* * * * *
Michael Thomas sat still in his chair, head downcast and eyes locked on the handcuffs around his wrists. Because he and his lawyer had known the day before that he would be entering a plea this morning, Jacob hadn’t bothered to get him a suit, so he was still wearing his orange jumpsuit. In addition to the cuffs on his wrists, manacles were around his ankles. The jumpsuit, cuffs and manacles made it clear to all participants in the judicial process that a trial would not happen that morning, so Barbara’s venting and the judge’s question were mostly rhetorical, both knowing what was about to occur.
Thomas was filled with fear, regardless of whether a plea was in his best interests. Of all the things he’d done wrong in his life, he’d only served ten days in jail, not counting the time he’d been in since the recent incident. It was a fact hammered home by Bill O’Reilly on his program, and the reason so many in the media had made their own appearances as well. Thomas knew how everyone in the courtroom felt about him. And it made him feel very lonely with the kind of isolation that made him drink and do drugs in the first place. The more legal trouble he got into, the less his prospects for living a respectable life were, so he drank more to escape from his pitiful reality, got into more legal and personal troubles as a result, and the cycle repeated itself over and over again. Each time he would end up even deeper in the hole he’d dug for himself. Except for the brief visit he had with his mom just before his parents agreed to pay for an attorney, he had seen neither hide nor hair of them. They, too, had told him they’d given up on their baby boy. It seemed that the only person he had left on his side was his attorney, the man who had advised him to plea to a charge that would, for the first time, send him to prison. Deep inside, he knew he needed more, but he wasn’t sure what “more” consisted of.
“Mr. Thomas,” Judge Bosco said. “Is this true?”
He nodded in agreement.
“Counselor, please escort your client to the podium. Mr. Thomas, no more nodding. You must say ‘yes’ or ‘no’ so we have a record. Understand?”
Before he stood up to walk to the podium, he said, “Yes.”
The court was set up as usual with counsel tables facing the judge and just enough space between them for two grown men to walk side by side. Just in front of this space was a large yet portable dark colored walnut podium, It had a slightly back-angled Formica top with a lip on its edge designed to hold files, notepads, and whatever else counsel or parties needed in front of them. In this case, after leading his client to the podium, Jacob opened his rather thick file and laid it out, which revealed a fresh legal pad. Thomas stood to his left looking up at the judge. He wasn’t hunched over as he had been at his earlier appearance since the chain that had connected the manacles on his feet to his hands had been removed for the proceeding.
Jacob pulled a disposable pen out of his pocket and removed its cap. Normally, he used a click-type pen, but after many court appearances in front of Judge Bosco, he had learned most of the many peculiarities of Darkwell County District Court’s chief judge. In this case, Judge Bosco’s prejudice against pen clicks—the clicking distracted the proceedings, he believed, and Jacob knew that just one such inadvertent click would likely elicit a reprimand from the judge and the pen’s likely confiscation, so he chose to play it safe, using a pen that eliminated all risk of such embarrassment.
Judge Bosco opened the court file and sighed impatiently. “Counsel, I do not have a copy of the plea agreement.” Lack of preparation for such hearings, including not giving the judge a copy of the plea in advance, was yet another of Judge Bosco’s pet peeves.
“Sorry, Your Honor. May I approach the bench?” Jacob replied as he removed the signed copy from his file and motioned toward the judge.
“Yes.”
Jacob sheepishly walked up to the bench and handed Judge Bosco the plea agreement, then returned to the podium. Michael resumed his humble demeanor, face once again looking down as if a glance at the judge might turn him into a pillar of salt.
At that moment, two reporters walked as stealthily as they could to the back of the courtroom and appeared to be attempting to leave. This attracted Judge Bosco’s attention. “Bailiff,” he commanded, “Please do not let anyone out of here ‘til we’re finished. Don’t let anyone in either, understand?”
As the judge’s assistant sat in the witness stand and took notes of the proceedings, a rotund sheriff’s deputy who stood between her and the jury box nodded in agreement and walked across the courtroom, in front of the podium, and past the thigh-high gate that separated litigants from the gallery observers. The entrance consisted of double-wide doors in the center aisle, and the deputy positioned himself right in the middle of them. No one would go in and out until the plea was done, including the two reporters who were desperate to call in news of the plea to their respective news agencies.
Turning his attention back toward Thomas and Jacob, he continued, “That’s better.” He paused for a moment then looked back towards the gallery. “And if I see anyone looking down at their cell phones and typing with their fingers, ‘texting,’ I believe you kids call it today, I will confiscate your phone until the end of the proceedings . . . and maybe longer.” He then nodded toward Jacob and Thomas, signaling that he was done reprimanding the reporters and everyone else in the courtroom.
For the next ten minutes Judge Bosco read every word of the five-page document, including the count to which Thomas was pleading guilty, and the ones the state dismissed. He also read of a litany of rights the defendant was giving up as a result of the plea, including the right to a jury trial and the right to appeal the plea itself, though his right to appeal a so-called illegal sentence was still intact. After reading it all, Judge Bosco asked, “Is this your signature at the bottom of the last page?”
“Yes, sir,” Thomas meekly replied.
“Is this what you understand to be the plea agreement between you and the State?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Did anyone make any promises or commitments not contained in this agreement?”
“No, sir.”
“Do you still want to plead guilty to aggravated battery as this document states?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Then I accept your plea of guilty, and set this matter for sentencing in this courtroom on October 20 at 9:00 A.M. Is there anything else?”
“Yes, Your Honor,” Jacob replied. “We intend to file a motion to depart in this case. Since we have substantial mitigating circumstances and there is a possibility of a non-prison sanction, we ask that the court reconsider its earlier refusal to reduce the bond.”
Looking frustrated and turning his gaze back and forth between Jacob and Barbara, Judge Bosco replied, “Is that an oral motion to reduce or modify?”
“Yes.”
“Denied.” Turning toward his assistant sitting in the witness stand, he said, “I believe that’s it for this morning’s docket.” He slammed his gavel on the surface of the desk and said, “Court is in recess.”
Judge Bosco rose and walked out of the courtroom through his private door, which emptied directly into his office. His assistant and the court reporter followed closely behind. The detention deputy who had escorted Thomas into the courtroom walked back to him and motioned him out a side door.
“I’ll set up a jail visit tomorrow,” Jacob told him, not interfering with the deputy’s duties.
Looking down, still near the podium but with his back to it, Thomas answered halfheartedly, “Thanks,” and then walked in front of the deputy toward the door.
Broken: A story of hope and forgiveness Page 46
