Craig Lancaster - 600 Hours of Edward

“Not guilty, Your Honor.”

Now begins the haggling over bail. The prosecutor—I don’t recognize him—says, “The people are seeking bail in the amount of twenty-five thousand dollars, Your Honor Mr. Simpson blatantly disregarded a restraining order against him, appeared at the complainant’s home, engaged her in an argument that became physical, and choked her. We feel that the gravity of the situation and Mr. Simpson’s clear disregard for a legal order of restraint merit this bond.”

Donna Middleton is again gripping my hand.

“And you, Mr. Lambert?” Judge Robeson says, gesturing at the defense attorney, Sean Lambert.

“A few points, Your Honor,” Sean Lambert says. “Mr. Simpson is not a flight risk. He is a small-business owner, the operator and sole employee of a growing concern. He has no prior criminal record. He looks forward to a swift adjudication of this case. He is eager to get back to work and get his affairs in order before trial. He has no intention of sullying the process, but twenty-five thousand dollars is too steep. We ask for a five-thousand-dollar bond.”

Donna Middleton tightens her grip beyond what I thought possible, and my hand begins to hurt.

“Mr. Lambert, I’m not interested in helping your client get his affairs in order,” Judge Robeson says. “In the view of this court and this community, restraining orders are legal documents to be honored, not suggestions that can be disregarded on a whim. Perhaps Mr. Simpson should have thought of that before landing in this mess. Bond is set at twenty thousand dollars. We’ll be back here in two weeks to set a trial date and to sort out any motions by counsel. Next case.”

Judge Robeson bangs his gavel.

Donna Middleton loosens her grip.

“Is that it?” she asks.

“That’s it.”

“Why only felony assault? I thought he was going to kill me.”

“It’s a balancing act. In the time I worked here, I saw only a few attempted-murder cases. Intent is difficult to prove. The prosecutor picked the charge that he thinks he can win, if the case goes to trial.”

“What do you mean, if ?”

“Often, there will be a—” My words fall off a cliff as I see Mike Simpson lunging at Donna as he’s being led away.

“That your new man, bitch?” he snarls as Donna drops to the floor, screaming. “I’ll fucking kill you both. You’re dead.”

Donna is on her back, her feet pushing at the floor in an attempt to scramble away from Mike. She’s screaming and crying and slamming backward into the rows of seats, then dropping down and shimmying beneath them. The two sheriff’s deputies tackle Mike, working him down to the floor in front of me. At one point, he cranes his neck out of the scrum, his veins bulging, his face red, and he looks straight at me, gasping, “You’re dead.”

Judge Robeson is standing up and banging away with his gavel. “No bail! Denied!” Judge Robeson yells. “Get him out of here.”

As quickly as it all unfolded, the chaos is over. Deputies subdue Mike Simpson, and then they pull him to his feet and whisk him out of a side door in the courtroom, where he will be taken by a secure elevator downstairs and back to jail. The room is now full of wide eyes and open mouths and the whimpering cries of Donna Middleton, who is balled up in the corner.

Downstairs, on the first floor of the courthouse, I sit on a wooden bench and wait for Donna to emerge from the restroom. She has been in there a long time. For a while, it looked like she might not leave the corner she wedged herself into upstairs. Finally, the sheriff’s deputies coaxed her to her feet and led her down here, where I wait.

“Hi, Edward.”

I’m startled by the voice. I look up and see Lloyd Graeve, one of my former coworkers in the clerk of court’s office. Though it has been several years since I have seen him, Lloyd looks the same to me: a head of floppy black hair, wire-rim glasses, a friendly grin. He has been with the clerk’s office for years and does an excellent job.

“Hi, Lloyd.”

“I saw you up there in Robeson’s courtroom. Hell of a scene, huh?” Lloyd would have been seated at the spot reserved for clerks; I had not spotted him earlier.

“Hell of a scene,” I agree.

“What are you doing here? I haven’t seen you since…well, since…you know.”

“That guy, the one who caused the commotion, he attacked my neighbor.”

“You’re here with her?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“I saw it. I called the cops. She asked me to be here.”

“Wow.”

“Yes.”

“You’re probably going to have to be a witness at the trial, if there is one.”

I hadn’t thought of that until now. And yet I know that there’s no way the prosecutor won’t talk to an eyewitness to the attack.

“Yes.”

“So maybe I’ll see you again, eh?”

“Maybe.”

Lloyd lingers silently for a few seconds, and then he says, “We miss you around here, Edward.”

“You do?”

“You were good at the work. We could use that right now.”

“I couldn’t work here.”

Lloyd laughs. “Yeah, I know what you mean. A certain boss hasn’t gotten any better at the job since you left. But, hey, there’s an election in a few days. There’s always hope.”

“Well, good luck, then.”

“Take care, Edward.”

When Donna emerges from the restroom, I can see that she has made a brave attempt at pulling herself together. She no longer looks disheveled, and her hair is brushed. But the makeup stains and her still-trembling bottom lip betray what she has been through.

“Are you OK?” I ask.

“Can you just hold my arm and get me out of here?” Donna says, limply offering up her right forearm, which I gently take in my left hand. I then guide her toward the door that will lead us out onto North Twenty-Seventh Street.

A few minutes later, as we’re riding the elevator to the floor I parked on, Donna says, so faintly that I can barely hear her, “This is going to be harder than I thought.”

From the parking garage, I can see that it’s raining. The forecast didn’t say anything about this. I never know what’s coming anymore, it seems. That’s a bad thing when you prefer facts.

We arrive back at the house at 11:53 a.m. It has been a silent drive. Donna stared straight ahead, and so did I. My job was easy: see the road and drive the car home. Hers is much harder. I don’t know if she knows where the road is or where it leads.

“Edward,” she says, as I set the parking brake, “would it be OK if I stayed here until Kyle comes home?”

“Yes. I could make some lunch.”

“I don’t think I can eat. I just don’t want to be alone.”

“OK.”

“Edward, if I’d had any idea that was going to happen, I wouldn’t have asked you to come.”

“It’s OK.”

“But I’m so glad you did.”

She’s crying again, but not too much. Donna Middleton is tough. Tougher than Mike Simpson, that’s for sure.

Inside, Donna urges me to go ahead and make lunch, which I do. Today is a spaghetti day.

As I’m stirring the meat sauce and waiting for the noodles to soften, Donna leaves the couch and comes into the kitchen.

“What did you mean when you said if Mike’s case goes to trial?”

In my time in the clerk of court’s office, I saw it again and again. Even in criminal cases like the one Mike is involved in, prosecutors and defense attorneys will meet and come up with a plea agreement. Sometimes, it’s because the prosecutors have a sure case and can get what they want without going to trial. Sometimes, it’s the opposite way, and the defense uses its leverage to force a deal out of the prosecutor.