The Haunted Traveler Vol. 1 Issue 1

12
Sometimes I drive down to Avon Park. I rent a motel room
and have the wake-up service call me at 6 AM. I get dressed,
have a leisurely breakfast, and drive to the courthouse. I walk
to the back of the building, and wait for Shinholter’s van. He
parks in the handicapped space, maneuvering it with steering
wheel hand controls. Then, the struggle begins. The hydraulic
lift lowers his wheelchair to the ground. He pushes a
remote control and the lift mechanism raises and disappears
into the side of the van. He locks the door and slowly motors
off towards the ramp leading to the basement where the elevator
waits to take him to the second floor. A Sheriff’s Deputy
holds the door for him.
He still hasn’t adapted to using his left arm to control the
chair’s movements so he jerks when he turns. He will learn
how to control the chair as the years pass. His frustration
will turn to resignation. He’ll give up seeking miracles. He
will learn to live with what cannot be undone. Like Brownislaw.
Like me.
I walk back to my car when the courthouse door slams
shut. I remember what it was like when I needed a wheel
chair to get around. I was terrified I’d never walk again. Getting
ready for work took two hours, one just to bathe and
dry and dress. After six months, crutches were an improvement.
At least I was standing erect. But using crutches was
dangerous. When I could finally put pressure on my right
leg, I walked with a pronounced limp. Throughout the entire
litigation, all I asked was to be allowed to make telephonic
appearances so I would not have to struggle up the stairs,
struggle with heavy doors and narrow bathroom stalls. He
denied every request.
When I sued him under federal law, the courts wrapped
him in judicial immunity and let him do what no other person
in America can do: discriminate against the disabled
with impunity. His black robe protected him from all accountability.
My pain and fear were nothing to him or to the
federal courts. He was a judge and I was nobody. He wore a