resplendent in an expensive charcoal gray pin-striped suit from Dillard’s.
The suit makes Clan look like some visiting dignitary rather than a petty thief confessing his sins. Tunkie Southerland and Frank D’Angelo, who with me form Dan’s male support group, are in the front row. I turn and glance at their solemn faces. It is as if we are expecting Clan to be sentenced to die in the electric chair.
I nod in the direction of my friend Amy Gilchrist, the prosecutor in this case. Amy, whom I realize now I haven’t seen in weeks, has obviously been sent down to the minor leagues as punishment for having an abortion. Amy, who perhaps is sad for a number of reasons, looks somber without her usual jewelry. She says in a puzzled tone, “I haven’t talked to the defendant’s attorney about this. Your Honor.”
Patting down an out-of-fashion Afro (only acquired since the election), Darwin Bell, who seems destined for a much higher judicial calling (except for his hair, he is developing a reputation for conservatism) squints at Amy as if to ask:
Why is he pleading guilty if there is no deal? Amy’s small palms turn out to her sides in a gesture of frustrated ignorance.
Normally, there is a litany of formal questions the judge will ask to assure himself (and to protect himself on the record in case there is an appeal) that he has a guilty client in front of him who is voluntarily pleading guilty and who knows the court is not obligated to accept the prosecutor’s sentencing recommendation, but here Clan is simply throwing himself on the mercy of the court with no questions asked.
“Judge, my client would like to make a statement about what occurred,” I say, confined by Clan to an embarrassingly small role in this drama.
Plainly puzzled by what he is witnessing, Darwin looks past us to the rest of his morning’s docket seated impatiently behind us. Lawyers are served first. For a group that contains a high percentage of drunks, druggies, street persons, and irritable cops, the men and women sitting behind the railing are remarkably restrained today, though not entirely silent.
In federal courtrooms (I’ve been in a total of two-one when I carried Oscar May’s files in a diversity of jurisdiction car accident case and last week on my first appointment in a minor, federal firearms violation case involving an alien from Panama), a majestic dignity pervades. There is no such mystique in municipal court. Darwin, whose already big shoulders look immense beneath his black robe, says casually, “Please do.”
Clan begins in a dignified, quiet voice that is several octaves below his normal gossipy, breezy tone.
“Your Honor, what happened is that I opened a package of Twinkles in the Quik-Pie on Texas Street and ate them. I had no intention of paying for them because I would have been too embarrassed to admit what I had done. I’m sorry and I apologize to the court and to the manager and to every member of the bar.”
Darwin Bell rubs the bridge of his nose as if a headache has settled in between his deep-set eyes. A fat white lawyer stealing Twinkles. What next? Amy Gilchrist, who had seemed on the verge of tears, says cheerfully to the judge, “Your Honor, for the last five years I’ve known Mr. Bailey to be an honorable and valued member of the bar, and I recommend that the court accept his guilty plea and order him to pay costs and to stay out of the Quik-Pie, and if there’re no other incidents of this nature within a year, to expunge his record.”
Looking squarely at the reporter from the Democrat-Gazette, the judge pauses for what seems like an eternity, then barks gruffly, “I’ll accept the prosecutor’s recommendation.”
Clan , blinking back tears, nods gratefully at Darwin Bell and whispers in a choked voice, “Thank you, Your Honor.”
Tomorrow there may be headlines charging lenient treatment for lawyers, but today justice reigns in Blackwell County. I wink at Amy, who manages a thin smile from hollow cheeks. She must be going through a living hell at the Prosecutor’s Office. Until this morning, I had never seen her perky face when it wasn’t bursting with energy and high spirits. This might have cost her job today. As Darwin hastily calls the next case, I make a note to call her. I know Clan will.
Before noon I swing by my old place of employment. It is virtually impossible to call the Blackwell County Division of Social Services office because of their automated telephone-answering service. They might as well have dug a shark-filled moat around the building, so effective is the system at denying access. After ten minutes of “dial this” and “dial that” with no results, I decide to hell with it. In sixty seconds I am back in the office of my old supervisor from my days as a case worker for the agency.
“Been seeing you on TV, Gideon.” Shelley Jenkins grins from behind her desk.
“But you’re looking a little rougher even in person.”
“Got any openings, Shel?” I ask, mugging for her so she won’t think I’m serious. At the rate I’m going, I ought to consider it.
“With this phone system though, I guess you’re trying to lay some people off.”
She cackles mournfully, “Isn’t it a disgrace?” Shelley, an obese woman in her early sixties with sad eyes, took a special liking to me for some reason. Actually, it was Rosa she probably enjoyed. When we had her to dinner, at least once every year, like a mother and daughter-in-law they conducted a comprehensive discussion of my shortcomings that covered my performance at home and at the office.
” I need some help,” I tell her after a few minutes of office gossip. The state is being sued because of the lack of resources and management problems in the Division of Child and Family Services. The papers have had a field day documenting the failures of the child welfare system. Rumors about mass firings crop up every month, according to Shelley.
I worked in this building for more years than I cared to remember, primarily as an investigator of dependency-neglect cases. Over the years I investigated scores of allegations of sexual and physical abuse in Blackwell County, but more often situations involving neglect. I have no memory of Olivia Le Master being in the system, but Shelley, who kept up with all the cases in the office, might, and I tell her what I’m looking for, “Olivia Le Master wouldn’t have been our typical poverty-stricken welfare mother. She’s a tall white woman who owns River City Realty. You’ve seen her ads on TV.”
“Threw the damn thing out ten years ago,” she mutters, opening her desk drawer. As I have seen her do so many times in the past, Shelley takes out a calligraphy pen and begins to doodle on green graph paper while she thinks.
“Around what year are we talking about?”
I shift in the uncomfortable wooden chair. If they keep this furniture much longer, they can sell it as antiques. This is one agency that doesn’t get in trouble for spending state money to redecorate bureaucrats’ offices.
“Maybe close to fifteen years ago,” I say, wondering if Olivia had another name back then. For all I know, she could have been married four times since her divorce.
Abruptly, Shelley stands, telling me, “I think I know who you’re talking about. I’ll be back in a minute.”
While she is gone, I look around her office, stilling an urge to go see who has my desk. Shelley has told me only three people remain in the entire office from the time I was there, which was only three years ago. The turnover is enormous.
Insufficient staff, low pay, and unqualified people who shuffle paper until the next tragedy hits the news have long made the place a revolving door. Why did I stay so long?
Much of the time I felt like a voyeur of horror. I know I would have gone crazy if I had accepted a supervisor’s job.
In a system this bad, you have to prove that a case worker lay in bed drunk for six months before you are allowed to fire him. Ordinary incompetence and negligence are part of the job description. On Shelley’s wall is a sign she has lettered herself.
“IP YOU GET YOUR PANTIES IN A WAD BEFORE 10 A.M.” YOUR MEDICINE ISN’T STRONG ENOUGH.”
Shelley returns, panting a bit as she comes through the door and shuts it behind her. Her blue polyester pants, freak-show size, strain against her hips as she turns the handle on the flimsy door.
“If you reveal where you got this information, I’ll be in bad trouble.”
I watch her ease her huge body into the chair, thinking she could set the governor on fire and no one would touch her.
“You know I’d never do that.” What motivates her to stay?
She’s been here twenty-five years. Low pay and bad working conditions only explain part of it. Actually, I know the answer.
Without making a federal case of it, she is totally convinced there is nothing else on earth she could do with
