The March 6 docket is scheduled to begin at eight o’clock, and, again, I arrive thirty minutes early. Waiting to enter the courtroom, I hear the same lawyers give the same responses to the same objections by the same defendants. (Even if the defendants are not literally the same individuals, the tenor of their frustration—the combination of wounded self-righteousness and muted aggression—seems ubiquitous and unrelenting.) I imagine each public defender isolated in a small boat adrift on a swelling ocean, but instead of water, the waves are comprised of the defendants’ bodies, each mouth gasping for air or calling out, each arm reaching for the railing of the boat, before dipping below the undulating surface. I enter the courtroom, and the judge begins the same introduction he gave before. The ocean churns, and the process unfolds predictably until Perryman is escorted into the courtroom.