first black judge.
I rushed through my own calendar and slipped into the back of Courtroom 2 as the case in front of A.K.’s was winding down.
The defendant here was a black youth who looked to be no more than sixteen or seventeen and he must have been found guilty of the charge because Parker was listening to a plea for leniency from a man who wore black pants and a short-sleeved white shirt with a dark red tie. From his words and measured tones, I immediately knew he was a preacher.
His back was to the spectators and I couldn’t see his face until he turned to gesture to an elderly black woman seated several rows behind him. I know most of the preachers in this district, black and white, but this face was unfamiliar. His skin was only a shade or two darker than mine, there was no gray in his hair and he was built like a linebacker. Yet there was a compelling gentleness in his voice when he spoke of the boy’s first lapse from the path of righteousness that his grandmother had set out for him.
“What’s the charge?” I whispered to the bailiff who’d opened the door for me.
“Shoplifting,” he whispered back. “Stole some of them electronic gizmos from the Wal-Mart. Worth about twenty dollars each.”
“This
“But not his last if the law doesn’t come down hard before he starts thinking that coming to court is no more onerous than sitting through one of Reverend Freeman’s sermons,” Cyl said sweetly.
“Sorry, Sister DeGraffenried,” Freeman said with feigned contrition. “I didn’t realize you were one of my congregation.”
Some of the attorneys and police personnel sitting on the side bench grinned. Reid was sitting there, too, but I was glad to see that he didn’t join in the ripple of mirth. He was finally getting some smarts about Assistant District Attorney Cylvia DeGraffenried, who was prosecuting today. I’d have been a lot happier if it was any other member of Doug Woodall’s staff, or even Doug himself.
Cyl is all things bright and beautiful. She prepares every detail of her cases, is up on precedents, and has a win/loss percentage that would look good on anybody’s scorecard. Mid-twenties. Law degree from Duke. Classic beauty. Drop-dead size-six figure. She even has what my African-American friends tell me is “good” hair. It waves above her large brown eyes and falls softly around her perfectly oval, dark brown face.
That’s the only thing soft about her.
No sense of humor and even less compassion.
“Mitigating circumstances, Your Honor,” defense pleads.
“Rationalization,” she snaps back.
And tough as she is on white offenders, she’s even tougher on blacks. Especially young black men.
We still have a couple of white judges who like her attitude. Although less quick to agree when it’s a white face, they nod solemnly when she pushes for the maximum sentence for a black one.
The rest of us have quit trying to get DA Douglas Woodall to rein her in.
“Is she unprepared? Shaky on her precedents? Prosecuting on frivolous charges?” he asked me when I first complained that his new ADA ought to ease up.
No, no, and no, I had to admit.
“Number four in her class,” he said happily. “Sharp young black woman like her, she could be clerking for one of the Justices up in Washington. Or pulling in high dollars at some politically savvy law firm. I won’t be able to keep her once she decides where she wants to go. In the meantime, I’d be a fool if I did anything to rush her.”
The last time I grumbled, Doug just smiled and murmured something about approval ratings.
That was two years ago and Cyl DeGraffenried’s still here. Still pushing for the max even when the offense is minimal. My sister-in-law Minnie’s convinced that Cyl’s a closet Republican, since most of the courthouse is Democrat and she seldom socializes. Oh, she comes to every official function, but I’ve never seen her actually enjoying herself or dishing with any of our colleagues.
No, Cyl DeGraffenried’s the cat that walks alone, and, like most of my fellow judges, I’ve almost quit wondering why she hasn’t yet moved on to bigger things. As a rule, I just ask her what the State’s recommending in the way of punishment and then cut it in half.
Happily, Luther Parker is usually of the same mind even after all these years of practicing law. On the other hand, he’s not a fool either.
“You’re new to Colleton County, aren’t you, Reverend Freeman?”
“Yes, sir. My family and I were called to Balm of Gilead about six weeks ago.”
“From Warrenton, I believe I heard somebody say?”
“Yes, sir.”
“So it might be it’s a little early for you to know this young man as well as you might think you do?”
“Man looketh on the outward appearance, Your Honor. God has shown me his heart and it’s a good heart.”
Coming from just about anyone else, those words would have sounded sanctimonious as hell, but somehow the Reverend Freeman made them sound earnest and sensible.
