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November 17th was a Tuesday.  That day I got up very early to get to the 8:30 am Preliminary Hearing for alleged embezzlers Hector Porrata, Rene Montes, George Martinez and Cara Cruz-Thompson at the Orange County Superior Court House.   The traffic was everything everybody always rants and raves about: it was Hell!  I left my home at a quarter to 7; I walked into Court Room C-55 in Superior Court in Santa Ana finally at 9 am.  I was in a panic that I may have missed the proceedings.

Court Room C-55 is a variation on a theme of the color brown.  The only things that are black are the cages on the right forward side of the room.  You see them looming large as you enter.  It is inside these cages that the inmates are contained during Court proceedings.

I sat down in one of the blue chairs in the center area of the theater-like seating arrangement.   The front three rows of seats are roped off; there is a sign dangling on one of the ropes that reads: Reserved For Attorneys And Law Enforcement.  But most of the attorneys and law enforcement officers are not sitting there.  The attorneys are either milling around the room, sitting at a small conference table close to the wall by the door, or else standing in front of the cages talking to their inmate-clients.  The Sheriffs are standing around the podium where the Bailiff is standing. 

It's like a scene out of an 18th Century novel by Voltaire.  There's all this bustle and hustle going on: it's a room teaming with activity.  Seated at one of the tables before the Judge's bench, an interpreter for the deaf is flailing her fingers very eloquently and gracefully.  Her fingers fly with dramatic beauty.  Along the table with her, there are other persons, most likely lawyers, pouring over their files.  The judge is talking, saying things like, "Count 1.  Possession of Cocaine and Meth Amphetamine," while a defendant stands just in front of the swinging doors closing off the Judge's Bench area.  He is not wearing an orange or yellow jail tunic.  He is not hand-cuffed, and he is not inside the cage.  He's obviously not in custody.  But he's certainly charged with possession of cocaine and meth amphetamine. 

As I watch the room, I am reminded of a party, just without the drinks.  I think of a coffee clatch, with no coffee.   Although the Bailiff several minutes ago announced, "Court is in session.  No talking, please!" there is a lot of conversation going on in the audience area.  Lawyers are talking continuously to one another in low voices; thus, there is a continuous low buzz of sound.   

All the lawyers are eloquently dressed in their very fine suits; one woman lawyer is wearing the prettiest patent leather shoes with thick, tall heels.  I am in love with her gorgeous shoes.  I wonder how she can wear patent leather.  They make your feet so hot.  Another lawyer is seated at the small conference table reading the Los Angeles Times.  He has the newspaper spread wide open while he reads it at his leisure as other lawyers give instructions to their prisoner-clients inside the cages while the interpreter for the deaf moves her fingers as if dancing a ballet with her hands.  The newspaper reader has a bald head with white hair wrapped like a thick head-band around his head just above his ears.  He reminds me of a Mexican Mariachi musician.

Suddenly emerging from the cacophony of words out of the Judge's mouth, I hear the name Hector Porrata in the midst of the disharmony of sounds.  The Mexican Mariachi with the bald head wearing the white-haired-head-band steps forward up to the low partition dividing the audience area from the Bench area.  He speaks to the judge, but I can barely hear him.  With all the chatter and the low din of noise in the room, I cannot make out what is being said.  All I can hear is, "Do you want to trail that?"

What the heck does that mean?  I sit back and ponder.  Confused.  Drats.  I sense now that the Mexican Mariachi is Hector Porrata's lawyer.  He finishes speaking to the Judge and returns to the small conference table where he resumes his reading of the L.A. Times.  But I don't really know what has happened.  I think about approaching the Mexican Mariachi and asking him what is going on.  But I decide to sit for a bit and think, and not act out of immediate impulse.  I am confused in the midst of this Court Room maelstrom.  Then I come up with an idea.

I decide to text message Christopher Lear, the Managing Attorney of the Orange Office of Floyd, Skeren & Kelly, and ask him what "trail that" means.  Christopher will answer me if he's not in Court, or if he's in a place where he is capable of answering.  So, I slip out my Pink Razr Phone, go into text messaging, and I write to Christopher, "What does 'trail that' mean?" I press Send and then I slip my Pink Razr back into the slip pocket inside my purse.  Then, I continue to watch the show.  One of the inmates who is inside the cage closest to the audience, is being told by the judge that he can't stalk this particular woman any more, that he cannot contact her in any manner, that if he makes any contact with her again he will be thrown back into custody in an instant... 

Then I hear this "BEEP!" and at least one person turns around and looks towards me.  Dang. I act oblivious like I don't hear it.  I should have put the text message setting on vibrate mode.  I am hoping the Bailiff didn't hear it.  Cell phones need to be Turned Off in the Court Room.  If they go off, they can be confiscated.  So, I casually wait some minutes, in order to act oblivious and cool, then I slip out the phone and read what Christopher has written.  He writes:  "Continued to a later date."

Okay, that's what I suspected.  The Hector Porrata, et al, Preliminary Hearing has been postponed to a later date.  Again!  This is the third time!  What's going on here!?  So many postponements!

So, speaking of which, this continuing article will be trailed to a later date.  Specifically tomorrow. Tune in then! 

Readers may write to writer Lonce LaMon at lonce@adjustercom.com