served as a gavel, cleared his squeaky throat, and announced with great dignity:
"Hear ye, hear ye, hear ye. The Inferior Federal Court of North Florida is now in session.
Please rise."
No one moved, or at least no one made an effort to stand. Thirty inmates lounged in
various stages of repose in plastic cafeteria chairs, some looking at the court jester, some
chatting away as if he didn't exist.
T Karl continued: "Let all ye who search for justice draw nigh and get screwed."
No laughs. It had been funny months earlier when T Karl first tried it. Now it was just
another part of the show. He sat down carefully, making sure the rows of curls bouncing
upon his shoulders were given ample chance to be seen, then he opened a thick red
leather book which served as the official record for the court. He took his work very
seriously.
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