A woman rises, charged with driving under the influence, a common enough crime, and the murmuring in the back continues. Lawyers walk to the hallway to confer with clients, the assistant district attorneys shuffle papers. The Commonwealth presents, its case, a fairly straightforward one; she couldn't walk the straight line, she couldn't touch her nose, she admitted she was drunk.

The defense attorney says, "Your Honor, that evening the defendant was the victim of a violent assault. She was terribly upset and drank too much. She is willing to enroll in a treatment program. She doesn't usually do this, it was a one-time occurrence. You can still see the bruise on her left eye."

Suddenly, the court is quiet. The talk stops and those dozing in the rear wake up. Sometimes, once a day maybe, reality intrudes here in this funnel of misery, where the unhappiness and despair of three cities is channeled. But the interest evaporates quickly enough. The license is suspended for 90 days, then she will be able to drive again. She will enroll in the treatment program. The next case, please.

The process continues, and there are not windows of clocks to mark time. The probation officer off each defendant's record, and they all sound the same; shoplifting in 1983, disorderly person in 1984 continued without a finding, 1986 driving after suspension, default in 1988 on a possession of Class B. He is wanted in Somerville on two warrants.

When bail is set, the bar advocate will respectfully request a reasonable cash bail, and the assistant district attorney will respectfully submit that the defendant is flight risk and ask for $100,000 credit or $10,000 cash.

The forgers of checks, the disorderly persons the possessors of class D substances with intent to distribute, the minors carrying alcoholic beverages, the passers of counterfeit bills, the right turners on red, the utterers of forged instruments--each gets his five minutes of attention. Only the lunch break punctuate the continuum.

In the park outside, a courtroom guard smokes. His girth betrays a career of inactivity; his eyes, nose, and mouth are adrift in an ocean of flesh. He says, "In that building, there are no secrets. If some judge is balling the secretary, everyone knows, it.

"One time they sent all of us to one of those awareness training sessions. There was one of those tweed ladies, you know, with the tight tweed coat buttoned up to here, like this, and she say in this mincy little voice, 'You are going to say some things that might make other people uncomfortable, but I want everyone understand, anything you say in this room stays in this room.'

"I told her, 'Lady, look. Anything I say here is going to be all over that building before I even walk back there.'

"You want to know what I do? Treat everybody equal. You know what I do with the Blacks? Look them in the eye when I pass them in the hall, say 'hello,' make them feel part of the system."

Thanks to a Cambridge ordinance, smoking is banned in the building, and this tower, like offices all over the city, has its share of addicts grabbing a quick drag right outside the front doors. There is something not quite right about this. Bureaucracy and fluorescent lights should be complemented by cigarettes and bad coffee with instant creamer.

Even a non-smoker expects to find cigarette fumes in the hallways and conference rooms where the lawyers huddle with clients. The non-smoker expects to have the throat irritated and the nose burn. There is something unsettling about a courthouse that does not run on nicotene.

The answer lies in the stairwell. In this center of legal enforcement for three cities the ordinance is regularly flaunted, and the stairwell is filled with smoke. "They're all low-life scum, assholes. They are definitely breaking the law, and I could arrest them," the guard says.

Why doesn't he? "Because they're my coworkers, and I would piss the whole building off. Even the judges smoke. I've even seen a judge smoking a cigar in the elevator."

The bulk of the day is spent non on oratory, not on discussion of the facts, not on objections and overrulings, but scheduling. Every time a case is sent to pre-trial conference, or a witness is missing, or the prosecution isn't ready, or he defendant had to go to the hospital, the judge and two lawyers open their calendars and set date, usually three or four weeks away.