The Last Plea Bargain (22 page)

51

Everybody has limits. I reached mine on Wednesday, June 13, at 3 p.m. Ironically, the meltdown took place in front of Judge Brown, a judge for whom I had the utmost respect. In fact, we were kindred spirits. I was straightforward and methodical in presenting my cases, and he was equally straightforward in his rulings.

But unfortunately, we also had equally strong wills.

I had obtained a guilty verdict on a breaking and entering. The defendant had two prior drug convictions. For me, he was Antoine Marshall all over again, except that fortunately the homeowners hadn't been there this time. Ignoring the guidelines in Bill Masterson's memo, I asked for a seven-year prison sentence with two years suspended.

Judge Brown seemed taken aback by my recommendation. All the judges knew about Masterson's guidelines—no jail for nonviolent offenders. And B and Es didn't qualify as violent crimes if nobody was home.

Brown listened politely as the public defender went through the usual spiel about how her client had gone through an addiction recovery program and was no longer a threat to society. She suggested that seven years was extreme even under normal circumstances—and these were not normal times in Milton County. She asked Brown to give her client two years, suspending the entire sentence except for time served.

I stood. “May I respond?”

“That won't be necessary.”

“But, Judge, this is ridiculous. Just because the defendants all refuse to plea-bargain doesn't mean they get to dictate what the sentence should be.”

“Nobody said they did,” Brown said, his voice growing edgy. “Now sit down.”

He put on his glasses and reviewed the file. All the judges in Milton County knew my family's history, and it was certainly a subtext in today's sentencing. I would have some explaining to do later with Bill Masterson, but I just couldn't bring myself to let this man walk out of the courtroom on time served.

“In pronouncing its sentence, the court must consider a variety of factors,” Judge Brown announced. I played with my pen, watching him intently.

“Included among those is whether the defendant is a further risk to society, making sure the punishment fits the crime, and advancing the twin goals of retribution and rehabilitation.

“The court finds that the defendant poses some risk for recidivism but that such risk will only be increased by additional time spent in jail. Moreover, the court is mindful this was a nonviolent crime and that, pursuant to directives from DA Masterson, most prosecutors have been recommending such defendants be released on time served. Given the overcrowding in our county's prison system and the fact that this man served thirty days before posting bond, I'm going to release him on time served. I will impose a seven-year prison sentence as the prosecution suggests, but I will suspend all but thirty days.”

“That's ridiculous,” I mumbled.

“Ms. Brock,” Judge Brown snapped, “do you have something to say?”

I stood again, bristling from the court's ruling. In four years as a prosecutor, I had been nothing but unflinchingly respectful of the judges. I would always mumble, “Thank you, Your Honor,” even when rulings went against me. But on this day, fatigued from an endless caseload and weighed down by the concerns about my father and his reputation, my patience had worn thin.

“With all due respect, Your Honor, I think it's a sad day in Milton County when a repeat offender like this man, caught red-handed, gets to walk without one additional day in jail.”

“Maybe you should take that up with your boss,” Judge Brown said.

“Last time I checked, my boss was not the one handing down the sentences.”

Judge Brown's face reddened, and his lips pursed. He stared at me for a moment. “Ms. Brock, I realize you're under a lot of pressure right now; otherwise that comment would have earned you contempt. But I suggest you think twice before addressing the court in such a flippant manner again.”

I bit my tongue, but my smirk apparently telegraphed my disdain.

“Is there something funny about my remarks?” Judge Brown pressed.

“I just find it ironic that the jails are too crowded for defendants but not too crowded for prosecutors.”

I had always been too much of a smart aleck for my own good and usually regretted my words later. But this time, saying them felt right. I was tired of defendants calling all the shots in Milton County. It was about time somebody stood up for the victims.

“That remark
will
cost you a five-thousand-dollar fine for contempt,” Judge Brown ruled. “Is there anything else you'd like to tell the court?”

“No, Your Honor. That's about all I can afford.”

Word of my meltdown made it back to the office faster than I did. Bill Masterson was on the road, so I was called into Regina Granger's office for a chewing out via speakerphone. I apologized to both Masterson and Regina and didn't have much to say in my own defense. I agreed to apologize to Judge Brown the next day, but I balked when Masterson also suggested some counseling.

“I'll be okay,” I said. “It's just that what this guy did was so close to what Antoine Marshall did. The only difference was that nobody was home.”

“Jamie, I understand that,” Masterson said. “But I've got a responsibility to the public as well as to everyone in our office to make sure my ADAs are taking care of themselves. And I really would like to see you get some counseling. I know you're friends with Gillespie. Even if it's just one or two sessions with him, I think you should at least talk to him.”

Regina looked at me and nodded. “It's a good idea, Jamie. I think you're under a lot more pressure than you realize.”

I slouched a little lower in my chair and mumbled, “Okay.”

“Jamie, your work ethic is an inspiration to everyone in the office,” Masterson said, apparently trying to change the tone of the call. “But you're not Superwoman. I want you prosecuting cases for a long time, and that means you've got to take some time to work through some of these issues you're up against.”

I could hear somebody in the background on Masterson's end of the call. “Sorry,” he said. “I've got to run.”

Masterson ended the call, leaving me stewing. If anybody thought he was superhuman, prosecuting cases by day while running a campaign by night, it was Bill Masterson.

Regina thanked me for agreeing to the counseling.

“One session,” I said.

Bill Masterson usually had an acute sense for all things political, but it turned out he was dead wrong on this one.

That night, I read the newspaper article online that quoted verbatim from a transcript of the hearing. It was titled “Prosecutor Held in Contempt.” The comments following the article ran four to one in my favor. The citizens believed the judges were letting defendants off too easy. They liked the fact that at least one prosecutor thought a guy with two prior drug convictions and now a B and E ought to spend some time in jail.

My in-box was flooded with supportive e-mails, and the local TV shows had no problem finding lawyers who would speak out in my defense. For some reason that escaped me, I was becoming a folk hero.

By the next afternoon, even before I could attend my first appointment with Dr. Gillespie, Bill Masterson had become one of my loudest defenders. “Jamie Brock has apologized to Judge Brown for her lack of respect, and I think her apology was very appropriate. But I must say, I would take another dozen prosecutors just like her tomorrow.”

Only in the land of fun-house mirrors known as Milton County Superior Court could a prosecutor's emotional meltdown turn her into a legend.
Maybe I should do it more often,
I thought.

52

As much as I hated the thought of professional counseling, I found it impossible not to be charmed by Aaron Gillespie. He sat in his office on a brown leather couch, white shirt rolled up at the sleeves, a paisley tie hanging down over his soft stomach. I took my place in a wingback chair and crossed my legs. He knew I was there under protest, but within minutes we had picked up where we left off at the gym a few weeks before.

He had a way of asking gentle questions and waiting patiently for the responses. Are you getting any sleep? Are you planning to attend Antoine Marshall's execution? How do you feel about that? How are you dealing with your dad's death? The rhythm of the conversation relaxed me.

The questions were straightforward, and he didn't take notes or make any of those soft, guttural noises that signaled deep insight about some psychological flaw in me. We talked for about forty-five minutes before he even mentioned the incident in court.

“Do you think Bill Masterson overreacted when he required that you get counseling?”

“Yes.”

“Do you think you need to be here?”

“Not really.”

“Do you think he did it just to save political face?”

That one made me stop. The Republican primary was next month, and Masterson was certainly a political creature. But I had always believed that he had my best interests at heart.

“Not really. I've seen him make some pretty unpopular decisions even though he's in the middle of a campaign. I think he was just reminding me who's boss.”

Gillespie stuck out a bottom lip and nodded. He pulled his arm down from the back of the couch and leaned forward slightly. “Jamie, if you want me to, I'm perfectly happy to sign off that you've been through counseling and that you're good to go. Frankly, I was glad to see you blow off a little steam in court the other day. I think your biggest problem is that you tend to hold too much inside and don't have anybody to talk with.”

He was right about that. Partly right, anyway. I did hold a lot inside. But my biggest problem was that the one thing bothering me most was the one thing I couldn't talk to
anybody
about. At least not until I figured it out. I certainly couldn't talk to Gillespie—someone who had known my mom and dad. But the days for Antoine Marshall's scheduled execution and Caleb Tate's trial were ticking closer. And I was sitting on a piece of dynamite that could blow my father's reputation into tiny pieces of shrapnel.

“Jamie?” Gillespie said, bringing me back around.

“Oh . . . sorry.”

He tilted his head. “Is there something you want to discuss?”

“No. I'm fine.”

He paused. “Okay, but let me ask you a question that's unrelated to what happened in court. Like everything else, this stays between you and me.”

Gillespie waited until I nodded my assent. He had made a subtle shift from friend to professional counselor, and there was a new tone of seriousness in his voice.

“Do you blame yourself, even a little, for your mother's death?”

The question landed like a sledgehammer, and I jerked my head back, furrowing my brow. “No. Why do you ask?”

“Are you sure?”

He must have been able to read the guilt on my face. When my mother died, I was sixteen. I had been in some trouble that week and had a midnight curfew. But that night, when I still wasn't home and didn't answer my cell phone at one in the morning, my parents sent Chris to my friend's house to pick me up. He left the garage door open. Fifteen minutes after he left, Antoine Marshall slipped into our house and tried to steal enough stuff to feed his meth habit. My mother heard him and came downstairs, thinking Chris and I were home. She screamed. Shots were fired. My dad came running to see what had happened. Marshall shot him, too. Chris and I discovered the bodies. My dad was unconscious, my mom dead.

“No. . . . I'm not sure.”

It was the truth. But it was also the first time I had admitted it out loud.

“Jamie, you can't put that on yourself. There's nothing you did to cause it, and there's nothing you could have done differently to prevent it. That man was high, and he had a gun. If you and Chris had been home, there might have been two more deaths.”

I had heard it all before. And I couldn't argue with the logic. But none of that made the guilt go away.

“I still ask the questions, Doc. What if the garage door hadn't been open? What if Chris or I had heard somebody and called out—would Marshall have left?” I felt myself getting emotional, which I was determined not to do. “Plus . . . the hardest thing . . . is that the last time I saw my mom, we had a fight.” I felt my bottom lip begin to tremble and decided not to dig any deeper. I bit my lip and looked down at the floor.

“You want to talk about that—your relationship with your mom?”

I shook my head. Not right now.

“Okay,” Gillespie said. “But if I can be honest with you, I think you've got some survivor's guilt, and it wouldn't hurt for us to talk some more about this.”

“I'll be fine,” I assured him.

I left without scheduling another appointment.

But later that evening, I couldn't let it go. I kept reliving that night twelve years ago and wishing I had been at home. The what-ifs kept churning through my mind—and in every scenario, if I had just stayed home or at least kept my curfew, things would have turned out differently. Antoine Marshall would have moved on to another house, and my family would have been saved.

A few minutes before midnight, I sent an e-mail to Aaron Gillespie requesting available dates for my next session.