22 March, 2025
- Black Lawyer
- Mar 25
- 2 min read
Updated: Mar 25
Dearest Diary,
There are days in court that test not just one’s legal acumen, but one’s very ability to maintain composure in the face of unfiltered theatrics and maintain a straight face.
I recall a time, I found myself seated at counsel table as amicus attorney to a child who deserved better than the circus that was about to unfold.
We were merely scheduled for a continuance. A harmless procedural affair. The sort of thing one attends in sensible heels with the expectation of silence and a swift return to one’s coffee.
But alas.
The judge, upon the mere utterance of the case name, had barely taken a breath when the father—heretofore seated upright—collapsed onto the courtroom floor.
Collapsed, Diary.
With the flair of a 19th-century heroine receiving tragic news by telegram, he hollered, hyperventilated, and thrashed with the theatrical timing of someone who had clearly practiced in front of a mirror.
Even the bailiff, usually unbothered to the point of mild disdain, looked genuinely rattled—as though he were questioning whether this was indeed a court of law or the final act of Suits, back when they still pretended it was about the law.
The judge, visibly annoyed, recessed the matter so the gentleman might “collect himself.”
We returned ten minutes later.
And Diary, when I tell you that this man re-entered wearing a wig, I say so with the full gravity of a sworn affidavit.
A wig.
A cheap one.
The sort of one finds at a costume shop that doesn’t believe in refunds or the type that Tyler Perry subjects his cast to - minus the microphone.
It had not been there before.
And yet, not a single person—**not the judge, not his own solicitor, not even the aforementioned bailiff—**acknowledged it.
The hearing resumed.
The continuance was granted.
And I? I sat silently, as though it were the most natural thing in the world for a grown man to throw himself to the floor and rise reborn, in disguise.
I did not blink.
I did not speak.
I simply added it to the catalogue of nonsense I shall recount in my memoirs.
I remain, as ever—
Grateful. Grounded. Unbothered.
Shiraya Genea Jackson, Esq.
Disclaimer: As always, truth is filtered through a lens of wit, fiction, and professional decorum. Wig is not sold separately.
Tag a friend who’s ever had to keep a straight face in a room full of unfiltered nonsense.
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