When the Wedding Bells Stop

The couple sat side by side looking straight ahead, never glancing at each other, as though to even acknowledge the other’s presence would taint them.

Despite the gentle background music of a string quartet, their hostility toward one another sizzled in an environment made tense by their presence.

Superior Court Judge Paul Gutman, a bright and gentle man of 67, had insisted that they sit side by side in his chambers, moving away a lawyer who had tried to place himself between them.

“Has there been violence in this case?” he had asked first. Assured that there had not been, he ordered the warring pair to sit next to each other.

“It’s their divorce,” he said.

Gutman is the supervising judge in L.A. County’s Family Law Court. He’s practiced law for 36 years and has served six years on the bench.

The case he hears in his chambers this day is a metaphor for both the routine nature of divorce and the pain and anger it encompasses. George and Ellen (not their real names) are ending their marriage and completing the final details of spousal support.

What had once been a deep emotional attachment had come down to the cold, hard business of money. Gutman ended the session by telling them to work it out and come back . . . and then it would be over.

A few moments later, robed and heading back to the bench, he turned and said to me, “I don’t know what I’d do if I couldn’t say ‘next case.’ The burden of carrying each one would be too much.” And then he was gone.

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George and Ellen had gone their separate ways, concealing in silence whatever anger and resentment existed between them. That’s not always the case. The second floor of the Central Courthouse in downtown L.A. resonates with tears and rage.

Few situations are more volatile than domestic disputes, whether they occur at home or before a judge. Last month, George Taylor, an L.A. County family law commissioner, and his wife were murdered outside their Rancho Cucamonga home by a killer still at large. Homicide detectives believe he could be someone involved in a case over which Taylor presided.

Four years ago, a Woodland Hills physician, Harry Zelig, shot his ex-wife to death in a courthouse corridor during an argument over ownership of a car. He is serving a sentence of 29 years to life.

While family law courts handle divorce, paternity, family violence and division of property, child custody cases are the most emotionally wrenching--and possibly a motive in the murder of the Taylors.

“People are at their worst in bitter fights over children,” Gutman said after hearing what he classified as a “dignified” divorce. “Most couples conduct themselves with decorum and resolve their differences in a sane manner. But it’s different when they fight about kids.”

His voice chokes as he talks about a custody case over a little girl with AIDS and the question of another child during a field trip to his courtroom who asked, “Is this where my mommy and daddy fought over me?”

“Show me a judge who likes custody cases,” he said after a pause, “and I’ll show you a judge who isn’t paying attention.”

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There are 55,000 divorce petitions filed each year in L.A. County, but few ever come to trial. “If they did,” Gutman says, “the system would collapse.” He has restructured the 41 courts he supervises to make better use of the time involved in handling non-trial situations. The result is that those cases that do go to trial are heard within five months, and not the usual 18 to 24.

Gutman has presided over thousands of cases during his time on the bench. “Criminal court was easy compared to this,” he told me in his chambers. “You can’t just say ‘case dismissed’ in family court and condemn someone to a life of perpetual marriage. It doesn’t work that way.”

He’s gone through a divorce himself and has a perspective others lack. When George and Ellen said they got along better when they lived apart, he replied that he got along fine with his ex-wife now too, “but that isn’t marriage.”

What I admire about Paul Gutman is the manner in which he deals with those who come before him. He understands that these are people in pain. He understands what happens when love ends. He’s what a judge ought to be.

There’s a sign on the wall of his chambers that says, “It’s Not My Fault.” A more appropriate sign would say, “I Care.” Because he does.

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Al Martinez’s column appears Sundays and Wednesdays. He can be reached online at al.martinez@latimes.com