by Mark Gimenez
Justice in Gillespie County would now be dispensed by Judge John Beck Hardin.
He had been in courtrooms hundreds of times. He had tried cases in state and federal courts, and he had argued before appellate courts and twice before the Supreme Court. But he had always been there as a lawyer, and the cases had always been about money. He now wondered if he were up to that task: justice.
But then, he was the judge of a rural Texas county with a population of twenty-three thousand. How hard could it be?
It was eight-thirty, and the courtroom was still vacant. He walked up the center aisle past the wooden pews and sat behind the bench beneath an arched wall. The floor was longleaf pine; the walls were limestone and white stucco; the ceiling was sixteen feet high. The courtroom was illuminated by eighteen tall windows with green wood shutters and eight black wrought-iron chandeliers.
To his immediate left was the witness stand; beyond that was the court reporter's desk and the jury box with thirteen chairs bolted to the floor. To his right was the district clerk's desk. Behind him on tall standards hung the American and Texas flags on either side of the limestone arch.
Behind the bench was an alcove with two twelve-foot-tall windows looking out on a balcony. He opened one of the windows and stepped over the low sill out onto the balcony. He had stashed two lawn chairs just inside; this balcony would be his private retreat, a place to be alone and think.
The first day of October had brought a cool front to town. Beck stood at the low wrought-iron railing and faced the Adams and Main Street intersection, the busiest in downtown Fredericksburg. A few pickup trucks were stopped at the light, people were walking to work, and business owners were sweeping the sidewalks out front of their stores. The view to the north across Main Street was of the Marktplatz where preparations for Oktoberfest were underway; to the east across Adams Street it was of the community college building, the Beckendorf Art Gallery, L.M. Easterling boot maker, and Texas Jack's Wild West Outfitter with a wooden cigar store Indian out front of the old stage depot.
He ducked back inside and shut the window. Tucked into the corner of the alcove was a narrow spiral staircase built around a thick pine log. Beck wasn't sure if the architect had intended the stairway as the judge's private escape route should gunfire break out in the courtroom or just as a quicker route to an outhouse since the courthouse had no restrooms at the time it was constructed. It was now his private stairway to and from his chambers on the first floor.
Beck descended the stairs and entered his chambers. The room had limestone walls, a high ceiling, and tall windows that looked out at street level. There were no bars on the windows or other security of any kind. He sat behind his desk. Above the desk was a black wrought-iron chandelier. In front of the desk were visitor chairs. Against each wall were bookshelves with law books; this was also the judge's law library.
"Do I have to call you 'judge' now?"
Aubrey was standing in the doorway, dressed in his coach's uniform and leaning on his cane. The smell of beer drifted over.
"Only in the courtroom."
"Congratulations, Beck. Still can't believe you won."
"I didn't, but thanks anyway. And same to you—four straight wins."
"Slade's unstoppable."
Beck knew that Aubrey hadn't come to talk football.
"I've been in Austin the last two weeks, Aubrey, for judge school. But I'll be able to do more now, about Heidi."
"Four years and nine months ago today, Beck. Ninety-one days left." Aubrey nodded past Beck and said, "You've got company."
Beck turned. Jodie was standing outside, tapping on the window. He opened the window, and she stuck a coffee through.
"Small nonfat latte. Figured you might need one your first day, Judge."
"Feels like when I was a teenager sneaking out my window to meet Mary Jo."
Her eyes got wide.
"Mary Jo Jobst?"
"Hey, don't say anything, okay?"
"I can keep a secret."
"J.B. said … never mind. Thanks for the coffee."
She walked off, and Beck shut the window. When he turned back, Aubrey was giving him a funny look.
"You're not, you know"—he made a little punching motion with his fist—"with the lesbian?"
"No, I'm not with the lesbian."
The district clerk walked in past Aubrey; he waved and limped out of sight.
"He smells like a brewery," she said. "You ready, Judge?"
"As ready as I'll ever be, Mavis."
Mavis Mooney had served as the District Clerk of Gillespie County for twenty-seven years now; she knew more about being a judge than Beck did. Beck removed his suit coat, donned the black robe, and grabbed the latte. They walked out of his chambers and around the corner to the spiral staircase. Mavis stood aside.
"Go ahead, Mavis."
"You'd better go first, Judge. So you're not tempted to look up my dress."
She said it with a straight face.
"Uh, okay."
They climbed the stairs and entered the courtroom. No burly bailiff bellowed out, "All rise!" when he walked in; Beck just sat down behind the bench like he was chairing a bar luncheon. Mavis sat to his right. The courtroom was no longer vacant.
Six lawyers stood before the bench. Their arms were crossed, and they were eyeing Beck like students taking measure of the new teacher. They were not $800-an-hour lawyers who represented well-dressed white corporate executives in federal court. This was a rural county court, they were country lawyers, and their clients were dressed in black-and-white striped jail uniforms with GILLESPIE COUNTY INMATE stenciled in red across the back. Leaning against the jury box railing like he owned the place was the Gillespie County District Attorney.
Beck didn't figure they would be fishing buddies.
Four female inmates sat in chairs along the wall to Beck's right; they were wearing jail uniforms, white socks, red rubber slippers, and ankle chains. They were young and white, but their faces were old. Their eyes were hollowed out with dark circles, and they wore no makeup. They were chatting casually among themselves like sorority sisters at a chapter meeting. They were meth addicts.
Eight male inmates sat in the jury box to Beck's far left. They were young and brown, tattooed and stone-faced, staring at their cuffed hands as if resigned to their fate. Standing guard next to the jury box was a tall lean deputy sheriff dressed in a tan long-sleeved uniform shirt with epaulettes on the shoulders and a silver badge pinned over his heart, a green tie with a silver handcuff tie pin, green cowboy-cut slacks with a crease that looked sharp enough to bring blood if you ran your hand down it, tan cowboy boots, and a tan western-style holster holding a large-caliber sidearm and a cell phone. His hair was cut in a sharp flattop with the sides combed back. He didn't look like an old Rod Steiger. He looked like a young Clint Eastwood ready to draw his big gun on a recalcitrant inmate and snarl through clenched teeth, "Go ahead. Make my day."
The audience consisted of one older Anglo couple and a dozen or more Latinos, mostly females—the male inmates' mothers, Beck figured. They sat as if they had long been accustomed to sitting in courtrooms waiting for their sons' cases to be called.
By statute, state district courts had original jurisdiction over all felony criminal cases, divorces, contested elections, and civil cases exceeding $200 in damages. In the urban counties, those cases were filed in specialized courts: criminal or civil, family or probate. In the rural counties, all cases came to the same court before the same judge. Today, District Judge John Beck Hardin would execute the court's original jurisdiction over felony criminal cases.
It was sentencing day in Gillespie County.
On the desk in front of Beck sat a laptop computer showing that day's docket and thirteen red file folders stacked high. Mavis had color-coded the cases: civil cases were in manila folders, tax in gray, child custody in blue, child support in green, divorce in gold, and criminal in red.
Each red file represented one human be
ing's life history: employment, family, and criminal. Each file represented a life gone awry, usually because of alcohol or drugs, a few because of dark hearts. Beck had read their files and learned their lives; some seemed destined to end up in court before a judge with the power to send them to prison from the day they had been born poor or illegitimate or to a father who had beaten them or a mother who had abandoned them. Others seemed to have no luck in life except bad. Beck looked at the defendants sitting before him. How had their lives led them to this courtroom?
The D.A. walked up and set a file on the front of the bench.
"Mr. Eichman."
"Judge."
Niels Eichman, Jr., was dressed as well as any lawyer in Beck's Chicago law firm, and he had that same big-firm lawyer look about him. Had he not dropped out of the race, he would be sitting in Beck's chair at that moment. He knew that, and Beck knew that. But when they eyed each other across the bench, and the D.A.'s lips formed a thin smile and then he winked at the new judge, Beck knew that the D.A. knew something that he did not.
Mavis called the first case: "Cause number forty-two thirteen, State of Texas versus Ignacio Perez. Possession of a controlled substance and driving without a license."
Beck had inherited these cases, defendants who had pleaded guilty or had been convicted at trial before old Judge Stutz but had been awaiting sentencing when Stutz had abruptly retired due to a heart condition. Beck had read the case files, the briefs, and the trial transcripts; he had learned that these defendants were not criminal masterminds, drug lords, murderers, rapists, or even Enron executives. They were just small-time offenders who had turned to drugs because they were down on their luck or to salve life's wounds or just because they were bored. The D.A. wanted the new judge to pick up where the old judge had left off and sentence them to the state penitentiary in Huntsville.
A young Latino in a jail uniform with his hair cut like a Marine stood in the jury box and shuffled over as well as he could with his hands and feet shackled. He stood directly in front of Beck and to the left of the D.A. One of the lawyers stepped forward and stood next to him. Unlike the D.A., this lawyer was not well-dressed; his rumpled suit looked like the cheaper one in a two-fer sale at a second-hand store. He was bald, paunchy, red-faced, and breathing through his mouth like a heavy smoker. Beck inhaled the strong scent of German lager.
"Henry Polk, Your Honor," the lawyer said. "For the defendant."
Henry Polk was a beer-and-bratwurst-for-breakfast man.
"Mr. Polk, what's your client's first name?"
"Who?"
Beck pointed at the defendant. "Your client, Mr. Perez—what's his first name?"
Polk turned and gazed at Perez as if they had never met. Then he looked to Mavis for help.
"Ignacio," Beck said. "His first name is Ignacio."
Polk broke into a big smile. "You knew all along."
"Have you been drinking this morning, Mr. Polk?"
"I'm German, Judge."
"If we can attend to the matters at hand, Judge," the D.A. said. "Mr. Perez pled guilty to possession of a controlled substance and driving without a license. The state seeks the maximum punishment, two years in the state penitentiary."
Beck opened the red file for Ignacio Perez. He was a Mexican national. He had come here to work in the turkey plant. He was nineteen years old and charged with possession of less than one gram of cocaine. He had no prior criminal record.
"Mr. Eichman, in Chicago this case would never have gone to trial. The defendant would have been fined and released."
The D.A. shrugged. "We don't have a lot of crime here, Judge. We have to make do with what we've got."
The D.A. smiled; Beck didn't. He turned to the defendant.
"Mr. Perez, you've been charged with possession of a controlled substance, a state jail felony, and driving without a license. I want to confirm that you did in fact knowingly and voluntarily plead guilty."
"Yes, Your Honor," Lawyer Polk said, "he pleaded guilty."
"I didn't ask you, Mr. Polk. I asked your client." To the defendant: "Sir, your name is Ignacio Perez, is that correct?"
The defendant stared back at Beck blank-faced. After a brief pause, he abruptly nodded and said, "Sí."
"Mr. Perez, did you plead guilty to these charges?"
Beck's question was met with the same blank face.
Then, another nod. "Sí."
Beck thought he had seen Lawyer Polk's body twitch.
"And you pled guilty because you did in fact commit this crime and not out of any fear?"
Another little twitch from Polk and another "Sí" from the defendant. Beck stared at Ignacio Perez and saw Miguel Cervantes. He pointed to a spot three feet to Lawyer Polk's left—three feet farther away from the defendant.
"Mr. Polk, please stand over there."
"Why's that, Your Honor?"
"Because I don't think your leg is that long."
Lawyer Polk took two steps to his left. The defendant's eyes darted to Polk, then back to Beck.
"Mr. Perez, do you understand English?"
A nervous look from the defendant; he glanced at Polk.
"¿Sí?"
"Mr. Perez, do you understand the charges against you?"
"¿Sí?"
"Mr. Perez, did you go to Harvard?"
"¿Sí?"
Lawyer Polk rolled his eyes. "Your Honor—"
"Your client doesn't understand English?"
Polk shrugged. "He's Mexican."
"Do you speak Spanish, Mr. Polk?"
"Nope."
"Then how did you communicate with your client?"
He shrugged again. "Not so good."
"Your Honor," the D.A. said, "Mr. Perez was caught red-handed. The cocaine was found in his car."
"Pursuant to a consent search?"
"Yes, sir."
"Mr. Eichman, how did Mr. Perez knowingly consent to the search of his vehicle if he can't understand English?"
The D.A. frowned. "Well …"
Polk's bloodshot eyes lit up. "Good point, Judge."
"Thank you, Mr. Polk." To the D.A.: "Mr. Eichman?"
"I'm thinking."
"While you're thinking, think about this: The car was registered in the name of a"—Beck flipped through the pages in the file—"Juan Hermoso. Was Mr. Hermoso apprehended?"
"He fled the jurisdiction. He was a Mexican national."
Illegal aliens could not legally hold jobs in the U.S., but they could legally own cars in Texas.
"Perhaps the cocaine belonged to Mr. Hermoso just as Mr. Perez claimed."
"Yeah, and maybe Ignacio here is the son of Santa Anna."
"Careful, Mr. Eichman. And please address the defendant as 'Mr. Perez.' "
The D.A. gritted his teeth and glared at Beck.
"Mr. Eichman, have you thought of anything sustaining Mr. Perez's ability to give an informed consent to search his vehicle?"
"Maybe the cop spoke Spanish."
Polk: "That's a thought."
Beck flipped through the file to the arrest report. "The arresting officer—a city cop, I see—his name is Gerhard Goetz. Mr. Eichman, you think Officer Goetz is fluent in Spanish?"
"Well …"
Polk, with a big grin: "Gerhard, he's still working on English."
"Anything else to add, Mr. Eichman?"
The glare again: "No … Your Honor."
"The court finds that the search of Mr. Perez's vehicle was illegal due to an invalid consent and thus the cocaine found in the vehicle is inadmissible as evidence."
The D.A.: "But he confessed."
"In Spanish? The court also finds that his confession is inadmissible due to inadequate counsel. His guilty plea is not accepted. The controlled substance charge is dismissed."
Polk: "Thank you, Your Honor."
"You're welcome. Mavis, when is the next available trial setting for the driving without a license charge?"
Mavis turned to her calendar, but stopped short when the D
.A. said, "Your Honor, the state drops all charges."
Beck now glared at the D.A. "You wanted me to sentence the defendant to two years in prison, now you're dropping all charges?"
"Not worth the expense to try him on the remaining charge, Your Honor. Besides, he'll be back. They all come back."
Beck shook his head. "Case dismissed. And Mr. Eichman, don't bring me drug cases predicated on searches of vehicles pursuant to consent given by Latinos who can't speak English."
"Why, thanks, Judge, you just cleared my docket. Guess I'll go play golf."
The D.A. shook his head; he and Lawyer Polk went over to the prosecution table. Ignacio stood alone in front of the bench; his face was that of a man about to be led to the firing squad. He recoiled slightly when Deputy Clint came toward him, but smiled broadly when the deputy spoke to him in Spanish and unlocked the shackles. Ignacio Perez was crying when he turned to Beck.
"Gracias, el jefe. Mucho gracias."
"Good luck, Mr. Perez."
The other inmates suddenly perked up, as if they had witnessed a miracle. They exchanged glances and spoke excitedly in Spanish. Beck wondered what had happened to Miguel Cervantes.
Mavis called the next case, but Beck's thoughts remained on Miguel. When he returned to the moment, he was staring at the D.A., another brown-faced defendant, and the same defense lawyer.
"You again, Mr. Polk?"
Lawyer Polk shrugged. " 'Fraid so, Your Honor."
Beck leaned down to Mavis and whispered, "What's the deal with Polk? Does he represent every Latino defendant?"
"Most. 'Cause they're poor and he works cheap. It's him or the public defender. If their folks own land, they can hire a good lawyer, but he'll take their land for his fee. Lawyers here, they've acquired a lot of land that way." She shrugged. "Deed your land over or hire a drunk. That's how things work here, Judge."