by Gerry Spence
The judge absently reached for a book on his desk, as if to search for the answer. A witness couldn’t come into his court and without legal justification refuse to testify. And a courtroom full of gossip-hungry spectators waited, along with the ravenous media, for the big story of the day: The judge tossed Sylvia Huntley in jail for her refusal to testify. “I’ll give the matter my full consideration this evening,” the judge said, and recessed court for the day.
* * *
Betsy was already cooking supper when the judge got home. The decision he had to make might decide the case. It could deliver Lillian to the death house. He fed Horatio, threw the dog’s stick twice, then twice more. Then he returned to the cabin and sat down in front of the stove.
“I heard on the radio that Sylvia won’t talk,” Betsy said. “Good for her.”
“Why?” the judge asked. “She’s a witness under oath and had a conversation with Lillian the night of the shooting.”
“Why should Sylvia Huntley have to reveal secrets between herself and Lillian any more than two close male friends would tell on each other? If Hardy Tillman told you he’d thought he should kill some son of a bitch, and that person was found shot the next day, you wouldn’t tell anyone what Hardy told you.”
“Right. I’d probably forget what he told me.”
“That’s lying,” Betsy said. “So I suppose it isn’t as bad to lie as it is to refuse to tell the truth.”
Betsy often nailed him with her damnable common sense. For Christ sakes, the judge thought, why hadn’t Sylvia simply forgotten there’d ever been any such conversation? But suppose there’d been a witness in the drugstore who’d overheard the conversation. Why had Sewell refused to identify the witness?
“Are you going to throw Sylvia in jail?” Betsy’s face was tight with concern. “You wouldn’t, would you?”
“No,” he said.
“I didn’t think so.” Then she kissed him good night.
The judge lay awake. He heard the sounds of the blizzard outside, the wind howling, the winter-stiffened trees groaning in protest. He listened to Betsy’s breathing. He heard old Horatio’s occasional yelp in his dreams as he was probably chasing the squirrels of his puppyhood. Then the disharmony of sounds in his ears began to take a new form.
“Careful!” Yes, he heard the word clearly. “Careful!”
“What?” he said.
Betsy stirred.
He sat straight up in bed. “Who’s there?” he hollered.
“What’s the matter, honey?”
“Didn’t you hear that, Betsy?”
“It was only the wind in the spruce trees, honey.”
He staggered from bed, his eyes wild, Betsy after him. She turned on the light and shook him. “Wake up! Wake up! It’s just a bad dream.”
“Didn’t you hear that, Betsy?”
“You’re just having a bad dream,” she said.
At last, he slept. In the light of day, the voice had retreated, and in the early morning the answer came to him, but not from anyplace sane or safe.
CHAPTER 24
THE NEXT MORNING, the judge ordered both lawyers, along with the accused, Lillian Adams, the witness, Silvia Huntley, and the court reporter to his chambers. Silvia Huntley, prepared to go to jail, was wearing a pair of comfortable blue jeans, a green woolen sweater, and a pair of canvas house shoes.
Judge Murray spoke to her in a kindly voice. “Madam witness, did you reconsider your position over the past evening? Are you ready to answer the question the prosecutor put to you yesterday?”
“I haven’t changed my mind, if that’s what you’re asking. I will not answer that question.” Sylvia Huntley looked torn and tortured.
The judge turned to Haskins Sewell with an imposed, disarming smile. “Mr. Sewell, did you reconsider your position last evening? Are you prepared to reveal the name of your informant?”
“My position remains the same,” Sewell replied.
The judge cleared his throat and took Sewell in with the eyes of a patient father. “I have given this matter a good deal of thought. I am not going to speculate on whether your said informant might ever take the stand to tell us anything. I abhor speculation and disavow its worth.”
Suddenly, as if possessed, the judge thrust out his arms like Moses ordering the seas to part and proclaimed, “If there were a witness who overheard Mrs. Adams and Ms. Huntley conversing in the drugstore, that witness would presumably be available to testify as to what was said. Mr. Sewell has refused to identify the witness. And although I do not impugn the integrity of Mr. Sewell when I ask his source, he says it is confidential. I am not going to demand more of Ms. Huntley than I demand of Mr. Sewell, an officer of my court—namely, a candid revelation of the facts.” He shut his notebook. “Your objection, Mr. Coker, is sustained.”
The judge turned to Haskins Sewell. “Ms. Huntley will not be required to answer your question unless you identify your secret witness. You may, if necessary, identify him or her to me in private, but the witness must be identified.”
“I want to be heard,” Sewell shouted.
“You are ordered not to shout, Mr. Sewell,” the judge shouted.
Sewell released a screeching verbal typhoon. “I find your decision utterly out of line.”
“Having said that, what else do you wish to say, if anything, counsel? I warn you to be circumspect in your choice of words.”
“You’ve just told the world that you don’t trust me. All I have is my good name.”
“That’s a matter in serious question,” Coker chided.
For the first time, the judge felt a tinge of pity for Sewell. But no. He couldn’t trust Sewell. “Let us try once more,” the judge offered. “Mr. Sewell, let me hear once more the exact question you intend to ask Ms. Huntley.”
“I intend to ask her if on the night of her husband’s death she had a conversation with Mrs. Adams at the drugstore concerning her husband.”
The judge turned to Sylvia Huntley. “Madam witness, what would your answer be?”
“I would refuse to answer the question,” she said.
The judge turned to Sewell. “And does your offer of proof remain the same—that on the night Mr. Adams died Mrs. Adams told Sylvia Huntley, ‘I ought to kill the son of a bitch’?”
“Yes, it does,” Sewell said.
“There you have it,” the judge said. “You intend to ask that question knowing full well that the witness won’t answer, which can leave the jury with but one conclusion—that Mrs. Adams went home and forthwith murdered her husband. If you have a witness who overheard such a statement by Mrs. Adams, I will allow that witness to testify. Otherwise, you are not permitted to cross-examine Ms. Huntley on that matter. Do you understand?”
“Have you lost your mind?” Sewell shouted at the judge.
An intense silence invaded the judge’s chambers.
Finally, the judge said, “I’m not certain I heard you.” He reached as if to adjust his hearing aid.
“I’ll say it as candidly as I can. I think the Adams woman has robbed you of your senses.”
“And what is your evidence, Mr. Sewell?”
Sewell stood up and began to pace. His litany of accusations delivered in his flinty voice punctured the hostile air in the judge’s chambers. “You let a murderer out on a nothing bond. You turned her loose to cavort around this county, to the embarrassment of law enforcement and to the endangerment of this community, especially considering the facts that establish her guilt beyond a reasonable doubt.”
Sewell glared at the seated judge, the prosecutor’s eyes hard, his teeth bared. “Your rulings in this case have been a disgrace to the judiciary. Your history with this woman from the time she was a child is a matter of record. You have never, not once, required her to conform to the law or to decent standards of society.”
In truth, the judge thought that Sewell had lost his mind.
Sewell shook a finger at the judge. “You will recall that even defense coun
sel recognized it was improper for you to sit on this case. And now, now, you prevent me from asking this witness proper leading questions on my assurance that I possess a good-faith basis for my questions.”
Be patient, the judge thought. Surely no sane lawyer would be talking to a judge like this. Sewell had gone over the edge.
Sewell gathered new breath. “You granted this woman a divorce when she possessed no legal grounds, indeed, because her husband had allegedly beaten some cur. I am a dog lover, but dogs, unfortunately, have no legal rights. You’ve systematically, habitually, and intentionally stretched the law beyond all recognition on her behalf.” Sewell’s voice rose to a high single-noted assault. “And now you’ve besmirched my honesty, in effect asserting that I have no good-faith basis for my cross-examination of a hostile witness who heard Lillian Adams state she ought to kill Horace Adams the Third.” With each step, Sewell’s leather soles and elevated leather heels beat at the floor like a metronome. “I have the right to press this witness for her truthful answer under cross-examination. She hides relevant, crucial evidence of Lillian Adams’s guilt—and you know it.”
Judge Murray spoke slowly, evenly. “I repeat, Mr. Sewell, all you need do is reveal your good-faith basis and—”
“We’ve just traveled that road,” Sewell snapped. “I’m expecting a further report by five this evening.”
“What do you mean, ‘report’?”
“I have the duty to see that the laws of this state are fully enforced. That includes my duty to investigate any judge who’s forsaken his oath of office by engaging in improper conduct with an accused who’s being tried in his court.”
“I beg your pardon?” the judge said, again reaching for his hearing aid.
“This woman has been free from the day she was indicted. What she’s been doing between that time and this trial to ensure her acquittal is the question I’m investigating.”
Lillian stared at the judge in shock.
“You’re going a little far afield here, Mr. Sewell,” the judge said. “Do you want me to step down, but before I do, to declare a mistrial? You understand, of course, the operation of double jeopardy could prevent you from retrying Mrs. Adams?”
“No. I am asking you to step down from this case and permit the chief justice of the Wyoming Supreme Court to name a successor—the same as if you had died.”
As if he had died?
“So, Mr. Sewell, we’ve suffered all of this sophistry in support of your agenda to secure a change of judge, even in the middle of a trial?” the judge asked. “How inventive. I know of no precedent for this. And I find your conduct contemptuous.”
At last, Coker spoke. “What we have here is a prosecutor who will risk contempt in order to go judge shopping after he discovers that the judge isn’t ruling his way.”
“That is plain bullshit,” Sewell cried.
Coker got up and started toward Sewell.
“Call the sheriff,” the judge ordered the clerk. The clerk quickly left the room.
“I’m not through with what I had to say,” Coker continued. “What we have here is a prosecutor who, himself, can be replaced. On your order, the attorney general can appoint another prosecutor to take over this case. Mr. Sewell’s insufferable misconduct demands it.”
Deputy Huffsmith burst though the door of the judge’s chambers, his hand in readiness on his holstered .357 Magnum revolver. He looked from the judge to the lawyers and back to the judge again.
“Do you have a vacant cell in your jail, Deputy Huffsmith?” the judge asked.
“We have that same old padded cell, Your Honor,” Huffsmith replied.
“I see,” the judge said. He turned to Sewell. “You may still purge yourself of contempt with an appropriate apology, Mr. Sewell. Otherwise, you leave me no other remedy.” He heard that distant voice again: “Careful, old man.”
“You wouldn’t dare put me in jail,” Sewell hissed. “How would you like to read in the morning paper that District Attorney Haskins Sewell charged Judge John Murray with engaging in improper conduct with the very defendant who’s being tried before said judge on a charge of murder, and when the district attorney called the matter to his attention, said judge threw him in jail?”
“You are forcing me, Mr. Sewell. Forcing me. Do you have nothing more to say? I am waiting for an appropriate apology.”
Silence.
At last, the judge said in as strong a voice as he could muster, “I find Haskins Sewell in contempt of this court. I order the sheriff of Teton County to take Mr. Sewell into custody and hold him in the Teton County jail until he has purged himself of his contempt.” The judge turned to the deputy. “Take this man from my chambers.”
“You’re insane,” Sewell snarled, but he held out his hands to Deputy Huffsmith for cuffing, which the deputy refused. “This here man is a low-risk prisoner,” he said. Then he led Haskins Sewell from the judge’s chambers.
Judge Murray glanced at those remaining in the room. He saw the court reporter’s silent lips moving. He saw Coker for once bereft of words. He saw Lillian rising from her chair, her face laced with fear. Sylvia Huntley ran to Lillian and held her, both women as still as the silence before the storm.
CHAPTER 25
HE SAT ALONE in his chambers, his blurry old eyes on a photograph of Betsy that sat on his desk. She was laughing her interminably happy laugh. Often she’d warned him against his recklessness.
What have I done? he asked himself. What a fool! No judge in the history of the state had thrown a prosecutor in jail for contempt, and he’d already thrown Sewell in twice. And judges fear prosecutors like people fear rattlesnakes in tall grass. The prosecutor has the power to institute criminal charges against a judge.
Soon the reporters would be writing stories about how he’d thrown the prosecutor in jail for contempt when the prosecutor was only trying to do his job—to convict a woman who many believed had murdered her filthy rich husband. Had money or unidentified favors, or both, captured the presiding judge? The media hadn’t made much of the father-daughter relationship between the judge and Lillian. That didn’t generate the gasps and excitement that enthralled a readership that was always readily captured by the prurient.
Sometimes when the judge was called upon to pass sentence on some poor bastard standing in his jail suit looking up at him with bloodshot eyes steeped in fear, a fellow human being without friends, not even another junkie, and his court-appointed lawyer, who wasn’t qualified to defend a sick puppy, was pleading him guilty, and the poor bastard would give his right arm for a fix—it was then that the judge experienced those small, disturbing jabs of sympathy, of caring, that as a judge he was required to ignore. His judgment would likely destroy the man’s chance at life, as hopeless as it was in the first place. The judge knew he exercised the power of God, and God Himself must surely know He was unqualified to judge that which He had created.
So you’ve done it, old man! he said to himself. You’ve destroyed an entire career—a faithful judge who’s always served the law, if not the people. Well, as you sometimes used to tell those who stood before you, kick out all that useless self-pity and deal with it. Try to learn from this experience.
He closed his eyes and saw Sewell strutting in victory. The son of a bitch had outsmarted him. Now Sewell would go to jail, but he would also spew his lies to the press, and for Sewell, that was better than winning. He’d become the martyr, and everyone had been taught to worship martyrs.
He could hear Sewell lecturing some reporter: “Although I sit in this cell, I will continue to prosecute those charged with vicious crimes, even if, in the end, I must give up my freedom and my office.”
The judge thought he heard a high, sinister cackle in the distance. But it wasn’t Sewell. He’d never heard Sewell laugh.
The judge struggled from his chair and threw open the door of his chambers, but in his outer office he found only his secretary, Jenny Winkley, busy at her typing.
“Did you laugh
?” he asked.
“Did you eat today?” Jenny demanded like a cranky mother.
He wanted to go home and go to bed. He wanted to slip down deep into the covers, close his eyes, and shut off his yapping mind.
He thought of Sewell in the padded cell. It would be dark in there. There’d be no place for him to lie down except on a filthy floor pad. When Sewell had previously occupied that cell, Coker’s presence, even though hostile, had provided the comfort of another human being similarly suffering. The worst punishment of all would be to spend eternity in hell’s misery with no other companion but the self.
Perhaps Sewell could yet be saved. But no, the judge concluded. The toxic seed in Sewell would grow and blossom in the dark, and then seed again. He was a man who lived in order to loathe. He loathed Coker. He loathed Lillian. He loathed the citizens he indicted and convicted, innocent or not. And most of all, he loathed the judge. No, Sewell wouldn’t change. He’d spend the night planning the judge’s fall from grace.
He could see it now. If Sewell couldn’t convict Lillian, he’d win by attacking the judge. In fact, the sheriff and Sewell were no doubt in this together.
The sheriff and his deputies were as morally challenged as most of the criminals they hauled in. They merely occupied different sides of the game. If it took a little perjury to convict, they figured, so what? If they didn’t have the facts, they made up the facts. So what? They argued that the “subjects” lied, too. It was all part of the game.
Politics was also part of their agenda. The sheriff needed convictions so that people would feel safe. If they felt safe, the sheriff’s reelection every four years was ensured. The people believed that good cops got convictions one way or another, and they really didn’t care how. The sheriff never forgot that.
Still, the judge thought he should have a heart-to-heart with Sewell. Surely Sewell would understand that things can get distorted under the pressure of a trial. Perhaps he and Sewell could make a joint public statement that would save Sewell’s face, and they could go on with the case from there.
