Scott Pratt - In good faith

“How many are coming?” I said.

“I reckon there’ll be quite a few.”

“Almost time. Are you ready to go?”

“I’m nervous as a whore in church, but I’m ready.”

“Just let me do all the talking.”

I led Bates out the door and down the hall to the back steps. We walked in silence until I went through the side door into the courtroom.

“Wow,” I said. “This’ll shake him up.”

The courtroom was packed with the good citizens of Washington County. Every seat was occupied, people were standing against both of the side walls, and there was a line outside the door. As soon as Bates walked in, everyone stood and a loud round of applause broke out. The door to the judge’s chamber was closed, but I saw Glass peek out to see what all the commotion was about. His clerk had already taken her spot next to the bench, and the bailiffs were at their stations.

“Let’s sit here,” I said to the sheriff, pointing to the table traditionally used by the defense.

We sat down, as did everyone else in the courtroom. There was an eerie silence while everyone waited for the judge to appear. After several minutes, the door to his chambers opened and Glass, wearing his ancient black robe that was frayed around the sleeves, hobbled carefully up the steps to his bench as the bailiff called court into session. I hadn’t seen him for more than a year, and I was pleased to see that he looked awful. His face was colorless and gaunt, and his mane of white hair-of which he’d always been so proud-had lost its luster. Before, he’d carried himself as a smug adjudicator, one who believed himself to be morally and intellectually superior to others in every way. Now he just looked like a crotchety old man.

Glass sat down and surveyed the courtroom. When his gaze landed on me, he stared at me through his tinted glasses, a look of disgust on his face.

“I thought you went to work for the district attorney,” he snarled.

“I did,” I said without standing.

“Then what are you doing at the defense table?”

“Representing my client.”

“Is the sheriff your client?”

“My clients are the people of Tennessee,” I said, feeling a bit silly at the pomposity of my own words, “and it looks like several of them have shown up today.”

A murmur went up behind me, and Glass raised his gavel. “I don’t know what all you people think you’re doing here,” he bellowed, “but if I hear a peep out of any of you I’ll have you removed from the courtroom immediately. I’m not going to allow myself to be intimidated by a mob.”

“Stop acting like a jerk!” a voice called from the back of the courtroom. The remark was followed by a loud cheer and a round of applause.

“Order!” Glass yelled as the gavel banged. “Order or I’ll clear this courtroom! Bailiffs! I’m ordering you to arrest the next person who opens his mouth!

“Call the case,” Glass barked at his clerk.

The clerk called the case of The State of Tennessee v. Leon Bates.

“Let the record show that Mr. Bates has been summoned here to answer to a charge of contempt filed by this court,” Glass said. “The court is present, the clerk is present, the prosecutor and the defendant are both present. Mr. Bates, since you don’t have an attorney, I assume you’re representing yourself.”

I stood and cleared my throat, more than a little nervous. I knew I was right, but taking on a man as powerful as a criminal court judge was always an uncomfortable experience.

“Mr. Bates doesn’t need an attorney,” I said.

“Oh, really?” Glass sneered. “And why is that?”

“Because the district attorney’s office refuses to prosecute him.”

Glass’s mouth dropped open and his complexion darkened immediately. He leaned forward on his elbows, his lips almost touching his microphone.

“Did I just hear you correctly, Mr. Dillard? Did I just hear you say that the district attorney is refusing to prosecute this case?”

“The charge has no basis in law or fact, Judge. You can’t convict an elected official of contempt of court because he refused to appear when you called him on the telephone. You could have recessed the hearing and subpoenaed him, you could have sent someone over to the sheriff’s department to get a copy of the manual, or you could have recessed court and held the hearing at a time that was convenient for Sheriff Bates. But you have neither the jurisdiction nor the authority to simply call an elected sheriff on the phone and demand that he appear in court, and you certainly don’t have the authority to charge him with a crime when he doesn’t.”

The courtroom was absolutely still, the tension palpable. I was sure that Glass had never encountered a prosecutor who wouldn’t do exactly as he ordered, and I had a pretty good idea of how he would react. I braced for the threat and told myself to hold his stare and just keep breathing steadily.

“What I can do is hold you in contempt of court in the presence of the court and deal with it summarily,” Glass said. His lips were barely moving, his tone full of anger and hatred. “I can fine you or send you off to jail, and I fully intend to if you don’t do your job and prosecute this case.”

“Go ahead, Judge,” I said. “The first thing I’ll do is file a complaint with the court of the judiciary and seek to have you suspended or removed from office. The second thing I’ll do is sue you, and after that, I’ll humiliate you in front of the court of appeals.”

I held my breath, waiting for the explosion. Glass was infamous for his temper and for the pleasure he took in browbeating and bullying attorneys and defendants. I saw him draw in a deep breath, but then he sat back in his high-backed leather chair and began to contemplate the ceiling. Finally, he leaned forward and looked at the audience.

“Perhaps Mr. Dillard is right,” he said. “Perhaps I acted hastily, even unreasonably. But I hope you good people will give me credit for recognizing my mistake and for dealing with it in a reasonable and appropriate manner. Mr. Dillard, after these fine people vacate the courtroom, I’d like to see you in my chambers. Sheriff Bates, the charge against you is dismissed with my apologies.”

The courtroom erupted again in cheers and applause. As Glass made a hasty exit, dozens of people surged forward, clapping Bates on the shoulder and congratulating him on his victory. I was pleased for Bates, but I knew that the rift between Glass and me had just been raised to a new level. There was no way I was going back to his chambers. He hadn’t ordered me to come to his chambers. He’d said, “I’d like to see you in my chambers.” I took that as a request, and chose to deny it. I wasn’t in the mood to listen to any more of his threats. I just wanted to bask in the glow of kicking his belligerent ass in front of three hundred people. I slipped out the side door and took a seat in the jury room. I left the door open and waited until I saw Bates pass by.

“Hey, Leon,” I said as I caught up with him in the hallway, “congratulations.”

Bates stopped and turned around, a wide grin spread across his face.

“Brother, I ain’t never heard nobody talk to a judge like that,” he said. “You got the cojones of a Brahma bull.”

“Thanks,” I said. “Let’s just hope I never give him a chance to cut them off.”

Thursday, September 18

When I got back from lunch that same day, there was a note stuck to my door from Lee Mooney asking me to come to the conference room as soon as possible. I walked in to find Mooney sitting at the table with a young man I didn’t recognize. On top of the table was an evidence box.

“There’s the man right now,” Mooney said as he stood up. “We were just talking about you. I heard you handled yourself very well in front of Judge Glass this morning.”