Two Eyes Forward and Two Eyes Back

We left Val sitting at the middle end of her front-row pew in the third-floor courtroom, watching the "judge" in her Peg Bundy dress ascend to the court stenographer's chair.

The actual judge was a slip of a thing, a miniature woman in a black robe who commanded control of the courtroom. We rose and sat. Val herself was happy for Judge Missy Miss to make her appearance. Like a quiet kid in a rowdy classroom when the teacher has left without assigning somebody to take down names. Because, you see, the courtroom had been unattended, except for one bailiff with us, and one bailiff in chambers, and that armed deputy.

Perhaps I mentioned that my seat was on the front row, within spitting distance of even a novice spitter from the table where the defense attorney would sit. Not that I was afraid of the defense attorney. He looked kind of like Dr. Timothy Leary, in a fancy suit with curly hair. He puttered around with his assistant before sending her to chambers with an 18-inch stack of stuffed file folders.

We prospective jurors chewed the fat. Chatted about school policies and mandatory testing. Did I mention there were three teachers in my enclave of ten jurors? Then talk turned to the lady sitting by the prosecutor. He was all FBI-haircut, white-gray tresses, and black eyebrows in a permanent frown. His crisp dark suit lacked the spot on one flank that trailed Dr. Leary's every move. The juror two ladies left from me said, "I think Dr. Leary sat on a mini Reese's. And I speak from experience. I want to tell him, but I don't think it's appropriate." I thought it looked more he sat in gum. But I deferred to Two Ladies Left.

The lady beside Mr. FBI, though, was the main topic.

"Do you think she's an attorney, too? His partner?"

"I don't know. She looks like more of an assistant."

"I was just asking. Because she has that tattoo..." Let the record show that indeed, the lady was wearing a scoop-neck knit top, and the tattoo on her left chest was obvious. Even to the juror behind me one pew.

"Well, I have a tattoo, but it's small, and it's on my foot. I'm just wondering if she got that before she became an attorney. And why she doesn't dress to cover it up."

"I know. I have one on the back of my neck. But my hair covers it. You'd think she wouldn't show it like that in court." Said my work crony, who after all had arrived in the verboten shorts and tank top.

And then the conversation came to a screeching halt. Into the courtroom strolled Dr. Leary, WITH HIS CLIENT!

We hushed up right proper. Faced forward and looked straight ahead. Like fifth-graders caught in a spitball fight when the teacher enters the room after a hall conference.

Dr. Leary led Client to the table. Sat him down in a chair facing away from us, facing the bench and chambers. Client wore prison grays with a white t-shirt under the shirt. He was tall and lanky and old, with flowing gray curls down to his shoulders. He kind of shuffled in, though he wore no leg irons or handcuffs. Dr. Leary patted him on the right shoulder, and said, "You sit here. I have to go back in chambers, but I'll be back soon."

Client mumbled something to the effect of, "Oh, great. Now I have to sit here in front of everyone with them looking at me." Not verbatim. But close. His hands appeared to shake a bit as he grasped the chair arms.

Let the record show that last time I was in court, all the last times I was in court, it was for civil trials. Not criminal. No plaintiff appeared until the actual trial. And now we had the criminal, six feet away from me, with his armed county deputy leaning against the wall about 15 feet away from him. We did not know how to act. Even though the prosecutor had announced early on, soon after 8:30, that this would be a criminal trial concerning two counts of assault, and a plea of not guilty.

A TWO-TIME ASSAULTER (ALLEGED) SAT SIX FEET AWAY FROM ME!

Val Thevictorian is not a timid woman. She has, after all, interviewed at two different prisons for a job as a caseworker. She has had her belongings removed, in order to have identification available should something go wrong while she was inside the big house. She has been advised that if an incident should occur, she would be in the bowels of the facility in her prospective job office, with 16 doors locked behind her, and nobody negotiating for her release.

Still. I was nervous.

I assumed that Client was a prisoner, and must have assaulted (allegedly) the prison guard(s). Now he was proclaiming his innocence. As if they didn't have cameras all over the prison to show what actually happened. Then again, what did he have to lose by denying the (alleged) assault?

The attorneys and Judge Missy Miss and the stenographer returned from chambers. We rose and were seated. Dr. Leary advised Client to move to the other side of the table! They both sat down and faced us. Now about 10 feet away.

Two Ladies Left said, "Look! He's checking out our body language. The whole time the prosecutor is questioning jurors, Dr. Leary is watching. He made Client to that on purpose. So we have to look at him. See him as a person." Very astute, Two Ladies Left. She is a teacher, after all.

Of course I could not bring myself to look at Client. I didn't want to seem rude. To stare. I looked at Mr. FBI until my neck hurt from turning. Then I looked at his tattooed assistant. Then at Judge Missy Miss. Then at Dr. Leary (BRIEFLY!). Then at the armed deputy. Then back to the stenographer and Mr. FBI. One time my concentration lapsed. Mr. FBI questioned the juror immediately on my left about why she felt she could not devote her full attention if this trial lasted well into the night, and continued the next day.

"Well, I am diabetic, and I need to eat at regular intervals."

"How much would you say that occurs?"

"Well...I need to eat three meals a day."

That sent a titter through the courtroom. Myself included. I met Client's eyes. He was chuckling as well. YIKES. I didn't want him to think we were best buds. More info came out during the questions. Client had previously served time for a drug-related offense. Nothing violent. The assault charges were because (allegedly) Client waved a replica gun around when a female parole officer and a female police officer went into his house unannounced. Huh. Didn't seem quite fair. I wouldn't want anyone coming into MY house unannounced. Then a juror asked if they kicked the door in, or knocked. Yes. They knocked. And identified themselves. Did Client point the gun at anyone? Or wave it around?

"Why do you need to know that?" asked Dr. Leary, who was the current questioner.

"Because I am a CO1, and it makes a difference to me."

"I'm sorry. What is a CO1?"

"I'm a corrections officer."

"Oh! Well! I'm glad I found that out!" Dr. Leary pointedly drew a line through that juror's name and number. A chuckle went through the juror pews. Even Mr. FBI stopped scowling.

I glanced at Client.

HE LOOKED AT ME WITH THE CRAZY EYES!

Yeah. Just when I was starting to see his side of it, he had to do that.

More on the ever-shifting tide of Val's would-be justice-doling tomorrow...