My Big Day In Court: A Professional’s Notes
Well. What a morning. I have to say, when they called me an “expert witness,” I felt a real surge of professional pride. I’ve been an expert for almost twenty minutes now, ever since I found this deck of cards in a sunbeam on my kitchen table. The sunbeam pointed at it, you see? That’s basically a cosmic certification. So when the nice man in the very tight suit—Mr. Henderson, I think his name was—asked if I could bring clarity to a “complex dissolution of assets,” I said of course. Dissolutions need clarity. Like sugar in tea.
The courtroom was very grand. Lots of wood. I set up my deck right there on the witness stand, next to the little cup of water. The judge, a lovely woman with a voice like a distant gong, asked me to state my qualifications. I explained about the sunbeam, and how I’d already done a reading for my cat that morning that was uncannily accurate. She’d gotten The Chariot, and then she did chase a bug with remarkable forward momentum. The judge made a note. I think she was impressed.
The case involved a couple, the Smiths. They seemed nice, though they weren’t sitting together. Mr. Smith wanted the vintage sports car. Mrs. Smith wanted the ceramic penguin collection. The lawyer for Mr. Smith, the tight-suit man, asked me to consult the cards on the “emotional valence of the automobile.”
I shuffled with gusto. A card flew out and landed in the judge’s lap. That’s called “jumping,” and it means the card is very eager to speak. It was The Tower. A tall building getting struck by lightning. I cleared my throat.
“Your Honor,” I said. “This is very clear. The car is not a car. It is a tall, proud structure of outdated beliefs. The lightning is… the headlights! Yes! When you turn on the headlights, it will shatter all your illusions about parallel parking. Mr. Smith must be careful not to drive under any unstable spiritual architectures.”
Mr. Smith put his head in his hands. His lawyer whispered, “Objection. Vague.” The judge overruled him, saying she wanted to hear about the parking.
Then it was Mrs. Smith’s lawyer’s turn. A woman with glasses that made her eyes look very large, like a wise owl. She asked about the penguins. I shuffled again, thoughtfully. I pulled The Empress. Aha!
“The penguins,” I announced, “are not ceramics. They are symbols of abundant, nurturing creativity. They huddle together for warmth, you see? Mrs. Smith must be granted full custody of the penguin flock, as they represent her maternal energy. To separate them would cause a spiritual frostbite.”
Mrs. Smith nodded vigorously. I felt a warm glow. I was mediating!
The judge then asked for a final, overarching card on the entire “dissolution.” I closed my eyes, thought hard about dissolution—it sounds like a fizzy tablet—and cut the deck.
The card was The Lovers.
A murmur went through the court. The Smiths both glared at me. The judge leaned forward. “Interpret, please.”
I beamed. This was my moment. “It’s obvious!” I said. “The card shows a man and a woman, with an angel above them. They are clearly… business partners! Yes! This whole divorce is a simple misunderstanding. They shouldn’t divide anything. They should start a small business together. Perhaps a car wash that also features ceramic penguin displays. The angel is their future investor. See how he’s blessing the venture?”
For some reason, that’s when the shouting started. Mr. Smith yelled that he’d rather set the car on fire. Mrs. Smith screamed that the penguins would never be part of a car wash. The two lawyers were both objecting, saying things like “preposterous” and “not grounded in fact.”
The judge banged her gavel. She looked at me, then at the cards, then back at me. She said, “The court thanks the witness for his… unique perspective. His testimony is stricken from the record. The parties will reconvene with a licensed appraiser tomorrow.”
I was gently led from the stand. As I packed my cards, I felt a little deflated. I think they missed the deeper point. The law is very focused on who gets what thing, but it doesn’t consider the emotional headlights or the huddling penguins.
Still, it was a wonderful experience. As I left, the bailiff winked at me and said, “Don’t quit your day job.” I’m not sure what he meant. This is my day job—I’ve been at it for nearly twenty-five minutes now.
I’m thinking of printing business cards. The sunbeam was just the beginning; real validation is when a whole room of people in suits gets very, very quiet while you explain that a convertible is actually a metaphor for unstable roofing.