Chicago, Illinois—Let’s take a trip back to the 1970s, a time when disco ruled, platform shoes were serious business, and the eighth floor of the old Chicago Police Headquarters at 1121 S. State St. played host to Women’s Court. Officially known as Branch 40, this bustling hub of legal hijinks was where misdemeanors involving women—aka “the fairer sex”—were sorted out. Think of it as Judge Judy meets “The Best Little Whorehouse in Texas,” with a side of CTA train noise for ambiance. Let me admit that there was never a woman judge presiding in this court. It was always a man.
Back then, women committing crimes was a growing trend. Sure, they were still the minority in police blotters, but the ones who did get caught weren’t just there for shoplifting or jaywalking. Nope, the main offenses were the old standbys: soliciting prostitution, public obscenity, and the rather poetic-sounding “loitering prostitute.” For the uninitiated, “loitering prostitute” was a catchall for any lady of the night hanging around an area known for, well, nights like that. The punishment? Usually a quick trip to court, where the judge would toss the case faster than a pimp could adjust his feathered hat.
Now, let’s talk about the real stars of this courtroom drama: the bailiffs. One was a character affectionately nicknamed Dolly, because—wait for it—she had enormous tits and a hairdo so big it needed its own zip code. Dolly Parton would’ve been proud. Her partner-in-order-keeping was Sam, a no-nonsense black woman who balanced Dolly’s over-the-top energy with steely professionalism. Together, they paraded the loitering ladies to the bench one by one, creating a spectacle that was equal parts tragic and hilarious.
And oh, the loitering ladies. Picture a lineup of black women who looked like they’d lost a fight with life and their hair weaves. They weren’t exactly the city’s crème de la crème, but they had spirit. Most even danced their way to the judge’s bench, making a final, defiant stand for dignity. One unforgettable character was Starey Washington, whose name alone could have been a headliner on a Vegas marquee.
But why were these women so eager to get arrested? Simple. It was a retirement plan, prostitute-style. By getting picked up, their cash would be inventoried by the cops, safe from the grasping hands of their pimps. Bonus: they’d score a bologna sandwich and a cup of coffee in lockup. Prostitution may not pay well for these hookers, but jailhouse hospitality had its perks.
Of course, not every working girl played it straight—or rather, crooked. Enter Mailbox Mary, a legend in her own right. Armed with self-addressed, stamped envelopes, Mary had a genius system: she’d mail her earnings to herself, ensuring her cash stayed safe from her pimp’s sticky fingers. Mary was also famous for flashing her tits at passing police cars, getting nothing in return but a few laughs and maybe a polite wave. You’ve got to respect a woman with a strategy and a sense of humor.
Outside the courtroom, the hallway was a catwalk for 1970s pimp fashion. Picture angry black men in platform shoes, fur-collared coats, and hats so ridiculous even a circus clown would’ve said, “Too much.” The pimps’ colorful outfits only added to the carnival-like atmosphere of the court, where public defenders in bad suits and toupees tried to do their best with cases that no one really cared about.
Then there were the upscale call girls—always white, always free on bail, and never setting foot in lockup. These ladies had slick lawyers like the legendary Dean Wolfson, who could make their problems vanish faster than a magician’s rabbit. Occasionally, a frightened young newbie would find herself caught in the mix, but a helpful social worker would usually guide her back to safety before the court could devour her innocence.
And let’s not forget the setting itself. With no air conditioning, the courtroom became a sauna in the summer, forcing the baliffs to throw open the windows. This meant proceedings often screeched to a halt as CTA trains thundered by, adding a soundtrack of screeching metal to the circus below.
Today, Branch 40 is a shadow of its former self. The loitering prostitute law has been declared unconstitutional, and 1121 S. State St. has been turned into a condo building. But back in the 1970s, Women’s Court was a spectacle of tits, trains, and human absurdity. They don’t make justice like they used to—and maybe that’s for the best.
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