The Duration (25 page)

The courtroom had a smell. A bouquet. Floors mopped nightly with something industrial, flop sweat in the benches, dust on the portraits. Jimmer and Unsie were meeting me. Ava Winston was already there, in a front row on the left, flanked by Head-Connect honchos and Chief Grevantz, who, from what I could see, looked just about the same as he had a decade and a half earlier, at least from the neck up. The rest of the gallery was filled with lawyers, families, defendants.

I took a seat toward the back.

When I went to court on civil matters, the first thing I did upon entering the room was to check in with the clerk. That way the court would know who was present and which cases could be productively called. The clerk, who was usually but not always a woman, was the queen of the courtroom chessboard—she could make or break you, get you a delay, push an angry judge on to other matters. I'd always made it a point to compliment her on something at check-in. Nails, blouse, anything. Earrings. It didn't matter. Courthouse staff cultivation was actually one of my primary skill sets.

Inside the well, the clerk and a series of lawyers in functional suits shuffled papers back and forth. A young woman sat at the prosecution table with a large stack of files next to her. An older man sat at the defense table, balding on top, gray hair long in the back and tied into a ponytail. He wore the cheap suit, flowery tie, and jaundiced righteousness of the public defender.

“All rise,” said the bailiff, an older officer with a cowboy mustache. A door opened behind the bench, and Judge Ralph moved quickly through it and up to his seat. He was an ungainly man, moose-like, with broad shoulders and a monstrous head atop what appeared, even with the robe, to be a thin base. He didn't look up, but set his glasses on his nose and dug into a stack of files before him, the glamour of the arraignment docket, the ebb and flow of process.

“Let's see what we have here today,” he said, seemingly to himself. He sounded almost amused.

The clerk began calling cases, strings of numbers, sometimes with a name appended. The crimes of the Commonwealth. There were forty-six sets of numbers on the docket list pinned to the bulletin board outside the courtroom, three pages of lined paper. One after the other, defendants appeared, either through a side door that led to the waiting cell or by standing when their number was called and moving sheepishly into the well. The ones who had been sitting in the gallery seemed far more uncomfortable than the ones camping out in the waiting cell. Charges were announced by citation to penal code—possession, intent to distribute, battery, criminal trespassing. The young prosecutor barely shuffling through the files, the public defender consulting briefly with his clients before offering up a plea and a proposed trial date. Judge Ralph consulted a calendar, engaged in a Vulcan mind-meld with his clerk, and sent the accused on their ways. The whole process, when it worked smoothly, when the defendants kept their mouth shut and nodded, took thirty seconds. By my count, about two-thirds of the defendants were released pending a trial date, most of which would be voided later after a plea bargain.

Jimmer and Unsie slid into the bench next to me.

“Anything yet?” Jimmer asked. He was checking his phone.

I shook my head.

“Nah,” I said, eyeing Jimmer's phone nervously.

I knew a lawyer who'd been checking his phone in a courtroom gallery once and got reamed by a sharp-eyed judge. Ever since, I'd left mine in my briefcase, powered down. Indeed, most courtrooms required it.

Jimmer didn't seem to care.

The clerk called the next case.

“Docket number 12-0936. People v. LaBeau.”

Elvis LaBeau walked out of the holding cell, shaggy and shifty. Looking like he'd slept in his clothes, which of course he had.

Possession with intent to distribute. Swift arraignment. Not guilty plea. Ordered to return in three weeks for further proceedings.

LaBeau nodded to the judge, barely acknowledged the public defender, and headed back through the side door for processing. On the way out, he looked over the gallery and saw me. His face darkened and he ducked away.

“Docket number 12-0938. People v. Benecik.”

The side door swung open again and seemed to pause there. I could hear a mechanical clattering, and then Chickie rolled haltingly through the door in a wheelchair. Two side bailiffs endeavored to clear a path for him. He looked like shit, pale and weak, barely following the proceedings. The chair made it as far as the jury box, but couldn't fit between the box and the defense table. At that point, Chick stood up and spread his arms, as if a miracle had occurred.

“That's a Snoop move,” he said, speaking to the bailiffs but loud enough for the gallery to hear.

What a fucking dope. Why does he get to do this stuff? Got a grin out of one of the bailiffs too.

He took his place next to the public defender and turned his head toward the gallery, acknowledging it with a cool nod.

The clerk read the charges. Criminal trespass. Breaking and entering with intent. Larceny. Resisting arrest.

“Larceny?” I whispered to Unsie.

“The ladder,” he said.

In the front row, Ava Winston leaned forward and whispered to the public defender, who then signaled for the prosecutor.

“Your Honor,” the public defender said. “I'm informed by a representative of the property in question that they have little interest in pursuing the trespass or B & E charges and would support a plea to lesser charges in exchange for a restraining order.”

Judge Ralph looked down over his glasses, the smooth orchestration of his arraignment docket now unsettled.

“Sorry?” he asked. “A representative of whom?”

The public defender tensed.

“The defendant here is accused of trespassing on, and breaking into, the Head-Connect property down in Gable on Thursday night. A representative of Head-Connect is here today,” he said, nodding at Ava Winston. “And has informed me that Head-Connect doesn't have much interest in pursuing charges based on that conduct.”

“Oh really,” said Judge Ralph. “Head-Connect doesn't care about the trespassing?”

Jimmer nudged me.

“People don't understand how it works,” he whispered, smiling.

I got the sense that Judge Ralph probably did know how it worked, that Jimmer was maybe over-exalting his new clarity, but I waited to see what would happen.

Judge Ralph now took on the visage of a condor, looming over the bar. The public defender slid to the side and exposed Ava.

“You can speak,” said Judge Ralph.

God bless her, Ava Winston stood right up and spoke.

“Thank you, Your Honor,” she said. “My name is Ava Winston. I'm an executive at Head-Connect and can represent to the court that, while Head-Connect takes the defendant's behavior and guest security very seriously, it does not see much benefit in a drawn-out public process and would prefer to handle the matter privately, perhaps with a small assist from the court.”

She took a deep breath.

“We don't need him to go to jail. We just want him to keep off the property,” she said, almost sadly, looking at Chickie.

Chick's head dipped.

“That still leaves the larceny and resisting,” said the prosecutor.

Judge Ralph looked at all the parties before him. Each had handled its tasks competently. He dipped into the files before him.

“It says here that this defendant has priors, including . . . several relating to the property in question,” he said, looking up. He focused on Chick. It might have been the first time he'd looked at a defendant that morning.

“What about it, then?” he said to Chick. “Well, let's back up. I guess we can't ask for a plea until we've sorted out the charges.”

“I did it,” said Chick. “I'm your man. If that's what you mean. I'll plead guilty. Not like it wasn't me.”

The public defender put a hand on Chick's arm.

“Well, let's hold on for a second,” he said.

Chick looked to Ava and hung his head.

“Sorry,” he said.

She lowered her eyes. Chick looked down the row to Chief Grevantz, and then back around to the three of us in the gallery. His eyes lit up for a second when he saw Jimmer, but tamped down just as quickly.

Judge Ralph looked at Chick.

“Slow down a second, young man,” he said. “Now, listen. I appreciate whatever it is you're trying to cop to here, but I'm not inclined to dismiss a case until I understand what it is that I'm dismissing. I'm ordering you to return in two weeks for sentencing on what I assume your counsel and the prosecution will present as a misdemeanor trespass matter. And at that time, I'll be inclined to order you to stay away from the property in question in perpetuity and make restitution in the amount of,”—he checked his file—“well, whatever the going rate is for a ladder, reserving the court's ability to reinstate the more serious charges if necessary.”

Chickie shrugged.

“Perpetuity's a long time,” he said. “But it's cool.”

Judge Ralph smile-frowned at him. “We'll see. Until then, you are ordered not to come within 500 feet of the property.”

Judge Ralph leaned forward.

“Is that an order that you think you'll be able to comply with?”

Chick exhaled and nodded.

“Yeah,” he said. “I'm done with all of it.”

I felt both happy and sad at the same time.

Judge Ralph held his pose for a second, and then shifted back to his files.

“I hope so,” he said, moving on to the next case.

We waited for Chickie at the heavy side door of the house of corrections. It was cold. Steam rose from the Styrofoam cups Jimmer had gotten at the Dunkin' Donuts across the street. Through the reinforced glass we could see Chick walking out of processing, talking with Elvis LaBeau, although probably nobody recognized him but me. LaBeau looked up ahead and saw us, made a face, and squirreled himself off down another hallway. Chick shuffled on toward us. For a guy who had seemingly just dodged a felony charge, he was pretty blasé.

“Fellas,” he said when he pushed through the door.

Jimmer got the first hug, then Uns clapped him on the back.

“Yeah, yeah,” said Chick, and by the time he got to me it felt a little perfunctory.

“Well that was exciting,” said Jimmer. “You know California misses you. You ought to come back.”

Chick laughed a little bit and looked at the ground.

“Yeah,” he said. “Maybe.”

He looked up at the gray sky.

“Warmer than this place, right?”

“Hella warmer,” said Jimmer, employing some sort of vernacular.

We stamped our feet on the steps for a second.

“So,” Jimmer said. “What's next on the agenda?”

I looked at Chickie. He was staring vacantly off into Knotsford. It was all I could do not to reach out and shake him.

“Breakfast?” I said.

Unsie had already eaten, steel-cut oats, probably, with a side of pinecone, and after some more hugs he headed back over the hill to open up Asgard. Jimmer, Chick, and I went across the rotary to a place called the Shammy, a greasy spoon where the cops ate in the morning, drank after work, and vice versa. We slid into a booth. Chick and I ordered pancakes and Jimmer negotiated an egg-white omelet.

“What's your schedule?” I asked Jimmer once the food came.

“Flying out Friday,” Jimmer said. “I have to go to Boston today for some meetings, but I'll be back in town Wednesday.”

Jimmer reached for his pocket and pulled out a jewel-like wafer.

“Let me get your cell,” he said to Chick. “I'll call when I'm back.”

Chick picked at his pancakes.

“My cell?” he asked. “Nah, I'm out. Don't have to go back.”

Jimmer looked at him. “Your cell phone.”

“Oh,” Chick said. Usually he smiled at his own goofiness, but not this time. “Don't have one.”

Jimmer frowned.

“Had one, but it broke,” Chick said. “I think I landed on it when I fell off the roof. Doesn't matter.”

“Well, you need a phone,” Jimmer said. “You can't get by without a phone.”

“How did we make do for centuries?” asked Chickie. At least he was listening.

“Not efficiently,” said Jimmer. “And just try getting by now without one.”

Jimmer reached into his other pocket.

“Take this one,” he said, sliding a slightly less jewel-like version of his phone across the table. “It's an older model. Use it until you get a new one, or Wednesday, whatever comes first.”

Chick looked at it noncommittally. Jimmer pushed it closer to him.

“Don't lose it,” he said. “Now, where are you staying?”

Chick shrugged.

“You're welcome to stay in my room at the spa,” Jimmer said. “With Pete.”

“He can't,” I said.

Jimmer looked confused. What force was there that could contradict his plans? Then he blushed, laughed sarcastically.