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Authors: Beth Groundwater
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against his lips then wrote on the legal pad in his lap: “Roger’s up next.”
Claire nodded and scanned the courtroom. The dozen or so other occupants of the benches seemed to be primarily pinstripe-suited lawyers, waiting patiently for their cases. Toward the rear of the courtroom, a short, middle-aged man with wispy brown hair caught her eye and gave a short wave. She studied his features, then looked away and frowned. She could have sworn she’d never seen him before.
Trying to get a sense of how Roger would fare, Claire focused on the proceedings before her, straining to hear every word.
The judge was a stout, white-haired black woman. She carefully explained the consequences of each type of plea—guilty, not guilty, and not guilty by reason of insanity, then waited for the young neo-Nazi to confer in whispered tones with his attorney. When he entered a plea of not guilty, the judge set bail, explained the reason for the amount, and scheduled a preliminary hearing.
The judge seemed both efficient and fair. Claire slowly exhaled the breath she’d been holding and unclenched her hands. Maybe the judge would be lenient with Roger.
As Swastika Scalp was led away, the bailiff announced Roger’s case. Dave stood and moved past Claire to the front of the courtroom.
She leaned forward and grasped the back of the bench before her.
A door opened in the left wall, beyond the railing. Accompanied by a uniformed guard, Roger shuffled through the door. He still wore the jail’s orange jumpsuit and ankle and wrist shackles. Dark shadows under his eyes suggested he’d had a sleepless night.
So intent on studying her husband for signs of strain or anger or anguish, Claire realized she’d missed the first few exchanges with the judge, and she moved her gaze away from Roger.
“I see you already have an attorney. You also have the right to confront and cross-examine witnesses . . .” The judge continued to list Roger’s rights, finishing with, “Do you understand these rights?”
Roger raised his chin. “Yes, your honor.”
Hearing his soft-spoken words made Claire’s throat ache.
“How do you plead?” the judge asked.
Roger straightened, looked directly at her, and spoke the words clearly, “Not guilty.”
Claire felt a jolt, as the words, unlike me , popped into her head. Her damp hands slipped on the bench back, and she gripped it harder.
The judge said, “Next is the issue of bail.”
The prosecuting attorney stepped forward. “Your honor, the accused has the resources to flee the country. He has a sizeable investment portfolio, owns luxury automobiles, and holds con siderable equity in his home. The people request this man be remanded without bail.”
Claire hadn’t realized Roger might have to stay in jail unti l his case was tried. She bit her lower lip. That would be awful, not just for him, but for her, too. Knocking around the large house by herself during the day was bad enough, but at night, every noise made her flinch. What if he was convicted? Then she’d be alone for years—her worst fear. She had thought she wouldn’t have to face it until she became an old widow like her mother, but now the possibility loomed near. And what would prison do to Roger? She felt faint.
Dave stepped forward. “Roger Hanover won’t be leaving Colorado Springs, let alone the country. He’s an upstanding citizen of this city who gives generously to local charities, and he’s never been arrested before. He is deeply attached to both his family and his career. As you can see, his wife is in the courtroom.” He pointed toward Claire and motioned for her to stand.
Claire flushed and rubbed her clammy hands on her skirt, her skin crawling from the stares of many eyes. She rose briefly and nodded before returning to her seat.
Dave turned back to the judge. “Mr. Hanover intends to stay and fight the charges since, as he stated so firmly, he is innocent.”
The judge peered over her reading glasses at
Claire nodded and scanned the courtroom. The dozen or so other occupants of the benches seemed to be primarily pinstripe-suited lawyers, waiting patiently for their cases. Toward the rear of the courtroom, a short, middle-aged man with wispy brown hair caught her eye and gave a short wave. She studied his features, then looked away and frowned. She could have sworn she’d never seen him before.
Trying to get a sense of how Roger would fare, Claire focused on the proceedings before her, straining to hear every word.
The judge was a stout, white-haired black woman. She carefully explained the consequences of each type of plea—guilty, not guilty, and not guilty by reason of insanity, then waited for the young neo-Nazi to confer in whispered tones with his attorney. When he entered a plea of not guilty, the judge set bail, explained the reason for the amount, and scheduled a preliminary hearing.
The judge seemed both efficient and fair. Claire slowly exhaled the breath she’d been holding and unclenched her hands. Maybe the judge would be lenient with Roger.
As Swastika Scalp was led away, the bailiff announced Roger’s case. Dave stood and moved past Claire to the front of the courtroom.
She leaned forward and grasped the back of the bench before her.
A door opened in the left wall, beyond the railing. Accompanied by a uniformed guard, Roger shuffled through the door. He still wore the jail’s orange jumpsuit and ankle and wrist shackles. Dark shadows under his eyes suggested he’d had a sleepless night.
So intent on studying her husband for signs of strain or anger or anguish, Claire realized she’d missed the first few exchanges with the judge, and she moved her gaze away from Roger.
“I see you already have an attorney. You also have the right to confront and cross-examine witnesses . . .” The judge continued to list Roger’s rights, finishing with, “Do you understand these rights?”
Roger raised his chin. “Yes, your honor.”
Hearing his soft-spoken words made Claire’s throat ache.
“How do you plead?” the judge asked.
Roger straightened, looked directly at her, and spoke the words clearly, “Not guilty.”
Claire felt a jolt, as the words, unlike me , popped into her head. Her damp hands slipped on the bench back, and she gripped it harder.
The judge said, “Next is the issue of bail.”
The prosecuting attorney stepped forward. “Your honor, the accused has the resources to flee the country. He has a sizeable investment portfolio, owns luxury automobiles, and holds con siderable equity in his home. The people request this man be remanded without bail.”
Claire hadn’t realized Roger might have to stay in jail unti l his case was tried. She bit her lower lip. That would be awful, not just for him, but for her, too. Knocking around the large house by herself during the day was bad enough, but at night, every noise made her flinch. What if he was convicted? Then she’d be alone for years—her worst fear. She had thought she wouldn’t have to face it until she became an old widow like her mother, but now the possibility loomed near. And what would prison do to Roger? She felt faint.
Dave stepped forward. “Roger Hanover won’t be leaving Colorado Springs, let alone the country. He’s an upstanding citizen of this city who gives generously to local charities, and he’s never been arrested before. He is deeply attached to both his family and his career. As you can see, his wife is in the courtroom.” He pointed toward Claire and motioned for her to stand.
Claire flushed and rubbed her clammy hands on her skirt, her skin crawling from the stares of many eyes. She rose briefly and nodded before returning to her seat.
Dave turned back to the judge. “Mr. Hanover intends to stay and fight the charges since, as he stated so firmly, he is innocent.”
The judge peered over her reading glasses at
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