THE WHEELS OF JUSTICE

It was a hot July morning, and if it were not for the four-dollar fee, I would have used the parking garage next to the courthouse, rather than pulling up in front of a red brick bungalow three blocks away. Having been in practice for less than a year though, I needed to watch the pennies, and as I stepped onto the curb, I ignored the small dog, who was barking at me from inside a screened-in porch.

When I arrived at the county building I spent ten minutes in the security line, before the metal detector approved me, and I was allowed to proceed toward courtroom 101, also known as domestic violence court. If someone had told me, when I had first hung up my shingle, that I would be spending this much time on family disputes, I probably would not have believed them. After all, I had worked for sixteen years as in-house tax counsel for a large corporation, and when my employer’s decision to downsize had forced me to go into business for myself, I had assumed that I would continue specializing in my former field.

As I soon discovered though, those wealthier, more conservative individuals, who tend to require my level of tax expertise, have generally been using the same attorney for years, making it difficult for an unconnected newcomer to break into the field. Thus if I wanted to eat, I needed to accept the type of grittier business that is easier to attract, such as domestic controversies, and this also meant that I had to learn what I was doing, as I went along.

As I entered the chamber, I glanced around and spotted my client dressed in his usual blue jeans and faded white work shirt. Ron was sitting on one of the back benches, and he did not look happy to be here. However, this was true of just about everyone in the room, and when he saw me, I motioned for him to follow me into the hall.

This case had originated on a recent Sunday evening, when my client had been engaged in a casual drinking session with his live-in girlfriend, which at the time had seemed like a harmless attempt to unwind. As sometimes happens though during such encounters, their conversation had turned into an argument, which had inspired Janet to run off with their one-year-old son in tow. Then the next day she had gone to court saying that Ron had assaulted her.

When a woman claims that a man is attacking her, judges seldom want to risk further violence, while justice takes its leisurely course; and the court had granted Janet a thirty day emergency order of protection, which forbade Ron from having any contact with her or Little Ron. However, since the emergency procedure did not provide the man with a chance to defend himself, due process still required the court to hold a trial after the fact to determine if the action was justified, and today the judge was supposed to decide whether to dismiss the ruling or to extend it for the full two-year period allowed by law.

"Well Ron," I asked, after we had walked about twenty feet down the corridor. "How are you doing today?" and a half smile appeared on his face.

"I'm fine, Mr. Burns," he replied. "I’ve done a lot of praying over this, and I've decided to leave myself in God's hands," which led me to nod in response.

I was the man’s lawyer rather than his spiritual advisor, but I figured I could work with this attitude.

"Hopefully, God will take care of you," I suggested.

"Oh, I know he will,” Ron agreed in another show of faith, and assuming we had exchanged enough pleasantries, I updated my client.

"Elaine Ross at the legal aid clinic called me this morning,” I told him, “and she has agreed to represent Janet in today’s hearing."

"So, what does this Ms. Ross want to do?" Ron inquired, and not expecting him to like the answer, I took a deep breath.

"Elaine believes Janet's side of the story," I replied, "and she's asking for a two-year order of protection. She did not know about the paternity suit until I told her, but she probably will represent Janet in that matter as well," which, not to my surprise, brought a puzzled look to the man’s face.

We had already had one return date on the order of protection, where I had told the judge that Ron’s main concern was obtaining visitation with his son, before Janet had responded by suddenly denying that he was the father (despite the fact that they had named the boy after him), which had left His Honor looking a bit frustrated. I doubted that the man on the bench had actually believed the woman, but since the two of them had never married, my client would have to prove that he was the child’s parent, before the judge could order visitation. Then not knowing what else to do, I had asked for a continuance, and during this interim I had filed a parentage action to declare Ron the father of Little Ron.

"So what do we do?" the man inquired, which struck me as a reasonable question.

"Well, the good news is that if Elaine comes into the paternity case, we have somewhere to serve our summons,” I told him, “which increases your odds of obtaining visitation," and Ron perked up at this comment.

Unfortunately, when Janet had taken the boy, she had not left a forwarding address, which made it difficult to provide her with the mandatory notice of Ron’s claim to be the father. Now though Elaine would probably waive service on behalf of her client.

"As far as the order of protection goes," I continued, "We could deny her accusations that you were violent and demand a trial, but if she wants you to stay away, I don’t believe that you’re going to force her to see you anyway."

This caused my client to roll his lower lip, and I could picture the wheels churning inside his head, as he attempted to put this altogether.

"You think I should just give up?" he then asked, and I felt my muscles tighten.

This might have been what I was hinting at, but I could not help worrying that I could be pushing him in the wrong direction. Since the evidence was not crystal clear against Ron, a lot of people would have said that my job was to argue that his girlfriend had no need of an order of protection, and his apparent agreement that he would not force himself on Janet was strengthening my feeling that the allegations against him were false. Yet there was another concern as well, which I did not think I should be ignoring. No matter how dysfunctional it might be, I knew that we were also trying to salvage a family relationship here,

"Look, it's your decision," I told him, "But a trial will create a lot of animosity, and if the two of you are going to raise a son together, you’ll need to learn to cooperate over the next seventeen years. Furthermore, the order of protection will not stop you from receiving visitation with Little Ron."

Then when he made no immediate response, I threw in another consideration.

"Besides, trials are expensive," I added, "and if she continues to deny you're the father, you'll need to come up with the cost of a blood test."

I was also thinking that it would be nice, if my client had something left over to pay my bill, since the extra hearings had already eaten up the rather modest retainer, which he had originally given me. With all of his other problems though, I was reluctant to mention this, and after I waited in silence for a minute or so, he looked at me again.

"You're right," Ron said. "Let's agree to the order of protection and move forward on the parentage case."

"Sounds sensible to me," I replied, and when we returned to the courtroom, I spotted the other attorney sitting on one of the middle benches of the chamber.

Elaine was a short slender woman in her late thirties, and after I told her I had a proposal, she accompanied me into the hall. When I suggested that she accept service for Janet though, she began to hem and haw. Officially she was only representing the woman in the order of protection, and as she reminded me, she had not even heard of the parentage action until she called me that morning.

However, when I reminded my opponent that this would also enable her to keep her client’s address secret, she came around. We both knew that if I had to, I could hire a detective to locate Janet, so I could serve her a summons. I was less confident that Ron would be able to produce the gumshoe's fee, but fortunately this detail did not come up in our conversation.

As I went to speak to my client again, I felt reasonably satisfied with the arrangement. It made sense to concentrate on procuring visitation, and this way I was also avoiding another rather sticky question. Janet had a slovenly appearance, and the semi glassy look in her eyes suggested that she had a drinking problem, which might have led her to imagine Ron’s intent to harm her. It also led me to guess that she would prove to be a weak witness in court. Yet, since I had not seen what had happened, I could not completely rule out the other possibility. Perhaps the man really had attacked her, and underneath her confusion Janet indeed needed an order of protection.

When I informed my client that we had reached an agreement, his reaction reminded me of a mischievous adolescent, whose father has just straightened out a misunderstanding with the school principal, and his approval boosted my confidence that I was doing the right thing. Then after we stepped in front of the bench, Elaine handed up a two-year order of protection, while I presented an order requiring the other lawyer to appear on Janet's behalf in the paternity case, which as I had expected seemed to satisfy Judge Dillon. At that point I may have had only a limited amount of litigation experience, but I had already figured out that judges usually are happier, when the parties can settle a complicated dispute among themselves, rather than forcing the court to try to find a solution.

When His Honor finished reading the documents, he explained to Ron that he would have to stay away from Janet for twenty-four months and that a violation of this requirement could send him to jail for up to a year. My client then indicated that he understood, and feeling that the defendant was sufficiently informed, the judge signed both orders. As we were about to step away from the bench though, His Honor adjusted his glasses and made another announcement.

“There seems to be an outstanding warrant on Ron for violating the order of protection," he said. "Take a seat, so the sheriff can process that matter," and as the man sat down next to the deputy, a frown crossed my face.

It sounded like Janet had filed a complaint with the police saying that my client had done something forbidden by the earlier ruling, and this would mean that he was facing a criminal charge. I did not know a lot about criminal law, and the possibility that I might have to defend him against this accusation made me nervous. Legally my agreement to represent Ron in the order of protection gave me no obligation to take on this separate matter, but I knew that I would feel terrible if I left the guy hanging; and as I slid onto the bench next to him, I struggled to remember what I had learned about criminal cases in law school some twenty years back.

Ron had told me that he had not seen Janet, after they had separated, which suggested that his alleged breach of the order had to be some non-violent act, like trying to call her on the phone. This was not good, but I did not think that it would be enough to bring him any jail time, unless he had a prior record, and as I explained my analysis, my client remained calm.

"I'm not worried," he replied in a repeat of his earlier profession of faith, "With God as my counsel I have the best attorney in the universe."

I was not sure that this was a logical view of the situation, but I felt relieved that the man was not asking a bunch of questions, which I would not know the answers to, and as we waited, his optimism began to rub off. I assumed that this morning we were only going to set a future court date, and with luck between now and the actual trial, I would be able to fill in some of the missing gaps in my knowledge of criminal procedure. Furthermore, I might learn enough in the process to accept more criminal cases in the future, and this additional source of business would hopefully move me closer to being able to earn a decent living from this racket.

After a few seconds though, I glanced at the deputy sheriff, and I suddenly felt like the captain of the Titanic, when he spotted the iceberg. The officer was opening a large plastic bag, and if I was not mistaken this was the type of container which they used for storing a prisoner's personal possessions.

"Oh, my gosh!" I thought. "They're taking Ron to jail!" and almost as soon as I experienced this insight, my fears turned into reality.

Before I could lift my fallen jaw though, the deputy approached us and ordered my client to dump everything from his pockets into the bag. Ron looked confused, and I suspected that my failure to mention this possibility might be leading him to question whether I had any idea of what I was talking about. However, he complied with the instruction, and as the deputy put handcuffs around his wrists, another officer stepped through a side door of the courtroom to hustle him away.

"What the heck was I supposed to do now?"

After having trusted me to protect his rights, the defendant was being locked up for who knew how long, and I was feeling like a total idiot. I did not think I could live with myself though, if I left him on his own, and recalling the old saying that the only stupid question is the one you don't ask, I approached the deputy.

"Excuse me," I began, "I've never had a client arrested in court before, and I wasn't planning for it to happen today. So what happens next?" and fortunately the man appeared to be in a helpful mood.

"Well, we’ll take the suspect to the bullpen to wait for a hearing on bail," the officer explained. "And if you go down to bond court, you can ask for his case to be called right away."

"Thanks," I said, and thinking I was sounding even more ignorant, I added. "And where is bond court?"

"Room 120," he replied, and I grabbed my briefcase.

I had not been in room 120 before, but the number indicated that it would be on the first floor toward the southern end of the building. Furthermore, if I could not find the place, I assumed that I would be able to find another deputy, who could provide additional directions. Bond court turned out to be a crowded and chaotic spot, but I sensed that there was less of a perception of doom here than in domestic violence court, and I speculated that this was because regardless of their long-term problems, most of the defendants in this chamber were hopeful that the judge was about to grant them a temporary release from jail.

I then approached a neatly dressed woman sitting close to the bench, whom I guessed was the clerk, although as I quickly learned, she was actually a prisoner waiting for bail. Furthermore, my mistake prompted a good laugh on her part, and her merriment brought another blow to my already currently low level of self-confidence. Since I had brightened her day though, the young lady showed her gratitude by pointing out where the person I was looking for was sitting, and the real clerk proved to be almost as friendly as the prisoner.

After I told this woman that I did not know what I was doing, she offered a sympathetic nod, giving the impression that I was not the first unprepared lawyer, who had needed her assistance. Then she informed me that during the hearing both myself and the state’s attorney would have an opportunity to ask the defendant a few questions, and that based on his answers, the judge would decide what he considered to be an appropriate amount of bail.

That gave me a start, although I still did not know what questions to ask or how much money Ron would need. Nor did I think that the clerk would feel comfortable trying to provide me with advice on these points. To my relief though, another lawyer, whom I had met at a bar association meeting, had overheard our conversation, and after offering me some additional tips, she handed me a copy of the standard list of inquiries to use at these hearings. Then after thanking my colleague, I asked the deputy of this courtroom how I got my man called in front of the bench. I could have asked the other attorney or the clerk, but it seemed less embarrassing to spread around my ignorant questions.

The officer explained that he would normally call the man, when I was ready, but today bond court was closing early. A new judge was being sworn in this morning, and everyone wanted to attend the ceremony. This meant that I would have to come back at one thirty for the afternoon session, and for the second time in about ten minutes my jaw dropped to my chest.

A couple was coming into my office at one o’clock to sign their wills, and I had never learned how to be in two places at the same time. Once again though God seemed to be opening a window, right after he had shut the door, and when I explained my dilemma to the deputy, he assured me that this was no problem. The court would stay open until five, and he told me they would be happy to keep my client a little longer, until I managed to make my way back.

This left me feeling better, and deciding that I should give Ron some idea of what was happening, I found my way to the entrance of the jail. After all, I had not even told the man that they were going to lock him up, before the court officers had put him in cuffs, and I did not want him to assume that I had abandoned him for an afternoon round of golf.

I told the guard at the reception desk whom I wanted to see, and apparently having assumed from my grey suit and my receding hairline that I was an experienced defense lawyer, he handed me a form to fill out. I then answered most of the questions, and figuring that a wrong or missing response or two would not really matter, I handed the completed application back to the deputy, who after tossing it unread on top of his desk, waved me toward the door leading to the interior of the prison.

As the deputy pushed the electronic buttons, to let me through the next two barriers, I realized that this was just like on TV, and I grew excited. Then after entering the visiting area, I spotted a window on the wall, which would separate me from my client on the other side of the glass. With his face turned down, Ron did not look like a happy camper, but as I took my chair, his eyes rose slightly.

"How's it going?" I asked, not being able to think of anything other than the standard ice breaker.

"Not so good, Mr. Burns,” he told me. “How long do you think they'll keep me in here?" and clearing my throat, I attempted to provide a brief description of how bond court works.

I explained that I would be asking questions to help the judge set the bail, and if we were lucky, His Honor would accept the amount of money he had on him. If not, he could start calling friends to bring in the required sum, and either way he should be out soon.

I thought I sounded knowledgeable, and I felt hopeful that Ron had not guessed that half an hour earlier I had not even known where the bond court was. After that I asked him a couple of questions, so his answers at the hearing would not catch me by surprise, and I tried not to flinch, when he mentioned his prior felony conviction for battery. He claimed it was self-defense, but that the police had blamed him, because he had a gun, while the other guy only had a knife.

For my part I thought that this was a rather logical assumption by the police, and I made a mental note to go instead with the argument that this incident was fifteen years in the past. I then told him that I would be a little late for the afternoon session, but he seemed okay with my promise that I would return by two-thirty.

As I drove back to my office, I mentally rehearsed what I would say at the bail hearing, but the rattling of the heat shield underneath my hood managed to distract me. Lately my five-year-old Escort had been giving me problems, and I suspected that before long I may have to purchase a new vehicle. However, since I had no idea how I was going to swing the cost, I tried to push this thought to the back of my mind.

At one o'clock Mr. and Mrs. Colby arrived at my office, wearing shorts and T-shirts, which brought on a twinge of jealousy. It was Friday afternoon, and if I had not been returning to court, I could have stopped at home on my way back to my office to change into a similar outfit. That had not been in the cards though, and after answering my clients’ questions and making a couple of minor revisions, I had them sign the papers. Then as I headed back to my rendezvous with the criminal justice system, I wondered if I was ready for the challenge.

Ron's comment about God being his counsel reminded me of a joke, in which an accused man refuses to let the judge appoint a public defender, because “he is innocent and God is his attorney.” Then in the punch line the judge overrules the defendant, telling him that this was all fine, but he thought the man should also have local counsel. If God had selected me as his local counsel, one would assume that everything was going to work out for my client. However, I could not generate the same faith on this point that Ron had demonstrated.

I arrived at the courthouse a little earlier than I expected, but when I entered the bond court, the room was nearly empty, and I was confused. I was also concerned that I might be too late. The deputy recognized me though, and he gave me a friendly smile.

"We just finished the call," he announced, "and since the judge didn't want to take a chance that your guy would stay locked up all weekend, he took him without you."

At that point though, I felt slightly light headed. This did not sound like the way I thought the system was supposed to work, and I had a horrible feeling that I might have fouled up again. However, Judge Smith was still sitting at the bench, and having heard the deputy’s comment, he decided to jump in with an explanation.

"Right, I read the charge, and it didn't sound too convincing," His Honor informed me. "So, I let him out on his own recognizance and set a court date for the 26th." He then added in a jesting tone, "We probably deprived him of his right to counsel, but considering the outcome all you could have done was mess things up," and I smiled with a sense of relief.

The authorities were letting Ron go, and after thanking the judge, I found my client in the bullpen, where I reassured him that he would be released, as soon as the court completed the paperwork. I also told him that he would receive all of his possessions back, and I conveyed Judge Smith’s remark that the charge did not look very solid, which seemed to encourage him.

When I returned to the courtroom, His Honor was gone, but I waved to the deputy, as if we were old friends. Then as I exited the building, I noted that the afternoon heat was reaching its peak, and I felt drops of sweat running down my back. As I headed toward my car though, my spirits were rising.

Today I had managed to dance around several unexpected twists that could have proven disastrous for my client, but in the end it had worked out okay, and all things considered I felt proud of my ability to improvise. I was even beginning to think that I might make it in this business after all, and that perhaps by the 26th I would be able to prepare a decent defense for the charge against Ron.

Patrick Hart: I am a lawyer from Beach Park, Illinois. I have previously published six short stories: “The Exploding Car” which appeared in the Muse Portfolio;“ King of the Dock” which appeared in The Storyteller; “Coffee with Vodka” which appeared in the Pennsylvania Literary Journal; “To the End of the Ravine” which appeared in the Caribbean Writer; “Search for Glory” which appeared in October Hill Magazine; and “The Day of the Vikings” which appeared in Rundelania.