post to Douglas Bennett, who takes his place beside me at the table. “Yes, Your Honor. Un in tentionally so.”
“Is everything all right?”
“Yes, thank you. Just a little winter engine trouble.”
“It’s cold out there.”
“Again, apologies to the court. We’re ready.”
We who? How can we be ready? I have a hundred things to tell him, and we haven’t even spoken yet.
In fact, Douglas Bennett still hasn’t looked at me. I’m staring at the side of his face, practically begging for eye contact. I want to see him make an
OK
sign with his thumb and forefinger, the way he did last night on his way out of my cell.
“Fine.” The judge folds her hands in front of her. “Let’s proceed.”
“Thank you, Judge. We’re ready.”
“As you’ve said.”
Bennett offers the court a slightly harried grin, places his bag on the table, and fumbles with the straps. I can’t help noticing his general disarray. If I woke up feeling like I slept on a sidewalk, my attorney looks like he slept in the nearest doorway. His tie is crooked, shirt collar skewed. His hair, neatly groomed last night, now looks dull and uncombed, matted flat on one side. His eyes are red- rimmed and puffy, and there’s a general blotchiness in his complexion.
“As Your Honor knows, my name is Douglas Bennett, here on behalf of the defendant, Tom Callaway, a respected professor of literature here at the—”
“Paul,” I whisper, derailing his already wobbly rhythm.
Bennett finally glances my way. He leans over, lowering his voice to a private level. “What?”
“My name is Paul.”
“What?”
Jesus. As I lean closer, my spirits sink to a new low. The sour tang of alcohol hangs around my attorney like a cloud. There’s no hiding it. No way to mistake it. It’s twelve minutes past eight in the morning, and Douglas Bennett smells like a gym sock soaked in bourbon.
“You said
Tom,”
I tell him, still whispering, but what’s the point? Any optimism I’d developed after three hours of sleep and a fried egg sandwich has drained away like so much dishwater. “My name is Paul.”
“Paul Callaway,” Bennett clarifies for the court. He straightens himself and clears his throat. “As I said, Dr. Callaway is a respected, as I said, professor here at the university. He is a resident of the … ah… of the Ponca community, where he and his wife… the Ponca Heights community, where he and his wife Brenda own a home.”
I close my eyes, willing myself to wake up. Surely I’m still back in my jail cell, having some kind of terrible dream. Where is the legal gunslinger I met just a few hours ago? The guy filedunder B for Ballbreaker? Who is this shabby, stammering wino in the expensive suede overcoat beside me?
I hear a fluttering sound. When I open my eyes, I see Douglas Bennett stooped at the waist, scooping up a file folder and a fan of papers from the carpet.
“At this time,” Bennett says, laboring to return to an upright position, clutching what I assume must be the contents of my case file in his arms, “the defense waives a reading of the charges and we respect… that is, we request…”
“Mr. Bennett,” the judge says sharply. She leans forward and narrows her eyes. “Have you been drinking?”
“Excuse me, Your Honor?”
“I asked you a direct question. Have you been drinking?”
There’s a ripple of chatter behind me: a few whispers from the gallery, a low chuckle or two. I can hardly believe it. This is actually getting worse.
Douglas Bennett pauses as though he, too, can hardly believe it. He produces a facial expression that seems to indicate that he’s heard the question and it has taken him aback. Or maybe bending over to pick up my case file has altered his equilibrium. Either way, he’s swaying noticeably on his feet.
He does his best to camouflage the imbalance, taking a moment to arrange his snarl of papers. He taps the file folder on the table, squaring away the edges. While he’s doing
“Is everything all right?”
“Yes, thank you. Just a little winter engine trouble.”
“It’s cold out there.”
“Again, apologies to the court. We’re ready.”
We who? How can we be ready? I have a hundred things to tell him, and we haven’t even spoken yet.
In fact, Douglas Bennett still hasn’t looked at me. I’m staring at the side of his face, practically begging for eye contact. I want to see him make an
OK
sign with his thumb and forefinger, the way he did last night on his way out of my cell.
“Fine.” The judge folds her hands in front of her. “Let’s proceed.”
“Thank you, Judge. We’re ready.”
“As you’ve said.”
Bennett offers the court a slightly harried grin, places his bag on the table, and fumbles with the straps. I can’t help noticing his general disarray. If I woke up feeling like I slept on a sidewalk, my attorney looks like he slept in the nearest doorway. His tie is crooked, shirt collar skewed. His hair, neatly groomed last night, now looks dull and uncombed, matted flat on one side. His eyes are red- rimmed and puffy, and there’s a general blotchiness in his complexion.
“As Your Honor knows, my name is Douglas Bennett, here on behalf of the defendant, Tom Callaway, a respected professor of literature here at the—”
“Paul,” I whisper, derailing his already wobbly rhythm.
Bennett finally glances my way. He leans over, lowering his voice to a private level. “What?”
“My name is Paul.”
“What?”
Jesus. As I lean closer, my spirits sink to a new low. The sour tang of alcohol hangs around my attorney like a cloud. There’s no hiding it. No way to mistake it. It’s twelve minutes past eight in the morning, and Douglas Bennett smells like a gym sock soaked in bourbon.
“You said
Tom,”
I tell him, still whispering, but what’s the point? Any optimism I’d developed after three hours of sleep and a fried egg sandwich has drained away like so much dishwater. “My name is Paul.”
“Paul Callaway,” Bennett clarifies for the court. He straightens himself and clears his throat. “As I said, Dr. Callaway is a respected, as I said, professor here at the university. He is a resident of the … ah… of the Ponca community, where he and his wife… the Ponca Heights community, where he and his wife Brenda own a home.”
I close my eyes, willing myself to wake up. Surely I’m still back in my jail cell, having some kind of terrible dream. Where is the legal gunslinger I met just a few hours ago? The guy filedunder B for Ballbreaker? Who is this shabby, stammering wino in the expensive suede overcoat beside me?
I hear a fluttering sound. When I open my eyes, I see Douglas Bennett stooped at the waist, scooping up a file folder and a fan of papers from the carpet.
“At this time,” Bennett says, laboring to return to an upright position, clutching what I assume must be the contents of my case file in his arms, “the defense waives a reading of the charges and we respect… that is, we request…”
“Mr. Bennett,” the judge says sharply. She leans forward and narrows her eyes. “Have you been drinking?”
“Excuse me, Your Honor?”
“I asked you a direct question. Have you been drinking?”
There’s a ripple of chatter behind me: a few whispers from the gallery, a low chuckle or two. I can hardly believe it. This is actually getting worse.
Douglas Bennett pauses as though he, too, can hardly believe it. He produces a facial expression that seems to indicate that he’s heard the question and it has taken him aback. Or maybe bending over to pick up my case file has altered his equilibrium. Either way, he’s swaying noticeably on his feet.
He does his best to camouflage the imbalance, taking a moment to arrange his snarl of papers. He taps the file folder on the table, squaring away the edges. While he’s doing
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