But things are looking up.
It’s morning. A brand- new day. I’ve got a regular pit bull for a lawyer, and he’s on his way now to get me out of here. Pretty soon I’ll be able to see Sara. We’re going to fix this.
• • •
Because the city jail and the courthouse are connected, travel to my arraignment involves a semiconvoluted indoor walk through a gradual shift in surrounding décor. A uniformed guard leads me along a gritty tile corridor, up a concrete stairwell, through a steel door, down a polished marble corridor, up a wrought iron stairwell, and through another door made of dark old wood, retrofitted with a modern security card reader.
Because the courthouse is a historic building that presides over a historic town square, I’m mildly surprised by the remodeled, carpeted, vaguely corporate look of the courtroom. Be cause it’s Saturday—which means, as Douglas Bennett already informed me, that felonies and misdemeanors are heard in the same session—I’m the only person in the room with handcuffs and an armed escort.
I count perhaps a dozen people scattered around the general seating area, which consists of several rows of auditorium-style chairs separated from the front of the courtroom by a waist- high partition. On my entrance, all eyes turn toward me. It’s equally easy to imagine that I’m walking in to teach an early- morning class on campus, or that I’m Hannibal Lecter being wheeled in on a handcart.
I spot Sara immediately, seated in the front row, just behind the partition. The look on her face when she sees me—un-shaved, shackled, led in by the arm—isn’t one I’m likely to forget. Almost as quickly her eyes cloud, then register confusion.
I try to communicate in some way, but I don’t know how. Somewhere on the periphery, I hear the sound of my own name called out by the bailiff. The guard leads me to the nearest of two tables facing the judge’s bench. I see a man in a dark brown suit already waiting at the other table, file folders stacked in front of him. While all of this is happening, my desperation mounts.
An hour ago, I couldn’t wait for this moment. Now here I am.
Where the hell is my lawyer?
The judge looks down at the docket in front of her, then looks down from the bench at me. Like the courtroom itself, she’s not what I expect, insofar as I’ve been led to expect anything. She’s blonde, late middle- aged, attractive, and though she appraises me over the top of a pair of bifocal reading glasses, the frames are fashionable, making her look more stylish than stern. She may well be the mother of young teenage daughters, as Douglas Bennett has told me, but she exhibits no outward evidence of a leniency disorder.
“Good morning, Mr. Callaway. Am I to assume you’ll be standing without representation?”
“No,” I say. The word hops out of my throat like a yelp. “I mean no, Your Honor. I have an attorney.”
She glances at the officer standing next to me. She glances to the man in the suit at the other table, who I gather must be the county prosecutor. She looks at me again and raises her eyebrows. “Is your attorney present?”
I’m grasping, craning for a look over my shoulder, as if my attorney might be hiding behind the potted ficus in the back. “I guess I don’t see him.”
“I guess I’ll take that as a no.”
“He said he’d be here.” My voice sounds feeble even to me.
He said he’d be here early, I want to tell her. We were supposed to go over our game plan. Now I don’t have a game plan. This is just some guard from the jail beside me, not my pit bull lawyer. I’m not ready. “Is there any possibility for a recess?”
The judge sighs in the manner I imagine she reserves for people who have watched too many courtroom dramas on television. “If this were a trial or a grade school,” she tells me, “I might consider recess. Since this is your arraignment, I’ll ask if the People object to an informal continuance until the end of the misdemeanor docket. Perhaps that will give defending counsel time to change his tire or come out of the bathroom or whatever it is that seems to be keeping him.”
For a moment, when she says the People, I think of the audience behind me and wonder why the hell it should matter whether they object or not. Are they standing here in handcuffs with no game plan?
Then the county prosecutor speaks up from the other table. “The People have no issue with that, Judge.”
“Fine. Mr. Callaway, we’ll give your attorney some more time. If he hasn’t arrived before the conclusion of the session, you’ll be remanded to the custody of the county and this proceeding will be rescheduled for Monday morning. Do you have any questions?”
I have so many questions that I can’t decide which to ask first. Just then, the doors open at the back of the courtroom. My heart does a flip and relief floods my chest at the sight of Douglas Bennett hurrying up the aisle, carrying his leather satchel by the handle, his overcoat rippling behind him like a cape.
“My apologies, Your Honor,” he says. “Good morning.”
“Good morning to you, Mr. Bennett.” The judge glances at the large round clock on the wall directly above the bailiff’s head. “Cutting it a little close, wouldn’t you say?”
The jail guard turns over his post to Douglas Bennett, who takes his place beside me at the table. “Yes, Your Honor. Un in tentionally so.”
“Is everything all right?”
“Yes, thank you. Just a little winter engine trouble.”
“It’s cold out there.”
“Again, apologies to the court. We’re ready.”
We who? How can we be ready? I have a hundred things to tell him, and we haven’t even spoken yet.
In fact, Douglas Bennett still hasn’t looked at me. I’m staring at the side of his face, practically begging for eye contact. I want to see him make an OK sign with his thumb and forefinger, the way he did last night on his way out of my cell.
“Fine.” The judge folds her hands in front of her. “Let’s proceed.”
“Thank you, Judge. We’re ready.”
“As you’ve said.”
Bennett offers the court a slightly harried grin, places his bag on the table, and fumbles with the straps. I can’t help noticing his general disarray. If I woke up feeling like I slept on a sidewalk, my attorney looks like he slept in the nearest doorway. His tie is crooked, shirt collar skewed. His hair, neatly groomed last night, now looks dull and uncombed, matted flat on one side. His eyes are red- rimmed and puffy, and there’s a general blotchiness in his complexion.
“As Your Honor knows, my name is Douglas Bennett, here on behalf of the defendant, Tom Callaway, a respected professor of literature here at the—”
“Paul,” I whisper, derailing his already wobbly rhythm.
Bennett finally glances my way. He leans over, lowering his voice to a private level. “What?”
“My name is Paul.”
“What?”
Jesus. As I lean closer, my spirits sink to a new low. The sour tang of alcohol hangs around my attorney like a cloud. There’s no hiding it. No way to mistake it. It’s twelve minutes past eight in the morning, and Douglas Bennett smells like a gym sock soaked in bourbon.
“You said Tom,” I tell him, still whispering, but what’s the point? Any optimism I’d developed after three hours of sleep and a fried egg sandwich has drained away like so much dishwater. “My name is Paul.”
“Paul Callaway,” Bennett clarifies for the court. He straightens himself and clears his throat. “As I said, Dr. Callaway is a respected, as I said, professor here at the university. He is a resident of the … ah… of the Ponca community, where he and his wife… the Ponca Heights community, where he and his wife Brenda own a home.”
I close my eyes, willing myself to wake up. Surely I’m still back in my jail cell, having some kind of terrible dream. Where is the legal gunslinger I met just a few hours ago? The guy filed under B for Ballbreaker? Who is this shabby, stammering wino in the expensive suede overcoat beside me?
I hear a fluttering sound. When I open my eyes, I see Douglas Ben
nett stooped at the waist, scooping up a file folder and a fan of papers from the carpet.
“At this time,” Bennett says, laboring to return to an upright position, clutching what I assume must be the contents of my case file in his arms, “the defense waives a reading of the charges and we respect… that is, we request…”
“Mr. Bennett,” the judge says sharply. She leans forward and narrows her eyes. “Have you been drinking?”
“Excuse me, Your Honor?”
“I asked you a direct question. Have you been drinking?”
There’s a ripple of chatter behind me: a few whispers from the gallery, a low chuckle or two. I can hardly believe it. This is actually getting worse.
Douglas Bennett pauses as though he, too, can hardly believe it. He produces a facial expression that seems to indicate that he’s heard the question and it has taken him aback. Or maybe bending over to pick up my case file has altered his equilibrium. Either way, he’s swaying noticeably on his feet.
He does his best to camouflage the imbalance, taking a moment to arrange his snarl of papers. He taps the file folder on the table, squaring away the edges. While he’s doing all this, he glances at the clock above the bailiff, shakes his head like he’s heard a good joke, and says, “Judge, I think we’d agree that it’s a bit early in the day.”
“We would most certainly agree,” the judge says. “And you haven’t answered my question.”
“I believe that it goes without saying—”
“Counselor, are you, at this moment, inebriated in my court? Yes or no?”
“Absolutely not, Your Honor.”
At this point, the prosecutor pipes up from the other table. “Your Honor, the People can smell defense counsel from here.”
The judge sends a warning glare toward the newest babble of laughter from the seating area. When things quiet down, she says, “The court appreciates the field report, but the People have not been called to speak.”
“Sorry, Your Honor. The People withdraw the observation.”
More laughter. Louder now.
“All right, that’s enough.” There’s a crack as the judge snaps her gavel. She waits for silence, then says, “Mr. Bennett, approach the bench.”
“Your Honor, with all due respect, I can assure the court that—”
“Mr. Bennett, with all due respect, you are clearly stewed.”
“Your Honor—”
“And now you’ve lied to me.”
“Your Honor, in no way have I—”
“Counselor, stop digging. Your hole is deep enough.”
Standing there in my handcuffs, watching this pileup unfold right in front of me, I wish I had a hole that was deep enough. A hole and a shovel. I’d crawl in, lie down in the bottom, hand the shovel to the guard, and ask him to cover me over. Or maybe I’d just bury Douglas Bennett.
“Mr. Bennett, I don’t need to point out,” the judge continues, “that your client stands charged with troubling crimes. But I will point out that if defense counsel has attended this proceeding under the influence, the court may infer that said charges aren’t being taken seriously. In fact, the court may be apt to regard such a circumstance as frank and direct contempt.”
“Your Honor, I’ve been a member in good standing of this state’s bar association for twenty—”
“We joined the bar the same year, Counselor. I don’t need your background information.”
“Well, I think that—”
She holds up her hand, palm forward. Save it. After a moment, she removes her glasses and places them on the bench in front of her.
“I’m not interested in embarrassing you, Doug. Or harming your reputation, or otherwise making a mountain out of what I choose to assume must be an isolated case of regrettable judgment on your part. But I’m not going to sit here pretending to ignore your slurred speech, either. So.” She leans back, returns her glasses to the bridge of her nose, and folds her hands again. “You can approach the bench so that I can evaluate you, or you can submit to a formal breath test, if that’s what you’d prefer. Either way, we’re not moving forward until I’m satisfied that you are fit to represent your client.”
Douglas Bennett reacts to his choices with more silence. He looks down at the table. He’s quiet for so long that if I couldn’t see that his eyes are open, I’d suspect that he’s fallen asleep on his feet.
At last he exhales, lifts his head, and says, “That won’t be necessary.”
The judge nods once. “All right, then. This appearance is rescheduled for eight o’clock Monday morning. Officer, you can take Mr. Callaway—”
“Your Honor,” I blurt without thinking. That’s not true. I’m thinking: No no no. “This isn’t… May I speak for myself?”
The judge glances toward the prosecutor, who shrugs. She returns her gaze to me. “You have the right to speak for yourself, Mr. Callaway. I don’t recommend it.”
“I’d like to speak for myself.”
“I assume you’ve heard the one about the lawyer who had a fool for a client?”
I’ve heard the one about the lawyer who had a fool for a client. Is there one about the client who hired a fool for a law yer? All I know is that I want to go home, not to the regular jail.
“I’d like to speak for myself.”
“Very well. The court will note that the defendant elects to proceed without benefit of counsel.” She looks at me as if to say, I tried. “Go ahead, Mr. Callaway.”
My heart is pounding. I feel like I’ve managed to stop a falling axe but the blade is still hovering inches over my neck. I take a deep breath to steady my nerves. It doesn’t help.
Here’s what I know:
When the police come to your house to arrest you the way the police came to my house to arrest me, you should remain calm, collect yourself, and take a moment to peruse your arrest affidavit. Here you will find details the police have used to establish probable cause for the warrant itself.
I don’t know what a typical arrest affidavit looks like. My own is the first I’ve ever seen. It’s two and a half pages long, written more or less in plain English, more or less neatly typed.
The affiant, meaning the cop who prepared the document, is Detective William C. Bell, Clark Falls Police Department, Sex Crimes Unit. The victim, meaning just what that term commonly means, is Brittany Lynn Seward, age thirteen, resident of 36 Sycamore Court. The accused, resident of 34 Sycamore Court, turns thirty- eight next May.
According to the narrative, Detective Bell was contacted at his home, by telephone, on the evening of December 14, by a former colleague, retired Clark Falls police sergeant Roger A. Mallory. Upon receiving this call, Bell proceeded to Mallory’s residence, where he conducted an interview with Mallory and the victim in the presence of the victim’s father.
Supposedly, this interview revealed that the victim had received an e-mail earlier that day. The e-mail contained a short, unsigned message—When can I open my Christmas present?— along with a link to a private Web page hosted by a popular online photo-sharing service.
Here the victim discovered digital images of herself “posed in a sexually provocative manner, each photograph portraying the subject in a further state of undress.” The e-mail had reportedly been sent via a rented computer terminal at a coffee shop near campus. The e-mail contained no sender information but originated from an Internet account registered by the accused. Also in my name: the credit card used to pay for the account at the photo site.
The receiving address belonged to a free, Web- based e-mail account the victim had established for herself in order to circumvent the parental software used to monitor her regular account at home.
According to the affidavit, the reality of starring in her own Internet peekaboo show caused the victim to “view previous consensual interactions with Callaway in an altered light.” Fearful of her parents’ reaction should the photographs become known to others, the victim turned for guidance to Mallory, a neighbor and close family friend.
To Mallory, the victim confessed the nature of her relationship with the accused, a professor of English literature and five-month resident of Clark Falls. Said relationship began with the borrowing of books on the part of the victim, progressed to a reading mentorship initiated by the accused, and developed over time to a state of sexual intimacy. According to the victim, this phase of the relationship included photographing sessions that produced the images in question.
Everything I know, the judge knows already. It’s her signature on the arrest warrant. Everything after Go ahead, Mr. Callaway already feels like a blur. I remember talking to the judge, but even now I don’t remember what I said on my own behalf. I remember the prosecutor talking to the judge, but my brain shut down at the words Our evidence will show.
I must have been convincing. Or did the judge look at me and conclude simply that I was too pathetic to be considered a legitimate flight risk? Did the county’s attorney somehow fumble the ball? All I know for sure is that I don’t have to stay locked up until Monday morning.
My bond has been set in the amount of $200,000, the potential amount of my fines if convicted. Because I live next door to the victim, I’ve been ordered to vacate my residence before 1 p.m. this afternoon. I’ve been instructed that if I’m discovered within five hundred feet of Brittany Seward at any time prior to my pretrial hearing, which has been scheduled to take place a week from Monday, I’ll be arrested again, this time without the possibility of release.
For showing up stinko, my defense attorney has been found in direct contempt of court. He’s been ordered to pay a fine of his own, and he’s been warned that a second offense will result in mandatory enrollment in an approved substance-abuse program of his choosing.
The guard leads me through the same door he brought me in, a downcast Douglas Bennett trailing several feet behind. On my way out, I take one last look over my shoulder. First I see Sara, hurrying away toward the big double doors in back, cell phone to her ear. To my knowledge, she has no bail bondsmen on speed dial. I wonder how long this will take.
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