Chapter 9 - The Seal Behind The Laugh
I didn't look at the judge when I said it. I looked just past him, at the wood and the brass and the colors that were supposed to mean something more than who was standing where.
The seal was set dead center into the bench, dark wood polished around it. The flag stood to his right, still. The microphones on the bench caught the hum of the room. My hands were still on the counsel table. I could feel the grain under my palms.
"The court laughed when I stood up," I said.
I heard somebody shift in the gallery. A shoe squeaked. I kept my voice level.
"I heard it," I said. "I'm not bringing it up to disrespect this court. I'm bringing it up because that was then."
The judge's jaw tightened. He didn't lean back. He stayed forward, elbows on the bench, robe pulling at his shoulders. The stern look hadn't left his face since he'd told me I was going to prison. I didn't flinch from it. I nodded toward him, once, the way I'd seen men do in hearings when they wanted to show they understood the weight of the room.
"Your Honor went from laughing to serious," I said. "I respect the serious. That's the court I need right now."
The attorney shifted in his chair beside me. I saw it out of the corner of my eye, his pen stopping over his pad. He didn't speak. He'd tried to take the case back minutes before and I'd held onto it, and now he was just watching to see if I'd talk myself straight into a cell.
Judge looked down at me over the bench. "Mr. Defendant," he said, "flattery won't extend your time."
"No, sir," I said. "Evidence will."
That landed quiet. The gallery went still in a way it hadn't before. Before, there had been coughs and paper rustling and low murmurs when he made the Perry Mason crack. Now nobody moved. Even the officer behind the counsel table had gone rigid, hands clasped in front of him.
I lifted my right hand off the table, just enough to gesture. I didn't point at the judge. I pointed at the seal.
"That seal," I said. "It's behind you in every hearing. It doesn't laugh. It doesn't decide before it hears. It's a promise that the process is bigger than how I look or how I sound."
My throat was dry. I swallowed and kept going.
"And that flag," I said, glancing to it. "It's here for the same reason. It says I get to be heard even when the room already made up its mind about me. I'm holding this court to that. Not to embarrass anybody. To ask for what it already promised."
The judge stared at me. For a second I thought I'd pushed too far. His face was hard, bald head catching the warm light over the bench, mouth a flat line. The microphone picked up his breath.
"You've spent three minutes talking about symbols, son," he said. His voice was low now, not mocking. "This court deals in exhibits."
"I know," I said.
"Then show me evidence," he said. "Now. Not speech. Evidence."
The words hung there. The time pressure I'd felt since he'd given me those limited minutes pressed harder. My pulse was in my wrists, under the metal bracelet I still wore. I nodded.
"Yes, Your Honor," I said.
I turned. Slowly, so the camera of the whole room could follow if it wanted to. Away from the bench, away from the seal and the flag, toward the gallery rows behind me.
She was still there. The woman in light blue scrubs. The stethoscope tucked against her collar. Her hands holding those white papers so tight her knuckles had gone pale. Her eyes were wet, but she wasn't looking down anymore. She was looking straight at me.
I held her gaze for a beat. I didn't reach for the papers yet. I just let the whole courtroom see where I was looking.
"The evidence," I said, turning back just enough that the judge could hear me, "has been sitting in this room the entire time."
May you like
The judge followed my turn. The attorney followed it. The gallery followed it. All eyes went to her hands, to the white stack she hadn't let go of since I'd first stood in profile with my hands clasped.
"May I reference what she's holding?" I asked.
