Television: Here Come The Judges

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Sheindlin was tapped for the show by Larry Lyttle, president of Big Ticket Television, who argues that she is an antidote to America's not-so-rewarding experiences with the judicial system. "We broke the proscenium of the courtroom world with the O.J. trial, and when we pierced that proscenium we saw stuff we hated," he says. "When Judy showed the audience that she was decisive, that was the elixir for all the malaise that we'd suffered."

Lyttle must think there's a lot of pain out there, because he's also producing Judge Joe Brown. Brown is the only TV judge who continues to sit actively on the bench (he's using some of the vacation he accumulated over eight years to tape his show). Like Sheindlin, he rolls his eyes and yells at the punks in his video court ("Don't call the court 'Dude,'" he tells one youth). Brown, 51, grew up in South Central Los Angeles and has the fervor of a missionary, spouting buzz words like "com-mun-i-ty." His producers, like those for the other shows, scour court filings in search of camera-worthy cases with strong narratives, but Brown achieves extra conflict by pursuing civil actions that spring from criminal cases. "We're not really just small claims," he says. "We will be dealing with some very deep-level raw material." That does help make his show more exciting, but he personally fails to match the intensity of Sheindlin and hence comes off as an imitation.

Mills Lane tries desperately not to be an imitation. His show originally planned all kinds of innovations: one case per episode, scenes inside the judge's chambers, footage from the scene of the crime. Most of them were abandoned, however, and the slight changes actually implemented are ineffective. Instead, the show must rely on Lane, who, for an ex-Marine known in his Reno courtroom days as "Maximum Mills," is shockingly sympathetic, if in a flinty way. Lane, 60, is straight shooting without being superior and so honest that he describes his motive for doing the show this way: "If it's successful, I could make a lot of money." Lane's world feels small, rational and exceedingly earnest.

Almost as earnest is the father of judge shows, Joseph Wapner. From 1981 to 1993, his sessions of The People's Court entertained with silliness, not heated conflict. On Judge Wapner's Animal Court, the 78-year-old magistrate is back with his trusty bailiff, Rusty Burrell, only this time every case involves animals. Wapner's careful, evidence-obsessive yet laid-back style is only enhanced by a caged chow sitting in front of the defendant. "These are very serious cases, and people get very emotional about their animals," he says, "more emotional than they do about money or people."

Former Mayor Ed Koch, 73, brings his high-energy style to filling Wapner's old seat on The People's Court. Koch is a partner in a law firm, teaches at New York University, is host of a daily radio show, does another show for Bloomberg Television and is putting out his 10th book this fall. Just getting him to be quiet long enough to hear a case is impressive enough.