Clouds Began to Gather
I went and visited the boys at the jail. As their lawyer I can see them everyday if I need to. I tracked down witnesses, I researched legal precedents concerning being an abused child as a defense in a trial, I drank endless cups of coffee and wolfed down quick deli sandwiches, I crawled through the stacks of research books like some demented little bookworm, I used all my charm to try to convince the soc girls to please, please testify...I ran in circles all over Tulsa, through the lives and ruins left and lived by my vulnerable clients...and at the end of the day exhausted with a shot of scotch in front of a tiny black and white motel t.v. I understood why. I was petrified.
I headed to the jail, thinking of Dallas' silent presence in the courtroom. He hadn't said anything to me and he didn't need to. The possible penalties for the charges had been read, and while Johnny stood in front of the judge, his large dark eyes fixed firmly on his sneakers, the judge said for the crime of murder in the first degree he could, "be sentenced to death in the electric chair," or maybe he said, "you may be put to death by a current of electricity, that that current be passed through your body until you are dead,"
Because, and I knew, the prosecution viewed me as a new, green lawyer, and it's true I've never had a case before, and they feel they may be able to get the death penalty.
I had noticed the media, t.v. cameras and journalists scribbling furiously away and wouldn't it make such wonderful drama? Johnny looked no more than 14 and even in the posture of his body and the tone of his voice you could read his guilt and his sorrow...troubled boy, just such a one the media loves and caresses and then tears apart.
Clouds began to gather overhead as I headed to the police station, the stark shadows of the buildings and spindly sidewalk trees fading away. I felt a tenseness start in my shoulders and spread to my whole body and realized there was one thing between Johnny and that current of electricity. Me.
Christ, how did I get myself into this? The police station was near the courthouse and I took a deep breath. I had to remain calm, could not let Johnny and Ponyboy think there was anything to worry about.
The cops afforded me the dubious respect they seemed to hold for lawyers. At times we'll call them on the carpet, expose their shoddy police work, slip shod procedures.
I went up to the high counter, peered over. A thin faced cop with side swept brown hair worked diligently on his paperwork.
"Yes?" he looked up, regarded my lawyer suit and briefcase.
"D.K. Williams, lawyer, here to see Ponyboy Curtis and Johnny Cade,"
He nodded at me, business like, no emotion. He rose to get them, dissappeared behind the black door. When the wheels of our conference were set in motion he reappeared and motioned for me to follow.
I followed him to a conference room, nothing more than a large jail cell with a long metal table in it's center. He left the door open while he fetched Ponyboy and Johnny. I looked at the thick metal bars, the heavy square plate that locked it.
They were lead in, hands cuffed in front of them, Ponyboy looking around curiously and smiling slightly when he saw me. Johnny stared ahead at some fixed, invisible spot in front of him, expressionless.
"Sit," the cop said to them, gesturing at the two metal folding chairs across from me. They sat and he left, locking the barred door behind him, locking me in. I felt something catch in my throat when I heard the tumblers click into place.
Ponyboy was glancing around, his eyes coming to rest on my open briefcase and the papers I had removed from it. Johnny looked up, looked right at me, and I saw the many things I had been seeing in his eyes: guilt, remorse, sorrow, innocence, and something else, blame. Did he blame me for his being in jail? Being threatened with the death penalty?
I cleared my throat, not so sure how to begin, trying to hide my growing belief in my own incompetence. What made me think I was equal to this task?
"How are you?" I said, looking first at Ponyboy and then Johnny.
"O.K." Ponyboy said, and he did sound more or less O.K.
"Johnny? How are you?" He had looked down again and didn't look up when I addressed him.
"O.K." he echoed tonelessly.
I filled them in as best I could, explained that bail had been denied on both of them. On Johnny because, as we had suspected, the charge was too serious. On Ponyboy because he was a "flight risk". Ponyboy swallowed hard and looked at Johnny. Johnny's eyes didn't move from the spot just left of my pen he had chosen to stare at.
"That's for now. That doesn't mean they won't set bail," I tried to soften the blow and Ponyboy smiled weakly at my attempt.
"Yeah," he said, his voice shaking a bit around the edges. I told them that a psychologist would be coming to speak with Johnny about his parents and the abuse. He didn't even look up and I was beginning to think he had stopped listening. Better have her talk to him about depression, too.
When I told them all I had to tell them I stood to go. I wanted to say something that would give them hope, some shining words for this dark moment of their lives. But I didn't have any words like that. I didn't know what to say.
I went and visited the boys at the jail. As their lawyer I can see them everyday if I need to. I tracked down witnesses, I researched legal precedents concerning being an abused child as a defense in a trial, I drank endless cups of coffee and wolfed down quick deli sandwiches, I crawled through the stacks of research books like some demented little bookworm, I used all my charm to try to convince the soc girls to please, please testify...I ran in circles all over Tulsa, through the lives and ruins left and lived by my vulnerable clients...and at the end of the day exhausted with a shot of scotch in front of a tiny black and white motel t.v. I understood why. I was petrified.
I headed to the jail, thinking of Dallas' silent presence in the courtroom. He hadn't said anything to me and he didn't need to. The possible penalties for the charges had been read, and while Johnny stood in front of the judge, his large dark eyes fixed firmly on his sneakers, the judge said for the crime of murder in the first degree he could, "be sentenced to death in the electric chair," or maybe he said, "you may be put to death by a current of electricity, that that current be passed through your body until you are dead,"
Because, and I knew, the prosecution viewed me as a new, green lawyer, and it's true I've never had a case before, and they feel they may be able to get the death penalty.
I had noticed the media, t.v. cameras and journalists scribbling furiously away and wouldn't it make such wonderful drama? Johnny looked no more than 14 and even in the posture of his body and the tone of his voice you could read his guilt and his sorrow...troubled boy, just such a one the media loves and caresses and then tears apart.
Clouds began to gather overhead as I headed to the police station, the stark shadows of the buildings and spindly sidewalk trees fading away. I felt a tenseness start in my shoulders and spread to my whole body and realized there was one thing between Johnny and that current of electricity. Me.
Christ, how did I get myself into this? The police station was near the courthouse and I took a deep breath. I had to remain calm, could not let Johnny and Ponyboy think there was anything to worry about.
The cops afforded me the dubious respect they seemed to hold for lawyers. At times we'll call them on the carpet, expose their shoddy police work, slip shod procedures.
I went up to the high counter, peered over. A thin faced cop with side swept brown hair worked diligently on his paperwork.
"Yes?" he looked up, regarded my lawyer suit and briefcase.
"D.K. Williams, lawyer, here to see Ponyboy Curtis and Johnny Cade,"
He nodded at me, business like, no emotion. He rose to get them, dissappeared behind the black door. When the wheels of our conference were set in motion he reappeared and motioned for me to follow.
I followed him to a conference room, nothing more than a large jail cell with a long metal table in it's center. He left the door open while he fetched Ponyboy and Johnny. I looked at the thick metal bars, the heavy square plate that locked it.
They were lead in, hands cuffed in front of them, Ponyboy looking around curiously and smiling slightly when he saw me. Johnny stared ahead at some fixed, invisible spot in front of him, expressionless.
"Sit," the cop said to them, gesturing at the two metal folding chairs across from me. They sat and he left, locking the barred door behind him, locking me in. I felt something catch in my throat when I heard the tumblers click into place.
Ponyboy was glancing around, his eyes coming to rest on my open briefcase and the papers I had removed from it. Johnny looked up, looked right at me, and I saw the many things I had been seeing in his eyes: guilt, remorse, sorrow, innocence, and something else, blame. Did he blame me for his being in jail? Being threatened with the death penalty?
I cleared my throat, not so sure how to begin, trying to hide my growing belief in my own incompetence. What made me think I was equal to this task?
"How are you?" I said, looking first at Ponyboy and then Johnny.
"O.K." Ponyboy said, and he did sound more or less O.K.
"Johnny? How are you?" He had looked down again and didn't look up when I addressed him.
"O.K." he echoed tonelessly.
I filled them in as best I could, explained that bail had been denied on both of them. On Johnny because, as we had suspected, the charge was too serious. On Ponyboy because he was a "flight risk". Ponyboy swallowed hard and looked at Johnny. Johnny's eyes didn't move from the spot just left of my pen he had chosen to stare at.
"That's for now. That doesn't mean they won't set bail," I tried to soften the blow and Ponyboy smiled weakly at my attempt.
"Yeah," he said, his voice shaking a bit around the edges. I told them that a psychologist would be coming to speak with Johnny about his parents and the abuse. He didn't even look up and I was beginning to think he had stopped listening. Better have her talk to him about depression, too.
When I told them all I had to tell them I stood to go. I wanted to say something that would give them hope, some shining words for this dark moment of their lives. But I didn't have any words like that. I didn't know what to say.
