Shorts4Dinos
Shorts4Dinos
And Hope Someone Says Walk
wc: 7443 2025
The idea was almost introduced in passing. Did I want to go to court and talk to the Defense Attorney? Just tell them my client was in a program and see what happened. It would be a nice thing to do, not necessary though, not a mandatory part of the job. It was just if I wanted to. He had disappeared a couple weeks earlier, had missed his mental health appointment and shown up not in the hospital where we usually checked first, but in the jail registry. His girlfriend was taking care of his dogs. Property Management wanted to clean up his room. My coworker had just gone to court with one of her clients, an older guy on some prehistoric charge, got him off, compliant.
Beyond being called as a juror a week after my eighteenth birthday, where I was instructed by my higher ups[1] to say missing school was too much of a hardship to serve as a juror, I’d never been in court. I was raised in a comfortable and prosperous enough environment[2] that survival was just about a guarantee, and most of my friends were too, and nobody I’d known had been the victim of racial profiling; at least to enough of a degree to have the law sent at them in any permanent way. I didn’t even experience courtrooms through entertainment; either too wordy and slow or the crimes too explicit and heart strangling, the bullets too head driven or a storyline too sexually and/or childly abusive for me to seek out. The sheer volume of courtroom dramas that I’ve spent my life ignoring was enough for me to think this was something I could handle.
But could I do it? I’d only been there five months and although helping clients discuss rent, jobs and benefits was confusing and paperwork heavy, and the general steering towards food banks, mental health coordination and substance use counselors was important, the opportunity to leave the apartment complex, go even deeper into the field as it were, was an exciting prospect. One that would likely mean I could take my time getting back and grab a donut and long lunch after. It was part of my job of keeping them housed. My client would lose his housing if he was gone too long. He was just in on a gun charge, possession with the intent to sell (not use) and was looking at $125,000 bail. Plus prison, I’ve heard, sucks.[3]
ARRIVAL
I was taking it seriously, I was already sweating the type of nervous, excited, stinky perspiration that gives middle schoolers odorous fame. The building was just a few stories high, nondescript and across the street from a concert hall. There was a brief security line. The hall was eggshell and brightly lit, the lawyers were somewhat jovial—conversing and even laughing with each other. The plain-clothed seemed focused on where they were going but not morbidly so. I was unincumbered as I went from doorway to doorway, looking for M-33, finding room 33 but not finding my client. After calling my coworker—who told me to ask a bailiff there—I was ever so kindly and sweetly informed I was in the wrong house, the Civil courthouse, with daytime TV disputes and only money on the line. We’ll call it a clerical error.
The building at the base of the three-block stretch was a variable protrusion of glistening white granite and terra cotta. It read City Hall, which was probably why a building shaped like that hadn’t been reconstructed in some way, especially in juxtaposition to what was my destination. To the left of the razzle dazzle of manly pomp, was a brutalist and drab, twenty story high concrete circumstance pockmarked by night black windows. The two’s proximity seemed no accident and if the Hall was indeed facing me, it would seem that the court was its right hand.
It turned out I was entering through the back, through a pair of doors, although another ten or so panned to the far side of the building. The ceilings were much higher than the civil court, the walls a stormy grey and the floors a turbulent benitoite. I fell in line with the crowd. An undertow of crackling nerves was palpable as we were shepherded between two rows of haphazard and carpeted temporary walls that hadn’t been picked up or rearranged since 2002. The walls divided us from an empty, ballroom sized marble floor with nothing on it and no reason for anyone to really be on it but was still clearly thought out and designed at a time pre-security, I guess, which created this weird, extra herded and or relinquished feeling of confinement which, like pretty much every other kid who was too young to remember 9/11, is commonplace at just about every public/large gathering they’ve ever been to and for that reason isn’t quite annoying or safe but unnerving in a subtle, chips away at your psyche that maybe danger does indeed always lurk to the point that nobody really feels safe anywhere anymore, kind of way. The crowd, or at least myself, were made more comfortable by the security seeming fairly laid back and relaxed. They were also Black which gave me the feeling of potential safety in impartiality with the absence of racially nervous/predatory profiling, as far as that’s possible for the uniformed, and from what I could tell, relieved some tension in general amongst the scanned, some of whom chatted or joked with them.
There was then a line directly to the elevators and to the left of them a little booth, similar to one found in grand central station but instead of train information, the presiding judges and their rooms lit the LED screen above the attending bailiff. There was a doorway to the left with the smell of the cafeteria wafting from it, a room that indeed beckoned but never enough for me to sample. The outskirts of the food room were visible from the approach to the back entrance and every time I passed, the tables were largely empty except for one mussed and bleary-eyed person half-heartedly gnawing two slices of bread or just generally looking wrung out.
We were directed towards the stairwell, the elevators a snail’s pace and stuffed. This migration gave legs and shoes to the mass. It was clear everyone in the place was dressed up. Slacks, collared shirts, jeans, hoodies, dresses, sneakers, boots, fedoras, all were clean and crisp. It was also clear families were involved. Not with crying children but rather moving in tight packs, stern faced and concerned, speaking to each other in hushed tones and, if looking around, had eyes that bore or wept or put on a stoic veneer of bravery.
The stairway was slim and concrete and cold and brightly lit but barren and industrial and sad, so people were moving quickly, like salmon upstream, popping through doorways. I went towards the bear’s jaw at the third floor, entering a long hallway of ornate wooden doors and bench lined walls. It was lit with dim, diffuse LED panels, the type that stay level with the ceiling, and which lined the walls rather than the middle, at points diving in, creating dispersed, square, disorienting rings of light that made the walk unpleasant.
Left and right, clean cut, mustached and mostly White and Hispanic men gathered in navy uniformed, badged groups. It was unclear if they were comfortable or not. Their body language, with the thumbs tucked in various places and feet spread apart was incongruent with their darting eyes as they spoke to what I would learn was often prosecuting attorneys. The rest of the hallway was furrowed brows and nervous glances, the uniformed omnibelts making for a discomfort amongst the civilians.
The numbers for the door were in gold painted metal, or perhaps real gold, and the removable nameplate of the judge was in the same style, clear and somewhat elegant. There was no welcome doormat or instructions to wait for the tone or light to enter, but there were two, clip art paper signs taped to the door warning to not keep it open and to not use your phone. I stood there, staring at it, waiting for something to happen. Nobody walked out. To the right of the door were about six cops talking to a woman in tan and wearing glasses, using “and then maybe I’ll” in a way that made me skeptical that she was changing testimony or doing something fishy until I realized if the lawyer didn’t know anything about the case, they wouldn’t know how to argue it. It must be witnesses that can’t be talked to. Or maybe they could. I really had no idea. A lot to learn. I glanced around and nobody seemed to be stopping me, plus I was late, so I stepped inside.
Nobody was being sentenced to life in prison or fighting the bailiff or representing themselves or shouting about inequity or being acquitted on all charges. The room was pretty much empty. The judge’s seat was empty. There wasn’t even a place for jurors. There were some eight benches in two columns on my side, which were spotted with regular looking people then a little quarter wall with a saloon type door where a couple tables had chairs facing the judge’s stand. Those chairs were empty too. There was a witness stand, to the judge’s right, also empty. The only person who seemed to be ready for action was the bailiff, who sat on the far edge of the room and stared at the computer screen an approachable distance away.
A few suits (all genders) were quietly intimating with each other near what appeared to be a sign in page and potentially where the stenographer sat. They seemed less serious and even friendly with each other but not quite relaxed. One handed another a coffee cup. Someone to my side sighed. I sat as far back as I could and put my glasses on to read a whiteboard behind the bailiff’s head that had names, my client’s included, and numbers next to these names. I approached to ask him who the defense lawyer was for my client, he said I could speak to the lawyer when they called my client’s case. It would probably be clear at that point.
I returned to my seat and took stock of the human geography. I am a White man, of mostly Eastern European Jewery and Sicilian descent, passable for Middle Eastern or Latino, usually by those groups only. The dynamics of me being in this situation are hard to see clearly from the inside but is probably just generally good context to have. I was also raised in the liberal[4] city of Seattle, so have been raised socially justicely aware enough to know that a huge and disproportionate portion of the prison population is Black especially, and Brown[5] definitely as well, the economic stature being largely poor folks.
The other piece to this is that none of this is new. People have been aware of this disastrous inequality for well over thirty years, 80 even, 150, the 1600s, before? So whether it exists is not really the question but why, which I am in no way qualified to answer, but others who are can be easily found. The bailiff was Black and wore the classic, sheriff-type uniform, the lawyers were White, Hispanic or Asian, dressed in black, charcoal grey or navy (non-gendered) suits. The stenographer was White, the translator was Hispanic. All those on the far side of the berm were crisp in attire, and makeup, although not in an overly pretentious way, and appeared relatively young and bright and alive in the way younger professionals with a certain amount of goals and career success tend to be. By their attitude and grace, it was clear this was another day at the office, and this sign in sheet was their water cooler. It was strange to see such open and comfortable conversation in front of those awaiting judgement, especially since it seemed some would be providing support and others would be doing the exact opposite. That’s not to say they shouldn’t be able to have some down time, or to say it’s evil to compartmentalize what seems like an impossibly stressful job for relatively little pay (as public attorneys), but it did feel like looking into a teachers lounge on exam day when your entire grade relies on this and seeing the teachers playing hangman with your friend’s name as the word.
The folks seated with me, quiet and often blowing pursed air out expanded cheeks, or rubbing their stressed eyes with their palms, were Hispanic or Black, literally not one WASP, and wore expressions that ranged from optimistic to bored to terrified to nervous to asleep.
There was a gavel. A large red one on this judge’s stand. It was shiny though, like super shiny, to the point where it was kind of like, I get it, I get it, it’s a gavel, this is a court room. Next to the GAVEL were a fake potted plant and fake flowers, then the classic bronze justice scale sword person and a nametag. Behind the stand were two inside flags, flaccid and sad as inside flags are, stranded on their poles.
There were a surprising number of computers in the courtroom. One for the bailiff and another for the stenographer (again, assuming) and a couple for the judge. I assumed they weren’t playing solitaire; nobody had the blank and beady stare of the homicidally bored when they were using them. There was also a large television on the wall behind the witness stand. The last few accoutrements that adorned the room were the names and numbers on thd whiteboard and three large paper calendars showing three months—the current and the following two—on the wall opposite. Many of these dates were either crossed out, highlighted or circled.
Without notice or affair, the door behind the stand shifted, and the courtroom fell silent.
SESSION I
As she approached the stand, the lawyers quit leaning and gathered their things like children caught not cleaning their room. The judge had an angular face that seemed to rest on a point or edge in the front, all leading there and a bit severe, her cheeks high and jaw strong. She was not especially tall, a healthy pale and made up in a way that made her features sharper. Her bleached, silvery hair fell in loose curls somewhere between her ears and shoulders. She wore three gold chain necklaces the bottom with large, dark gems hanging from them over her black judge’s gown. She was older than the lawyers and did not smile. The effect was no nonsense and somewhat regal, the hierarchy and intense disposition of the room striking as the provisioner of justice took her seat.
The Judge referred to the people on the whiteboard by their numbers, single digits not that long array of whatever prison numbers happen in movies, and the first task was choosing the next few. Apparently not all the prisoners were ready for one reason or another. It also appeared to be chosen by lawyer, defense lawyer in particular, having that lawyer go until they ran out of clients assigned to that room. The first was a prisoner already. Wearing a yellow papery fabric jumpsuit with the county jail’s title on it and cuffed around the waist and wrists and likely ankles by the way he shuffled, he entered through a door I’d seen the bailiff stride in and out of a few times. The bailiff pulled out the seat for the man, then pushed the chair in when he’d been seated, the man looked up and thanked him. [6]
The judge had everyone state their names and purpose. All were public lawyers who stated their name and the name of their client but what struck me was the title for the prosecuting team, those trying to put these folks behind bars, was “The People” as in, it seemed, the whole city wanted the defendant locked up. The crime wasn’t discussed, but either way that felt a little extreme to me. I didn’t necessarily want this guy in prison, let alone jail. He looked perfectly nice, sitting there, and as the day went on and more men were drawn from the hallway in their yellow jumpsuits, every one of them Black, and held and sat and made to listen, I wondered if the prosecuting attorneys held any ill will against them. If once they had the defendant don the costume of prisonwear, was there something in “The People’s” mind that made the picture look right, finished before the trial even began?
Many hearings seemed procedural. A brief haggle to find another date upon lawyer request. One bail was raised on a man from $10 to $75k for no apparent reason. The man, shackled as he was, sat up and tried to ask why but the lawyer just put a hand on his shoulder and the judge continued without looking up, although her voice waivered briefly as she read blandly from a paper, much the way The People addressed everything to the judge both in tone and avoidance. It struck me as fear rather than guilt.
Timid people kept entering the courtroom, or people kept entering the courtroom timidly. At one point a woman slightly older than me and her mom sat at the far end of my back bench. They seemed Caucasian. The people in the rows with me still looked tired and bored and stressed, not quite closing their eyes but seeming to blink through honey, understandably less interested in the proceedings when their own fate was hanging. My client wasn’t called but a domestic violence case was and a man from the stands in front of me went with his attorney to the desk in front of the judge. Attendance was taken again, and the case was law speak until it became clear that there was a witness who would be called to the stand.
The woman sitting next to me straightened her blouse and bangs, pursed her lips and stood, then clicked ardently to the stand where she followed directions, apologized, then took the mic and gave a very harrowing testimony about the domestic abuse she was victim to, describing from start to finish the violence and confirming yes it was the man in front of her whom she had once loved that had done all of this to her, an overall very disturbing and scary, video footage backed (that’s what the tv was for) testimony as she took his drunken assault and saved her cats. As she spoke, her voice waivered at points but rather than weaken, it gave her story emotional velocity and clarified the bravery it took to go up and face the “look what you made me do” (literally, he said that, she said) hellscape she’d lived through. She grew more confident as the story unfolded, at times speaking directly to her ex like she was staring down the barrel of a gun, all while her assailant kept shaking his head—it was unclear to me at what—until the judge put a stop to it, reprimanding him for potentially intimidating a witness. When it came time for the defense attorney to speak, his line of reasoning was asking the witness, who had said she was in shock that this was happening, that if she was in shock, how could she know it was him assaulting her. He said it in an awkward, stumbling way, which, yeah, what kind of an argument is that, and it did not fly with the judge.
Eventually the trial, although I’m not sure if it was that, ended and they all just left, maybe the full trial would happen later? The witness returned to her mother, made some eye contact and received my supportive nod with a pursing of lips, gathered her things and left. The defendant, when it was his turn, sort of wandered through the stands, eyes scanning for his own support but the only person I could look at was his mother, who wandered slowly behind her son with a somber shake of her head as she stared into the near nothing.
It was hard to say exactly why, whether it was the nature of the job, the people themselves, or maybe a bad day on the stand, but it’s hard to describe the defense attorneys I watched as anything but bumbling. They stumbled over their words, hesitated and stammered, forgot what witnesses said and generally seemed like having their head above water was a surprise. Based on the testimony I’d just heard and my complete lack of understanding of the law, I could see finding arguments in some of these cases as nearly impossible. I don’t know if there’s a gun that’s not yours in the passenger seat in a car that’s not yours that you were driving and got pulled over in, if that makes you responsible for the gun, even if you admitted to the vial of black tar that was in your back pocket. Like would it help that he was honest about one of those things and that would prove that he didn’t know about it? What mattered here? The judge clearly knew, the way she dismissed and overruled the defense’s arguments just a few words out of every mouth with a scrupulous impatience “The People” did not receive. At one point a DA thought a witness cop had said something he hadn’t, and it crumpled her entire line of reasoning. These attorneys also seemed young, probably overly idealistic at one point, thinking there’d be way more innocent people (I certainly would have) to protect and that maybe their guilt would have to be proven rather than their innocence.
Every now and then a new attorney would come in and leave, and the court probably saw three folks before there would be a small break and different people would leak in and out. Someone started snoring, another person left their glasses behind and they were returned to her. When I went to the bathroom the hallway smelled like weed.
My client’s number was called after a brief break and before I could approach, the defense attorney started to speak. He was a tall but stooped, slim, bearded white man whose constant smile appeared kind, apologetic and pained. He had smooth and manicured long blond hair that curled up at the end, his head constantly dipping, but I couldn’t tell if it was in respect or in regret at the very nature of his existence meaning he must take up space. As he finished one sentence and continued to the next, I half stood in my bench and looked at the bailiff who was more enthralled by whatever was on the bailiff computer in front of him. I had no choice but to listen. Something about a delay, pushed to tomorrow. The judge agreed. When it was clear my client wasn’t coming out, but his attorney had more matters to present, I sat. When the rather uneventful string of date changes was up and there was a pause, I caught his eye like I wanted to order a beer at a bar. He had no reason to talk to a stranger in the stands and tried to busy himself with his satchel, but I was persistent and approached. I introduced myself, saying I was with number 3, and he looked at me like I’d ordered furniture. One lamp with the lightbulb in, please. I gave him the name and told him I was the man’s case manager at his residence. Realization softened his creases—“He said he was in a program…” tempered his grimace.
I gave a brief overview of the program and asking how long they were looking to lock him up for. Three years. He asked for my contact information. It was good I had shown up, he assured me. He gave me his card and thanked me for coming, saying he’d let our client know I’d been there.
It was still before noon so I went to work, where he texted me asking for a written and signed confirmation of enrollment, which I could email at some point over the next week. I emailed immediately and printed one too, planning on going in the next day, when my client was meant to appear.
SESSION II
The welcome committee didn’t change between Tuesday and Wednesday. Through the detector, to the stairs, to the same general milling. The same court room with the same judge and the same bailiff and the same set of lawyers so I took a more central seat, had my glasses on before I’d even entered the building. I waited. The girlfriend of the client showed up and we chatted briefly about hoping the client got off, she was curious about the Defense Attorney. I told her he was tall and white with long blond hair and a beard. As if on cue someone of that description walked in. I had to shake my head. Ten minutes later another came in, again I shook my head. It had seemed like a good description, she groaned.
She wasn’t the only one. There seemed to be something agitating the grounds. The judge was in and out, the lawyers were loud and pacing and somewhat gruff. Nothing ever got started. No words were really explained. The people who were supposed to have a hearing that day still trickled in though, unsure what was expected they were stuck to wait patiently. Another long haired tall white, blond man with a beard came in, perking her up, but again I shook my head. I could have sworn the day before he had been the only one.
A large man in a loud and patterned jacket with mahogony skin and dreadlocks sat near me though and asked what was going on. I shrugged, told him I didn’t know either. He nodded and took out his phone. My client’s girlfriend, saying she needed to do it her own way got up and disappeared. She came back ten minutes later without an explanation and I didn’t ask. She lay down on the bench, then sat up asked if there were any spots open at the apartment complex. I said I’d ask my supervisor.
Eventually a familiar face appeared. My client’s DA, with his long hair and beard and hangdog, half smiling walking apology of a face took the floor and the judge immediately began berating him for the delay. It was his client who did something. To my surprise the lawyer, despite maintaining a look that made me think he’d rather be a thought than an object, made a joke about how the judge was welcome. He turned and walked out of the court room, acknowledging me which made it clear to my client’s partner that this was the described face. While she was out, I overheard a brief explanation from one attorney to a client, perhaps just there to update the judge on their community service hours, that one of the clients had the trial start, didn’t waive their right to a continuous trial, then disappeared. It was unclear how something like that could happen. Were they in the court room, then turned and ran and didn’t look back? Or made an excuse for the bathroom and took the stairs?
I tapped the shoulder of the man on the phone and explained the situation—it seemed both of us were at a loss and shared a laugh. He then asked what they got me for, with the same offhand what canya do tone that my parent’s generation uses telling their friends they were busy because of something their betrothed wanted. Of course, a part of me wished there was something to share, keep whatever aura I apparently had intact, but even if after all I’d learned yesterday something had come to mind to try and pass off, that seemed like a million and half negative karma points that would put me on the brink of whatever lie I’d told. I told him I was just a case manager trying to help my client out. Questions, though, beg the same of the asker, but since we couldn’t share in misery all I was left to wonder. Maybe he’d wanted to share. Maybe salacious, something juicy he’d committed long ago and had done his time. Or maybe he was just given community service and it was something small and inconsequential that I’d probably done at some point in my life but not had any cops around to see it. He noticed my lanyard though and said that he’d applied for a job there but got a job as a housing navigator, an adjacent job to mine, as well as an overnight security guard—read: 2 jobs—and had actually come straight there after working overnight and the day before. When asked how he was up, he was, of course, running on coffee. Even yet, faced with whatever charge or punishment, he shared a great laugh and ready smile. My client’s public defender returned, and the girlfriend did briefly too, asking me to call her if anything happened. The DA made eye contact with me, raising his eyebrows and motioning out the door. I grabbed my canvas bag and followed, nodding at the stranger.
We found an empty spot in the hall. He thanked me for coming again, reassured me that the day before, my showing up had made my client smile and that the letter had been a huge success, the prosecution was now considering probation, he said he might want to talk to me. It was starting to hit me that this was more of a process than I had realized. That there was a little more at stake than “supporting” my client, whom I still hadn’t seen. I asked what was going on in the room and he shrugged. He’d never seen this happen before, and informed me they were going to move court rooms. It would be a while, I should go, he’ll let the client know I was there again. Back at the office, I received a call from an unknown number. A gruff robotic voice asked if I’d like to accept the call from California State Penitentiary. Why, of course. His voice was gruffer and he used a fake name, “It’s Lucio.” “Lucio?” “Lucio.” “Uhh.” *silence* then, whispered “Lavar.” “Oh, of course. Hey, Lavar, how are you?” Had I put him at risk? Could I be less stupid, maybe? How could I help? We chatted for a moment. He said he’d had a seizure at some point, wanted to get out of there, appreciated that I’d shown up. He sounded tired, used a fake name, asked if I could get his dog for him (I couldn’t) and, after a sigh, confirmed that prison—did—suck.
SESSION III
At three pm the following Monday the DA beckoned through phone I come the following day. The prosecuting attorney confirmed he wanted to speak with me. Was there much in the balance, or was it a formality? That night I decided to prepare a bit, writing down all of the services I’d attached to anyone. It seemed the more the merrier until it occurred to me that including substance use services might make it seem like he was using. That any of the services would make it seem like he needed the services which, in a space like that, might make them think it was safest to put him away, or that there were things they could prosecute him for if they hung onto him. But maybe the more services the better chance he got let off. That they could trust they were putting him in good hands. Half of me wanted to run. What if he didn’t get off? Would he blame me? Could I just say, whatever they asked, that he’s the best person I’d ever met? He wasn’t perfect, as mentioned he’d missed his mental health appointment. His meds had been off recently, and he was schizophrenic, with cruel voices that made him think he needed to be tough. He shadow boxed in the hallways, muttered that they try him. He took care of two puppies, his grin radiant as the summer sun. The property manager had found a bucket of screws and something flammable in his room (had she entered legally?). He liked to work on bikes and scooters, motorizing them. She said she heard him muttering about burning the building down just before his arrest. Hearsay, sure, and words of course, but then again. He had never acted on anything as far as I knew, nonviolence was a prerequisite for the program. I didn’t really know the man. But I had a sense. I’d seen him with a regulated medication program and without.
It wasn’t until the third time entering the courthouse that I realized how cavernous and big it was. I don’t just mean physically, although the LA County Criminal Court definitely qualifies as looming, but once inside it felt larger. A great number of well-dressed lawyers and uniformed officers amongst a constant stream of plain-clothed citizens harnessed the gravity of some unavoidable societal mass. The precipice of some vast filtration system.
Up until then, it had just felt like people to varying degrees of anonymity, choice and power layered among concrete and drywall, split by linoleum and piled high into the sky. This third time it felt like how I’d imagine seeing the ocean for the first time might be. The largess turning experiential, as it becomes endlessly wide, then endlessly deep, then endlessly real, unforgiving, dangerous.
The new court was sleek and sexy, the wood darker, warmer, mahogany for all I knew. Fewer benches, no makeshift signs, a space for jurors. There was even a court version of a mud room, a silencing so the hall wouldn’t disrupt any proceedings. The California state seal[7]loomed over the room,
Eventually my familiar face arrived but suddenly I couldn’t remember if I had seen his chin before. His ears were new. We nodded to each other, and he passed on to the saloon. It made me nervous, this sudden large change. He approached the new set of attorneys. They reflected the room—more sleek and put together, quietly professional, calculating. One of the prosecuting attorneys noticed my client’s lawyer. An older Black man with greying curls and a scarf, whom I’d noticed in this time watching liked to hold his glasses in his mouth and squint as he brought his notepad to his face, making incisively small marks whenever something struck him, asked “what happened rockstar?” in a bored but not mirthless tone to which the DA responded, “Now I look like a lawyer.” He was still wearing his same defensive smile, but the suit had changed from brown to navy and his forward, rounded shoulders seemed slightly higher on the clock face, his eyes lingering on everyone just a bit longer. I wondered if this was maybe where the big kids played. And if this was his first time, or maybe the first time he thought he could win.
The other lawyers seemed to know him well enough, asking him about the sudden change—neither complimenting nor admonishing just saying how different he looked. The DA said without little awe that it had been ten years that he’d been growing those locks, and, as more people commented that they almost didn’t recognize him, said it sounds like it was a big change. He sat with his briefcase next to the man who had called him rockstar, who gave him a resigned but pragmatic ear.
“Do you have time?”
“Sure.” The Prosecuting Attorney leaned over his notepad without looking up.
“I wanted to talk about (our client).”
“Right..?” He spoke slowly, almost sarcastic like he’d heard him out but wasn’t happy about it.
“I just don’t think he needs any time, he’s part of what sounds like a really good program.”
“Oh?”
“Like I said, he actually had a Department of Mental Health appointment the day after he was arrested.”
“Okay.”
“And his case manager is here if you want to talk to him.” He put the glasses on his head. I was glad I was wearing mine.
He sighed, “I mean, hmm… Where’s the case manager?” the defense attorney looked right at me and I couldn’t pretend I hadn’t been listening. Understanding, I stood and followed them into the mud room.
I’m over six feet but both men were taller than me, the prosecuting attorney seemed to loom like the building when I first arrived. “What’s your name?” He asked and I gave it to him. “And who do you work for?” I told him that. “How long have you been working there?” Just to make me feel green “And how long have they been operating?” My mind whirred back to orientation five months ago. He had his glasses off and the full bore of his scrutiny made me feel like an ant under a magnifying glass. And I was free.
“Uh huh.” He eyed me shrewdly and wrote something miniscule. “and who’s the CEO?” Had I said too much or something wrong? What did that have to do anything? Was I going to jail? I told him the CEO.
After a dry, lingering pause, intent on making me squirm: “What can you tell me about the defendant?” He peered at me again, his scrupulous squint made me feel like I actually was hiding something.
“He’s nice, smiles a lot.” I thought about the mumbled threats, the punched air, the distant stare. That we’d found him asleep in the stairwell with food burning on the stove, that he always offered the food he was eating when he visited my office, the laugh when he was on his meds. “What do you want to know?”
He eyed me again, the silence lingering. I didn’t offer any more. “And what does your program offer?”
Wishing I’d scanned the list one more time I started listing them off. “We have benefits teams, the department of mental health comes through all the time,” I couldn’t stop myself, unsure if this was incriminating, “Substance Use Counselors on Thursdays,” I cringed as he brought the notepad to his face, “we connect them to food banks, phone services, Access transportation…” I ran out of things to say but he kept writing. I glanced at the Defense Attorney, he smiled back.
The pencil stopped. Then the notepad slowly lowered. He put his glasses on and eyed me once more. “Okay,” he addressed the DA “that’s enough. Thank you.”
“Thank you.”
“Thank you.”
He turned and led us back into the courtroom. I hung back a step or two and asked the DA “Was that okay?”
“You did great.” He said and his apologetic smile widened a moment before he joined the PA at the table once more and I returned to the bench. They were talking again before I’d sat down.
“I want to give him two years’ probation, 500 hours of community service.”
“500 hours? That’s—”
“He should have 32 months in prison.”
“Okay, alright, okay.”
They brought our client out and he scanned the audience with his grindstone jaw. Not tall, but broad and bald with shaved eyebrows and in that damn outfit, shackled and guided by the bailiff to his seat. When he saw me, his smile flashed then saw its shadow as the judge asked him to confirm his identity.
When our attorney was given the floor first, it wasn’t the pacing, grandstanding, addressing of the jury I’d come to assume. Of course there wasn’t even a jury present. The lawyer stood and, addressing the judge, shared not that the client was innocent but that he should be afforded lenience because of this program he was a part of, explaining to her once more the missed appointment, the services available, even referencing and pointing me out as a system of care that would be a missed opportunity not to honor. Lavar stared at his hands and frowned, nodding along at the points he knew too. The prosecutor scribbled into his notebook. When the DA finished, the judge’s response was “Okay.”
The man in the scarf cleared his throat and, addressing his notebook said, “The People recommend two years’ probation.” Lavar, staring into his palms, relaxed and the corner of one lip curled. My body flooded with relief, he would not be going to prison. “With 500 hours of community service.” He shifted his shoulders, nothing comes free. “He also must attend regular mental health appointments,” another nod, “substance use counseling and frequent drug testing.” His gaze migrated from his hands to the prosecuting attorney, that had nothing to do with the charge. “If he finds a full-time job, reduce his hours to 250.” The gaze softened, then hardened “The woman whose door he was opening? He should stay away from her.” Seemed to be bating him now, that was his girlfriend. “He should be nowhere near the premise of that apartment either.” Lavar’s cheek muscles bouldered and clenched. Lowering the pad, he rested.
The judge entered the plea of guilty and my client’s face fell. He leaned into the DA and was furiously trying to get some intel on what the hell that meant as the judge went over the punishment just suggested, making sure for each requirement and appointment she received an audible acknowledgement, which he gave between fervent whispers with his lawyer. He would be coming back in a few months.
He was not going to prison. I tried not to worry about keeping him out. The DA came back to me and we went out into the hall. “They moved the case to today because of the letter, which was way earlier than they normally would have so that we could get the plea settled.” He implored. “You showing up got me asking for things I wouldn’t have been able to ask for. So, thank you.” We shook hands, I grinned.
“Thank you, you were great. Thank you for everything. Getting him what he needed, all of that.”
“Of course.”
We had walked to the elevators. That was as far as we’d go together. He stopped and so did I. I almost wanted to ask if he wanted to go to the food court, discuss some more but his expectant, apologetic smile seemed clear in the finality, already fading back towards his briefcase, the other lawyers, the fray. He had work to do. We thanked each other again, shook hands. Two weeks later I shook Lavar’s, in my office, a free man again.
[1] Read: Parents—Mother, mostly.
[2] If that wasn’t clear by me trying to pass missing a few days of my senior year of high school as a hardship.
[3] It’s supposed to, I guess. Like, it’s not supposed to be some Hawaiian ski vacation—and that’s the point for at least some American visionaries. But it sounds more like living in a vat of burning oil than turning potatoes into French fries. I should also probably point out that I operate from the worldview that these people aren’t rotten but just have a blemish or two. Misguided potatoes who were given the options mashed or fried, never having heard of fondant.[a]
[a] The potato dish that came up when I searched “fancy potato.”
[4] A word that can have many meanings and for all intents and purposes at this point just think leans blue, generally hard, but with a largely white and affluent undertone and surprisingly regressive tax structure meaning they don’t “tax the rich” (it’s baked into the state constitution).
[5] Mostly Hispanic (not always considered Brown) and Indigenous.
[6] This small act of chivalry seemed the only time the prisoners were ever granted the illusion of not being imprisoned.
[7] Adorned by what looked like a trojan holding a shield of good and evil, with a spear. There was also a large bear far too small, perspectively, someone with a pick axe and shovel in the ground, four boats with some big old sails on the water in the distance, some mountains rising out of said water. “Eureka” it proclaimed, right at the top. It read to me like an erotic novel, historical fiction, or Julius Ceasar tripping on acid and explaining what he wanted in a self-portrait.