walking in to teach an early- morning class on campus, or that I’m Hannibal Lecter being wheeled in on a handcart.
I spot Sara immediately, seated in the front row, just behind the partition. The look on her face when she sees me—un-shaved, shackled, led in by the arm—isn’t one I’m likely to forget. Almost as quickly her eyes cloud, then register confusion.
I try to communicate in some way, but I don’t know how. Somewhere on the periphery, I hear the sound of my own name called out by the bailiff. The guard leads me to the nearest of two tables facing the judge’s bench. I see a man in a dark brown suit already waiting at the other table, file folders stacked in front of him. While all of this is happening, my desperation mounts.
An hour ago, I couldn’t wait for this moment. Now here I am.
Where the hell is my lawyer?
The judge looks down at the docket in front of her, then looks down from the bench at me. Like the courtroom itself, she’s not what I expect, insofar as I’ve been led to expect anything. She’s blonde, late middle- aged, attractive, and though she appraises me over the top of a pair of bifocal reading glasses, the frames are fashionable, making her look more stylish than stern. She may well be the mother of young teenage daughters, as Douglas Bennett has told me, but she exhibits no outward evidence of a leniency disorder.
“Good morning, Mr. Callaway. Am I to assume you’ll be standing without representation?”
“No,” I say. The word hops out of my throat like a yelp. “I mean no, Your Honor. I have an attorney.”
She glances at the officer standing next to me. She glances to the man in the suit at the other table, who I gather must be the county prosecutor. She looks at me again and raises her eyebrows. “Is your attorney present?”
I’m grasping, craning for a look over my shoulder, as if my attorney might be hiding behind the potted ficus in the back. “I guess I don’t see him.”
“I guess I’ll take that as a no.”
“He said he’d be here.” My voice sounds feeble even to me.
He said he’d be here early,
I want to tell her.
We were supposed to go over our game plan.
Now I don’t have a game plan. This is just some guard from the jail beside me, not my pit bull lawyer. I’m not ready. “Is there any possibility for a recess?”
The judge sighs in the manner I imagine she reserves for people who have watched too many courtroom dramas on television. “If this were a trial or a grade school,” she tells me, “I might consider recess. Since this is your arraignment, I’ll ask if the People object to an informal continuance until the end of the misdemeanor docket. Perhaps that will give defending counsel time to change his tire or come out of the bathroom or whatever it is that seems to be keeping him.”
For a moment, when she says
the People,
I think of the audiencebehind me and wonder why the hell it should matter whether they object or not. Are they standing here in handcuffs with no game plan?
Then the county prosecutor speaks up from the other table. “The People have no issue with that, Judge.”
“Fine. Mr. Callaway, we’ll give your attorney some more time. If he hasn’t arrived before the conclusion of the session, you’ll be remanded to the custody of the county and this proceeding will be rescheduled for Monday morning. Do you have any questions?”
I have so many questions that I can’t decide which to ask first. Just then, the doors open at the back of the courtroom. My heart does a flip and relief floods my chest at the sight of Douglas Bennett hurrying up the aisle, carrying his leather satchel by the handle, his overcoat rippling behind him like a cape.
“My apologies, Your Honor,” he says. “Good morning.”
“Good morning to you, Mr. Bennett.” The judge glances at the large round clock on the wall directly above the bailiff’s head. “Cutting it a little close, wouldn’t you say?”
The jail guard turns over his
I spot Sara immediately, seated in the front row, just behind the partition. The look on her face when she sees me—un-shaved, shackled, led in by the arm—isn’t one I’m likely to forget. Almost as quickly her eyes cloud, then register confusion.
I try to communicate in some way, but I don’t know how. Somewhere on the periphery, I hear the sound of my own name called out by the bailiff. The guard leads me to the nearest of two tables facing the judge’s bench. I see a man in a dark brown suit already waiting at the other table, file folders stacked in front of him. While all of this is happening, my desperation mounts.
An hour ago, I couldn’t wait for this moment. Now here I am.
Where the hell is my lawyer?
The judge looks down at the docket in front of her, then looks down from the bench at me. Like the courtroom itself, she’s not what I expect, insofar as I’ve been led to expect anything. She’s blonde, late middle- aged, attractive, and though she appraises me over the top of a pair of bifocal reading glasses, the frames are fashionable, making her look more stylish than stern. She may well be the mother of young teenage daughters, as Douglas Bennett has told me, but she exhibits no outward evidence of a leniency disorder.
“Good morning, Mr. Callaway. Am I to assume you’ll be standing without representation?”
“No,” I say. The word hops out of my throat like a yelp. “I mean no, Your Honor. I have an attorney.”
She glances at the officer standing next to me. She glances to the man in the suit at the other table, who I gather must be the county prosecutor. She looks at me again and raises her eyebrows. “Is your attorney present?”
I’m grasping, craning for a look over my shoulder, as if my attorney might be hiding behind the potted ficus in the back. “I guess I don’t see him.”
“I guess I’ll take that as a no.”
“He said he’d be here.” My voice sounds feeble even to me.
He said he’d be here early,
I want to tell her.
We were supposed to go over our game plan.
Now I don’t have a game plan. This is just some guard from the jail beside me, not my pit bull lawyer. I’m not ready. “Is there any possibility for a recess?”
The judge sighs in the manner I imagine she reserves for people who have watched too many courtroom dramas on television. “If this were a trial or a grade school,” she tells me, “I might consider recess. Since this is your arraignment, I’ll ask if the People object to an informal continuance until the end of the misdemeanor docket. Perhaps that will give defending counsel time to change his tire or come out of the bathroom or whatever it is that seems to be keeping him.”
For a moment, when she says
the People,
I think of the audiencebehind me and wonder why the hell it should matter whether they object or not. Are they standing here in handcuffs with no game plan?
Then the county prosecutor speaks up from the other table. “The People have no issue with that, Judge.”
“Fine. Mr. Callaway, we’ll give your attorney some more time. If he hasn’t arrived before the conclusion of the session, you’ll be remanded to the custody of the county and this proceeding will be rescheduled for Monday morning. Do you have any questions?”
I have so many questions that I can’t decide which to ask first. Just then, the doors open at the back of the courtroom. My heart does a flip and relief floods my chest at the sight of Douglas Bennett hurrying up the aisle, carrying his leather satchel by the handle, his overcoat rippling behind him like a cape.
“My apologies, Your Honor,” he says. “Good morning.”
“Good morning to you, Mr. Bennett.” The judge glances at the large round clock on the wall directly above the bailiff’s head. “Cutting it a little close, wouldn’t you say?”
The jail guard turns over his
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