“All rise. The Honorable Judge Charles M. Myers presiding,” growled Comstock.
Everyone stood. Through a back door, the judge came into the courtroom in his black gown. He was a tall, thin, regal man of seventy with a full head of curly gray hair and a bushy mustache.
“Please be seated. Thank you, Sheriff Comstock, for standing in as bailiff today. Seems like Jeremy came down with the pre-game sniffles.”
“Not a problem, Your Honor. Go Griz!.”
“We’ll see tomorrow,” said the judge. “Sit down, damnit.”
A chuckle tickled the room as everyone sat.
Judge Myers took a seat in an oversized chair at the head of the long conference table. Beside him, the blueberry stenographer worked her apparatus and entered every utterance into the official record, even as the cameras captured them in high definition.
Mickey and Alan were on one side of the table. Mickey fumbled with his laptop. He had to jar it twice to get it to start. His briefcase was open, showing a pile of papers, the top of which was Francis’s report.
John Taylor, his military physique square and powerful, sat at the center of his now fully assembled entourage. On his right was the prosecutor, a grandmotherly woman in her sixties named Janet Bell. Next to her, two wiry, middle-aged men whispered and worked on their AR devices by making random flicks and wiggles with their fingers. Sandy Sule—her skin even darker and her hair more platinum beneath the harsh, white lighting of justice—was seated on Taylor’s immediate left. Mickey’s eyes were glued to her tits. Next to her, a husky man worked on the large laptop computer, now and then bringing Sandy’s attention to something on the monitor.
The young security head, Tim Boothe, guarded the door, legs wide, arms crossed in front, his AR glasses glinting in the overhead lights.
Comstock stood against the wall. The Great Seal of Montana was his backdrop. He stared at Alan without blinking. Alan felt like he was in a shark cage.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” said the judge, “I have called this procedural because of the election and Senator John Taylor’s eminent role therein. This should not take long, as I have every intention of being home in time to hand out candy to my grandkids when they come by. So, let’s get on with it!” He opened a thick folder. “I have gone over the evidence, as have you all, correct?” The lawyers, including Mickey, all nodded. “Janet, is this going to trial?”
The prosecutor stood and spoke almost as deeply as the judge. “Your Honor, there is an offer on the table to avoid trial, but for prudence’s sake, we want to continue with the procedural today. My office will be working with Senetor Taylor’s private council. We intend to prosecute Francis Builds A Fire as an adult.
“Very well. I’m open for motions, and we’ll set them in the record. Ladies first.”
Mickey Verona, who until now was lost between a document on his computer and Sandy’s boobs, bolted upright. “Objection, Your Honor. The defendant is only thirteen.”
“You’ll have your chance, Verona. Sit down!” barked Judge Myers. “I still haven’t forgotten that little stunt you pulled in my courtroom.” He shot Mickey an evil glare. “If anyone wants to know why there’s a court rule banning alpacas from the witness stand, thank Mr. Verona here.”
Mickey caught Alan’s glare and shrugged.
“County, anything further?”
“No, Your Honor,” said Janet Bell, a smirk on her lips for Mickey.
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“Thank you. Noted in the record,” said the judge. “Defense, do you have any motions?”
Mickey stood. “Yes, Your Honor, several.”
“Let’s hear them.”
“Your Honor, first is a motion for dismissal of all charges. The evidence does not comport for sexual assault, or assault of any kind.”
“I see,” said the judge. “Motion is denied.”
Sandy gave a victorious fist pump.
John Taylor sat broad and silent, shooting daggers across the table with his stare.
“Next motion, Mr. Verona.”
“We would like to keep the case in juvenile court, considering the defendant’s young age.”
“County, what say you?”
Sandy stood. “Your Honor, my name is Sandra Sule, private counsel to John Taylor. We object to the Defense’s motion under the State of California vs. O’Brian, which was supported by the Safe Children’s Schools Act. Defendants may be tried as adults if they are male and above the age of twelve at the time of the offense. We intend to prosecute to the fullest extent of the law.”
“That’s crazy California. This is Montana,” Judge Myers said dryly. “Furthermore, the SCSA is on the docket.”
“Your Honor, interstate juris—”
“Save it, counsel,” Myers cut her off. “That argument is tenuous at best. I will take the defense’s motion into consideration, as well as the prosecution’s objection, and render my decision in due course. Thank you for keeping it relatively clean today. With any luck, we’ll be home before—Yes? Verona, anything else?”
Mickey was holding his hand up like a timid schoolboy. “Yes, um, Your Honor, Defense is willing to accommodate the senator’s political schedule, in trust that it does not drag out too long. We request the defendant be released, here today, into the custody of myself and his mental health professional, Alan Smith.”
The judge eyed Alan.
Taylor murmured into Sandy’s ear. She stood, adjusting her cleavage for all to see.
“Objection. Builds A Fire poses a threat to the community. And considering the nature of the offense, he may be safer behind bars.”
Alan was on his feet, moving from instinct. “Is that a threat? What the hell does that mean?” He shouted.
Bam! Bam! Bam! “Order! There will be order in my court!”
Taylor pounded his fists on the table. “My daughter is lying in a hospital bed saying gibberish to the ceiling lights, you obnoxious little fuck.”
“Bailiff!” hollered the judge. Comstock stood. Taylor stood, eyes burning into Alan’s face.
Thud, thud, thud, his pulse beat in his ears.
“Sit down!” It was Mickey, pulling his arm. Across the table, Sandy was doing the same to her boss.
“Order!” shouted Myers. “Mickey, denied. Bail denied. The boy will stay detained with the Lake County Sheriff. Anything else?” Dead silence ruled the room. “Very well. I will set a trial date within the agreed-upon schedule. My clerk will be in touch. I hope you all have a safe Halloween. Go, Cats!” He slammed his gavel down one last time, stood, and vanished through the back door in a flourish of robes.
The stenographer, stern of face, gathered her items and waddled out the front.
Taylor marched like an emperor to the door held by the security man. The entourage followed.
“I’ll be right out, Barry,” said Sandy to her hulkish assistant. He glared at them, grumbled something, and left. “Take the deal, Dr. Smith. You should do it for the boy. Mickey.” She licked her lips. “I hope we do it again real soon.” She casually picked up her briefcase, her hips swaying back and forth as she walked away. The door closed behind her, and they were alone.
“What the fuck was that?” Alan hissed, his heart still racing.
“That went better than expected,” said Mickey. He organized the files on the table.
“Are you fucking kidding me? Now what do we do?”
“We wait. We talk to Francis. We think about Taylor’s offer.”
“No. Fuck him. Francis is innocent. There’s the rule of law.”
“You know the climate these days. Males, especially poor males, don’t get the benefit of doubt. What do they call it, toxic masculinity?”
“Fuck,” said Alan.
“Look. Janet Bell is a shrew, but she has a soft heart when it comes to kids. Go through the channels. Request a meeting with her and make your case, appeal to her emotions. Ask for limited release for Thanksgiving and Christmas.”
“Isn’t that your job?”
“Yes, but she hates my guts.”
“Christ, Mickey.”
“Hey, it wasn’t my fault the alpaca took a shine to her Mercedes. It tried to breed with it. I think it was the aged white leather.”
“Aren’t you supposed to tell your client these things before you take their case?”
“I was appointed based on my expertise. It wouldn’t have been so bad, but Bell was in the car. Who knew alpacas were so well-endowed? Jizzed all over her dashboard. I guess it caused some of the instrumentation to fizz out. Can you believe she tried to stick me with the bill?”