CHAPTER FOUR: CAMRYN’S VIEW
The Following Day, 11:45 a.m.

Kyle and I had arrived early again, and we were back in what was charmingly – if inaccurately – called the attorneys’ cloakroom. No one wears cloaks anymore, and the room is more of a lounge.

Shelby – intense, intelligent, Shelby – arrived a few minutes after we did. She was now pacing like a caged panther, her cell phone mashed to her ear. “Come on, dammit, answer the phone!”

It wasn’t really my place to tell her to relax, and besides, I shared her concern. After having to rely on a phalanx of State Police in full riot gear just to muscle through the chanting crowd to a waiting van yesterday, I was far from sanguine about how safe any of us were.

Kyle, of course, filtered the same concerns through his Army-instilled paranoia, and he had essentially unlimited access to my fiancé Rob’s ridiculously large pot of money. So we had gotten out of the van yesterday at a random intersection where he had arranged to be picked up by an Uber . . . which had dropped us off at a random office building . . . where we had walked briskly through the lobby and out the back door . . . where we were picked up by a car that drove us to a supermarket in the nearest suburb . . . where a man handed us keys to a rental car.

The man took Kyle’s key and went back to Sloan, Hardcastle, where he picked up our original rental car and took it back to the airport. Meanwhile, Kyle took a leisurely and roundabout drive until, convinced we were not being followed, he stopped in a random motel and got us adjacent rooms. We had, of course, perfectly good rooms at the Hilton downtown, but we would not be staying there. Oh, certainly not!

It sounds exciting, I suppose, but mostly it was tedious and I was pretty emotionally wrung out. When I had gently suggested to Kyle that he might be overdoing it, he said, “Listen, Cami. It’s your fight and you’re doing great. But it’s my fight, too. Trust me to handle this part.” I didn’t have any answer to that.

I had kept my cool yesterday – I felt really good about that – but I had been seething the entire time. For the profession, and even more, for the administration of justice and the rule of law. But most of all for poor Debbie, having to watch someone in a black robe humiliate another person, just for being trans.

Well . . . attempt to humiliate, anyhow. Burleigh’s ham-fisted efforts had pleased the peanut gallery, but that was about it. The news coverage had been positively brutal. Even conservative media outlets, which thrilled at Burleigh’s stand, were unimpressed by the Chief Justice’s inability to control his courtroom.

My bosses, of course, had been delighted with the coverage. Rob, stuck at home with a broken leg, had been apoplectic, but I’d talked him down. It had helped that I was able to assure him that there would be no mob today.

Recognizing that the optics of yesterday’s farce had not looked good for Team Transphobe, the Governor had closed off the area immediately around the courthouse to protesters. The Court itself had barred the public from observing today’s hearing. One pool reporter in the courtroom, but otherwise just the parties and their legal teams. Including, naturally, my diligent “paralegal.”

The rest of the press were in the plaza in front of the courthouse. Indeed, the AG and his team were outside right now, chatting them up. I was more than content to wait until after the hearing.

Especially since my own participation was likely to be brief. Late last night, we had received an electronic order from the Court. “Clarifying item 5.7 of the Court’s Guide for Attorneys, ‘appropriate attire’ means clothing that is conservative, professional, and gender-appropriate. Counsel for intervenor is specifically directed to comport with these standards during all court appearances in this matter.”

Well, as far as I was concerned, I was complying with the Court’s directive. I did change my top – I could scarcely wear it two days in a row – replacing yesterday’s black shell with a white silk blouse that had a demurely scooping neckline. I made sure it displayed no cleavage at all. None. Except to people who are significantly taller than me, and in my 3-inch heels, I almost hit six feet.

Of course, when the judges were seated behind their tall and imposing bench, they would be up rather higher than that, I suppose. Deary me, the poor boys will just have to avert their eyes, won't they?

I was amused to see that Shelby had defiantly opted for a pantsuit today. The style flattered her trim, toned, and powerful body. Was that, I wondered, “gender appropriate?” Well, if the Court is dumb enough to give her a hard time about it, all the better. Transpeople make great scapegoats and targets because there are so few of us. Women, on the other hand . . . .

She stopped pacing, put her phone down and looked at me. “He’ll be here. But . . . I’m ready, if he doesn’t make it.”

I rose and gave her my best smile. “I’m worried about the Judge, Shelby, after everything that’s happened. But I’m not remotely worried about you. Pretty much the same argument we did before Judge Ritchie, and you rocked!”

“Thanks.” She looked grateful for the vote of confidence, but what I had said was true. She knew this argument at least as well as the Judge. Maybe better. It was her case from the start, and she was the one who had convinced the firm’s pro bono committee to take it. Besides, we had preserved all of our arguments in the written briefs.

She looked at the clock again and muttered something.

“I didn’t catch that,” I said.

“Nothing . . . but, I guess we’d better get out there. Hopefully, he’ll get here in time.”

“Okay,” I said, trying to sound upbeat, though my stomach was in knots. “Let’s do it!”

We walked into the courtroom, Kyle bringing up the rear. Shelby stopped to murmur something to Tom and Debbie, who had insisted on returning despite everything. It had been Debbie, to my surprise, who had said, “We can’t just let them run us off. We can’t.”

I gave her a big, cheerful, devil-may-care grin, hearing the voice of my mentor, Eileen O’Donnell, in my head. “Never let them see you sweat’ applies doubly to clients!” The next little bit was going to be unpleasant . . . but sometimes victory arrives in stealth, disguised as a beat-down.

Kyle sat with the Stevensons, lending them the comfort of his quiet and formidable presence.

At counsel table, Shelby left the seat closest to the podium for the Judge, taking the one next to it. I sat on her other side and began pulling papers from my attaché case. Not like I’ll need them.

Shelby’s phone vibrated with an incoming text. She grabbed it, checked the message, and said, “Oh, thank God! He says he was delayed, but he’ll be here in just a few minutes.”

I felt muscles between my shoulders loosen; I hadn’t even realized they were tight as the string on a steel crossbow. I knew there was nothing he could do to shield me from the Court’s self-righteous indignation, but I would still feel better having him at my side. More importantly, I was just relieved.

He's safe!

Shelby went up to the Clerk’s station and told her that Judge Danforth was on his way, but might be a minute or two late.

“I’ll let them know,” the woman replied, her tone registering severe disapproval. One does not arrive late to a hearing before the Supreme Court. Disrespectful.

Shelby came and resumed her seat. She looked my way and gave a barely perceptible head shake. They won’t wait.

The shrug of my shoulders was almost as undetectable. It is what it is.

The rap on the Justices’ door came at twelve o’clock precisely, and we all dutifully rose while they filed in and took their seats. The Marshal opened Court, we took our seats, and the Clerk called the case.

The Chief Judge turned his eyes on me. “Counsel for intervenor is present?”

Party time.

I rose. “I am, your Honor. Camryn Campbell for the United States.”

“Did you fail to receive our order from last night?”

“I received it, your Honor.”

“Was there, perhaps, something unclear about the order?” He sounded incredulous.

Fair enough; I was sounding respectful, and both of us were lying. “Not at all, your Honor. The order was perfectly clear.”

“Indeed,” he said pompously. “I thought so myself. So, since you received it, and you understood it, can I conclude that you have chosen to wilfully disregard a direct order from this tribunal?”

“Not at all, your Honor.” I adopted an earnest tone. “I followed the Court’s directive exactly.”

The Chief Justice’s brows gathered in thunderous disapproval. “I don’t care if you are here representing the administration in Washington, D.C. I will not tolerate disrespect for this Court! Am I clear! Your attire is not appropriate for your gender!”

“I assure you, your Honor, I am not playing games.” I needed all of my vocal training to keep my voice steady. “Based on careful observation, my attire is fairly standard for a female attorney. It therefore complies with the Court’s directive, since I’m a woman.”

Hear me roar.

Although it was obvious that the Chief Justice had told the other members of the Court that he, as the presiding officer, would handle the issue of my attire, Justice Burleigh could no longer contain himself. “You are nothing of the sort!”

Better and better. Lally will be SO pleased.

I looked at him and cocked my head. “With respect, your Honor, precisely how do you propose to determine that?”

“You don’t ask questions here!” He was incandescent.

Good.

The Chief Judge gave Burleigh a quelling look and raised a hand to stop him from saying more.

Time to take the initiative. “Mr. Chief Justice?”

He turned his attention back to me.

“At a speech before the Tattershall Rotary Club during last year’s election, you said, ‘Anyone who is confused about their gender should just go into the bathroom and check.’ Do you intend to assign someone to accompany me . . . for verification purposes?”

I’d never seen anyone actually turn purple before, but the Chief Justice had hit his limit. “That’s enough! Enough!!! Your pro hac vice admission is rescinded! Marshal . . . .”

In the silence of the empty courtroom, the clash of the main door opening was unnaturally loud. His anger diverted, the Chief Justice paused his diatribe.

At the sound of hard-soled shoes on mosaic tile, I risked turning my attention from the bench to look behind me, hoping that the Judge had arrived.

He always cut a fine and dignified figure, and his black suit was, if anything, even more formal than the dark navy blue he had worn the day before. But it consisted of a sheath dress, covered by a matching crop jacket with a high collar and three-quarter length sleeves. Hose and low-heeled shoes completed the ensemble.

He walked forward at a normal pace, neither hurrying nor dawdling, passed the bar and came to stand at the podium. “I apologize for my late arrival, Mr. Chief Justice. Justices.” His gray eyes swept the bench. “Roger Danforth, for the defendants.”

The Courtroom was silent as a tomb. This was Justice Roger Danforth. The very epitome of dignity and probity. A man who treated dressing properly as a way – a necessary way – of showing respect. The Roger Danforth. Standing in the well of his old courtroom in a dress.

Interestingly, his outfit did not make him look remotely feminine, nor did he look silly. He looked strong, masculine, and dignified, like a distinguished man in a kilt. Or a lion facing down a pack of snarling hyenas.

Magnificent. He looks magnificent!

I had kept my cool through the Chief Justice’s attack and Justice Burleigh’s viciousness, but Judge Danforth’s grand gesture brought a lump to my throat. I felt the prick of tears and fought to control them.

Finally, Chief Justice Wilkins managed to recover his wits enough to make a response, trite and predictable though it was. “Judge Danforth! What is the meaning of this?!!”

The Judge didn’t waste time pretending he didn’t know what Wilkins was talking about. In a stern and serious voice, he said, “This Court refused to accord my distinguished colleague the respect that is due to counsel for the United States of America – or to any member of the bar. I protest this Court’s disgraceful treatment of Ms. Campbell, and I stand in solidarity with her.”

“Are you lecturing us?” Justice Burleigh was, as usual, incredulous, outraged and indignant.

Perfect.

“No, sir,” the Judge countered. “I am admonishing you.” They were seated on the raised bench, looking down, but his was the voice of authority.

The Chief Justice wasn’t having it. “Your prior service does not give you license to make a mockery of this court!!!”

“I have in no way done so,” the Judge countered. “Far from it. Rather, . . . “

“No!” The Chief talked over him. “We’re not doing this, do you hear me!”

He’s losing it!

Justice Taft laid a hand on Wilkins’ wrist and interjected, “Mr. Chief Justice? A point of personal privilege?”

He turned to her and almost snapped, “What?”

She gazed at him calmly, letting the silence linger just long enough to remind the Chief that he was addressing the senior associate justice on the Court. “I served with Justice Danforth for many years.” Her mouth quirked in a smile and she said, “We had some pretty explosive arguments, as I recall. But I always respected his opinion. I would like to hear what he has to say.”

The Chief glared at her, furious.

Her level eyes did not waver.

“Fine!” he conceded, with ill grace. “Fine!” Turning his glare on the Judge, he said, “You have one minute. Sixty seconds.”

“Thank you, Justice Taft,” the Judge said to his old colleague. Looking at Chief Justice Wilkins, he said, “I would never mock the court on which I served, and for which I have enormous respect. But insisting on gender stereotypes in attire, and squabbling over honorifics and pronouns, is profoundly unserious and deeply harmful to this court’s reputation. Worse, justices who campaigned on a promise to uphold the law at issue, and refused to recuse themselves, violated both their sacred oaths and the Code of Judicial Conduct.”

Wilkins' teeth were rigidly clenched, and he was staring at the watch on his wrist like an owl watches a field mouse.

But the Judge still had time. “My clients, and the transgender community as a whole, have been unfairly targeted and discriminated against in violation of the Equal Protection Clause of the Fourteenth Amendment. They have the right, just like any American, to have their defenses considered by a fair, sober, and above all, impartial tribunal. If this Court can’t even clear that minimal bar, it is a mockery. Nothing that I say, and certainly nothing that I wear, will alter that reality.”

In marked contrast to Burleigh’s bombast and bellowing, the Judge’s voice was even and measured, and his anger was all the more vivid for being tightly controlled and leavened with disappointment. It wasn’t a harangue, it was a judgment. He might have been the Patriarch Jacob, rebuking his errant older sons for their small-minded jealousy.

The Chief Justice looked up from his watch and scowled at the man at the lectern. Wilkins certainly looked the part, but he lacked the native wit and flexibility of mind to see the strategic advantages of a tactical withdrawal.

Presumably deciding that any challenge to his stewardship of the Court must be swiftly and ruthlessly quashed, he proceeded to make himself look smaller still. “All right, ‘Judge’ Danforth. You’ve had your minute, and you’ve had your fun. Now it’s time for you to listen for a change. Our order from last night was unambiguous concerning the meaning of Guidance 5.7. We’re not going to buy Mr. Campbell’s excuse, and it doesn’t even apply to you. On my own authority, I am referring you to disciplinary counsel, and I expect the DC’s recommended penalty will be severe.”

He looked across the Courtroom. “Marshal, kindly escort Mr. Danforth and Mr. Campbell from the chamber.”

The Marshal looked offended and momentarily defiant, but Judge Danforth gave him a smile and a wink. So he rose stiffly, came out from behind his desk, and walked, with obvious reluctance, to the central podium. “Damn it, Judge,” he growled, exasperated. “You got me this job!”

The Judge’s smile was warm; his voice low and filled with humor. “So you know how disappointed I’d be if you didn’t do it right. Besides . . . when else will I get the chance to have a distinguished gentleman walk me down the aisle?”

George couldn’t help it. He cracked up.

“Allow me to be the one to escort you, Ms. Campbell.”

I spun, surprised, to find myself staring down at the smiling face of Justice Taft. I’d been so engrossed in the drama between the Marshal and the Judge that I hadn’t seen her leave the bench. “Your Honor?”

The Judge turned as well, looking surprised for the first time. “Ellie?”

She wagged a finger at him. “You are still wrong – dead wrong! – about Carter Manufacturers, and you don’t know antitrust from antiperspirant.” Her smile grew broader and her eyes danced with merriment. “But I love your dress, and the court shoes are adorable!” Gesturing towards the exit, she said, “Shall we?”

“I think I’ve got an appointment with some representatives of the Fourth Estate,” the Judge replied. “Care to join me?”

“I might. I just might. . . . Oh, wait. Almost forgot – silly me!” She turned back to face the bench, where her colleagues were still sitting in stunned silence, completely unable to formulate a response to this rebellion from within their ranks.

Justice Taft unzipped her black robe, letting it fall to the ground in a puddle. Under it, she was sensibly dressed in a sleeveless white top and dark pants. “I quit. Effective this instant. Now, for the love of God, people! Stop making asses of yourselves, would you? It’s embarrassing.”

She turned her back on her colleagues, the bench, and the court that had been her life for three decades, to put a firm hand on my elbow. “There. You’re my prisoner. How’s about we get out of here?”

We followed the Judge and the Marshal to the courtroom door, where, his duty accomplished, George left us. The Judge had motioned the clients to stay put, so that poor Shelby would have someone there to watch her argument. Kyle, of course, followed me.

Once the door closed behind us, the Judge gave now former Justice Taft an apologetic look. “Now that we’re not putting on a show, let me say I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to drag you into this.”

“It was past time, Roger,” she said sadly. “I can’t be associated with what they’re doing any more. With what this place has become.”

His voice was soft, heavy with loss and regret. “God save this Honorable Court.”

“Amen,” she replied, before adding tartly, “and, God, if I may be so bold, kindly don’t dawdle!”

We crossed the foyer and went out into the sunshine, where the microphones and cameras were waiting.

Time to make our case to another court.

The End

Author’s Note: This is a work of fiction. The characters are not based on any particular individuals, living or dead, and courthouses seldom see made-for-TV moments like the ones depicted in the story. But there ARE things about this story that are very real. Laws making it illegal to obtain or provide hormone blockers or treatments for minors based on a diagnosis of gender dysphoria – regardless of parental consent – have been passed in several states. Each of these statutes has been challenged on constitutional grounds, including (most significantly) violation of the Equal Protection Clause of the 14th Amendment. The Civil Rights Division of the Department of Justice has intervened in these cases on behalf of the U.S. Government to support the rights of transgender individuals, their parents and their doctors. It is also certainly true that the constitutional challenges will ultimately be decided by the Supreme Court of the United States.

Emma Anne Tate
20 October, 2023

For information about my other stories, please check out my author's page.