My Next Job

This column originally appeared on Sunday, Jan. 6, 2008

The matter of my retirement occurred to me the other day when I sat looking at the line up of Chester County Common Pleas Court judges during a swearing in ceremony in stately Courtroom One at the courthouse for their newest member, David Bortner.

One of these days, I say to myself, I am going to be forced to give up this newspaper dodge I’ve been engaged in since the late days of the Carter Administration and find something useful to do. One of these days either Chelsea Clinton or Jenna Bush is going to be President of the United States, and the sublime will have sunk to the ridiculous so far so that reporting the news won’t be half as stimulating as just making it up, and I’m going to have to find another way to occupy my time and/or mental capabilities.

What better job, I thought, than Court Tipstaff.

All those folks sitting in Courtroom One wearing their black robes would be hard pressed to admit it, since they’re constantly having people stand up for them when they do nothing more than enter a room, but in general I’d say the Court Tipstaff is the central figure in any courtroom in Chester County. They may not look like it sometimes, but the power and influence they hold is incalculable.

Take a for instance.

I’m sitting in Courtroom Seven a few days ago waiting for something to happen. That’s what we do at the courthouse, mostly: wait. There’s me, a court clerk, a court stenographer, a deputy sheriff or two, and Al the Tipstaff. Otherwise, it’s an empty courtroom.

So who walks out from his chambers but Judge Anthony Sarcione, who by my estimation is the only currently sitting jurist in Chester County who has ever ridden a surfboard, unless there’s a side to Judge Robert Shenkin that I haven’t been exposed to. Anyway, Judge Sarcione walks out of his chambers, strides purposefully to his bench, and looks out on the courtroom to see…

“What? No attorneys?” he says, disappointedly, to no one in particular.

Now, a judge on a bench without any attorneys in the room is a lost cause. It’s a boat without a sail, a gun without bullets, a pitcher without a batter. There’s no one to squint at in confusion, there’s no one to argue with in derision, there’s no one to overrule, for heavens sake. So there stood Judge Sarcione, ready to hang ten on the Big Kahuna Wave of res judica, so to speak, and the only one looking back at him from the audience is me. And I’m nowhere near qualified for him to hold in contempt, at least in a legal way.

Al the Tipstaff to the rescue.

Minutes later, there are not one but two attorneys in the courtroom, just aching to tell Judge Sarcione about this or that aspect of their case, meet with him at sidebar, call him “Your Honor,” use words like “colloquy” without chuckling, and ask to be excused when they leave the courtroom. All was right, God was in his Heaven, and we owe it all to Al the Tipstaff.

That’s what I want, real power. And the chance to say, “Oyez! Oyez! Oyez!” in public.