Scott Pratt - An Innocent Client

It didn’t take long for her to say yes.

“Okay then,” Maynard said. “You listen real close now. You gotta do exactly what I say.”

July 2

9:05 a.m.

I walked into Judge Glass’s courtroom a little after nine and took a seat in the back behind a column where the judge couldn’t see me. Sarah and her appointed attorney had worked out an agreement with the assistant district attorney, and she was about to enter a plea. To my relief, there were no reporters in the jury box.

I’d lost a lot of sleep thinking — and worrying — about Sarah. As time passed, I’d gotten over the anger. I still thought Sarah needed to pay for what she’d done, but I knew prison time wouldn’t do her any good. I’d never seen prison time do anyone any good.

She’d agreed to plead guilty to two counts of felony theft, to accept the minimum sentence of three years on each count, and to forego a probation hearing. The two three-year sentences were to run concurrently. Under Tennessee law, she’d be eligible for parole after serving ten months, and I had every intention of speaking on her behalf at her first parole hearing. Because of the overcrowding in the state penitentiary system, inmates who were sentenced to less than three years served their time in the county jails. That meant Sarah wouldn’t be shipped off to the woman’s prison in Nashville but would stay in the Washington County Detention Center. I’d be able to visit and try again to patch things up. I should have already gone down to see her, but I was afraid we’d just end up in the same old place.

Judge Glass was his usual cantankerous self, barking at defense attorneys and sniping at defendants. A woman in the audience had forgotten to turn her cell phone off, and when it rang, Glass ordered her to the front and castigated her so fiercely that she was reduced to tears.

He called Sarah’s case twenty minutes after I sat down, and a bailiff brought her in. She looked small and frail in the baggy jumpsuit, and I thought the handcuffs and shackles were totally unnecessary. She shuffled to the podium and stood looking at the floor.

“State of Tennessee versus Sarah Dillard,” Judge Glass said. He looked at Lisa Mays, the assistant district attorney. “Is this Mr. Dillard’s sister?”

“She is, your Honor.”

I hoped Glass wouldn’t use his dislike for me as a reason to reject the plea agreement and give Sarah a harsher sentence. I scooted down in my seat.

“What did she do this time?” Glass said.

“She stole Mr. Dillard’s daughter’s car and a necklace that belonged to Mr. Dillard’s wife,” Mays said. “She traded the necklace for cocaine and wrecked the car.”

“So she’s an indiscriminate thief,” Glass said. “She steals from everybody in the family. How’d she get the keys to the car? She break in?”

“No, your Honor. As I understand it, she had recently been released from jail and Mr. Dillard had taken her in. He was trying to help her. This is how she repaid him.”

I was hoping Glass would just go through the motions and not ask any questions. It was a run-of-the-mill plea. He took hundreds of them every year.

“This judgment form says she was charged with two Class C felonies,” Glass said. “I read her pre-sentence report last night. She’s been stealing and drugging for almost twenty years. Why are you agreeing to concurrent sentences?”

“We agreed at the victim’s request, judge,” Lisa said. “We do it all the time.”

“You mean to tell me Mr. Dillard requested that she only serve three years for this? After everything else she’s done?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Where is he?”

“He’s probably in court somewhere.”

“Well, get him down here. I want to talk to him.”

I stood, my face hot, and walked toward the front.

“I’m here, judge.”

“Well, well, Mr. Dillard, glad you could join us, especially since you’ve been so successful at manipulating the system.”

“I haven’t manipulated anything,” I said. Lisa Mays seemed surprised to see me. Sarah looked at me hopefully. I stopped just to the right of the defense table. “I’m just not asking for blood, judge. This is her first felony.”

“It’s her first felony conviction,” Judge Glass said. “She’s been charged with felonies three times in the past, but they’ve all been reduced to misdemeanors. I suppose you didn’t have anything to do with that, either — did you, Mr. Dillard?”

“Are you accusing me of something?”

“Of course I am. You’ve manipulated the legal system to gain favorable treatment for a member of your family.”

“And you wouldn’t do the same?”

“Watch your mouth, sir. I’m not in any mood to put up with any disrespect from you.”

“This district attorney, the public defender, and my sister have apparently come to an agreement they think is fair,” I said. “I didn’t have anything to do with it. The only thing I told Miss Mays was that I wasn’t going to insist on the maximum punishment. She’ll serve almost a year as it is.”

“Let me ask you a question, Mr. Dillard,” Judge Glass said. “If this young lady was a complete stranger to you and she’d stolen your daughter’s car and an expensive piece of jewelry that belonged to your wife, would you be in here asking me to accept a minimum sentence? Especially with her list of priors? Tell the truth for a change.”

“She isn’t a complete stranger. She’s my sister, so the question is meaningless,” I said. “And I always tell the truth in this courtroom. You just don’t like to hear it sometimes.”

“Watch your tone, Mr. Dillard. You’re on the verge of a contempt citation.” His voice was beginning to tremble, a sure sign that his anger was about to overcome his reason.

“My tone is no different than yours,” I said. “Is this hearing about accepting a plea from my sister? Or is it about something else? Because if it’s about some personal animosity you hold for me, perhaps you should consider recusing yourself from this case and let her enter her plea in front of an impartial judge.”

Glass was a bully, and like all bullies, he became angry and confused when people stood up to him. He certainly had the power to put me in jail, but I knew I hadn’t done anything to deserve it. If he ordered them to arrest me, I’d just embarrass him in front of the Tennessee Court of Appeals.

“Don’t flatter yourself,” he said. “I save my personal animosity for important people. You’re certainly not in that category.”

“Good. Then let’s get on with it,” I said.

“I’m not accepting this plea as is,” Glass said. “She can plead to two consecutive three-year sentences, or she can plead to concurrent six-year sentences, or she can go to trial. She’s not walking out of my courtroom with less than six years.”

“Why?” I said. That simple, three-letter word was the one I knew judges hated the most. Most of them didn’t feel like they had to explain themselves. They were judges, after all. They wore a robe, and the robe gave them the power to do pretty much whatever they pleased.

“Why, Mr. Dillard? Why? Because I say so. Because your sister is the scum of the earth. She won’t work, she doesn’t pay taxes, she sucks up drugs like a vacuum cleaner, and she’s a thief. She’s a drain on society, and she belongs in jail. If you didn’t want her to go to jail, you shouldn’t have reported her crimes to the police. You did call the police, didn’t you?”

As much as I hated to admit it, he was right. When I picked up the phone, I knew I was putting Sarah at risk of a long jail term. I’d wanted her to go to jail at the time. But my anger had subsided, and I’d convinced myself that what she’d agreed to was more than enough.