2nd April, 2025
- Black Lawyer
- Apr 2
- 3 min read
Updated: Apr 6
Entry No. 179: “The Man in Row Three”
Filed under: Disguises, Delusion & Docket Confusion
Dearest Diary,
Some clients surprise you with grace under pressure.
Others surprise you by showing up to court in a fake mustache and a synthetic toupee they purchased, allegedly, “on discount and divine instruction.”
This was the latter.
It was a standard custody hearing. Nothing outrageous on the docket—just a gentleman requesting expanded visitation, a mother seeking stability, and me, hoping for a peaceful morning and perhaps a breakfast taco after oral argument.
My client—let’s call him Ronald—was, by all accounts, supposed to testify that day. He’d been prepped, coached, and warned repeatedly not to improvise.
His parental record was decent-ish, if you overlooked the one incident involving expired milk, a bounce house, and a suspicious lack of supervision.
I arrived at the courthouse early. By 8:52 a.m., I was seated, reviewing my notes.By 8:57, I realized something peculiar.
Ronald was missing.
Then I saw him.
In the gallery...
Third row.
Wearing an ill-fitting trench coat, aviator sunglasses, a questionable moustache, and a curly auburn toupee that looked like it had seen combat.
He was trying to act inconspicuous—blending in like a spy in a BBC parody. Except he kept taking furtive glances over the top of a Houston Press from 2019, upside-down.
I mouthed, “What are you doing?”
He mouthed back, “Observing.”
The bailiff looked confused. Opposing counsel raised an eyebrow.
The judge entered.
And then—because the universe adores chaos—the judge called Ronald to the stand to resume his testimony.
For a brief, magical moment, I thought he might stay seated and pretend Ronald had simply… not arrived.
But no.
Ronald stood.
Removed his sunglasses.
Tossed his trench coat like a Vegas magician.And declared, “Present, Your Honor.”
The room fell into silence. A single cough echoed like judgment.
The judge squinted.
“Were you not just seated in the gallery… in a disguise?”
Ronald smiled as if he’d won something.“I needed to know what the courtroom energy was like before entering the fray.”
Diary, I aged ten years.
When asked to explain himself, Ronald launched into what can only be described as a theatrical monologue about being surveilled, mistrusted, and misunderstood as a Black father.
“Sometimes, Your Honor, the system sees you before you can speak. I needed to witness it seeing me… from a different angle.”
Poetic. Deranged. A touch Ava DuVernay. All inadmissible.
We proceeded.
His testimony was slightly better than his disguise.
Opposing counsel attempted to impeach him using screenshots from a private Facebook group where he once compared the court process to Squid Game.
We objected.Sustained.
The judge ultimately granted a modified standard possession order.
Not because of the trench coat theatrics—but in spite of them.
As we walked out, Ronald turned to me and whispered,
“Don’t lie. The mustache worked, didn’t it?”
It had not.It was melting...hanging on by a thread as my patience was.
In law, truth is sacred. But in family court, perception is everything—which is why your client showing up dressed like an off-brand Inspector Gadget is not, I repeat, not a litigation strategy.
I remain, as ever—Poised. Petty. Permanently in contempt of that disguise.
Disclaimer:This diary entry is a satirical dramatization. Any resemblance to real trench coats, custody litigants, or wigs that shed under pressure is legally unintentional and spiritually hilarious.
Tag someone who thinks courtroom disguises = strategy.'
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