James Grippando - Leapholes

"Put this on," he told Ryan.

"Why?"

"Just do as I say. We're going to be late!"

"Late for what?"

"There's no time to explain. Just put on the robe."

Ryan removed his wet clothing and pulled the robe over his head. It was a heavy garment made of very fine cloth. Hezekiah helped him with the clasps in back. Then the old lawyer pulled another black robe out of the closet for himself.

"How do I look?" said Ryan.

"No sillier than I, I'm sure."

They shared a quick smile, and then Hezekiah turned serious. "We must go now. Follow me. And hurry."

Hezekiah led the way. They exited through the same set of double brass doors. At the long hallway, however, they headed in a different direction. Ryan almost had to run to keep up with Hezekiah. Finally, they stopped at another set of brass doors at the other end of the hallway. These doors were even bigger and more impressive than the other set.

"What is this place?" asked Ryan.

"The Court of Justice."

"Why are we here?"

"For you, of course."

"Me?"

"Yes. Your trial is about to begin."

Ryan gasped. "My trial! But-"

Before he could finish, Hezekiah pulled him aside, shushing him. "You're ready, Ryan. Trust me. Trust me more than your father and mother did."

Ryan scrunched his face, confused. "What are you talking about?"

"I've been waiting for the right moment to tell you this, but I don't think the right time will ever come. So here goes. I wasn't exactly appointed out of the blue to be your lawyer."

"What was it-magic?" he said, smirking.

"I have good sources at the Court of International Justice. When I heard you were in trouble with the law, I immediately volunteered to represent you."

"Why?"

"I was your father's lawyer."

Ryan's mouth opened, but the words were slow to come. "No you weren't. I saw his lawyer in the courthouse."

"That was his new lawyer. Your parents hired me first, but they fired me after a couple of weeks."

"They fired you? Why?"

"Your mother thought I was too old. Your father thought I was too crazy, basketball shoes and all that. So they dismissed me."

"So, you were willing to defend my dad? I guess you aren't one of those lawyers who loses sleep over defending the guilty, huh?"

"You think your father was guilty, Ryan?"

"Well, DUH! I was in the courtroom when he pleaded guilty."

"That doesn't mean he was guilty. It's just like someone who enters a plea of 'not guilty.' That doesn't mean they're innocent."

"What does it mean?"

"Courtrooms are as much about proof as they are about truth, Ryan. When people stand up in court and say, 'I'm not guilty,' sometimes what they're really saying is that the prosecutor just doesn't have enough evidence to prove them guilty. Do you understand?"

"I think so. It's like the time I was in a crowded elevator with my friend Sweaty Colletti. Sweaty let out a real silent but deadly one. Everyone was looking around, trying to figure out who was the silent stink bomber. When I told Sweaty I knew it was him, he didn't deny it. He just laughed and said Trove it.'"

"Crude," said Hezkiah, wincing, "but you appear to have grasped the concept. A plea of not guilty is like saying Trove it.'"

"But a man who pleads guilty, like my father, is a totally different situation. What could he possibly be saying other than 'I admit it: I did it.'"

"Usually he is saying, 'Yes, I did it.' But maybe once in a while there are other things involved."

"Like what?"

"I can't talk about that, Ryan. Even though your father fired me, I was still his lawyer for a period of time. Everything a lawyer and his client talk about is completely confidential. I can't discuss it with anyone. Not even you."

"But you're the one who started this. You can't just open this box and then slam it shut. Are you saying my father pleaded guilty to something he didn't do?"

The old man considered it, but he was clearly struggling. "I can tell you this much, Ryan. Had I remained his attorney, I would have advised him to plead not guilty."

"Is that because he was innocent? Or because you thought the prosecutor just didn't have enough evidence to prove that he was guilty?"

"Like I said, Ryan. That's all I can tell you."

They locked eyes, but it was clear to Ryan that Hezekiah would never say another word about it.

"Enough about your father," said Hezekiah. "Let's deal with your case now. Are you ready, my boy?"

"Ready as I'll ever be, I suppose."

"Great. Let's go."

Hezekiah opened the door and guided his client inside. Ryan was immediately in awe of the most amazing courtroom he'd ever seen. The ceilings were at least twenty-five-feet high, and they were coffered with elaborately carved woodwork. There was a row of floor-to-ceiling windows on either side of the courtroom. Beyond several rows of public seating was the judge's bench. It was as big as a house, made of dark mahogany. The judge was presiding over the courtroom in his high-back leather chair. His black robe was similar to the ones Ryan and Hezekiah were wearing, except that he had some kind of embroidery around the collar, which seemed to identify him as a judge. He looked even older than Hezekiah, probably because of the wig. It was powder white, with row after row of tight curls that hung down to his shoulders. It reminded Ryan of the old horsehair wigs that men wore in Early-American history books.

The judge was scowling, which Ryan did not take as a good sign.

"You're late, Hezekiah," the judge said in a gravely old voice.

"My apologies, Your Honor. My client and I were…" He seemed at a loss for the proper explanation.

"Stuck in traffic?" the judge suggested.

"Yes," said Hezekiah. "You might say that."

"Come forward, and make quick of it. As you can see, we are quite ready to proceed."

"Yes, Your Honor."

Hezekiah nudged Ryan forward. Side-by-side, they walked up the center aisle. They were headed toward what lawyers called "the well" of the courtroom, which was the open area directly in front of the judge's bench. Ryan remembered that from the time his father was arrested. His mother had told him that it was sometimes helpful to think of the courtroom as a stage where the lawyers and witnesses performed. The judge was like a director who made sure that everything went smoothly and fairly. The audience, of course, was the jury, which was positioned off to one side. The analogy wasn't perfect, however. In showbiz, they always said that "The show must go on." In the case of Ryan's father, there was never any "show." He had pleaded guilty to the crime and was sentenced to jail without a trial. From that day forward, he somehow expected Ryan to believe that he was innocent.

Makes no sense, thought Ryan. Not even after what Hezekiah had just told him in the hallway.

The bang of the judge's gavel startled Ryan. This was no time to think about his father. He had his own trial to worry about.

Ryan took a seat at the table beside his lawyer. They were on the right side of "the well," an area commonly reserved for the defendant and his lawyer. To their left was another mahogany table, and the prosecuting attorney was seated behind it. She was easily young enough to be Hezekiah's granddaughter. She showed little expression as Ryan and Hezekiah settled into their chairs. Ryan tried to avoid looking at her. It was traditional that the prosecutor sat near the jury, and this courtroom was no exception. Just on the other side of the prosecutor, to the far left of the well, was the jury box. Twelve people had been selected to sit in judgment of Ryan. Ryan counted seven women and five men. They watched impassively as Ryan and Hezekiah gave them a casual onceover.

The judge peered out over the top of his wire-rimmed spectacles and said, "Good morning, everyone."