Judge Martin McDonough enters the courtroom from a backdoor and I am immediately scared shitless. His head is large and meaty, rather like that of a cow—but only if a cow could have thick, gray hair, and that head seems to float above his black robe. A reformed boozer, McDonough’s nose is red and bulbous, no doubt ready to serve as a backup power source should the electric system ever fail in the Markham court complex.  

I finally made it. My first day of work as a prosecutor at the Markham courthouse. No more sitting at a crammed library table with other sweaty ASA’s (Assistant States Attorneys) at my shoulder toiling away writing boring criminal appeals. This is the big time: a courtroom. Johnny Lagatutta, a squatty, Italian guy is the ASA showing me the ropes today. His courtroom demeanor is serious. He writes down all of his offers and plea agreements on a notepad, and stares at the defense attorneys with distrusting eyes.  

As he is introduced, McDonough glares out over his half-moon glasses at the minions gathered in his courtroom, that massive head bobbing at times. I get the feeling McDonough isn’t quite satisfied with the bailiff’s intro. He looks like he’d like to add a few words – maybe something like, ‘That’s right, mother fuckers. You heard the man. But on top of all that shit , don’t mess with me. In fact, don’t even think about it. Cuz if you do, I will fuck you up. Got that. I will fuck you up Big Time.’  

Once the call starts, the clerk barks out the attorney cases first. A continuance here, a case passed for a plea there. The next attorney case is for a guy whose client has completed his one-year supervision period for Driving Under the Influence. It should be short and sweet, a mere formality, but I notice that Judge McDonough is soft shoeing the guy, leading him down a lonely lane and his attorney, who I learn is not a Markham regular, has no idea.  

Judge: So do you feel like you complied with all the terms of your supervision.  

Guy: Yes, your Honor.  

Judge: Did you pay your $350.00 fine? 

Guy: Yes, Judge.   

Judge: Did you finish Traffic Safety School?  

Guy: Yes, Judge. 

Judge: Did you complete the alcohol counseling classes? 

Guy: Yes, your Honor. I just wrapped up last week as a matter of fact. 

Judge: Good. Good. Glad to hear that. And when was the last time you had a beer or other drink? 

Guy: Maybe three . . . four weeks ago.   

Judge: Bailiff, lock this man up. 

Guy: But Judge.   

Judge: No, ‘But Judge.’ My order was to remain abstinent from alcohol during your supervision period. And you have violated that order.   

Non-regular attorney (finally waking up): But your honor, my client has substantially complied with your supervision terms. In fact, he— 

Judge: --Nope. Nope. 

McDonough eyes the bailiff.  

Judge: Lock him up. 

And off the guy goes to a holding cell. I am really ready to shit in my pants now. This judge with the cow head and bulbous nose is the Real McCoy. I try to avoid his eyes as we go through the balance of the morning call.  

Once the call is complete, the judge takes a recess to hold a few 402 conferences (plea discussions with the judge, assistant state’s attorney and defense attorney) in the judge’s chambers. As Judge McDonough waltzes down the hallway towards his chambers, with three defense attorneys in tow, suddenly Johnny Lagatutta races past me and the other attorneys—including the defense attorney whose client had just been locked up, and jumps atop Judge McDonough’s back. Lagatutta wraps an arm around the judge’s neck and secures his choke hold with the other hand. McDonough swings his arms, trying to reach back to free Lagatutta’s grip, to no avail.  

Judge: Get offa me, you little Dago. 

Lagattuta (laughing): Never.  

Lagattuta squeezes harder as if he is trying to dislodge that cow head from its shoulders. The color of Judge McDonough’s bulbous nose spreads across his entire face. That cow head is now a too-tight birthday balloon, ready to pop at any moment. As I watch Lagatutta squeezing and jerking the judge’s head, I figure he must’ve been a grappler in his high school days, because that is one helluva choke hold. 

McDonough’s reaches back again, his arms flailing, but he still can’t reach Lagattuta.  

Judge: Get off (gasp). Now (gasp). I mean it (gasp). 

Lagattuta laughs and squeezes even tighter. I fully expect to see that balloon pop. In fact, I can already see the headline in tomorrow’s Chicago Sun-Times: Judge choked to death in courthouse hallway by ASA while other ASA watches. But McDonough doesn’t crumble to his knees, and then to the cold, hard tile with a heart attack. No, he does something completely different. He turns sideways and backpedals quickly until he slams Lagattuta into the hallway wall. There is a tremendous thud as Lagattuta’s head snaps into the drywall, but he still holds on. McDonough repeats this same maneuver two more times. Lagattuta groans and finally releases his grip. Now unencumbered, the judge makes his way swiftly to his room, followed by the two Markham regulars who laugh and slap Lagattuta on the back as they walk. I turn and look at the Markham non-regular who, like me, appears to be in a state of shock.  

Once in his chambers, the judge lights his trusty pipe. Lagattuta introduces me to Judge McDonough, and then we start in with the conferences. After the pleas are worked out, McDonough waves the non-regular over and tells him not to worry. He tells him his client will be just fine. 

Non-regular attorney: But, Judge. You locked him up.  How much time is he going to have to serve? I mean, I’m going to have to call his wife. Ya know, to let her know that— 

Judge: --None of that now. You’ll see. He’ll be fine. Just fine. 

And with that, McDonough rises and makes his way back to the courtroom. Once on the bench,  McDonough recalls the case of the guy he had sent to the lock up. 

Judge: So did you do much thinking while in the lock up? 

Guy: I’m sorry judge. I did cut back a huge amount. I’m really not drinking much.  

Judge: Well listen up. You’re a young man with a bright future. But the booze is going to dull that light. Believe me. I know. I’ve been in your shoes.  

Guy: Yes, Your Honor.  

Judge: Do away with the booze. It’ll only cause you trouble.  

Guy: Yes, your honor.   

Judge: Okay. Supervision terminated satisfactory. Congratulations. You’re free to go.  

In my two years of working as an assistant state’s attorney in the Markham courthouse, I never saw anyone move faster towards the courtroom exit door than that guy. 

Dennis Foley holds an MFA in Creative Writing from Columbia College-Chicago along with a law degree from The John Marshall Law School. He has four books and two award-winning screenplays to his credit. Upon its release in 2018, his screenplay, Not a Stranger, received 3 stars from film critic Richard Roeper and is now available on amazon prime.  When he's not writing, he still does legal work on occasion to keep his friends out of jail.