Oyez! Don't Touch That Dial

By Bennett H. Beach

The People's Court brings real-life cases to the TV screen

The courtroom door swings open to the beat of music that sounds like a cross between . the themes from Hollywood Squares and Mission: Impossible. In stride Plaintiffs Katharina and Max Binder, the angry owners of Binder's Scissor Styling. Next come the defendants, Ray Cason and his daughter Michelle, 12. At issue: $43 that Cason refused to pay the Binders for a permanent that Michelle got in their salon one afternoon. Cason claimed that the permanent failed to hold up through Michelle's birthday party that evening.

The case is a typical small-claims dispute, just one of thousands that flood into Los Angeles courts every month. But instead of fighting it out in a real courtroom, the litigants agreed to square off in a TV studio for a new show called The People's Court. The half-hour daily program will debut during the next two weeks in New York, Los Angeles, Chicago and 36 other cities. Created by Veteran Producers Ralph Edwards (This Is Your Life) and Stu Billett, the show presents two cases an episode, both drawn from small-claims courts in the Los Angeles area.

Covered by cameras hidden behind screens, the litigants take their places at lecterns* and argue their cases before Joseph Wapner, 61, a silver-haired retired judge whose 20-year career on the bench began with a stint in Los Angeles small-claims court. Wapner deliberates during a commercial break, then renders his judgment, which is final, since the parties on the show must waive their right to proceed in a real courtroom.

The most that a small-claims plaintiff may seek in California is $750. The producers provide an $800 pot for each case. If the plaintiff wins, his money comes out of that fund; the balance is split by the two sides. If he loses, each party walks off with $400 for a ten-minute performance. The monetary incentive is one reason that 60% of the litigants approached by the producers agree to appear on the show. It is also the source of some criticism: a party who created a dispute through wrongful conduct can end up benefiting from it. Such a profit, however, may be more than offset by the adverse publicity, so some businessmen resist the temptation to argue their cases on national television.

Wapner, son of a practicing lawyer who used to appear on TV's Divorce Court, clinched his job in an audition by coolly refereeing a dispute that nearly came to blows, thus beating out eight other candidates. In the cases taped for upcoming shows, fisticuffs is almost the only thing he has not had to contend with. Sam vs. Sam grew out of an unfortunate fight to the finish between a Chihuahua and a Great Dane, both named Sam. Little Sam's owner wanted $700 compensation; he got it.

Sometimes litigants tend to ramble or drag in irrelevancies, like the mover who, although being sued for damaging some furniture, tried to discredit his opponent by reporting that she once accused him of stealing her underwear. Occasionally, however, somebody shows a gift for pointed lawyerly sarcasm. One defendant had smashed part of his neighbor's blaring rooftop alarm to silence it while the neighbor was away. The neighbor, seeking reimbursement, brought along the alarm and a pillow in a red satin case to show that the sound could have been stifled without damaging the system. "Your Honor," said the defendant, "I didn't have a red satin pillow." Wapner ruled in his favor.

Many of the show's liveliest moments involve demonstrations. A restaurant owner paid a four-piece band called the Fantastix only half its $320 fee because, he said, many of his customers walked out when the group began playing punk numbers instead of the agreed-upon country and western. The musicians brought a guitar and fiddle on the show, launched into a sample tune, Orange Blossom Special, and won their suit. In the case of the permanent that wasn't, Beauty Salon Operator Katharina Binder borrowed a glass of water from the judge and dunked a strand of young Michelle's hair into it, hoping to show that it would curl. But her hair was dead in the water--and so was the Binders' case. Concluded Wapner: "Michelle appears to me to be an extremely nice young lady. I like her looks, I like the way she spoke, and I believe her."

The show's only professional actor is Doug Llewelyn, 42, a onetime Washington, D.C., news anchorman and a former pitchman for Sears. He does the introductions, occasionally polls the studio audience for its reaction, and conducts post-trial interviews in a mock-marble hallway. Aside from such embellishments, and the musical hype, the unrehearsed program steers clear of game-show razzmatazz, and the result is a reasonably authentic legal confrontation. James Nelson, presiding judge of Los Angeles municipal court, believes after screening several episodes that the program could generate grass-roots support for the judicial system and induce viewers to take advantage of small-claims courts. Says Nelson: "I'd much rather see people turning to the courts than have them hose their neighbors down in their backyards."

The man who dreamed up the basic idea, John Masterson, is no stranger to real-life programming. He is best known for the 1950s show Bride and Groom, which featured a wedding ceremony daily. Masterson passed the courtroom idea to Stu Billett who, along with Ralph Edwards, did the rest. Says Billett: "There are so many people who don't know what small-claims court is about. This show will tell them how they must prepare to tell their story." On the other hand, Billett hopes that careful case selection and a swift pace will shield his TV audience from one thing that has troubled him during his own trips to small-claims court: boredom.

--By Bennett H. Beach. Reported by Susan Peters/Los Angeles

*Some small-claims courts allow parties to bring lawyers. Those in California do not, and none represent clients on the show.

With reporting by Susan Peters/Los Angeles

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