The first day or two of my judicial career as a Civil Court judge was spent observing certain senior colleagues as they presided over their assignments. But after the second day, I think it was in the afternoon, I was back in my chambers when the phone rang. It was Judge Gene Wolin, the supervising judge of the New York County Civil Court, a rather benign fellow, overly impressed with his administrative pedigree who abruptly informed me that I had a trial ready case waiting for me in a courtroom on the 12th floor at 111 Centre Street.
After I hung up, I shouted into the anteroom where my recently hired law clerk, Kathy was sitting. I shouted, “Finally.” She responded. “Don’t forget your robe.” I put on my new silky robe and accompanied by Kathy who was carrying my minute book—a large and bulky record book favored by most judges for taking notes of what went on in the courtroom, we made our way to the courtroom. I used to see many judges frantically trying to copy everything that was said by anyone, in their minute book. I too followed that custom—for a while anyway. After all, there was a court reporter present always taking down stenographically everything that was being said. But, I quickly learned that unless the lawyers ordered and paid for the transcription, nothing was transcribed and the judge got nothing. So, in many smaller cases, you still needed to take notes.
