Uncertain Justice

Court House 2

Judge Farmer's lips tightened to a thin line. In remarkably few words, the District Attorney--the lead prosecutor--had managed to imply there had been serious error on the part of the judge in one or more of his rulings during the trial as well as a lack of integrity among the citizens selected to try the case.

"Spare me the speeches, Mr. Brady ... and mind your manners, Counselor," cautioned the judge forcefully. He wasn't going to take any crap from the prosecutor in his own courtroom. He glared at the offending district attorney. Brady busied himself with a quick review of some papers, unrepentant in the face of the rebuke.

"Counsel for both sides will check with my clerk to find a date agreeable to both sides. If you can't find one, gentlemen," the judge growled finally, "I'll do it for you."

All the lawyers nodded. It was plain they'd better find a suitable time and date without his intervention.

"Are there any other matters we need to address?" he asked.

"Yes, your Honor, there are. May we approach?" P. Jonah Trenton, Attorney at Law, and Miles Underwood's representative before the court, bounced up from his seat to make his request before the judge could end the proceedings. Assuming Judge Farmer's permission, he strolled to the bench with notepad in hand.

Miles stood and massaged the knotted muscles along his lower spine with both hands. He watched the men and women of the jury exiting the room. Few met his questioning eyes as they filed out. He shook his head in confusion. Turning away to avoid their disdain, he found himself face to face with Chief Bailiff Morales. The man's eyes, nearly hidden in folds of sweating flab, gleamed with sudden inspiration.

Morales had decided weeks earlier he didn't like Underwood. His girlfriend thought the man was handsome, dignified, and ... interesting, she said. The bailiff intended to see the defendant, interesting or not, didn't get away with anything. He'd just decided to interpret the instant dislike in Underwood's expression as an affront to his authority.

"Turn 'round," Morales said viciously, "and put yer hands behind ya."

"What? Why? What did I do wrong?" Though he protested, Miles could see the handcuffs in Morales's hands. The blood drained from his face. He swung his body around slowly, mechanically. He bumped the table in front of him, his bulk knocking it an inch or two deeper into the well. Eyes blurring, his universe shrank until it included only himself and the bailiff.

He'd mortgaged his home for bail money when it was granted, but somehow the mistrial changed that? He was going to jail anyway? He felt the chill in the steel restraints as they ratcheted closed about his wrists. Muscles in his chest and shoulders tensed involuntarily.

Helpless and off balance, Miles stumbled when Morales pushed him down into his seat at the defense table. Miles' mind whirled. His body sagged; his neck bent forward until his chin was firmly tucked into his chest.

The sudden blow to his shoulder startled him badly. He recoiled, twisting away from the unexpected contact. His head jerked up and around to face the unknown attacker.

Completing his discussion of several housekeeping matters with the judge, Jonah Trenton had returned to the defense table to find his client apparently dozing in his chair. Mildly miffed, he reached down to shake him awake. He wasn't prepared for the violence of Underwood's reaction and backpedaled two quick steps, holding the yellow legal pad up as a shield between himself and his client.

Miles collapsed back onto the chair and focused on the lawyer's face. Not sure he could speak, Miles scooted to the edge of his seat and swiveled his hips around to show Trenton the cuffs on his wrists. Humiliation and despair dampened the corner of his eyes.

Annoyed, the defense counsel darted an angry glance at the bailiff and started to demand the reason for the cuffs. As the intent formed, Jonah changed his mind and pivoted to face the judge who was still involved in a last off-the-record conversation with the prosecutor.

"Your Honor," he called, reproof clear in his voice, "we assume bail is continued for the defendant pending the outcome of the new trial?" A new idea came to him. "Better still, your Honor," he remarked, "Mr. Underwood has demonstrated throughout this trial he is eager to face his accusers. He should be released on his own recognizance." The judge raised his chin to stare down a slightly crooked nose at the attorney and then shook his head.

"No, Mr. Trenton, I think not. Bail is continued for the defendant in the amount of three hundred thousand dollars." Judge Farmer stood. Looking around one last time, he gaveled the session to a close. The black robes of his office swirled about him as he spun to his right and walked quickly through the door to his chambers. The court clerk belatedly tried to call the courtroom to its feet, but the door had closed behind the judge before many could stand.

Miles turned his back on Bailiff Morales and pushed his wrists away from his body in unspoken demand. After a long moment, Morales pulled out his keys and shuffled forward to unlock the restraints. Deliberately fumbling the first attempt, he drew out the process as long as possible.

As he kneaded the indentations on his left wrist, Miles felt some of the anger Morales had hoped he would actually show earlier. Morales countered with a smirk while he put his keys away. Negotiating his way around the defense table, he waddled toward another bailiff standing near the exit. Following the man's progress with unhappy eyes, Miles rubbed at the marks on his right wrist.

"Miles!" The sharp tone of Trenton's voice got Miles' attention.

"Let's go find a quiet corner and talk for a minute," commanded Trenton. He grabbed Miles' upper right arm, guiding him out of the well and through the public seating to the doorway to the fourth floor hallway.

It was anything but quiet there. A flood of reporters and cameramen surged toward Miles and his attorney as they left the court. Bright television lights blazed and microphones stretched closer to catch the slightest sound from the accused.

"Mr. Underwood, what do you think about today's developments?"

"Mr. Trenton, how would you characterize...."

"Miles, what are you going to do...."

"No comment!" Trenton yelled repeatedly. "No comment!" He tugged on Miles' sleeve, pulling him down the hall to the right.

Half blinded by the lights, utterly bewildered, and cowed by the shouts coming from all angles, Miles let his attorney lead him through the crush without protest. The pack followed, demanding answers to unintelligible questions shouted with increasing volume and vehemence.