A Stain on One of My Good Days*

I would like to go on record here: I agreed more than a year ago to go to court and testify. Through the speedy justice system, this case has been moved about, hither and yon, to where we are finally. A date etched in er... sand stone.

What I didn't expect was a $&!*^% subpoena (a word I didn't even know how to spell until recently). To me, my willingness to help out was just made mandatory. And somehow this seems like a major affront. I am sure somewhere in the judicial playbook 101 all witnesses are subpoenaed--even those who have already been cooperative all along.

I liken this to a well trained dog, living in a back yard with an eight foot fence. The dog is content to hang out in the yard. It isn't going anywhere. But, just to be sure there is no room for escape, the owner chains the dog to a tree anyway.

That's how I feel. I already have my plane ticket weeks before my subpoena came (I expect never to have one of these things again, so I am going to write "subpoena" often for now to get as much mileage out of the darn word as I can--its a word geek thing). I already came to grips with the fact that I will be unceremoniously felt up by some TSA agent with a rubber glove. I already made arrangements for my homeschooled kids, begged family and friends to help and explained to my clients and fellow real estate professionals--please don't do anything while I am gone that will cause me to have an aneurysm. Just save that drama for my return.

So, to me, a subpoena seems like overkill. At one point I was going because I thought it was the right thing to do. Now I am going because I am being forced to. Or, more to the point: the subpoena doesn't give me the warm fuzzies. It isn't how I have been led to believe things are done in the South. Even if it is procedure.

*My apologies to Rob Thomas and Matchbox 20 for paraphrasing what is one of his best lyrics.