In courtroom D, a lawyer clad in a gray suit searches for a client she’s never seen before. She’s timid, opposite to the domineering, strong-willed lawyer portrayed in television shows, the one who always knows exactly what to say. The next defendant approaches the judge. The judge checks in on the rehabilitation processes of defendant after defendant, setting court dates and making sure they’re up to speed on the classes they’re to take. One female lawyer with short-cropped hair whispers urgently to her client, a nervous, mousy looking woman with thin brown hair. The next defendant approaches the judge.  Lawyers take client after client up to the judge, asking mercy for clients that didn’t show and making deals for extenuating circumstances. Two old asian women knit in the wooden benches as they watch the proceedings. The next defendant approaches the judge. The People claim time and time again that they need more time, that they’re not ready. The judge snaps at them, telling them she doesn’t know what they’re talking about. She asks the lawyer if he has any idea. When he says no, she dismisses him. The next defendant approaches the judge. 

In all this chaos, one man is called up to the judge. He’s tall and broad, and towers over his petite lawyer. His name is Mr. Perez, and he has a solemn countenance. He’s dressed differently than most other defendants, sporting a clean black coat and matching slacks. The judge notices this. 

“Thank you for dressing appropriately for court,” she says, and he nods in response. He doesn’t respond verbally. The judge congratulates Mr. Perez for completing fourteen out of sixteen classes in the abuse intervention program he has been participating in. Once again, he nods. His nod is short, like he has other places to be. 

The judge and Mr. Perez’s lawyer talk for a short while, and they set a date for Mr. Perez’s next appearance in court. The judge reminds him that if he doesn’t attend court on that day, there will be a warrant out for his arrest. Again, he nods silently. 

Mr. Perez’s lawyer tells the judge that the complainant in Mr. Perez’s case has asked for the order of protection against him to be replaced with a limited order of protection. The judge is puzzled by this, and the lawyer continues. She tells the judge that the complainant wants to continue to have contact with Mr. Perez. 

“The complainant feels comfortable with that?” asks the judge. 

“Yes,” replies the lawyer. 

They discuss the logistics of lifting the complainant’s order of protection, and ultimately, the judge agrees with the condition that the complainant is not allowed to show up at Mr. Perez’s workplace. The whole affair is conducted in a businesslike manner, without emotion or psychological considerations. It’s all simply law – what’s legal, and what isn’t. 

Mr. Perez is sent on his way, the next defendant approaches the judge, and the cycle repeats. Court dates are set, the transcriber transcribes furiously, The People ask for more time. In the court, one case doesn’t stand apart from the rest. 

The next defendant approaches the judge. 

Mr. Perez is just one out of one million Mr. Perez’s, the complainant is just one out of one million complainants, and abuse and domestic violence survivors continue to not receive the justice they deserve.

The next defendant approaches the judge. 

 A system punishes a million people, but doesn’t reduce one million to nine hundred thousand. 

The next defendant approaches the judge. 

The judge tells them they must appear at their next court date. 

The next defendant approaches the judge. 

They talk with their lawyer. 

The next defendant approaches the judge. 

The judge wishes them luck. 

The next defendant approaches the judge