Fright Court

by Mindy Klasky

  “Everything okay?” I mouthed the question more than asking it aloud, but he understood well enough to nod a positive response. I settled back on the oak bench and watched the arraignment of yet another Green Circle activist. From the rote recitation of the charges, I suspected that everyone was familiar with the legal rigmarole by now.

  Nevertheless, Chris found something of interest to jot down on his legal pad. Given the angle of his paper, I couldn’t see exactly what he recorded. I merely got the impression of him forming crisp letters, those typewriter-perfect figures I’d seen before. It was comforting to watch him write. Soothing. I closed my eyes for just a moment, lulled by the regular sound of his pen scratching against the paper.

  I felt the courtroom door open behind me, more than I heard it. Subconsciously, I waited for the sound of the newcomer walking down the aisle, choosing a seat, settling in for the last few minutes of Night Court. When I didn’t hear that, I listened for impatient shuffling, for the very human sound of an overtired lawyer, an exhausted spectator, someone ready to go home.

  Only when I missed those sounds too did I actually open my eyes and turn toward the door. James was there, leaning against the solid oak, his dark suit as immaculate as if he’d just stepped out of some tailor’s shop. His arms were crossed over his chest.

  I would have expected him to keep an eye on the judge. Maybe he would watch over the new bailiff too, making sure that everyone was safe and secure. Conceivably, he’d study the defendant, making sure that no violent offender threatened the court.

  James, though, wasn’t paying any attention to the front of the room. Instead, his gaze was locked on Chris. On Chris and me, sitting together.

  Goosebumps rose on my arms, and I tried to rub them into submission. Chris, somehow alerted to the source of my discomfort, set his pad to one side as he looked over his shoulder.

  I saw a glint of knowledge pass between the two men. Even in the dusty fatigue of the end-of-session courtroom, a spark ignited between James and Chris. There was a recognition there, an acknowledgment of … something.

  I had no idea what they said to each other, what secret message they exchanged. Chris nodded, though, as if to say that he understood what he’d been told. James ducked his chin in response, noting something, marking off some mental tally. Before I could discern more, he ducked out of the courtroom, whispering the door closed behind him.

  I longed to ask questions, to demand some sort of explanation, but I wasn’t about to interrupt the proceedings at the front of the room. By the time there was a break in the judicial action, Chris was back to his note-taking. I nudged him with my elbow and leaned close enough to whisper, “What was that all about?”

  “What?” His eyes were wide with perfect innocence.

  “You and James. Just now.” I nodded toward the door.

  “James? Who’s that?”

  “James Morton. My boss. The man who was standing at the back of the room?” The one who doesn’t want you here. The one who has been furious with me for talking to you.

  “I didn’t realize that’s who it was. If I had, I would have followed him out when he left. Tried to get a quote or two for the story.”

  The words almost rang true. Every syllable made sense. The intonation was close to perfect. But something jangled across the back of my throat, something bitter, like a twist of lemon peel.

  Before I could protest, though, the bailiff called another case—the last one for the evening, as it turned out. I watched the final Green Circle defendant shuffle to the table. I heard the routine legal recitations. I watched Judge DuBois set bond, tapping his gavel against his desk as if it were a soggy baguette.

  When the case was concluded, we all rose, to show our respect for the court. Judge DuBois shuffled off to his chambers. The court reporter fiddled with her machine. The bailiff spread his bandy legs, glaring at the courtroom door in a clear message that everyone else should exit immediately so that he could go home.

  As Chris and I filed out, I considered pressing him about James. I was certain, though, that he wouldn’t tell me anything more. Frustrated at being kept out of the men’s silent conversation, I walked Chris to the front of the courthouse. I told him to call me if he had any additional questions. I told him that I was eager to see the story when it was done. I watched him walk away in the pre-dawn darkness. As predicted, it had rained during the night, and the puddles cast odd reflections as Chris disappeared into the shadows.

  Just because Chris wasn’t talking didn’t mean that I couldn’t get information elsewhere.

  The clerk’s office was deserted, of course. I sneaked through the Staff Only door, edging it closed behind me with a cat burglar’s attention to absolute silence. I was determined to sneak up on James, to find him in his office, hunched over papers at his desk, unaware of my scrutiny.

  I needn’t have bothered, though. James’s office door was closed, and his trashcan sat outside, ready for the janitorial crew to empty when they made their early-morning rounds. Just to be sure, I tugged the doorknob, but it didn’t give a millimeter.

  For one crazed instant, I considered heading down to the Old Library to see if James was lurking there. That was absurd, though. The sun would be rising soon. James had to have left for his new sanctum, his latest refuge, wherever that might be. I shook my head and started toward my own home, beginning to wonder if I’d imagined the entire silent conversation between the men.

  CHAPTER 14

  BY THE FOLLOWING night, everything was back to normal at the courthouse. Eleanor and Alex returned. The clerk’s office handled a normal level of business—a few new cases here, a couple of document retrievals there. There was plenty of time for me to dig back into the old records, to organize and to rebuild connections that had been lost through the ravages of time and lousy vampire bookkeeping.

  We renewed other patterns as well. The D.C. police announced that they would no longer provide coverage at my home, that they had seen no credible threat during their monitoring. James accepted their verdict with equanimity, and then he hired replacement guards. He insisted on paying out of his own pocket, and I had to give in—I certainly didn’t have a line item in my budget for “protective services.” This time, I didn’t see the people who watched over me—vampires by night, Enfolded humans by day. All of them were personally known to James, and certain to be loyal.

  James and I went back to sparring in the Old Library for a full hour every night. He introduced me to joint locks, new and incredibly painful ways to confront an opponent, to subdue an attacker. My first night back in training, I wanted to ask about Chris, wanted to demand an explanation for the silent conversation that had passed between the men. My questions, though, got shoved aside in favor of figuring out how to escape an inverted heel hook—preferably without destroying every single ligament in my knee. By the time we moved on to kneebars, armlocks, and small joint manipulations, I had realized that James wasn’t going to voluntarily tell me about the unspoken message the night before.

  I didn’t push. Instead, I spent my time worrying about Chris and the Banner. A lot.

  Chris was writing his article now, reducing all of his research to specific words. I could picture him working in a darkened room, surrounded by painstakingly-arranged remains of junk food—bags creased into pristine rectangles, sporks laid out in perfect lines. In my imagination, Chris hunched over his computer keyboard, staring at his monitor, at an electronic desktop that was utterly bare except for the one file he was creating—the story of my professional life at the courthouse.

  He wasn’t completely out of touch. Once, he sent me an email, asking for the correct spelling of a few names. Another time, he texted me to find out my exact start date at the court. Another text asked whether I had taken criminal procedure in my one year at law school.

  I answered the questions, of course, even though each one made me more nervous. I wanted to demand an advance copy of Chris’s article. I wanted to know what he was saying abou
t me, what secrets he planned to disclose to all of Washington. I wanted to know how he would frame the court’s mission, in light of the ever-present threat from Councilor Feld.

  By Monday, the queries tapered off, and I was pretty sure Chris had finished drafting his article. I understood that he had to submit it to his editor, wait for suggested changes, complete his rewrite. The final piece would appear on the following Sunday, splashed across the front of the Arts and Style section.

  I distracted myself with work—more long hours in the Old Library, more dedication to eradicating the backlog of old cases. James added a regimen of weight training to my workouts—boring repetitions that I could complete alone, without his watchful eye. I knew that he was spending more time in the courtroom, that Schmidt’s trial was moving toward its conclusion, but I was grateful for the public and private requirements of my job, for the restrictions that kept me from observing the proceedings.

  Sunday came and went, and there was no article.

  I texted Chris, but I got no reply. I emailed him, sending a brief and supposedly witty message, asking when my secrets would be bared to the world. When my inbox remained empty a full day later, I finally bit the bullet and phoned.

  “Sarah!” He sounded surprised to hear from me.

  I cut to the chase. “I thought your article would be in the paper this weekend.”

  He sounded distracted. “There were a few delays. Legal wanted to check on a few things.”

  “Legal!” My heartbeat ratcheted up to a rate that would have been dangerous if a vampire had been nearby.

  “Don’t worry,” he said, but his voice didn’t quite manage to soothe me. “It’s routine for them to look over any piece involving public figures.”

  “I’m not a public figure!”

  “But you work with some. If I mention a sitting judge, the paper wants to make sure my facts are right.”

  A sitting judge. I didn’t want to think about what he had to say about Judge DuBois, about what might have given the Banner’s legal department pause. “Chris, maybe we should talk again. Maybe it would be better for you to consider a different angle…”

  Given half a chance, I was sure I could distract him. I could show up at his office, throw myself at him. If everyone in the newsroom saw me kissing him, heard me talking about shared suppers and birthday celebrations with my best friend, then they’d have to discredit the article, wouldn’t they? Wouldn’t the appearance of impropriety be enough to derail whatever Chris had written?

  Strike that. I couldn’t do it. It wouldn’t be fair to him. Besides, I wasn’t exactly eager to trash my own reputation, to ruin any chance of a relationship with him after this bizarre waiting period was over.

  Chris laughed at the very thought of starting from scratch and told me not to worry, this was just the usual red tape. As I hung up the phone, I offered up a little prayer to whoever listened to frantic Court Clerks hoping to keep their jobs long-term.

  Everything had to work out. Chris was a professional. He was a trained journalist. He understood what my job meant to me, how important it was for me to keep it. The Banner article couldn’t be a complete disaster.

  Could it?

  * * *

  The article was a complete disaster.

  I woke up on Sunday afternoon to find the voicemail on my cell overflowing with messages. Allison had called four times, her voice increasingly shrill as I slept on, unaware. I had messages from a half dozen former employers, most of whom commented on the astonishing fact that I’d stuck with my courthouse job for more than two weeks. A couple of other friends got in touch, apologizing for having been so distant, sympathizing with me for the insanity of my job.

  The insanity of my job.

  What had Chris written?

  As I stumbled to my front door, my throat was so dry, I couldn’t swallow. The newspaper waited for me in its fat plastic bag, bulging with incisive news articles, important business information, countless advertisements, and the comics. I thrust all of those to the side as I burrowed my way into the Arts and Style section.

  There it was. A huge photograph of the courthouse at night, moonlight pooling on the sidewalk. The headline blared: “What’s a Nice Girl Doing in a Place Like This?” Chris’s name was centered below the title of the article. My head buzzed as I started to read.

  “Sarah Anderson arrives at the courthouse, early as usual. It’s dark outside, and she takes a moment for her eyes to adjust to the dim interior lighting in the nearly empty government building. In the solitude of her office, she sets out a cup of pens. She lines up a stack of criminal action cover sheets. She turns on her computer. She’s ready for business at the Night Court. As the Court Clerk, it’s her job to make sure that everything goes smoothly, for lawyers, defendants, and visitors alike. That’s a simple job description, but there’s nothing simple about Sarah Anderson’s job.”

  I got to the end of the first paragraph, and I breathed a sigh of relief. I couldn’t have asked for a better angle for the article. I’d braced myself, knowing that I was going to be front and center in the article, but I could handle the attention, given Chris’s level voice.

  All of my worry, all of my frantic concern during the past two weeks had been unnecessary. The article continued inside the section. When I flipped open the oversized broadsheets, I saw that the write-up was quite long—long enough that I wanted a cup of coffee before I enjoyed the rest of it. Full of anticipation, I dumped grounds into my coffee maker and set it to brew, ducking back into my bedroom for a bathrobe and slippers to combat the apartment’s chill on this autumn afternoon.

  When the coffee was done, I added a generous amount of cream, stirred five times, and carried the newspaper over to my living room couch. It took three tries at rearranging the pillows before I got comfortable. That gave my coffee just enough time to cool, to become drinkable. I took a sip and picked up the paper, finally ready to move on to the second paragraph.

  And I came close to spitting my coffee all over my terry robe.

  “Television dramas have given us an idea of what to expect in a court of law. Attorneys are supposed to be prepared, mellifluous with their opening arguments, with speeches that bring tears to the eyes of loyal citizens everywhere. Bailiffs are supposed to be paragons of virtue, trustworthy officers who can face down any species of violent criminal. And most important of all, judges are supposed to be wise and powerful, in absolute control over all who appear before them. One can only hope that Sarah Anderson didn’t watch a lot of television drama before she took her job at the Night Court.”

  The article went on from there. Chris certainly captured the nuances of my work, the balance that I had to strike between being an authority figure and serving merely as the hired help. He caught the bizarre personalities of the attorneys I served, keeping them anonymous, even as he laid out their quirks.

  But he didn’t give that same courtesy of anonymity to the courtroom personnel. He gently mocked the bailiff he had observed, the old man who had fallen asleep during part of the night, at one point snoring so loudly that one of the attorneys had to shake him awake. He described the curvy court reporter as a character from a TV sitcom, wriggling her way into her chair, more intent on displaying her cleavage than actually recording the proceedings.

  And he said that Judge DuBois was a milquetoast jurist who seemed to have forgotten how to advocate for his own success, how to manage the basic needs of the Night Court. Judge DuBois had not fought for new computers, despite the fact that the average hardware was more than ten years old. He had not argued in favor of advanced case management software, the type of programs that were used by courts in nineteen of the twenty largest cities in America. As a result of Judge DuBois’s negligence, the clerk’s office was dealing with a backlog of massive proportions, print and electronic files that would take at least five years to organize, assuming immediate, full-time attention from a qualified professional like, um, me.

  I guess it could have been wors
e. Chris could have sat in the courtroom on a night when Eleanor was in charge—I could only imagine how he would have described her flaming eyeshadow, her bull-in-a-china-shop demeanor. He could have observed Alex’s perfect sartorial coordination, commenting on a court reporter who was perhaps more concerned with the color wheel than with accuracy in the transcript. And he could have said that Judge DuBois…

  No. There really wasn’t anything worse he could have said about Judge DuBois.

  As I finished reading the article, I tried to convince myself that everything would be all right. After all, the piece was primarily about me. The other people in the courthouse were minor characters, supporting actors, playing brief roles before they were shuttled off the stage that Chris had created.

  Maybe no one would notice. Maybe no one would care. Maybe Dan Feld wouldn’t make the article Exhibit One in his battle to shut down the Night Court.

  I was reading the last paragraph when my cell phone vibrated. Allison. Again. I answered before the call could go to voice mail. “You never told me that you worked with such incompetents!” she exclaimed.

  “They’re not incompetent!” I gritted my teeth. So much for no one noticing… “Chris must have added those comments for comic effect.”

  “It wasn’t a humorous article,” Allison observed.

  Chewing on the inside of my cheek, I had to agree with her. “This is going to make things a nightmare at work.”

  “Sure,” she said. “For a day or two. But then it will all blow over.”

  “Everyone’s going to think that I told Chris those things, that I complained about our resources! They’ll think that I personally hate Judge DuBois.”

  “What did James say when he read it?” Of course. She didn’t know that I was waiting till sunset to get my boss’s reaction.

  “I haven’t talked to him yet.” I started clutching at straws, giving voice to the panicky stirrings inside my head. “Maybe it would be better if I just quit. That way he won’t have to fire me. I could email my resignation tonight. Make it effective tomorrow, start of a new work week. The court could issue a statement, say that it had nothing to do with me, with the article, nothing —”