The Blagojevich Trial Through Normal Eyes (part 1)

I went to the Blagojevich trial yesterday. It was the BORINGEST BORING that ever BORINGED. Not that you’d take my word for it, but I’m not a caveman who was expecting drama of Law & Order SVU proportions, but I was expecting something. I had attended a day of trial one time before, as a newsroom intern at WCBS 880 in NYC. Everyone referred to it as "the Abner Louima trial," but it was actually the trial of one of his police torturers, Charles Schwarz. Now there were thrills, chills, and spills. Well, not really. There wasn’t any testimony that day, just “motions” and the judge, who looked like Livia from “I, Claudius,” talking about stuff. Maybe it was being scared shitless because I had never been in a courtroom before; maybe it was court reporter Irene Cornell’s tardiness, which left me as the only WCBS representative in the room; but I was riveted. I was expecting something similar, if only because Rod Blagojevich would be in the room.

Let me make something abundantly clear, I LOVE Rod Blagojevich. As batshit crazy and corrupt he is, I’m drawn to his joie de vivre, his facility of reaching out to people. I envy his and Patti’s sociopathic relationship-slash-insidious joint venture for profit. I didn’t watch her on “I’m a Celebrity” but, truly, I’ve heard nothing but great things. In short, I want to be the Blagojeviches when I grow up, you know, sans corruption.

I was listening to WTTW reporter Elizabeth Brackett on John Williams today. According to her, yesterday was “exciting.” (That’s funny; I don’t remember seeing a blonde with her face pulled behind her ears, but whatevs.) Really, Elizabeth? Maybe I’m just too normal and not newsy enough to see the thrillingness of yesterday’s proceedings. Let’s start from the beginning, shall we?

If you want to attend the trial, it’s deceptively easy. Walk in to the Dirksen Federal Building on 219 South Dearborn. Go through the metal detectors, present photo ID, then proceed to the 25th floor. No one gives you any trouble. The only trouble is getting there by 7am. (Oh, and you can’t bring outside coffee or any other liquid.) I reached the courtroom floor at 7:06am and was already 13th in line. It was an interesting crowd, definitely newsies. Some were already camped out on the floor, furiously reading their newspapers. I didn’t feel comfortable or casual enough to leave a standing position.

Honestly, I was nervous. I’m not sure why—imagine how the Blagos feel every morning?—but it had been 7 years since I had stepped into a courtroom. It’s a little like Catholic church, you have to stand and sit on cue, and you don’t want to make too much noise. I’m always lost during mass, so I was afraid of doing the same here. It was a strange day, anyway. The storm of the century was approaching, USA would face Algeria in the World Cup, and we were hours away from losing Byfuglien to Atlanta. The sky was already darkening, the clouds opened up in fits and starts, and it was straight-up humid.

At 7:30, a man named George came by and handed us little yellow square cards with our number. I was thrilled to have an Effing Golden Ticket—to top it off, I was lucky #13.  I got the hell out of there; I had about 2 hours to kill.