Pastor Is a Verb

As the attorneys were preparing for the trial, I received two phone calls – one from the prosecutor and one from the defense counsel. Each was the same: “Did you go to the hospital to meet with this woman early on the morning of the shooting?” “Yes.” “Did she tell you anything about the shooting?” “No.” I thought that was it.

The town was buzzing. For weeks the local paper was full of stories about the trial and everything leading up to it. The day of the trial the sheriff called me and said, “They’ve issued a subpoena for you to come and testify. You can either come on down to the courthouse, or I can come and get you.” I told him I’d be right there. On the way I stopped in the office of a young congregation member who was an attorney and asked for his advice. He suggested I get a signed document from the woman giving me permission to share what she had told me. When I explained that she had told me nothing, he said I should get her to sign “some kind of release” in any case. But I never had the chance.

I got to the courthouse and was immediately ushered into the courtroom by the sheriff. As I came in, the bailiff hurried off to notify the judge that I had arrived. The room was packed, but I saw one empty seat over by the wall. I clambered over a whole row of people’s laps to get to that seat, and sat down just as the judge entered the courtroom and was seated. No sooner had I sat than the bailiff called my name, and directed me to come forward and be sworn in.

Not wanting to immediately again disrupt all the people I’d just clambered over, I attempted to instead step back over my seat to the aisle that was right behind our row. I got over the seat with my lead leg, but managed to get my trailing foot caught between the seat and the radiator along the wall, making a loud clatter and causing a resounding round of laughter in the court room.

I had been given no instructions as to what to do. After dislodging my foot, in front of everyone I went down the main aisle, went through the railing gate, approached a woman behind a desk, and raised my hand to be sworn in. The woman eyed me coldly, told me she was the court reporter and pointed across the courtroom to another woman seated behind another desk – the bailiff. More laughter. I crossed over to the second station, raised my hand again, swore to tell the whole truth, and was finally told to go sit in the witness stand.

The witness stand was a raised platform attached to the judge’s higher platform, with a railing in front and a wooden chair mounted on a single pole affixed to the floor. I sat down on the chair and immediately it tipped back far enough that my feet lifted off the ground at least three feet. By this time the courtroom was awash with laughter, and I was completely mortified. But, as they say, the best was yet to come.

The prosecutor approached, asked all the questions about name, education, profession, etc. He then asked if I had been called to the hospital on the morning of the shooting. “Yes.”

The next question was, “Did the victim give you any information regarding the shooting?” “No.”

“No further questions.”

When the defense attorney informed the judge that he had no questions for me, I was dismissed.

About a month later I got a check from the county for eight dollars – witness fee. The verdict was “Guilty.” It was the last I ever heard of the matter.

I thought comedians made better money than eight dollars per show.