The trappings of the courtroom are a dandy way to intimidate the hell out of someone. Robes, dark woods, bailiffs with guns -- all of them add up to the subtle suggestion that you are totally and completely doomed.

Which is why, when the judge asked me "How do you plead?", I panicked and answered "Yes."

"No, no," he said. "How do you plead?"

My mouth went dry and I looked over at Joanne for help and she whispered "Guilty!" in my ear. I had been written up for driving on an expired license by a cop having a bad day, but Jo had arranged with the DA to have the guilty plea mean nothing other than I would have to get my paperwork straightened out. Simple. Nice. And something that I would have been totally incapable of doing by myself. I have no doubt that without Joanne at my side -- in the role of hard-ass lawyer instead of loving wife -- a series of comical misunderstands would have landed me in prison.

"Guilty!" I told the judge.

"I take it counsel concurs," he said, and everybody in the courtroom laughed.

OK. Thank you. I get it. Lesson learned.