The judge informs Bob the restraining order against him has been dropped. The previously bored bailiff stands and rests his hand on his pistol. If he were a few decades younger, he’d look like an attractive surfer dude. His blonde streaked hair is combed forward and he’s got a healthy tan. I’m somewhat alarmed that he seems to have ignored the posted rules for appropriate court attire-no shorts, no tank tops. He’s a trim, grizzled 50-something who wears capri-length workout pants and a tank top with three horizontal slashes across the back. The guy sitting behind me stands and moves forward. The judge calls a case for a someone named Bob (not his real name). All I can see of this person is orange and gray athletic shoes. Cigarette fumes give me a nicotine contact high. The person sits behind me to the right of my peripheral vision. I don’t know who because I’m sitting in the front row of the gallery. About a half hour after court comes to order, someone enters through the back door. The cases previous to mine are mundane-the opening of probate, something about a family trust, and an illegal eviction. I concentrate on taking deep, slow breathes, which manifest as shallow asthmatic wheezes. I’m here for the second month in a row to request a continuance on a restraining order I was reluctant to file, but that law enforcement has encouraged me to pursue. I sit in the Ten Mile Justice Center courtroom in Fort Bragg, legs crossed, right foot bobbing in an effort to dissipate my nerves.