read the charges against you, tell you the maximum penalties, and ask if you’re going to hire your own attorney or need the court to appoint one for you.”
Most felons know to keep their mouths shut until they’ve spoken to an attorney, although someone will occasionally insist on trying to plead guilty then and there. I review their bonds and set a court date, usually about fifteen days out, depending on the arresting officer’s next regularly scheduled court date. The whole transaction takes about three minutes.
When the felonies were disposed of, the jury box filled again with misdemeanors and minor charges and I went through my spiel once more, something I would do each time a new group was brought up from the jail below.
Repeat offenders know the drill, of course. And for misdemeanors, they’ll step right up and plead guilty without the benefit of an attorney, but first-timers are less confident about the outcome.
Like today.
I looked at the defendant who was next in line. White. Male. Twenty-nine. Brown hair. A good haircut now growing out, which would indicate that he was in the early downward slide toward losing his personal pride. Half defiant, half sheepish. The shuck I held in my hand—the envelope that held his record and that I would not look at until I’d reached the disposition stage—was so thin that this was probably his first offense.
“Mr. Anderson, you’re here today charged with public intoxication,” I said. “I see that you were arrested Friday night, but you appear to have sobered up now. Do you intend to plead guilty or not guilty?”
He hesitated. “Not guilty?”
In a whisper that was clearly audible to everyone in the courtroom, the young black man standing behind him said, “Fool! You wanna get out today? Say guilty.”
He was right. The usual penalty for a minor charge like this is three days in jail plus court costs. If I give credit for time served, it saves taxpayer dollars and frees up space in the jail.
Anderson shrugged. “Guilty, ma’am.”
“I sentence you to three days in jail,” I said, “and give you credit for time.”
During the morning break, I ran into superior court judge Ned O’Donnell at the drink machine.
“How’s it going?” I asked. I knew he was presiding over a jury case, vehicular homicide by someone who had lost his license in a DWI case a few months before he smashed into another car and killed the mother of two small children. “You look harried,” I told him.
“Thanks,” he said dryly as he popped the tab on a Dr Pepper. “I have Ellen Hamilton sitting on the front row as close as she can get to the jury box. I’ve already had to warn her twice about huffing out loud every time Zack Young tries to make a point for the defense, but I can’t stop her from rolling her eyes and making faces.”
Young is one of the best attorneys in this part of the state and I’m sure Ellen is well aware of his win record in juried DWI cases.
“Better your court than mine,” I said and returned to my own in a lighter mood, ready for the next group of prisoners.
With the holidays upon us, many were there because they had started celebrating a little too early and a little too well. Several had used their five-finger discount to go Christmas shopping, while others had cut, shot at, or punched out a fellow citizen, but most of them limited their words to “Guilty” or “Not guilty” when asked for a plea and to a simple “Yes” or “No” on the question of an attorney, and things moved along at a fast clip.
When I first announced that I was going to run for the bench, Daddy was so opposed that it added another row of bricks to the wall that had grown up between us since my mother died. He hadn’t wanted me to study law in the first place. He thought there were too many unsavory characters wandering in and out of law offices, as he well knew, having wandered in and out of them many times himself back before I was born, when he was actively running a large bootlegging operation.
If he’d had his way, I would have stayed under his protective wing, teaching Sunday school or kindergarten, until he delivered me virginal and innocent into holy matrimony with someone who would be equally protective. It was bad enough that I was an attorney, representing clients who might or might not be innocent, but at least they were men and women who could afford my services and who could technically claim to be upstanding pillars of the community. As far as he was concerned, district court handled the dregs of humanity, and he did not want his baby girl mucking around in a cesspool.
Eventually, we reconciled enough that I could tell him about the miscarriage of justice that motivated me to run, and he even wound up using a combination of influence and blackmail to help me onto the bench. He’s still not happy about it, though; and I haven’t been able to convince him that trying to give justice to people who may never have had their fair share is the most satisfying career I could imagine.
Which is why doing first appearances never bores me.
I read through the charges, asked my questions, set court dates, and made sure the paperwork was in order so that there would be no holdup on my part that would prevent any eligible prisoners from a chance to be back in their own clothes by Christmas morning.
When the last paper slipper had shuffled out of the courtroom and I had signed the last document, both hands of the clock over the rear door stood straight up on twelve.
I tapped my gavel. “Court is adjourned till one-thirty,” I said and scooted out before anyone could grab the sleeve of my robe and hold me up.
Three minutes later, I was in my car, headed for the sprawling outlet center near the interstate just south of Dobbs.
The parking lot out there covers three or four acres and finding a space is not normally a problem. We’re about halfway between New York and Miami, though, so the place was jammed today with out-of-state license plates attached to huge RVs. Christmas week is when the whole East Coast seems to play fruit basket, and this is a logical place to stop for lunch and grab some last-minute presents at discount prices.
A loudspeaker was booming out “Let It Snow, Let It Snow, Let It Snow,” but here at midday, the air was so mild when I opened the door that I left my heavy coat in the car so it wouldn’t slow me down and hurried over to the card shop, where I immediately picked out another roll of wrapping paper and a bag of stick-on bows. With everything else that was starting to pile up, I’m grateful that Santa Claus leaves all his presents unwrapped, but
