Grif Stockley - Probable Cause

“Have you told Sarah what’s happened?”

When we broke up, one of the major casualties I expected was Sarah. Rainey and Sarah became friends in a way I never thought would be possible. Rainey has come to know and love Sarah in a way I somehow can’t. Half the time I come home and see Rosa standing in the kitchen (and expect far too much in the way of maturity), but when Rainey comes over, she says she sees a dazzling young woman who reminds her of no one else. For her part, Sarah has blossomed under such attention like an exotic flower. She was crushed when I came home with the news that Rainey and I didn’t seem headed for the altar any longer, but they have remained good friends. I tell Rainey that I will be picking up Sarah on Saturday for a three-day break from her camp and get her to laughing over my reaction to my daughter’s letter.

With a daughter of her own who has done some rebelling (though now she is a docile education major in college), Rainey is convinced that I overreact to almost everything that involves Sarah.

“Gideon,” she says, “the only way you’ll be completely happy with her is if you could have her stuffed and mounted on the wall in your living room.”

I laugh, but there is some truth to that. I could quit worrying about what time she gets in, and it would be a lot cheaper than sending her to college.

“Who’s your taxidermist?”

Rainey giggles, sending a familiar, rich sound against my ear. We talk for a few more minutes, and then, sticky with a day’s sweat, I hang up to take a shower. Tomorrow will be an interesting day.

The lead story on Channel 4 is Chapman’s arrest. I sit in the living room in my underwear with Woogie on the couch beside me and listen as Don Roberts, who is reported to be on his way to a bigger market, reports Chapman’s arrest.

“Chapman, who has obtained former Blackwell County public defender Gideon Page to represent him, remains in jail tonight and will be arraigned tomorrow morning in municipal court. Efforts to contact Chapman’s attorney today have been unsuccessful,” Roberts says in the unctuous way of newscasters. Yawning, I walk over to the TV and snap it off. If the media can make you look bad, they will, I think irritably. Yet the only numbers they could have called are Mays amp; Burton and my home phone, and I didn’t walk in the door until after eight. I get in bed thinking I should be relieved Roberts didn’t report I was fired and will be sued by my former firm. As I turn off the light, Woogie, who has been on the floor, leaps onto the foot of the bed. Usually, he sleeps with Sarah. What is the old saying? I don’t care what they say as long as they spell my name right.

That’s bullshit. Mays amp; Burton will see that I don’t come out of this smelling like a rose. The publicity will cut both ways. But even if some of the new business that it generates crawls out from beneath a rock, I’m going to need all I can get.

Historically, in blackwell County municipal judges have not attracted much attention. Traffic court, misdemeanors, civil claims under a certain dollar amount, felony probable cause hearings, plea and arraignment, and bond hearings do not generate a lot in the way of legal firepower, yet this court is the venue where much of the public receives its direct exposure to the legal system, and ideally, it calls for a certain degree of decorum and dignity. Unfortunately, in Blackwell County, since these positions don’t generate much excitement, some of the judges who have occupied these positions have had a way of manufacturing their own.

If you’re a practicing lawyer in Blackwell County, it is painful to think of Thomas Bruton as a judge. It profits the bar more to realize that Bruton is like a tinhorn dictator in a small republic whose territory blocks access by other countries to the sea. Yet, thanks to the media, he is adored. Reporters and their bosses love judges who stick it to lawyers;

instead of exposing his contempt for the law and those who serve it, the journalism community finds him colorful, if a bit eccentric. So what if he stops a trial to tell the visiting schoolchildren to his court a funny story about the stupidity of lawyers? Bruton is good press; the law itself is boring and complex. A good whiff of scandal, however, and the media would turn on him faster than pimples surface on a tenth-grader just before his first date. But Bruton, independently wealthy because of a father who was truly a fine lawyer, has no need to enrich himself financially. Like a snake too lazy and fat to venture far from beneath his rock, he is content to feed his ego with the occasional publicity that comes his way.

This morning, Bruton is plainly delighted with the attention the Chapman case is bringing him. There is no point in pretending he has a problem with setting a low bond for Andrew Chapman, but Bruton is treating my client as though he were a surly slave who would try to hook up with the Underground Railroad as soon as he was returned to the plantation. “In setting a bond, I am troubled by the fact your client doesn’t have any family in Blackwell County, Mr. Page,” Bruton drawls pretentiously, peering down from the bench over his trifocals. “He doesn’t have any real ties to the community here.”

Unlike the Blackwell County Courthouse, the inside of the building where the municipal courtrooms are housed is with out character. Functional, without ornamentation, it has the feel and look of a clean Trailways bus station. The furniture is sturdy and solid but nothing you’d want to put on a post card. Standing beside the buff-colored defense table that looks as if it had been put together in high school shop class, I fold my arms across my chest and hide my hands under my biceps to keep Bruton from seeing how tightly I have my fists clenched. If he can see he is getting to a lawyer, he will pour it on. I want to tell him that he wouldn’t be satisfied with Chapman’s community ties if he had just been elected president of the Pinetree Country Club. Since there are no blacks at Pinetree except kitchen help, waiters, and caddies, this isn’t likely.

“As the court is aware,” I say louder than I need to, “the defendant is employed by the state of Arkansas and works as a professional in this county. He lives here; the crime he is charged with makes him a threat to no one, and he would welcome a speedy disposition in this matter in order to protect his professional reputation.”

With a look on his face that is intended to convey slyness but merely makes him look silly, Bruton, who only minutes ago accepted Chapman’s not-guilty plea, asks, “Are you waiving a probable cause hearing then? If you are, we’ll have this case bound over to circuit court right now.”

I look down at Chapman, and then back at the judge. It is tempting to advise my client to commit suicide on the spot just to get out of Bruton’s court. Actually, Bruton would be disappointed if I did, since he would be out of the spotlight.

The reason to go through with the probable cause hearing is to get a look at Jill Marymount’s case in advance, even though the result of a probable cause hearing with Bruton presiding is foreordained. Jurisdiction, or the power of a particular court to hear a case, is a royal pain in the ass in Arkansas.

Last year, for example, when I defended the murderer of a state senator, the case was filed directly by the prosecuting attorney in circuit court. Jill Marymount could have chosen to do the same here but elected to have the case originally filed in municipal court though it will doubtless end up in circuit for the full trial.

“No, Your Honor,” I say, “Dr.

Chapman is not waiving a probable cause hearing.”

Bruton’s mouth, as discolored as an overripe persimmon, turns downward in a frown. “Your client’s not a doctor.”