dignity. Unfortunately, in Blackwell County, since these positions don’t generate much excitement, some of the judges who have occupied these positions have had a way of manufacturing their own.
If you’re a practicing lawyer in Blackwell County, it is painful to think of Thomas Bruton as a judge. It profits the bar more to realize that Bruton is like a tinhorn dictator in a small republic whose territory blocks access by other countries to the sea. Yet, thanks to the media, he is adored. Reporters and their bosses love judges who stick it to lawyers;
instead of exposing his contempt for the law and those who serve it, the journalism community finds him colorful, if a bit eccentric. So what if he stops a trial to tell the visiting schoolchildren to his court a funny story about the stupidity of lawyers? Bruton is good press; the law itself is boring and complex. A good whiff of scandal, however, and the media would turn on him faster than pimples surface on a tenth-grader just before his first date. But Bruton, independently wealthy because of a father who was truly a fine lawyer, has no need to enrich himself financially. Like a snake too lazy and fat to venture far from beneath his rock, he is content to feed his ego with the occasional publicity that comes his way.
This morning, Bruton is plainly delighted with the attention the Chapman case is bringing him. There is no point in pretending he has a problem with setting a low bond for Andrew Chapman, but Bruton is treating my client as though he were a surly slave who would try to hook up with the Underground Railroad as soon as he was returned to the plantation. “In setting a bond, I am troubled by the fact your client doesn’t have any family in Blackwell County, Mr. Page,” Bruton drawls pretentiously, peering down from the bench over his trifocals. “He doesn’t have any real ties to the community here.”
Unlike the Blackwell County Courthouse, the inside of the building where the municipal courtrooms are housed is with out character. Functional, without ornamentation, it has the feel and look of a clean Trailways bus station. The furniture is sturdy and solid but nothing you’d want to put on a post card. Standing beside the buff- colored defense table that looks as if it had been put together in high school shop class, I fold my arms across my chest and hide my hands under my biceps to keep Bruton from seeing how tightly I have my fists clenched. If he can see he is getting to a lawyer, he will pour it on. I want to tell him that he wouldn’t be satisfied with Chapman’s community ties if he had just been elected president of the Pinetree Country Club. Since there are no blacks at Pinetree except kitchen help, waiters, and caddies, this isn’t likely.
“As the court is aware,” I say louder than I need to, “the defendant is employed by the state of Arkansas and works as a professional in this county. He lives here; the crime he is charged with makes him a threat to no one, and he would welcome a speedy disposition in this matter in order to protect his professional reputation.”
With a look on his face that is intended to convey slyness but merely makes him look silly, Bruton, who only minutes ago accepted Chapman’s not-guilty plea, asks, “Are you waiving a probable cause hearing then? If you are, we’ll have this case bound over to circuit court right now.”
I look down at Chapman, and then back at the judge. It is tempting to advise my client to commit suicide on the spot just to get out of Bruton’s court. Actually, Bruton would be disappointed if I did, since he would be out of the spotlight.
The reason to go through with the probable cause hearing is to get a look at Jill Marymount’s case in advance, even though the result of a probable cause hearing with Bruton presiding is foreordained. Jurisdiction, or the power of a particular court to hear a case, is a royal pain in the ass in Arkansas.
Last year, for example, when I defended the murderer of a state senator, the case was filed directly by the prosecuting attorney in circuit court. Jill Marymount could have chosen to do the same here but elected to have the case originally filed in municipal court though it will doubtless end up in circuit for the full trial.
“No, Your Honor,” I say, “Dr.
Chapman is not waiving a probable cause hearing.”
Bruton’s mouth, as discolored as an overripe persimmon, turns downward in a frown. “Your client’s not a doctor.”
I don’t believe this. I whisper to Chapman, “Don’t you have a Ph.D. in psychology?”
Andy nods.
“Prom Fayetteville.”
I look up and try to keep my voice even.
“Dr. Chapman received his doctorate in psychology from the University of Arkansas at Payetteville. Would the court like him to bring in his diploma?”
Looking over my head at his audience, swollen today by the media and a few curious lawyers, Bruton counters with his own sarcasm.
“Mr. Page, my degree from that same institution probably says that I am a doctor of jurisprudence, and presumably, you are, too. But we do not call ourselves ‘doctors,” now, do we? That would be putting on airs, wouldn’t it?”
The petty little bastard. I say slowly, as if to a child, “My understanding of the law, Your Honor, is that a person is entitled to call himself anything he likes so long as it’s not for an illegal purpose.”
“No, we don’t,” Bruton says, ignoring me and answering his own question.
“And the policy in this court is that only physicians and dentists may refer to themselves as doctors.”
I look down at Andy and then back at the judge.
“Would the court feel more comfortable if I address the defendant by his first name?”
It takes Bruton a few moments to catch on. He squints at me as if his patience has run out.
“What are you insinuating, Mr. Page?”
That you are a racist asshole tyrant.
“Nothing, Your Honor,” I say blandly, “I’m just trying to find out how the court wants me to address the defendant.” Baiting him is not a smart thing to do: judges can always get back at you if through no other way than by dumping on your client. Still, there is a fine line that I haven’t crossed. Like a student who knows how far he can push a teacher, I keep my tone of voice flat and my face solemn.
At this point Bruton would rather play to the crowd than take the trouble to figure out if he can get away with holding me in contempt. A triumphant sneer comes to the old man’s lips.
“I don’t care what you call him just as long as it’s not ‘doctor’!” he thunders, looking around to see the expression on the faces of his audience.
I follow his gaze. There are a few snotty grins, but mostly the faces in the courtroom are frozen into embarrassed half-smiles that tell me they find this colloquy something short of a brilliant legal debate. Still, Andy shouldn’t have to put up with such blatant racism.
“Your Honor, I move that this court recuse itself. By the court’s failure to permit the defendant to use the title of ‘doctor,” the court exhibits an appearance of racial bias.”
Chapman shoots me a look of total dismay. If Bruton disqualifies himself, he might have to spend another night in jail because of the delay. Pat chance. There is no conceivable possibility that Bruton will not hear this case. The last thing a bigot like Bruton will do is admit to prejudice. What I’m worried about is how high I’ve sent Chapman’s bond by raising this issue. If I were black, I’d have more credibility.
White lawyers often deal with this issue by trying to work around it-pretending racism no longer exists and then using valuable peremptory jury challenges to weed out suspect jurors.
By raising this issue, I have committed a major faux pas. Officially, we are all reconstructed. Privately, nothing could be further from the truth; but, in the South, cowardice is considered good manners. Under no circumstances will we insult each other’s so-called honor.
Color creeps up Bruton’s neck. I have pissed him royally.
He knows he is vulnerable. There are too many stories the media has suppressed in the past.
“That’s ridiculous-motion denied!” he spits.
I clear my throat, waiting for inspiration to strike, when I am saved by an unlikely source. Fingering red suspenders that make him look about eight years old instead of like a young sophisticated professional on the make, Bobba Stewart pipes up, “Judge, we don’t have any objection to a bond of say, five thousand dollars. We don’t think this defendant is a major threat to attempt to flee the court’s jurisdiction.”
I look gratefully at Bobba, who nervously adjusts his turquoise bow tie. If he had disclosed this when I first asked him this morning what he thought would be reasonable (I had suggested that Andy be released on his own recognizance), I wouldn’t have sweat pouring down my sides now;
