It was a typical Tuesday in Sessions Court and Judge Darlene Sinclair was presiding over the morning parade of bad check writers, shoplifters, and simple assaults. All routine. Same charges, same pleas, same evidence, same results. And she had to clear them all off the docket.
The afternoon would bring preliminary hearings in felony cases. Equally routine. And despite disposing of close to fifteen cases already, Sinclair still had a third of the morning to go.
Misdemeanor Mornings, Felony Afternoons.
Sinclair stifled a yawn and, sighing, returned to the task at hand--sentencing an unkempt redneck who'd just pled guilty to an act of domestic violence.
"State's recommendation?"
Jayne Adams, Deputy District Attorney stuck with Misdemeanor Morning because a junior in her office was sick, rose to her feet. Jayne was a good lawyer, Sinclair reflected, but a little too inclined to mistake winning her cases because the defendants were guilty as sin for winning them because of her overwhelming prowess. Besides, Jayne had legs like a Barbie doll and wore short skirts to show them off, which reflected poorly on her professional judgment. Especially, Sinclair thought, when others don't have doll-legs, never did, have to sit behind a bench all day worrying about their behinds spreading, and don't like to be reminded of it.
"This is the third time, Your Honor," Jayne said. "He needs to go to jail...five days."
Defense counsel protested, and Sinclair split the difference by ordering an effective two: five days, three suspended. The redneck and his lawyer departed.
"Call the next case."
The Clerk scanned the printed docket. "State vs. Bollinger."
Sinclair found the entry. Shoplifting from Wal-Mart. Should be quick.
She studied the warrant: "That on the 30th day of May, 1996, Tommy Bollinger, did remove from Wal-Mart a certain package of condoms, with intent to take the same without payment..." The lawyers could stipulate the usual questions, the usual objections, the usual rulings, the usual answers--and the usual result.
On mornings like these, Sinclair felt like a machine, stamping out guilty verdicts from a mold. And so many defendants fit the mold perfectly, it was better not to think about the few that might not. But sometimes she thought about them anyhow. If only there were one person accused--just one--to give her something to decide.
When she took the bench seven years ago, she hadn't felt that way. She'd thought every case was unique, with its own peculiar facts to be ferreted out and mulled over. But seven years of the same faces, the same charges--the same, all the same--and the constant need to get it done, had done something to her. Something she wasn't sure she liked.
Sinclair looked from the warrant to the defense table where Jerry Morton, the Assistant Public Defender, stood beside his client.
Both looked like kids. Morton was two years out of law school, stocky and towheaded, with an almost invisible blonde mustache. He was twenty-seven but looked twenty. Bollinger was clearly a teenager, darkhaired, slender, good-looking with a trace of pimples across the bridge of his nose, well dressed in knit golf shirt and khaki trousers. A tall fifteen-year-old, Sinclair thought. And too well dressed to get the P. D.
"Shouldn't this be a matter for Judge Smith?" she asked. Smith was the Juvenile Judge.
Morton blushed red. "My client is eighteen, Your Honor."
"No offense intended, Counsel .... plea?"
"N-not guilty, if Your Honor please." Morton stood stiff, showing all the confidence of George Armstrong Custer at the Little Big Horn holding an empty revolver.
Sinclair shifted her eyes to Jayne Adams, an altogether more relaxed advocate. Her smirk told the Judge she'd offered a good plea bargain the defendant wouldn't take, and was relishing the stiffer sentence she thought Sinclair would impose.
Well, we'll see, Sinclair thought, not sure she liked the prosecutorial confidence.
"Call your first, Ms. Adams."
The first witness was Wal-Mart's house detective, a red-haired woman of about thirty named Gardner whose job was to wander the aisles dressed as any other shopper (meaning no blue smock and name badge) on the lookout for pilfering customers. Sinclair had heard her testify before and knew what she was going to say (more or less) before she settled into the witness-box, so she could study the courtroom while Gardner produced the state's sole exhibit, a small box of prophylactic sheaths, and told her story of seeing the defendant jam it into his nylon jacket and walk past the checkout line without paying.
The early morning crowd was gone, and the public benches were almost empty now. Sinclair noticed a more than ordinarily interested spectator seated behind the defendant and his attorney.
She was a stout woman somewhere between forty and fifty years old, her dark hair done up in a bun, who sat clutching a huge purse that rested on what remained of her lap. Sinclair thought she detected a family resemblance to young Bollinger, allowing for the differences in age, weight, and sex. The woman, however, had her eyes fixed on the witness, and appeared to be listening to her testimony intently.
So. Mother is here to see if young Tommy is a thief. Sinclair leaned forward and rubbed her chin. This might be more interesting than it looked.
Why would this boy steal condoms? Not because he couldn't buy them, surely. For a lark? Maybe. It depended on his personality. But Sinclair would bet he didn't have a juvenile record. The kid just didn't have that defiant look about him.
So why would a good boy steal condoms?
Maybe there didn't have to be an explanation. But Sinclair thought, in this case, what if there was? What if Tommy Bollinger didn't need to have an ugly dog of a conviction following him through his life?
Something about the mother...
Adams finished her direct and passed the witness to Morton, who rose to essay what cross examination he could.
"Uhh, you can't be sure Mr. Bollinger wasn't telling the truth, can you? He could have forgotten the condoms in his pocket?"
"I don't see how. It was less than five minutes." The house detective was used to questions like this.
"B-but answer the question. He could have forgotten?"
"I said I don't see how."
"But he could have?"
Adams didn't quite rise to her feet. "Objection, Your Honor. Asked and answered."
"Sustained. Mr. Morton, your client's credibility is for me to determine. He can testify."
Morton subsided into his chair, Custer awaiting the onslaught of Crazy Horse.
"N-no further questions."
"You may step down," Adams told the witness.
"Just a minute," Sinclair said, her eyes still on Bollinger's mother. "I have a question or two."
Adams and Morton both raised their eyebrows. Sinclair let the lawyers try their cases. She rarely asked questions.
"Ms. Gardner," Sinclair turned to the witness. "Was anyone with Mr. Bollinger on the evening in question?"
"His mother, Your Honor." The witness looked puzzled. What difference could it make?
"Is she in the courtroom today?"
"Umm.... Yes, ma'am. There." She pointed to the stony-faced matron.
Well, well. I was right, Sinclair thought. But does it matter? She decided to ask a few more questions.
"You talked with her when you made the arrest?"
"Yes. Her son walked out with her. She was standing by him."
"Was she pleased?"
Gardner's face broke into a broad grin. "No, Your Honor. She was very upset."
"Angry with her son?"
The grin became a laugh. "Yes ma'am. Very angry."
Jayne Adams rose.
"Your Honor, I'm reluctant to interrupt the Court--"
"Then don't, Ms. Adams. I think you can indulge me a moment or two."
Sinclair returned her attention to the witness. "Was she with him when he put the condoms in his pocket?"
"No, Your Honor. I didn't see her."
"Were there other people in the aisle?"
"Yes. It was pretty crowded."
"When you saw young Mr. Bollinger pocket the condoms, were you facing him or behind him?"
"I wasn't right in front of him. Across the aisle."
"In front of him or behind him?"
"More in front, Your Honor."
"But you turned to follow him out?"
"Yes, ma'am."
"Now think hard. Did you see his mother then?"
The witness paused, lips pursed.
"Yes, I think so. He met up with her at the end of the aisle. They talked for a minute, and then they started toward the checkout lines. I followed them."
"So she could have been behind you in the aisle when Tommy put the box of condoms in his pocket?"
Adams half rose, then sat. Pointless to object to the Judge.
"Yes, Your Honor."
"Thank you, Ms. Gardner ... Do counsel have other questions?"
Morton looked totally mystified. Adams shook her head.
The state rested; and Morton, uncomprehending but somehow more confident, put Bollinger on the stand.
Tommy had just seated himself when the door at the front of the courtroom opened to admit a new spectator. She was a stunning teenaged girl, blonde with blue eyes, full-figured for her age. Her eyes widened when she saw Tommy in the witness box, and her arm moved as though to wave, but quickly dropped to her side. The girl moved hesitantly to a seat near the front, to the right of the bench, opposite the defendant's mother. She caught the eye of the matron across the aisle, who shifted her stare from the witness to give the girl a look the prophet Elijah would have saved for Jezebel as she entered the Temple of Baal.
Tommy stammered his oath without taking his eyes from the lovely newcomer.
So the girlfriend is here, too, Sinclair thought; and then there was a click inside her head as the seed of her idea sprouted into a certainty.
Morton got through the preliminaries without a hitch. His client had turned eighteen in February, was just graduated from City High, had been an A - B student, had been accepted at State U. No juvenile record. A good boy who wouldn't shoplift. So far, so good. Then came the real questions:
Did he put the condoms in his pocket? Yes. Did he intend to pay for them? Yes. Why didn't he?
"I forgot."
End of Morton's questions. Sinclair hid a grimace. Hadn't she pointed where the idiot ought to go? Well, maybe a lawyer just can't be expected to impeach his own client, even for the client's own good.
Which is why they need me.
"How long did it take you to walk from the Health Aids Department out of the store, Mr. Bollinger?" Jayne began her cross with crisp confidence.
"I don't know. A few minutes."
"Less than five, wasn't it?"
"Maybe."
"And you're asking Her Honor to believe you forgot?" Jayne rolled her eyes, then looked directly at Tommy, waiting for his answer.
"Y-yes, ma'am," was all he said after a long moment.
"Nothing further."
There was no redirect, so Sinclair, more certain than ever that she knew what had happened, waded in on behalf of poor Morton.
"Tommy, you're eighteen years old?"
"Yes, ma'am."
"Just graduated from high school?"
"Yes."
"And graduation was one week after this event at Wal-Mart?"
"Uh-huh."
"Tommy, is it still customary for high school graduates to leave for the beach the day after graduation?"
"Yes, Judge."
"Were you planning to go yourself?"
Tommy squirmed in the witness box. "Yes, I was."
"Your parents had given permission?"
"I didn't need permission. I'm eighteen."
"But you wanted it anyway?" Sinclair pressed.
"Well, I wanted to take the car."
"And needed your folks' consent."
"I needed Momma's. My Daddy's dead."
"I'm sorry." Well, that explained the P. D. Momma would spring for bail but not a lawyer. And the kid wasn't working.
"And your Momma had said `yes'?"
"Yeah."
"You weren't going alone, were you? You were planning on going with friends?"
"Yes, ma'am." Tommy squirmed in the witness box, suddenly aware Sinclair was on to something. He looked to his lawyer for help, but Morton, who still didn't know what was going on, only shrugged. Adams was reclined in her chair, as though she wasn't sure where this was going, but didn't care--it couldn't make any difference.
"Did your friends include a young woman?"
The girl in the public seating put a hand to her mouth. Mrs. Bollinger fixed her eyes directly on her son. Tommy sat silent.
"Answer my question, Tommy," Sinclair prompted gently.
"Yes, Judge, my girlfriend."
"I suppose you thought you might need those condoms at the beach?"
There was a titter from the few remaining spectators. The girl, blushing red, did not join in.
"I guess."
"But if your momma found out your plans she would have withheld the car?"
Tommy sighed with resignation. "Yeah, I thought so."
Sinclair leaned forward. "Tommy, didn't you think you could get the condoms, buy them, and sneak them past your mother? But when you saw her turn up the aisle where you found them, you shoved them in your pocket so she wouldn't see. Is that what happened?"
"Yes, Judge."
"Were you going to come back and pay for them?"
"As soon as I could."
Sinclair settled back in her chair, tapping her teeth with a pen in thought. The crime of shoplifting required proof of intent to steal. If you intended to pay for what you walked out with, but didn't for some reason, you had to pay for it or give it back; you couldn't just keep it. But you weren't guilty of a crime. So it came down to this: what did Tommy intend to do?
She realized, then, that it was not the usual questions, the usual answers, the usual result. It was what she, Darlene Sinclair, believed happened in this case, with a good boy's record at stake.
"I believe you," she said finally. "The case is dismissed." Damn it, I am a judge, not a machine.
"What?" Jayne came out of her chair so fast she banged a pretty knee against the counsel table.
"Dismissed, Ms. Adams," Sinclair continued mildly. She realized she was smiling. Solving this minor mystery had been fun. "Costs are taxed to the state."
"Your Honor," Adams sputtered. "This is highly irregular."
"Not irregular, Ms. Adams. Just not guilty. Every now and then, one of them isn't guilty, you know. After all," she continued sternly, her smile suddenly gone, "this is a courtroom, not a factory."
Ignoring Adams' mystified stare, Sinclair turned her eyes back to the defendant. "You're free to go, young man."
And so Tommy was remanded to the custody of his mother, who had risen to await him just beyond the bar, purse clutched tightly in her hands. Young Tommy shook his lawyer's hand (as though Morton had played the slightest part in his acquittal), and before exiting with his mother, looked for his girl.
She was already on the way from the courtroom, nose in the air, her back rigid. Tommy opened his mouth as though to call to her, but evidently thought better of it. His mother whispered to him, and they began their exit down the aisle.
Well, Sinclair thought, not all problems are legal problems, and they don't pay me to solve any other kind. But at least the kid won't have a conviction on his record just for trying to keep his mother from finding out he was now a young man, with a young man's needs, and a young man's responsibilities.
She looked at her watch. Eleven-thirty. Lunch recess in thirty minutes, and she was suddenly looking forward to a sub sandwich and iced tea, spreading butt be damned.
"If there's nothing further," she said, "call the next case."
I am a lawyer from East Tennessee. I grew up in Western North Carolina. I have written stories, off and on, since I wasa teen.I am a graduate of the University of North Carolina at Chapel Hill, am married, have no children, but two cats.
Review by KellBrigan
Nov 20 2014
0 of 1 liked this
Not Enough Payoff to the Story
Interesting enough to keep me reading to the finish. Nice efficiency to the style.
The same theme might work with a more serious, and more mysterious, case, but this one is too trivial and hard to believe. I suspect a resolution would have been negotiated before the case went before a judge, even if the store did have a 100% prosecution policy. Also, the story raises the question of activist judges; why is a judge bending the law acceptable in this case, but unacceptable when the issue is same-sex marriage, capital punishment, etc.?
Personally, I found the line about a "...young man's needs" to be preachy and even a bit condescending. It's a matter of debate whether or not people should engage in premarital sex, and many people, male and female, are able to remain celibate. It's not a given that an 18-year-old is going to be or should be sexually active.
There are some technical problems with language, i.e. run-on sentences. Also, many one-sentence paragraphs should be combined.
The same theme might work with a more serious, and more mysterious, case, but this one is too trivial and hard to believe. I suspect a resolution would have been negotiated before the case went before a judge, even if the store did have a 100% prosecution policy. Also, the story raises the question of activist judges; why is a judge bending the law acceptable in this case, but unacceptable when the issue is same-sex marriage, capital punishment, etc.?
Personally, I found the line about a "...young man's needs" to be preachy and even a bit condescending. It's a matter of debate whether or not people should engage in premarital sex, and many people, male and female, are able to remain celibate. It's not a given that an 18-year-old is going to be or should be sexually active.
There are some technical problems with language, i.e. run-on sentences. Also, many one-sentence paragraphs should be combined.
Review by caesaramericus
Sep 16 2014
1 of 1 liked this
Good story
You could tell quickly that the writer was a lawyer or judge, him or herself. Very nice economy of style and neat rendering of the characters. Being slow myself, I wasn't sure at the end why the girlfriend was miffed; especially since she'd already seemed to signal some deep feeling for the predicament of her boyfriend, who'd just escaped a nick of justice right before she turned on her heel and stalked out of the court. But for that quirk, and people are quirky!, a pleasure to have read! David Walls-Kaufman