I spent part of the morning waiting in a hall in what used to be called the Criminal Courts Building, and is now called the Clara Shortridge Foltz Criminal Justice Center. It has not been cleaned, and the elevators have not been repaired, since I worked in the building in 1989.
I arrived quite early, and waited for the courtroom to open. As I did so, an unkempt and morose-looking young man sitting on a nearby bench in the sparsely-populated hall was trying out ringtones on his phone. One by one. At full volume. From an apparently vast library.
I considered, and rejected, the possibility of approaching him. Prudent people do not approach odd strangers in criminal courthouses to complain about their conduct.
I also considered going and telling a guard that I had just been in the restroom and had observed the young man removing a shiv from some bodily orifice, and that he seemed twitchy and upset.
The better angels of my nature — one of which is entrenched sloth — won out.
The young man eventually chose a ringtone that sounded like an air raid siren, and tested it out several times.
I am given to understand that in an Objectivist society I would be allowed to have my servants shoot him. Pity.
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