by Susanne Beck
Courtrooms are interesting animals. Like prisons, they turn a blind eye to the passage of time as the rest of society knows it. Fads mean nothing. The change of seasons is measured only by the amount of overclothing the visitors enter with. To the victim, the wheels are ponderous in their slowness. To the accused, only lightening moves more quickly.
Justice, that blindfolded woman with scales in one hand and a book in the other, simply grinds on, unseeing and uncaring, bound by laws which have stood for centuries, nearly unchanged from when they were first set down.
Time, rather than a coin, seemed a tunnel through which past and present sped to merge and meld in one finite space, affecting me with a queer sense of déjà vu. Though now I was sitting behind the gate which separated accused from victim instead of in front of it as I had seven years ago, my purpose was essentially the same.
I was fighting for my life.
And though the fight was very much a silent one, it was fought with more intensity and more desperation than I had ever fought for anything before.
And, as was the case seven years ago, I was losing.
Badly.
Come on, Ice. I know you know I’m here. I know you know I’ve been here since the trial started. Just turn around. Please. I need to see your face. I need to know that you’re alright. I need to know that... you don’t hate me.
If my eyes had been laser beams, they would have borne a hole straight through her skull, such was the intensity of my unconscious pleading. However, since God had seen fit only bless me with optical light catching devices, my continual stare was about as effective as putting rain galoshes on chickens.
Which is to say not very effective at all.
A murmur through the spectator section, followed by the judge’s pounding gavel, broke me from my musings and I looked around, startled.
"Order in the court! There will be silence in this courtroom!" As the gavel pounded again, the noise quieted and I turned to look at Corinne, who was seated to my left, my eyebrows raised in question.
"Donita just asked for a directed verdict," my friend whispered, her lips very close to my ear, the comforting smell of her sachet drowning out, for the moment at least, the pungent odor of too many people packed too closely together in an almost airless room.
"What’s a directed verdict?" I asked, softly as I could so as not to bring the attention of the imposing female judge to bear on me.
"It basically means that the defense believes that the prosecution’s case is so weak that it doesn’t need to put on a case of its own and wants her to render a verdict right away."
"But that’s crazy!" I said, a bit louder than I’d intended.
Quite a bit louder, I noticed, as the judge’s dark eyes, magnified to the size of golf-balls behind her huge tortoise-shell glasses, aimed their angered gaze at me. "For those of you who have difficulty with simple comprehension," she said in a voice that simply oozed exaggerated patience, "I’ll repeat myself one final time. If any of you even thinks about making another noise while this court is in session, I will personally have you escorted out of my courtroom and into a rather uncomfortable jail cell for the remainder of the day. Am I making myself perfectly clear?"
If a tornado had chosen that exact spot in which to cause a little mischief, I wouldn’t have been at all adverse to just spinning away. When the sky chose instead to remain blue and sunny, I sunk down into my seat as low as I was able and tied my best not to notice as my neighbors moved quickly away, as if just learning that I was the reincarnation of Typhoid Mary herself.
When absolute, pin-dropping silence reigned in the courtroom once again, the judge nodded authoritatively and switched her gaze toward the front of the room. "Both counsels, approach the bench, please."
I watched as Donita stood and smoothed the skirt of her bright red power suit before approaching the bench, the prosecutor following closely behind. Then I turned back to Corinne, making sure to keep my voice at its lowest register. "That’s crazy. Has she even been listening to the prosecution’s case? I think they’ll be putting this in the law dictionary next to the description of ‘open and shut’."
"One might think so, yes," she whispered back. "But then again, Donita’s always been somewhat of a card shark. I’m sure she has an ace or two up her sleeve."
"God, I hope you’re right." Turning, I once again faced the front of the courtroom, my gaze fixed upon the glossy black head of my lover who was staring, as she had from day one of the trial, straight ahead.
"She knows you’re here, Angel," Corinne whispered, reading my thoughts.
"Then why won’t she look at me? It’s been three months, Corinne. Three months!" I bit the inside of my cheek to keep my voice down as I felt the sting of tears welling up in my eyes.
An entire season had passed since that fateful, horrid night in late summer when my world was shattered, seemingly beyond repair. A season of tears, of guilt, of hopelessness. A season of repeated trips to the Bog, only to be turned away at the door. A season of unanswered phone calls and returned letters. A season of not eating and not sleeping.
And now, after three full months spent dying an hour at a time, I was finally close enough to touch her and she wouldn’t even look my way.
"I’m sure she has her reasons, Angel."
Only then did I take my eyes off my disinterested lover, pinning Corinne to her seat with my glare. "I just hope you never find out how heartily sick I am of that piss poor excuse for an explanation, Corinne."
A good deal less than injured by my withering words, Corinne calmly turned her head forward, appearing to watch the still-silent proceedings with intent interest and leaving me, once again, to fume alone.
A clack of heels against the highly varnished wooden floor brought my attention back to the front of the courtroom. Donita caught my eye and smiled faintly before turning and resuming her seat next to my lover. I felt an irrational flash of white-hot jealousy as their heads bowed together intimately, Ice nodding and responding to her beautiful lawyer in a way I’d only known her to do with me.
Enough of that, Angel, I said, barely able to keep from voicing my thoughts aloud. She’s on trial here and that woman up there just happens to be the best damn shot she has of getting out of this mess.
Still, I couldn’t help but breathe a sigh of relief when Ice nodded and they separated, both assuming identical postures of quiet confidence as they awaited the judge’s next words.
"This court will be in recess indefinitely. I expect both counsels to meet in my chambers at noon tomorrow. Dismissed."
The gavel banged as the bailiff stepped forward. "All rise."
Feeling strangely part of an extremely Fundamentalist religious congregation—Pentecostals raised to the fiftieth power, perhaps—I rose in communion with my fellow attendees, and watched as the diminutive judge, who wouldn’t see five feet if she stood on tiptoes on the New York City White Pages, gathered her robes and left the courtroom through a rear door situated just to the left of her bench.
Then the jury, composed of five white men and seven white women, left through yet another door, ushered out by the ever-helpful bailiff. Their faces were expressionless as they filed out one by one, obedient children exiting the classroom on the last day of school.
Only when the final juror had left the courtroom was yet a third door opened, this one admitting four large and well armed guards, two of whom were bearing, like cruel vestments to a fallen Queen, shackles and chains with which to keep society safe from the woman I loved.
Ice stood relaxed as they wound the belly chain around her narrow waist, holding her wrists easily out to be cuffed together by an officious guard as the rest stood by watching, hands on their holstered weapons. Even in flats, she towered over them all, looking elegant and refined and the very antithesis of a chained animal in her expensively tailored black suit.
Her wrists secured, another guard knelt, getting an up close and personal view of legs which went on forever—a view that I wo
uld have killed for at that point in time or any other—as he attached the leg shackles to her ankles and rose once again, an almost sheepish smile gracing his otherwise somber face.
It might have been funny, this elaborate and ritualistic chaining of a woman beautiful enough to have stepped fresh from the cover of a fashion magazine, if not for the always present air of danger which hovered around her like a tarnished halo which is almost—but not quite—visible.
I could feel my neighbors react to it as she stretched casually, the chains jangling with her easy movements, the long, muscular lines of her perfect body hardly hidden beneath the expensive cut of her suit.
All around me, the crowd of onlookers tensed, as if the courtroom was the Roman Coliseum and Ice, the hungry lion.
Would the beast leave in peace, or would it feed?
I swore I could hear at least one exhale of disappointment as Ice obediently took up her position within the center of the phalanx of guards, never once looking at anything save for the space directly in front of her, now occupied by the balding head of a guard as he led the processional from the courtroom.
Quiet murmurs rose in the vacuum left behind and I felt the walls closing in on me once again. "I’ve got to get out of here," I said to Corinne, blindly shouldering my way through the milling crowd, my lungs heaving and my stomach lurching. Of my heart, there was no sound. It had already been broken and so lay quietly as the rest of my body rebelled.
I could feel Corinne following in my wake, but I spared her not so much as a passing thought, such was my need to be free from room which held within its walls only the worst days of my life.
I went out through the open doors and didn’t stop until I was standing outside on the steps, hands on my knees and gasping in great, sobbing lungfuls of air. My head was spinning as if I’d just stepped off a carnival ride and I found my vision reduced to a point of light at my feet.
I’m gonna faint! I thought in disbelief just as my knees started to buckle.
Fortunately, my soon-to-be intimate acquaintance with hard cement was mercifully halted by a pair of strong arms which wrapped themselves around me and pulled me back up to my feet.
When my vision finally broadened its scope, it was Donita’s beautiful face I saw, her eyes narrowed in concern as she looked down at me. "Are you alright, Angel?"
I shook my head to clear it, which was a really bad idea as it almost served to start the whole process going all over again. Her arms tightened around me and I fell gratefully into her concerned embrace, using the safety and strength she offered to gather my own before somewhat reluctantly pulling away. "Yeah, I’m fine. I think."
She smiled a little. "You think?"
"Well, I’ve never almost fainted before, so I can’t be too sure."
Her smile broadened as she fully released me, draping instead one long arm over my shoulder and guiding me away from the crowds and down the stairs. "Well, let’s get you into the shade so you don’t almost do it again, ok?"
"That sounds... really good right now."
Corinne attached herself to my other side, and together we walked onto the courthouse’s winter-brown lawn and under a denuded oak which nevertheless provided at least a modicum of relief from the surprisingly powerful November sun.
Faux marble benches surrounded a round cement table, and I gratefully sat down on one, absorbing the stone’s cool smoothness into my overheated and overstressed body. After a moment, feeling much more like my normal, albeit empty, self, I looked up at Donita, who was still standing, one elegant hand on the table’s top. "Forgive me for sounding impertinent, but why are you here? Shouldn’t you be with Ice?"
"She’s on her way back to the Bog. I’ll catch up to her later."
"The Bog? Why aren’t they keeping her here for the trial?"
"She’s an escape risk. The court doesn’t think its little county jail can hold her."
I shook my head in disbelief. "Did they forget that she gave herself up to the police?" I didn’t know how they possibly could. It was a scene that haunted every minute of my life.
Donita laughed softly. "That doesn’t matter to them. She’s a dangerous criminal, so they say. She escapes again, and heads will roll."
"So then... why are you here?"
Sitting down across from me, she laid her briefcase on the table and crossed her hands over it. "Because you need to be in the judge’s chambers with us tomorrow, Angel. It’s very important that you’re there."
A feeling curiously akin to dread rolled through me, but this time I was prepared and simply went with it. "You mind telling me why?"
"I can’t. Not yet. You’ll know tomorrow, though."
The not-good-enough answer paled, though, in comparison to the question I hesitated to ask.
"Yes," Donita said, answering it anyway. "She’ll be there."
"Then so will I."
Reaching out, she gave my hands a squeeze before standing up and gathering her briefcase once again. "Thank you, Angel. I’ll see you tomorrow then. Goodbye for now. Goodbye, Corinne."
She had gotten three steps away, maybe five, when I found myself bolting to my feet. "Donita!"
"Yes?" she asked, turning partway around.
"Tell her... would you tell her that I love her?"
Her smile was almost sad as she nodded. "I will."
"Thanks."
"Goodbye, Angel."
"Bye," I whispered as she turned away.
I looked up as Corinne’s warm hand landed softly on my shoulder. "C’mon," she said, jerking her head to the left, "let’s get out of this miserable waste of prime real estate before the birds start mistaking us for lawn ornaments needing to be decorated."
Smiling a little, I squeezed her hand. "If you don’t mind, I think I’ll stay here for a little while. You go on ahead. I’ll grab a taxi and meet you back at the hotel."
"Are you sure? I could stay, if you like."
I nodded. "I’m sure. I’ll be back in a little while."
"Alright then." Her sachet filled my senses again as she leaned down and gave me a gentle kiss on the cheek. "Stay strong, Angel. This is happening for a reason. Tomorrow, you’ll find out what it is."
"I hope you’re right, Corinne."
"I’m always right, Angel."
I watched her as she walked across the lawn and stepped into a waiting taxi. Only when the bright yellow car pulled away did I rest my head down on the cool table, closing my eyes and summoning up the image of my lover as I remembered her; free and beautiful, her eyes filled with love.
"God, Ice," I whispered, "I miss you."
* * *
The clock struck the quarter-hour as I was led into the chambers of one Judge Judith Allyson Baumgarten-Bernstein, a name longer than she was tall, and that by a long, tongue-twisting mile and a half.
Since my only previous exposure to judges’ chambers came from the television show Night Court, I didn’t know exactly what to expect as I stepped through the massive oaken door which guarded her inner sanctum sanctorum like a blind sphinx guarding the secrets of Egyptian tombs.
Night Court must have had some legal advisor, I thought as I took a quick, and not very subtle, look around after first assuring myself that I was the first to arrive. Either that or a guy who spent way too much time in courtrooms. On the wrong side.
Early Urban Decay it wasn’t, but in all other aspects, all that was missing was a hulking seven foot bailiff to make it seem as if I’d walked right onto a studio set somewhere. All the requisite and familiar trappings were there: framed law degrees, letters of commendation from one high ranking—and name-dropping, no doubt—citizen after another, leather bound books standing in staid rows upon scarred bookshelves, a coat rack behind the door, even a picture sitting atop a broad, varnished desk. Only instead of Mel Torme, the framed photograph showed a bespectacled young man in cap and gown looking so much like the good judge herself that he didn’t have any hope of being anyone other than her son.
And, i
n the center of it all, the battleground; a large square table with chairs three to a side, it’s highly polished top shining smugly in the recessed lighting, taunting me with the myriad of secrets it alone could tell.
As I stood fingering the chair-back furthest from the judge’s desk, the door opened to admit a smiling Donita, dressed in another of her endless supply of knock-out power suits, this one a brilliant green. After giving me a warm and friendly hug, she pulled out a chair for me before seating herself to my immediate right and placing her briefcase atop the table.
"Is she here?" I asked, the first question always in my mind.
"Yes, she’s here."
I nodded, then swallowed. "Does she know I’m here?"
"She does."
Before I could open my mouth to ask another question, the Prosecutor hurried in, giving us both a brief glance as he sat down and looked at his watch as if to remind us that his time was much too valuable to be wasted on the likes of us.
He was the epitome of every prosecutor, living, dead or fictional, that I’ve ever seen. Keebler must stamp them out, I thought, biting the inside of my cheek as I pictured the little elves working hard in their treehouse making prosecutor after prosecutor after prosecutor and boxing them up for shipment to parts unknown.
Dark suit with regimental tie, straight brown hair cut by someone with very steady hands and not a creative bone in her body, and features so blandly handsome that you’d forget him the moment you passed him bleeding in the gutter.
Which, of course, is exactly where I imagined him.
Just as I was about to slip his tie knot up so high and so tight against his neck that the next sound he made would have been a wheezing gasp instead of an aggrieved sigh, the door opened and the judge sailed in, her black robes billowing out behind her like the sails on a very tiny pirate ship going full steam into an unfortunate harbor.
"I’m so glad you all could make it on time," she commented as she sat in a chair at the head of the table, looking at each of us in turn. The stare she gave me let me know in no uncertain terms that she remembered my little outburst in her courtroom, and that her offer of a cozy jail cell for the night was still very much open if I was so inclined to react in a similar fashion while in her presence.