She walked into the courtroom alone.
Young. Nervous, but composed. Clutching a folder like it contained the last of her dignity. No lawyer. No roadmap. Just the mistaken belief that justice might still be something more than a slogan etched in stone above the courthouse door.
“Where is my assigned counsel?” she thought.
Not aloud. Just a hopeful, desperate thought—like someone waiting for common sense to show up and intervene.
The judge didn’t flinch.
Black robe. Elevated bench. Impenetrable demeanor.
He didn’t raise his voice. He didn’t need to. Judicial arrogance doesn’t shout—it simmers. It watches a pro se litigant walk into a wood-paneled arena with no armor and offers nothing. No explanation. No grace. Just a heavy silence that says: You don’t belong here. And I won’t help you pretend you do.
He could’ve paused. Clarified. Asked if she understood the procedures—though in civil court, “rights” are often more theoretical than real. He could’ve acknowledged the obvious power imbalance. But that would have required effort. Empathy. Humanity.
Instead, he moved the proceeding along like she was a delay in his schedule rather than a citizen in crisis.
The attorneys on the other side? Confident. Polished. Half-listening. They knew the dance. They knew the outcome. She was just another name on the docket, another unrepresented soul to be swept into judgment.
And worse—watching them perform was nauseating. The pandering was almost theatrical: exaggerated deference, unnecessary compliments, and a tone so syrupy it could have triggered a diabetic emergency. They weren’t just advocating. They were auditioning.
This judge liked his ego stroked. And they knew it.
They played to the bench, not the merits. They flattered the process, not the principle. And the more they performed, the more obvious it became: fairness wasn’t the currency of this courtroom—fawning was.
And that’s the cruelty: not just that she had no lawyer—but that the judge acted like she didn’t deserve one.
Because once the robe goes on, the system protects its own. Judges stop being people and start being mechanisms. Detached. Defensive. Drunk on their own discretion.
This wasn’t justice. It was a performance. A ritual sacrifice in real time.
Because in civil court:
• Pro se means “sit down and lose quietly.”
• Litigants are expected to navigate rules written for law school graduates.
• Judges know they’re presiding over unequal battles—and they do it anyway, with a straight face.
And when that woman stood there—hopeful, alone—the court had a chance to offer something real.
Instead, it showed her exactly what the system thinks of the unrepresented: you are a burden, not a participant.
“Where is my assigned counsel?” she thought.
But the answer came not in words, not in kindness, not in fairness—but in an order.
He ruled her in contempt. Not for outbursts or defiance. But because she refused to give up her computer passwords to the plaintiff. She didn’t trust them. She was afraid. She stood her ground.
So he had her shackled.
Right there. In a civil case.
She was ordered into federal custody—taken from the courtroom like a criminal, not for breaking the law, but for daring to protect herself without permission from the court.
That’s not justice.
That’s a warning.
And it’s codified.
The Valley Viewpoint 