When James Bradley had first moved to Yonkers, he had tried not to piss off anyone or act in a way that would piss people off towards him. Unsurprisingly, him being a lawyer in the first place had indeed made him an enemy of a fair number of people, and most prominent of that gallery of rogues was the judge that presided over the Yonkers City Court, the Honorable Walter Reed.
It wasn't that Judge Reed bowed to public interest, like most district attorneys- and a fair number of judges- did. Rather, it was the fact that Reed himself was so morally righteous and so adamant on laying down harsh sentences, that made James hate him- and also made Reed an enemy of James.
As the jury debated amongst itself, he took a quick look around. He, James, was alone here- he'd roped this murder case in by himself. In the years since his time as a public defender, James had moved away from defending criminals. His firm these days focused on personal injury, civil litigation, and the intricacies of the tax code, which was Willis' domain. But occasionally a case came that was irresistible to James, something that appealed to his old public-defending spirit.
Such a case was this one; the murder trial of an African-American named Marcus Brown.
"The jury's taking a long time," Brown said, looking at James stoically.
"They're afraid of the judge," he replied. "But it seems we must be holding an edge; otherwise they wouldn't be taking so long."
He glanced around the courtroom, wondering if what he had said was true. The district attorney, Ben Lancaster, was sitting at the opposite table alongside his assistant, Xavier Wood. Both of them sifted through their papers, their brows furrowed in sheer concentration as they, too, gave glances towards the debating jury, and inevitably, him. Then their gazes turned on him, and they narrowed into a disdainful leer. James grunted and shifted his own gaze from them to the bench.
Judge Reed seemed dwarfed by the huge maple desk, but his head loomed large beneath thick hair, which was just starting to turn gray at the temples. His carefully trimmed mustache and whiskers were also touched by gray. His ears matched the size of his head, and were nestled close underneath the shocks of hair. He was somehow neither handsome nor ugly, for the power of his personality always pushed through his physical semblance and created the man that they saw: he could be fearsome, loyal, honest, cruel, insipid, depraved, and even stupid. To James, Judge Reed was indeed a powerful and intimidating opponent, for his thwarted ambitions, which were agitated by a tinge of religious fanaticism, had so ensnarled his perspectives as to blind him to everything except what he saw and what he thought was right.
When the jury finally came in again, Judge Reed leaned forward in the high-backed chair, his rich baritone vibrating into every corner of the room:
"Mr. Foreman, have you reached a verdict?"
"Your Honor," said the mousey-looking foreman somewhat nervously, "we haven't. We're still deadlocked."
Behind James the spectators buzzed, and the Judge rapped sharply with his gavel. He then transfixed the spectators through the silence he had induced, and then turned back to the jury.
"Ladies and gentlemen, it is inconceivable that you'd need more time. But I would be very willing to give you more time, if you'd like."
Like last time, James thought, and the time before that. But he kept those thoughts to himself.
"It won't work, Your Honor. We're just not going to agree."
James watched the bench tensely. If Reed kept pounding them, someone on the jury was going to break.
"The court realises," the judge said, "that it is quite late. But we must bear in mind that it is our privilege as American citizens to lend ourselves tirelessly to the pursuit of justice. Are you certain, Mr. Foreman, that you won't agree?"
"It's not happening, Your Honor. I'm certain."
Even as the foreman answered, the individual jurors all shook their heads vigorously, affirming their spokesperson's words.
"Very well," said the judge with a great sigh. He leaned back in his chair and gazed wearily across the courtroom, his eyes returning at last to the jury. He said, in a soft and tremulous voice, "I will excuse you now, ladies and gentlemen, and declare a mistrial. The cause of justice is always strengthened when honest men debate an issue, whether they agree or not. Mr. White, will you please approach the bench before you leave? The rest of you are now dismissed."
For someone who had evaded a heavy sentence -at least for now- Marcus Brown looked very astute.
"At least they didn't hand it down quickly," Brown said.
"They're not going to hand it down at all, buddy."
Whilst the judge conversed with White, the foreman, James exchanged glances with Ben Lancaster and Xavier Wood, who were both sitting silently at the prosecution's table. Lancaster was no idiot; he knew for certain that Brown didn't deserve a first-degree indictment. Yet he'd called for one during the pretrial hearing, and the grand jury had obliged him simply because he'd made the request. But it was probably because he'd bowed to pressure- pressure from the public, pressure to keep his position, which was elected, and most of all, pressure from the judge. Would, then, ever come a time in criminal jurisprudence where prosecutors in general might think that they were the protectors of the innocent as well as pursuers of the guilty? He thought not. As long as the office of district attorney remained a steppingstone to greater political opportunity, it seemed doubtful.
In any case, Judge Reed was pounding again.
James looked up and the judge was staring at him. "The court has decided to withhold its decision as to begin another trial of the accused until nine o'clock next Thursday morning, Mr. Bradley. I would like to see you in my chambers for a few minutes."
"Very well, Your Honor," James curtly replied.
"And you too, Mr. Lancaster."
"Of course, Your Honor." Lancaster's voice was like glass.
"This court is hereby in recess." The judge gave his gavel a rasp. He rose and strode from the courtroom through the back exit.
James turned to his client. "I'll come over to the jail, Marcus."
"Tonight?"
"Yeah. As soon as I talk to the judge."
He entered the judge's private office behind the courtroom. Dark thoughts swirled through his head as he passed beneath the door, thinking all the while of the chewing-out that the judge, ever so hateful of those who defended criminals, was going to dish out to him.
The office itself was rather easy on the eyes, even if the decorations were rather austere. The walls were paneled, and bore a painting and two large framed photographs- a portrait of Washington hung behind the Judge's desk, and another of Clinton, and finally, Obama's face grinning down upon him from the door. The windows curtained in gray velvet and the carpet was a dull brown. The private desk was polished a deep maple, identical with the one in the courtroom.
"President Obama is a great man, isn't he, Mr. Bradley?" the judge quipped. Before James could respond, the judge plowed forward. "Have a chair, Mr. Bradley. You too, Mr. Lancaster."
"Thanks, judge."
Ben Lancaster was a proud-looking man, with wavy brown hair and a surefire smile. He was lean and muscular, and his face was stamped with alertness. His manner was considerate and he acted pretty much the same on or off the courtroom stage. Yet he was also seizing the small opportunities. His direction seemed to be expanding the next stage of his career; on the larger and more fundamental aspects of justice and punishment, Lancaster seemed unknowing and unaware.
James sat facing the desk, and the judge frowned.
"The vote was eight to four."
"Really?" That came from Lancaster, but really, both lawyers were surprised.
"The foreman told me the first vote was six-six, and the second eight-four. It never really changed after that."
"Your Honor," James interjected quickly, "there's no point in another trial at this point. It's obvious that-"
"Mr. Lancaster," the judge said, ignoring James entirely, "the court would entertain a motion by the government to reconsider the question of indictment."
Lancaster cleared his throat. "My office would hesitate, Your Honor, to press the government with the time and money to start another trial if we could get a satisfactory plea without it. Wood and I will work on your suggestion in the light of the grand jury's investigation."
The judge turned back to James, his eyebrows narrowed. "Mr. Bradley, how would your client plead to manslaughter?"
"Guilty," James said steadily. "The evidence is all there, and Mr. Lancaster knows-"
"Mr. Lancaster knows whatever you tell him," the judge cut in, dismissing James' statement. James suddenly wanted to punch someone, specifically the judge, and he reckoned he could do it. He was thirty-five, in the prime of his youth, and he'd grown up on the streets of the Bronx besides, and knew how to pack a punch. But it would be definitely uncouth, and it would probably be enough to get his license to practice revoked, given his nonexistent reputation with the judge. He struggled to keep his temper in check, but he swore he could feel a vein begin to throb.
"The court will consider whatever motion you put before it at nine o'clock Tuesday morning. In the meanwhile, I'd like a word with Mr. Bradley in private. Thank you, Mr. Lancaster."
"Certainly," James replied.
He watched with awkward amusement as Ben Lancaster awkwardly bowed out of Judge Walter Reed's chambers. Ben Lancaster, two-time District Attorney, the government's messenger and executor, seen in his pettiest function.
The judge grunted and began his rant, which, although had no screaming, was still terse nonetheless.
"Mr. Bradley, you have been smart with me again. I'm sure you get great satisfaction from it." He paused, trying to gain control.
"I beg your pardon, Your Honor?"
"You heard me, I'm sure. Your trickery, your twisting, and your accusations of my motives make me crawl in my skin. You accuse me of prejudice, yet everyone knows I am fair and a friend of justice. You told the jury that I would try to lead them into a conviction. I should remand you for your contempt."
"I am convinced," James said, ire rising, "that Mr. Lancaster would have asked for manslaughter if left to his own thinking, Your Honor."
Choose your words carefully, he told himself. One wrong phrase and the judge would explode.
"Don't you try to confuse me. You know your client is guilty."
"He killed a man, no doubt about that. But-"
"But! But?! There are few buts heard by the dead, Mr. Bradley! Your client killed a man with shards of glass from a broken beer bottle behind a bar. Now a fine woman is a widow, and his son has no father."
James remembered their appearances. They had looked pained, and had become even more so as Lancaster explained the man's murder. He had tried to shrink into his seat, but found that he couldn't.
"You explained that to the jury," he said wearily at last.
"It was my duty. I would be wrong if I didn't lead the jury in the right decision."
"Mr. Bradley, I have been presiding judge in this district for nearly fifteen years. I believe I am respected by most people within my jurisdiction- perhaps even the criminal element. It is my belief that you dislike me personally. I would like to ask you, as the Spanish say, mano a mano, whether my suspicions are correct."
Oh, well. Better to tell a quieting lie than reveal the whole, troublemaking yet unimportant, truth.
"I assure you, Your Honor," James said, "that I am only fighting for my clients' rights, as listed in the Constitution that our forefathers wrote down a long time ago. Right to due process, right to fair trial, all that. Nothing more, Your Honor."
At last the judge responded. "Very well. We'll leave it at that." He got up from his chair and strode to the windows behind his desk. "I have hesitated to call you down before now in the hope that once you became familiar with my court, you'd temper your methods. You've been a disrupting influence ever since you moved down here-for how long? Five years? Yes. You have cast aspirations on my judicial integrity since the first case that you've defended against me. Nevertheless, I'd like to be your friend. I'd like to help you get back on the right road, the road of justice."
"Your Honor, I-"
"Good night, Mr. Bradley."
James stared at him, speechless.
By the time James had visited Brown in jail and returned to the street again, it was past eleven o'clock. He seethed with anger as he hopped into his '92 Buick Roadmaster and sped down the nigh-abandoned streets, breaking the speed limit at least twice. At least there were no cops around. That would've made a spectacle.
He lived on the edge of Yonkers in a small, simple house that did not evoke much difference from the others around it. It was a thirty-minute drive from downtown to where he lived, but he was alright with that.
He pulled up in the driveway in front of the garage, which hosted his wife's Mercedes. As Claire went to work later than James did, she got to park inside, because his Buick would always be gone. Except when it wasn't- during the holidays for instance- and he had to move his car down the street before getting the Mercedes out.
The house had been built in the '70s, and he'd bought it for a scant $80,000 in 2004, and paid off the mortgage in less than two years, which allowed him to buy the warehouse without too much clutter. It had been painted a sickly red, and he'd got to work painting it a more appropriate beige, with pretty white highlights. It had a nice front lawn, and a white fence that he'd put in the week after he'd bought it. A rather comfortable home, in a nice neighborhood- perfect for starting a family.
As he entered his house and set down his briefcase, he saw that the kitchen lights were still on. Claire, bless her soul, was still up. She was squatting in the kitchen, cutting pickles with a knife.
"Hello, James dear!" she said, standing up so quickly that he couldn't quite imagine how she did it, "You're home! For a few minutes I was worried that something bad had happened to you, but I guessed that you were trying Marcus Brown's case! So, uh, did you win? And, by the way, Sofie is asleep."
Sofie was their daughter, a wee little child of eight. Given that it was midnight, she would definitely be asleep.
"No," he said at last, sighing as he laid down his briefcase on the table. "Judge Reed was being...unagreeable again, like he is as always."
"Oh," Claire said at last, in that peculiar Slavic accent of hers, so it really sounded like Ooo. "Is he always like this? You are always complaining about him."
"He's a judge, honey," James said as he opened the fridge, grabbed a can of beer, and popped it open. "He's always like this. Almost all judges are like that. They're all goddamn assholes."
Claire looked at him, her blue, innocent eyes wide open as she heard the foul language.
"Oh, right," he responded finally, waving a hand. "Sorry. Izvinjavam se, that's what you Serbs say, I think."
Claire nodded. "Foul language is frowned upon by God," she said, as if she was talking to a baby. "Especially if you take His name in vain."
Goddamn goody-two shoes. He'd married one. But that was alright. The benefits outweighed the drawbacks, he thought, as he watched Claire stroll down the hallway to their bedroom, with that tight little rump and a walk that put the girls of the Bronx to shame. Goddamned foreigners, they always had the most attractive women.
With a grunt, James Bradley crushed the beer can and chucked it into the trash can. Then he got up and walked to the bedroom too.
He thought he would join his wife there.
Done.