Read Online Blood of Angels by Reed Arvin - Free Book Online

the rules for hearings are considerably more lenient. After three or four minutes, however, Rita’s story is drawn to an awkward halt by Judge Ginder, who holds up his hand for silence.
    â€œThis is a moving story, no doubt,” Ginder says. I realize I haven’t actually breathed in twenty or thirty seconds. Rita’s litany of horror paralyzed everybody in the room, except, thank God, Ginder. “We are not presently on the streets of Khartoum, Ms. West,” he says. “We are in the city of Nashville, Tennessee, where Mr. Bol is being held on very serious crimes. Is the court to understand that you have asked for this bail hearing because the internal psychology of the defendant is so tortured that conventional incarceration constitutes cruel and unusual punishment?”
    â€œIt’s deeply traumatizing to him, Your Honor. I would recommend that Bol be remanded to house arrest, with electronic monitoring.”
    â€œI see. Well, I sympathize with the young man’s story, but unless you have something more, I’m going to have to deny your client bail.”
    Rita takes this well, like the professional she is; she must have known that no matter how good she was on this day, she didn’t have a chance. I sneak a look behind me, wondering how the wall of young men are going to take the news that Bol isn’t getting out. But the woman beside Rita has not come to court this day to be a part of the furniture. She stands up, uninvited, and addresses the court. Under normal circumstances, this would have the bailiff escorting her out of the room before she had a chance to finish her first sentence. But it’s a bond hearing, so Ginder merely looks at her like she’s a kind of unwanted pest.
    â€œYour Honor,” she says, “I have something to say on this matter.”
    Rita looks pained; this isn’t in her ideal script for the day.
    â€œAnd who are you?” Ginder asks.
    â€œI am Fiona Towns, the pastor of the Downtown Presbyterian Church.”
    I look up. The voice is lower than I expected, with a sexy rasp. Pastor. Apparently, they’re making them a lot more attractive than I remember.
    â€œFine institution,” Ginder says.
    â€œThank you, Your Honor. I’m here to speak on behalf of Moses Bol.”
    â€œIn the future, I’d recommend you wait until called on to speak.”
    â€œYou weren’t going to call on me,” she says.
    Ginder gives his unpleasant look. “All right, Ms. Towns. Go ahead.”
    â€œJanuary 7, 1994, Your Honor.” This is followed by a long silence. Rita slumps down in her chair a little, like she wants to be somewhere else.
    Ginder looks at her blankly. “That’s it?”
    â€œThere’s also April 23, 1998. And October 27, 2002. I could go on, but I think you see my point.”
    â€œI don’t, as a matter of fact.”
    â€œThose were days when people accused of crimes similar to Mr. Bol were released on bail. By you.”
    Ginder’s eyes narrow; he senses he’s walking into a trap, but he doesn’t see the teeth yet. “Every case is unique, Ms. Towns. I’m sure that if those individuals were granted bail, it’s because the circumstances warranted it.”
    He raises his gavel, and Towns says, “As far as I can tell, Your Honor, the only circumstances unique to those defendants were that they were white.” The gavel stops in midair. I look up at the judge, as does every other head in the room, especially the media flacks. Ginder looks like he’s been struck, then turns into stone. I see Gavin Davies physically lean forward, like he’s a hungry dog and someone is unwrapping steak.
    Ginder sets down his gavel and looks out into the black sea, weighing his next move. He’s been a judge for almost twenty years, and he knows how things play in the media, how context is everything, how there isn’t going to be a way to put into print how