The sky wears a cloak of gray. Snow falls, then melts. Indoors, the instant coffee offers warm sips of solace. Heaters hum in a clunky staccato. It is winter in Boston, and the start of the spring semester. 

This week, on another familiarly cloudy day, my criminal justice class and I visited the Worcester District Court where we had the privilege to speak with a judge and observe her presiding over arraignments. The building’s drab architecture echoed the nature of its solemnity. Inside, people spoke in hushed tones, only interrupted by claps of footsteps on marble and the occasional beep of a metal detector. We sat in the back of courtroom 14. Here, the air felt thick, with a sense of gravity and respect.