Clayton Luz

If you take public transportation, you've probably seen his mug billboarded along various El platforms and city buses. Judge Greg Mathis sports a No. 2 lead-thin goatee, gold-frame eyewear, a fade. The gap between his two front teeth suggests the face of a thin Clarence Williams (aka the actor who played Linc on the original "Mod Squad" television series).

Greg Mathis is an ex-superior court judge from Detroit who quit his job there to play a judge on television in Chicago.

He's also an ex-jailbird.

"I think we need another court show because there's a need in variety of approach in adjudicating," Mathis told New York's Daily News last November. "Yeah, some folks thought it was bizarre that I would leave my hard-won judgeship for television success. But it's for a bigger goal, and that is to inspire millions."

Or did Mathis mean to say, "make millions?"

Last fall "The Judge Mathis Show" premiered in 131 markets around the country. Distributed by Warner Bros., the hour-long show is based in Chicago and runs locally on WCIU, Channel 26. The program represents yet another entrant in the courtroom television genre, where the number of shows has quintupled during the last three years. In syndication industry jargon, courtroom television programs are euphemistically called "reality-based court shows." Ask industry execs why the sudden proliferation of shows like "Judge Mathis" and, if they swear to tell the truth and nothing but the truth, so help them God, they'll answer: "Money." That's the reality base for syndicating any series, first-run courtroom program or otherwise.

Mathis will have you believe he's deferring to a far loftier purpose, though. Having served several jail stints during his teen years, Mathis eventually turned his life around after making a pledge to his dying mama and eventually became the youngest district court judge in the Wolverine State's history.

"It pains me to think of all the hurt that I caused my neighborhood, my community, my family," Mathis says. "That's why I've made a lifetime commitment to redeeming myself and changing my life and helping to inspire other street youth to redeem themselves and change their lives."

Mathis further opines that, "with a daily television show, I hope to be able to reach even more people with my story, and, hopefully, make an even bigger difference in the lives of others."

Maybe he is trying to help others. But Mathis' claim offers up an exercise in cognitive dissonance: How does one attempt to achieve good using what is often regarded as the most profound mind-wasting medium of our time--television--to explore socially explosive issues such as--this from a recent show--a dispute between two litigants over unpaid babysitting wages?

Here's why: If the "Judge Mathis" show hits the syndication jackpot, it can generate enough money to fill a judge's chambers.

The show is a first-run syndicated program, meaning it's never aired before in any market. Syndication is the sale of a program on a station-by-station, market-by-market basis. Advertiser-supported syndication, which applies to the "Judge Mathis Show," is the sale of a show to a station, like Channel 26, in return for commercial time in the show.

Revenue is generated through license fees and a cut of the $2 billion syndication advertising pie. According to 1997-98 figures compiled by the Advertiser Syndicated Television Association, advertising revenues rose more than 10 percent from the 1996-1997 season, a jump of about $10 billion. Last year, 157 shows, both first-run series and off-network series like "Seinfeld," occupied the syndication airwaves. Ratings, the ultimate judge of who lives and dies in the syndication universe, rose an average of 0.3 percent for all syndicated shows in 1997-1998. The biggest gain, according to 1998 Nielsen ratings data, was enjoyed by shows airing daily, Monday through Friday: Ratings swelled 11 percent from the year before and reached the highest mark since 1994.

Consider the jaw-dropping success of the "Judge Judy" show, the imperious mother of all currently airing courtroom shows. For those of you enduring solitary confinement the last three years, "Judge Judy" premiered as a first-run syndicated series in 1996. Hosted by no-nonsense, ex-Manhattan magistrate Judy Sheindlin, the program's ratings two years later blitzed those of syndication empress Oprah. In other words, 98 percent of the geographical United States receives a daily dose of the mouth from Manhattan. That's an average of seven million viewers a week watching on about 200 stations, a figure comparable to viewership enjoyed by "The Jerry Springer Show."

Translation? Judge Judy's ratings, which are up 60 percent from last year's, continue to rival those of "The Oprah Winfrey Show," which generated advertising revenues of more than $58 million in the 1997-1998 syndication season, according to the Hollywood Reporter Guide, an industry publication.

Small wonder, then, that courtroom copycat series like "Judge Mathis" are coming soon to a channel near you. Bruce McKay, executive producer with Telepictures Production, which produces "Judge Mathis," says his program settled in Chicago because the hunt for suitable small claims court cases, four of which air each program hour, is easier in the Midwest than on either coast, where the rest of the competition lies.

"It's harder to get the cases because everyone's out there doing it," admits McKay, who cut his courtroom-producing teeth from 1987-1989 on the original "TV People's Court," starring Judge Wapner. "It's a much more competitive atmosphere. When we were doing 'People's Court,' we were the only game in town."

So how do you set yourself apart from the rest? Personality promotion--it's the fuel for any successful syndicated talk or courtroom show. Sheindlin's "I'm the boss, applesauce!" tyrannical moralizing is personality, and in the judge's instance her abrasive charm means ratings, which means advertising revenue. "I believe a trial is not a place for legal gamesmanship, posturing or theatrics," postures Sheindlin, who once sent her courtroom audience into a gale of laughter when she barked at a mendacious plaintiff, "Look at me, sir!" and theatrically pointed at her forehead, "Does it say 'stupid' here?"

Mathis' modus operandi is startlingly similar to that of Judge Joe Brown, who presides over his own eponymous series, one spawned by Sheindlin's producers, recidivists who doubtless created "JJB" for the same reason Pete Rose hawks his baseball personality: because it's where the money is. Brown and Mathis share similar "gang-to-gavel" histories. Like Brown, Mathis is an African American who grew up in a tough neighborhood. Like Brown, Mathis escaped the streets by studying the law rather than transgressing it. Like Brown, Mathis became a judge. Like Brown, Mathis is known for his solid mix of fairness and justice in the courtroom. Like Brown, Mathis' goal is to reach the offender before he's committed his offense. Like Brown, Mathis applies his streetwise, trademark style of passionate judging and tough-love approach to the courtroom.

Other than that, Brown, er, Mathis, is different from Brown, or so Telepictures' President Jim Paratore would have you believe: "[Mathis'] unique mix of compassion, street smarts and tough love really connects with defendants and we believe will connect with the audience as well."

"The key to Mathis' success in the courtroom," trumpets the show's press release, is his "relatability," a neologism not to be confused with Wessonality. For nearly a decade Mathis' "relatability" informed the Motor City. His personal history, from being a member of Detroit's notorious Erroll Flynn gang to becoming one of Michigan's youngest district judges, makes for compelling copy. There's been a musical based on his life, and if syndication fails to make Mathis a celebrity, the HBO biopic currently in the works just might do it.

An asphalt parking lot occupies half the address at 100 Sangamon, in the South Water Produce Market. At the rear entrance of a nondescript, low-slung cinder block building, snakes a line of individuals, some sipping coffee from Styrofoam cups, others dragging on cigarettes. All are waiting for the 8am admittance as audience members for a taping of "The Judge Mathis Show."

Paratore rhetorizes about his star: "Because of his age and background, Greg will bring a fresh approach to the court show genre that we believe will be more appealing to the younger, non-traditional court show viewer." The judge's good looks don't hurt either. .......According to the show's press materials, the judge's decisions are legal and binding in each case. A court of law is a court of law, apparently, whether set-designed or installed at the Richard J. Daley Center.

Sangamon's hall of justice, redolent of sawdust, fabric and paint smells, feels like a newly raised juice bar at a suburban athletic club. The place is a life sentence away from the utilitarian design of the civil division floors at the Daley Center. There, in the pro se court rooms where litigants represent themselves, a spare, cloistered feeling covets the atmosphere under the recessed can lighting, above the gray carpeting, amidst the oak jury booth and around the worn-smooth "hard seats" reserved for courtroom observers. Unlike in Mathis' theater, here there's no camera jib looming along the courtroom sidelines like some mechanical praying mantis, a presence that compels some courtroom members to compulsively smooth out their laps and tuck in their chins. Only the flags that bookend the judge's bench convey judicial propriety: a United States flag, stage left; a Cook County flag, stage right.

The studio lights dim. Darkness drapes the now hushed audience. Anticipation burbles. The litigants have already assumed their positions onstage at their lecterns. The defendant stage left, the plaintiffs stage right. Profiles in darkness.

Now comes Brendan Moran, the show's cartoon-faced court bailiff. Pale, even in shadow, he resembles fifties comic-book icon Henry Aldrich, with his loose-limbed presence and mop of reddish-blond hair that tends to lag over one eyebrow. The bailiff silently assumes a rigid stance downstage right of the judge's bench, gathers his hands formally over his crotch, one atop the other. Suddenly he barks: "All rise for the honorable Judge Greg Mathis!"

Stage left, a door opens. The lights come up. Here come da judge.

"This court room is now in session," booms the bailiff, while Mathis, black robe billowing, sweeps into the now-lighted courtroom. The judge skips upstage to his leather chair, falls in, swivels around and scoots himself close against the bench, looking all business in a crisp white shirt, burgundy cravat, gold metal bracelet jangling off one wrist and gold watchband hugging the other. "The Honorable Judge Greg Mathis presiding," bailiff Moran cries on. "You may be seated!"

The show tapes four hours a day, each taping featuring four somebody-done-somebody-wrong songs. The opening ditty is a rather simple, if not simple-minded, affair involving a mom and her babysitting daughter vs. a mother of three young children. The plaintiffs are suing for $225, wages they claim the defendant owes the babysitting daughter. The defendant is countersuing for $200, earnings she claim were lost because she had to stay home from work and babysit her own kids when the babysitting daughter failed to show. Even when the girl did, she didn't babysit, the defendant grouses. The girl spent her time smoking pot and making out with her boyfriend, on the defendant's bed no less. Who knows what other vile acts the youngsters committed on my mattress, the woman shivers aloud.

No such thing, your honor, the girl and her mother protest. Plugged into the same socket, the plaintiffs tremble to get at the microphone for rebuttal. My daughter is not involved with drugs, nor does she smoke pot or drink alcohol. The mother's torn face conveys this: I am a good mother. My daughter may be a goldbricker, but I am a good mother. The daughter nods absently.

Well, counters the defendant, I found this in my house, your honor. She produces an unfurled dope baggie as if it were the smoking gun, the linchpin to her case. The baggie, containing a misdemeanor amount of marijuana, is no bloody glove, but the cops haven't handled it at least.

The courtroom audience, interest flagging in what so far has amounted to overhearing two neighbors quarrel from their driveways, perks up.

Drugs!

Judge Mathis instructs the bailiff to collect the evidence from the defendant and bring it to him. Court officer Moran lumbers across the stage, exuding the vitality of a London Palace Guard.

The judge pulls the baggie open for a whiff. Yep, he nods, it's Mary Jane all right. He tosses the dope baggie aside.

The pot-smoking accusations fly again. The judge instructs court officer Moran to examine the babysitter's fingertips, apparently for dope residue stains.

Laughter, reduced to a collective murmur by decorum, ripples through the courtroom audience. Examine her fingertips, the audience wonders?

That's right. Show the bailiff your fingertips. I was kid once, says the judge. I've been around.

How're her fingertips?

Court officer Moran, shattering typecast, shrugs: They're fine.

They're fine, says the judge? All right, then, back to business.

So goes the Adventures in Babysitting caper. One party says this, the other says that. A string of denial longer than Pennsylvania Avenue unfolds between the litigants.

Asked to explain the popularity of courtroom shows, executive producer McKay suggests the issue of closure plays a part.

"There's been years of daytime talk shows where [participants] yell, scream or cry about problems and the show all of a sudden ends," he says. "Court shows do give closure, which I think people find somewhat satisfying."

On a psychological level--not that court show justice should inspire any attempts at critical thinking--perhaps the genre appeals to our basic human desire for security, what humanistic psychologist Abraham Maslow called our Safety Needs. Nonsense, snorts Steven Lubet, a professor of law at Northwestern University and co-author of the book "Judicial Conduct and Ethics." He says we watch because we're voyeurs who have "an unending curiosity of other peoples' private lives. It's like eavesdropping on a neighbor's fight." Lubet pegs the courtroom program as a "reverse of the Jerry Springer show," where people confess their innermost secrets. Whine on Sheindlin's show, Lubet says, and she'll tell "you to knock it off." We derive vicarious pleasure from watching Sheindlin or whomever verbally abuse a lying or simpering litigant, he suggests. Again, that indispensable factor necessary for syndication success rears it ugly head: personality.

As for the litigants, Lubet hews the common sociological view that they appear for the chance to air their grievances and seek public redress for slights imagined or real. Another reason, perhaps, is the chance to realize Warhol's adage about fame.

Courtroom participants can't and don't lose, financially anyway. They're flown in, comped at a hotel and reimbursed for minimal expenses. Regardless how their cases end, whether the judge's findings are based on telegenics or sound legal principle, the litigant's judgments are paid.

Seems having their bills paid entitles the litigants to endure some judicial scolding along the way. The Adventures in Babysitting caper offers little fireworks from Mathis, except for an interlude that opens with, "Don't you think I can see your hand?" directed at the defendant.

The judge, still facing the defendant, glares sideways from his chair at the woman. "I can see it, but [your hand] is not going to make me look at you and give you the opportunity to talk."

The woman's upraised arm withers under the judge's chiding. But for whatever reason, the woman fails to completely withdraw her arm. Instead she lets it sag at the elbow, bent, like a broken corn stalk.

Suddenly the judge directly eyeballs the defendant. A head wag for each declaration: "You cannot force me, coerce me or do anything to make me let you talk out of turn!"

The judge's behavior seems heavy-handed. The defendant's not agitating over an emotional issue like abortion, she's raising her arm because she's anxious to refute the teenaged babysitter's denials. Who could dare presume a red-blooded American teenaged girl raised on MTV hip thrusts would smoke pot and try to run the bases sexually in the presence of an absent adult?

The judge seems fixated on the defendant's raised arm, though. Perhaps it mocks him. You don't mock the judge in a mock courtroom.

Shoulders zig-zagging beneath his robe, he hollers at the woman and her arm: "Wait your turn!"

The woman's arm crumples.

The judge tosses more at the defendant, threatening to "get [her] busted" for bringing cannabis into his courtroom. Then, as if the anger flash has moved off like heat lightning, Mathis turns all business again. Head cocked attentively, he receives the litigants' remaining testimonies. Finally, after hearing everyone, the judge shuffles his notes together like a news anchor and announces he will return shortly with his decision.

The litigants stand dumbly before their lecterns, like sheep waiting to be sheared. The studio is dark. While the chambered Mathis reviews his notes, some audience members munch on candy bars, soup crackers and, in the case of one woman, chicken fingers wrapped in foil. Scattered whisperings are punctuated by giggles.

Ten minutes later, the studio lights come up and Mathis sweeps back into the courtroom. He assumes his seat and with a brief explanation of his findings, rules for the plaintiff in the amount of $225. The gavel strikes.

Court is adjourned. Mathis departs again, this time striding officiously from his bench. Program assistants guide the litigants from the lecterns and into the hallway outside, where court reporter Leslie Merrill, microphone in hand, stands at the ready to glean their profundities.

After a first quarter start that showed promise--1999 November and December "Judge Mathis" was the top-ranked syndicated show in New Orleans and Cleveland--the show's national ratings appear to be thinning. According to Vincent Nasso, a communications analyst with Nielsen Media Research, the show's national ratings earlier this year averaged about 2.2 households nationally, meaning that 2,221,000 homes tune into each show. By contrast, Judge Judy's ratings showed her chugging along at 7.2, placing her among the top five of all syndicated shows, one notch above Oprah. Locally, Mathis' Chicago ratings currently indicate the same respectable 2.2. rating, meaning about 138,000 area households are staying tuned.

The judge continues "to come into his own," says a brave McKay, hoping his star's personality--"funny, glib, serious and inspiring"--will eventually score with viewers.

Mathis and his producer are banking on it.

(07/27/2000)


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