accused and their attorneys and agreed with most of them, although I did increase a couple of the penalties and lowered some of the others depending on the aggravating or mitigating circumstances of each case.
Not everything was serious that afternoon and a certain holiday lightheartedness permeated the proceedings once a twelve-year-old child took the witness stand to testify that yes, indeed, she certainly did see the defendant pick up a two-by-four and smack her uncle on the head. With the face of an angel, blond curls, bright blue eyes, and a ruffled white blouse, she could have stepped off a Christmas card. She placed her small hand on the Bible and swore to tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth.
Because of her age, I leaned forward and said, “Do you understand what you just said, Taylor?”
Taylor nodded her curly blond head. “Yes, ma’am.”
“And do you know what will happen if you don’t tell the truth?”
“Oh, yes, ma’am,” she said earnestly. “I’ll go to hell and the devil’s fiery furnace.”
Suppressing a smile, I told Ms. Walsh she could proceed. I thought it was safe to assume that we’d hear nothing but truthful answers to her questions.
In the late afternoon, I looked up and saw my niece Jessica enter the courtroom. There was a lull in the proceedings as Walsh conferred with an attorney who wanted to change his client’s plea, and I motioned Jess forward.
“What’s up?” I asked in a low voice, seeing the unhappiness on her face.
“Uncle Dwight wanted to talk to Joy—Joy Medlin—and she asked me to come with her. But now he won’t let me stay in the room. She said she didn’t want a lawyer, but I’m afraid she’s going to say something she’ll wish she hadn’t and shouldn’t she have somebody in there with her? Somebody on her side?”
“How old is she, honey?”
“Eighteen. And yes, I do know that means she’s an adult and can speak for herself, but she’s hurting so bad, she can’t be thinking clearly.”
“Did you call her parents?”
“No. She didn’t want them to know where we were going.” Her eyes were troubled as she confessed, “They think we’re Christmas shopping.”
Joy Medlin had been at that party, so if she was now spilling her soul to Dwight, it wasn’t much of a stretch to wonder if she was responsible for the alcohol in Mallory’s bloodstream.
“I’m sorry she didn’t wait and get an attorney,” I told Jess, “but your Uncle Dwight’s not going to put thumbscrews on her. He’ll go by the book.”
“But—”
“Don’t worry, Jess. For what it’s worth, if she tells him anything that’s self-incriminating—
It was Job’s comfort, but the best I could offer under the circumstances, and she accepted it glumly.
“Now I’ve really got to get back to work. Are you still sitting with Cal tonight?”
She nodded and I watched her leave as unhappy as when she came. I couldn’t fathom why Joy would spike her best friend’s Coke, if indeed that’s what she’d done, but I’ve had enough teens in my courtroom—hell! I’ve watched enough of my own teenage nieces and nephews mess up—to know that they can do stupid and impulsive things without considering the consequences.
Like Frederick Arnold Hallman, seventeen, white, brand-new short haircut, and dressed in a gray suit he had outgrown. He rose to plead guilty to setting off a string of firecrackers inside a local movie house. An elderly black man had thought a trigger-happy gunman was firing randomly and promptly had a heart attack. The man had recovered and the boy had been so genuinely remorseful that he had mowed the man’s grass all summer and they had become friends. With the older man there to speak on his behalf, I gave an appropriate fine, added some community service, and put the boy on unsupervised probation for six months.
My last case for the day was a middle-aged black man who had violated his probation so that he was not only on the hook now for his original suspended sentence, but was about to get an additional three months’ prison time.
This was not the first time he’d faced lockup, and his attorney had come prepared. “Your Honor, my client hopes that in view of the season, you’ll let his two sentences run concurrently rather than consecutively.”
Her client was nodding vigorously and I fixed the man with a stern look. “And why should I do that, Mr. Adams?”
“ ’Cause of all my hardships, ma’am. See, I’ve got a lot of people depending on me. My mama’s got the sugar, my wife’s real poorly, and now my daughter’s got the smiling mighty Jesus.”
“The what?” I asked.
“The smiling mighty Jesus,” he repeated.
I looked at his attorney, who with a perfectly straight face said, “I believe his daughter has spinal meningitis, Your Honor.”
“In the spirit of the season, hmm?” I said, matching her deadpan face. “Very well, then, Mr. Adams. Both sentences to run concurrently. And I hope your daughter recovers soon.”
Bridesmaids are always being told that those long Cinderella-type gowns they’re required to buy can be worn again to cocktail parties and formal occasions.
Not true.
And the three short dresses I’ve walked down various aisles in? One was a sickly shade of brown for an autumn wedding, one was stiff satin in Pepto-Bismol pink for Valentine’s Day, and the third had a lime green bodice, a wide coral waistband, and a turquoise flared skirt. (I believe that wedding was supposed to evoke the beach.)
