The Age of Amy: Mad Dogs and Makeovers

by BRUCE EDWARDS

  We all lifted our up phones and put them to our ears.

  “Look at you two!” said Ravi excitedly. “I was afraid I’d never see you together again.”

  “All water under the bridge, Dad,” said Alec. “You’re looking well yourself. How are they treating you in there?”

  “No time for chit-chat. Did you see Hampstead?”

  Alec and I rolled our eyes over at each other, neither of us wanting to deliver the bad news.

  “He’s not your lawyer any more,” said Alec. “That sideshow phony showed us his true colors, and we didn’t like what we saw.”

  I expected Ravi’s radiant face to dim, but his smile only got broader. “No matter. I expected as much. I’ve already spoken with the judge and he’s going to let me represent myself.”

  Either Ravi’s time behind bars had affected his judgment, or he just didn’t realize the gravity of his situation. Ravi was a smart guy, but he was no legal eagle.

  “Handling my own defense will be easy,” said Ravi. “With Fink’s cell phone for evidence—”

  “It’s over, Dad!” blurted Alec. “The phone can’t help us anymore, and that was our whole defense.”

  Ravi chuckled behind his hand.

  “Why are you laughing?” said Alec. “That prosecutor’s going to nail you to the wall. There’s no way you can win.”

  Ravi rapped his knuckles on his forehead. “You always were a little wooden-headed. There’s always a way, provided you have the good sense to devise a backup plan. Ever hear the story of David and Goliath?”

  Alec stared up at the ceiling with a “now what?” look on his face.

  “We know the story,” I said. “The little boy defeats the colossal giant. You’re David and the prosecutor is Goliath. But there’s one thing you’re forgetting: the biblical David had a weapon. He had a slingshot.”

  “That he did,” said Ravi, “and proved that sometimes the simplest methods can bring down the biggest brutes.”

  It all sounded like a lot of rambling nonsense to me. But as always, Ravi’s enthusiasm was catching.

  “What can we do to help?”

  “Is my shaving mug collection still at the shop?”

  “No one’s touched it,” said Alec. “Why?”

  “Go and get it. Find a big sack and take all the mugs out of the case, but first put one of them aside: the one on the 3rd shelf, the 3rd mug from the left.”

  “What do you want with that?”

  “It’s my slingshot!”

  A big guard came and stood over Ravi. Visiting hours were over.

  “Bring it with you to the hearing tomorrow,” Ravi said, as the guard grabbed the phone away from him.

  Back in handcuffs, Ravi was escorted to the exit. But before leaving, he turned back to us and shouted, “3rd row down, 3rd from the left!”

  Chapter 15

  The Hearing

  Think of a preliminary hearing as the first act of a stage play. The setting is a somber courtroom. The characters on stage include lawyers, security guards, and, of course, a crusty old judge. The odd thing about this play is that it has no script. The performers make up their lines as they go along. Anything can happen. How the story will end, nobody knows.

  The plot is pretty easy to follow. The opposing lawyers each present evidence to support their claims. The judge examines it, and if he likes what he sees, a trial is ordered. But before that can happen, the prosecutor needs to show “probable cause.” If he fails, the case is dismissed and the accused walks free. Otherwise, the stage will be set for Act II: Trial By Jury.

  Putting on a live show is pointless without an audience. By law these hearings are conducted in open court. That means that anyone can attend. Farmers, financiers, and floozies are all welcome. Alec and I were among the spectators, as Ravi’s hearing was about to get underway.

  At the prosecutor’s table sat Morris Crump, flanked by two assistants. Stacks of file folders and hundreds of documents were laid out in front of them. At the defendant’s table, however, there wasn’t even a yellow legal pad. Instead, there was a plain paper bag, containing the shaving mug Ravi had asked for. The court bailiff had carefully inspected the item before allowing it into the courtroom. A bomb-sniffing dog even took a whiff of it.

  A hush fell over the room as a side door opened. In walked Ravi in handcuffs, with a guard on each arm. A third officer carried in a brief case and some law books. At least Ravi was allowed to abandon his jailhouse getup for a suit and tie.

  Released from his shackles, Ravi took his place as his own defense attorney. He looked haggard and weak, like he hadn’t slept in days. Then, he saw the paper bag. Peeking inside, his face lit up like a stage light. He scanned the gallery. I rose to my feet and waved. Alec stood, too, giving his dad a big thumbs-up.

  “All rise!” ordered the bailiff. “Court is now in session. The honorable Judge Jenkins presiding.”

  Whispers immediately spread among the observers. Horace Jenkins was notorious for being a hard-ass judge. Handing down stiff sentences for petty infractions was his idea of justice. His callousness had earned him the nickname, “Jail Time Jenkins.”

  The scowling judge banged his gavel, then addressed his audience.

  “For those who are unfamiliar with these proceedings, this is not a trial. It is a hearing. You are here to observe. Do to the sensitive nature of this case, you may feel the need to sound off. I’m telling you right now: Don’t! If I hear any outbursts, or see any protests of any kind, the perpetrators will be ejected from my courtroom. I hope that is clearly understood.” He lifted his gavel. “This hearing will come to order.”

  Bang!

  Act I: The Hearing

  “Mr. Crump?” said Judge Jenkins. “Opening statement, please.”

  The prosecutor straightened his tie and approached the podium. “May it please the court—”

  Bang!

  “Don’t! Don’t! Don’t!” roared the judge. “I hate that ridiculous ‘please the court’ phrase. Anyone using it for the remainder of this hearing will be held in contempt.”

  Crump cleared his throat. “Your Honor . . . in the case of The People vs. Ravi Hakeem, the defendant is accused of attempting to commit a terrorist act on U.S. soil. The prosecution will present evidence proving that Mr. Hakeem:

  1. Planted a bomb at The Wild Things Survival Fund offices.

  2. Evaded arrest by leading police on a high-speed pursuit.

  3. Knowingly hid bomb-making materials at his place of business.

  The judge nodded in agreement. “Does the defendant wish to respond?”

  Ravi leaped to his feet. “Your Honor! This whole thing is nothing but a witch-hunt. I haven’t done anything illegal. The prosecutor is trying to put me on trial to further his own political ambitions. I am totally innocent of all charges.”

  “Mr. Hakeem,” the judge said smugly, “this court is not interested in your innocence or guilt. We are here to consider evidence pertaining to the allegations stated in the formal complaint. If you want to play Perry Mason, do it on your own time.”

  Ravi slowly sank back into his chair. “Yes, sir . . . Your Honor.”

  I wouldn’t say that Ravi had already lost his case, but he was certainly heading in that direction. Not only was he battling the most ruthless prosecuting attorney around, he was clueless of courtroom etiquette. And if that wasn’t bad enough, the judge didn’t like him.

  “Mr. Crump,” said Jenkins, “Is the prosecution prepared to present evidence?”

  “Yes, Your Honor. I submit the following documents as People’s Exhibit A: The defendant’s public record.”

  Odd that he would bring that up, because Ravi’s record was spotless. He was born to naturalized parents. He got high marks in school clear through college. As a local business owner, he belonged to the Chamber of Commerce, and volunteered at Lyons Club benefits. He had no criminal arrests, voted patriotically, and paid his taxes on time. By all accounts, Ravi was a model citizen. There wasn’t one
word of anti-American rhetoric in his record that Crump could use against him . . . or so I thought!

  Crump held a page high up over his head. “This document comes from the U.S. Immigration and Customs Enforcement Agency. It states that Mr. Hakeem’s father was engaged in criminal activity in his native country. His crime involved the illegal poaching of endangered wildlife. To escape prosecution, he immigrated to the U.S., but was later captured and deported back to his homeland. There he was tried, convicted, and imprisoned—all of this thanks to the cooperation of the animal rights group, The Wild Things Survival Fund!”

  I shot a glance at Alec. He shook his head, seeming as baffled as I was.

  Crump continued. “The prosecution contends that Mr. Hakeem—harboring a deep hatred toward this organization—attempted to bomb its headquarters for its role in his father’s deportation. Therefore, I move that Exhibit A be admitted as evidence of his guilt.”

  The judge glared at Ravi. “Objections?”

  Ravi shaded his eyes in shame as he rose. “I remember very little of my father, Your Honor. I was a boy when all this happened. But the sight of him being dragged from our house in the night, and the screams of my mother begging for mercy, this I will never forget. But I have since come to terms with that. My father had broken the laws of man and nature, and was dealt with accordingly. I hold no grudges toward any organization, especially one that only wants earthly creatures to live as God intended. I did not try to bomb that building. Mr. Crump is trying to twist my boyhood anguish into a motive for committing violence. His evidence is purely coincidental, and I object to him trying to make it appear relevant.”

  The judge thought for a moment—a very brief moment. “Objection overruled! The People’s Exhibit A is hereby admitted.”

  Jenkins might as well have pronounced Ravi’s sentence right then and there. Crump had dropped the bombshell he needed to secure a conviction, and the judge wasn’t about to stand in his way.

  “Does the prosecution wish to offer further evidence?”

  “The People’s Exhibit B: The report on the FBI investigation.”

  Again, Crump held all the cards. The report confirmed the chemicals taken from the shop to be common bomb-making ingredients. The police acknowledged finding Ravi’s business card at Harley’s crash site. There were photos of the raid, sworn statements from eyewitnesses, and transcripts of Ravi’s interrogation—all of it portraying him as an evil villain.

  Unless he had a miracle up his sleeve, Ravi was done for.

  “Objections?” the judge asked him.

  Ravi sighed. “Your Honor, I was home asleep the night of the bomb threat. It’s a lame alibi, I know, and I don’t expect you to believe it. Those materials were used for harmless research. You’re not going to believe that, either. So, at the risk of looking stupid, I’m going to object to the admission of the FBI report.”

  “Objection overruled! The People’s Exhibit B is hereby admitted.”

  Given the judge’s reputation, his ruling was not unexpected. But now came Ravi’s turn to show some proof of his own.

  “Is the defense prepared to present evidence?”

  Ravi approached the podium, but this time he stood tall. Confident. “I am indeed!” he said. “The Defendant’s Exhibit A: Testimony from an expert witness. With the court’s permission, I call to the stand—”

  “This is inappropriate,” interrupted the judge. “Save your witness for the trial. This court is only accepting written affidavits.”

  Ravi opened one of his law books and turned to a bookmarked page. “According to The State Code on Preliminary Hearings, rule 562 states: ‘In the event testimony cannot be taken by deposition, witnesses shall be examined orally in court, as provided in section—’”

  “Alright!” conceded the judge. “But I want to know the nature of this evidence.”

  “The prosecution has tried to portray me as some kind of mad scientist. The fact is, my research is solely intended to benefit the public welfare. I can prove that those so-called ‘bomb-making’ materials were only used for humanitarian purposes.”

  “Very well. You may call your witness. But, no TV courtroom dramatics, is that clear?”

  Ravi turned toward the gallery. “I call to the stand . . . Amy Dawson!”

  What? Me? I was there to observe the hearing, not to participate in it. But as I slumped down into my seat, Alec nudged me out into the aisle.

  Standing in the witness box, I swore that I would tell “nothing but the truth,” then took my seat.

  “Please state your name,” said Ravi.

  “Amy Dawson.”

  “How old are you?”

  “Sixteen.”

  “What is your occupation?”

  “Right now I am—or was—a receptionist at the 2-Bit Solution barbershop.”

  “As an employee, were you aware of a science laboratory on the premises?”

  “Yes. That’s where you mix up your magic shampoo.”

  The spectators chuckled.

  Judge Jenkins folded his arms. “You’re trying my patience, counsel. Get to the point.”

  Ravi resumed. “When you say ‘magic’ shampoo, can you be more specific?”

  “I’m talking about the magical properties in the Guilt Remover.”

  “And what does this Guilt Remover do?”

  “Well, when you shampoo your hair with it, all your feelings of guilt are washed away.”

  Laughter filled the courtroom.

  Bang!

  “Order!” cried the judge. He leaned down to me. “Young lady, do you know what it means to be under oath?”

  “Yes, sir. It means if I tell a lie, you’ll throw me in the pokey.”

  “Well put. Then, perhaps you meant to say that you read about this magical shampoo in a fairytale—that guilt-removing haircare products don’t really exist.”

  “That’s not what I meant at all. Not only does it exist, I’ve had my own hair washed with it.”

  “Mr. Hakeem!” spouted the judge. “This testimony is utter nonsense.”

  “With your permission,” said Ravi, “I wish to ask the witness one final question: Will she please describe her experience using this shampoo?”

  “Very well, I will permit the witness to respond, but remember, young lady . . . under oath.”

  I looked out at a roomful of bewildered faces.

  “Have you ever done something really stupid that you later regretted? Well, that’s what I did. I hurt someone I cared deeply about. I didn’t mean to, but by then the damage had already been done, and nothing I could say was going to undo it. The guilt I suffered was more agonizing than I can say. That’s when Ravi gave me his special hair treatment. As the shampoo soaked into my scalp, I drifted into a kind of dreamlike state. That’s when the change happened. I realized the fact that nobody’s perfect. That people make mistakes. I was suddenly free of all guilt, as if my shame had simply melted away. And as I awakened back into the real world, a voice inside me said, ‘You can live with that, now, can’t you?’”

  The courtroom was dead silent. No one—not even Judge Jenkins—uttered a word. Then, a voice called out from the gallery:

  “Where can I get some of that stuff?”

  “I want it, too!” cried someone else.

  “Do you take Visa?”

  In a matter of moments the courtroom erupted into near chaos. People shouted and shook their fists, demanding to know where they could obtain the miracle solution.

  I lost count of how many times the judge banged his gavel. “This is my final warning,” he screamed. “One more outburst and I will clear this courtroom!”

  As the bedlam subsided, he turned to the prosecutor. “Do you wish to cross-examine the witness?”

  “I wish to object!” hollered Morris Crump. “This testimony is erroneous and misleading. A magic shampoo, if there is such a thing, is irrelevant to this case.”

  “But it is relevant,” argued Ravi. “Explosives can be made from household
items, yet you don’t see the FBI arresting housewives with bathroom cleansers. Just because those chemicals were in my possession, doesn’t mean I was making bombs with them. This testimony sheds reasonable doubt on the prosecution’s claim of malicious intent.”

  “The defendant is turning this court into a fantasyland. The witness’ claims are absurd. There is no way to prove this shampoo does anything more than wash hair.”

  Judge Jenkins jotted down some notes, then said, “The court rules that the existence of a guilt-removing shampoo cannot be substantiated. This evidence is therefore declared inadmissible, and I order the witness’ testimony permanently stricken from the record.”

  All eyes were on me as I returned to my seat. Though my speech had moved the spectators, it failed to soften the hardened heart of the judge. But the final scene of this courtroom drama was yet to be played.

  “If you won’t allow testimony,” said Ravi, “then I submit Defendant’s Exhibit B: Physical proof that the Guilt Remover is real.”

  He grabbed the paper bag and approached the bench, then pulled out its contents: a novelty shaving mug with the gavel for a handle.

  “This is your exhibit?” joked the judge. “Does the prosecution have any objection to admitting a shaving mug as evidence?”

  Crump whispered in the ears of his assistants. After a quiet snicker, the lawyer said, “No objection.”

  The judge examined the mug while trying to keep his own laughter in check. “I hate to tell you, Mr. Hakeem, but if this is all the evidence you have, I’d say your defense has gone down the drain.”

  “Not down the drain,” said Ravi, “into a bucket.” He unscrewed the hollow base of the mug. Hidden in a secret compartment was a small vial of clear liquid.

  “What have you got there?” the judge asked nervously.

  Ravi displayed a wicked grin. “You thought I wouldn’t remember you, but I do. You came to my shop back when you were a young criminal prosecutor. You used your gift for persuasion to send a man to prison, knowing full well he was innocent. Your guilt was so great that you begged me to remove it—which I did. And here it is!”