THE FIRST TIME I saw the judge I was surprised she was a woman, and not a bad-looking one at that, mid-forties, shoulder-length brunette, trim, good grooming. When she entered the courtroom, we all shot to attention and as she mounted the steps to the bench, I saw a pair of stylish high heels beneath the hem of her robe and just above the heels a rather nice flash of leg. Sitting just outside my own consciousness, as I am now capable of, thanks to my therapist, I marveled at my inclination to notice the well-turned shape of a woman’s leg even as I’m on trial for my life. This is a reversion to a different, darker time I thought was in the past, but was apparently resummoned when I pulled the trigger six times and killed that man.
In the midst of the worst times I self-diagnosed a sex addiction to my therapist. This was after the divorce when I was doing three sessions a week and complaining that the freedom to sleep with anyone I wanted to felt somehow confining, and how fuckedup was that? The therapist nodded thoughtfully as I described my symptoms, the “ache” I would feel when I found something attractive about a woman, an ache I was dead certain could only be satisfied by having sex with her, but then I would turn and see someone else, this one with a tiny scar on her upper lip, a slice of pale flesh that was suddenly irresistible, and the ache would turn into an anxiety and then a panic, a desperation. I would invent stories for each of them, scenarios that would bring us together, like porn, but with actual romance involved. My throat and chest would tighten and I would crumple and strangers would be asking me first if I needed help, before saying, “Hey, are you that guy?”
“It’s like there’s too much choice,” I said to my therapist. “It’s like buying toothpaste. Have you tried buying toothpaste recently? It’s like a whole aisle, just toothpaste. It used to be a shelf, but now it’s a whole aisle. Soon we’re going to need an entire store called Just Toothpaste.” I got up off of the therapist’s couch and spread my arms to indicate a large store sign and pulsed my fingers to indicate flashing lights. “Just Toothpaste. Do I get tartar control? Whitening? Breath freshening? Something with sparkles in it? What about the flavor? Spearmint? Baking soda? Citrus? Fresh mint? What the fuck is fresh mint, anyway? Is there a stale mint flavor? The Just Toothpaste stores are going to have those guys like at the fancy restaurants who know everything about wine. Whaddya call them?”
“Sommeliers,” the therapist said.
“Yeah, we’ll need toothpaste sommeliers, toothpaste consultants just to figure out the right goddamn toothpaste. I’m telling you, doc, the choice is killing me.”
“Is this in your act?” the therapist asked.
“No,” I said, “should it be?”
“It’s very funny.”
“But you’re not laughing.”
“I don’t laugh because I understand what’s behind the joking, which isn’t a laughing matter, but that doesn’t mean it isn’t funny.”
He is and always has been a buzz kill. If I was going to kill anyone, it should’ve been him.
“Anyway, you’re not a sex addict,” he said.
“Then what am I?”
“A man.”
WHEN THE JUDGE enters this time, I take care to focus on her face, which is undeniably pretty. Normally, middle age is not attractive to me, but this woman has kept it together and the age lines around her eyes and mouth are charming. Barry has warned me about this kind of thing, this appearing to be what people think I am. He said that there are two key things to know about juries: Number one, they notice everything, and number two, they’ve got nothing to do but talk to each other, particularly when a jury is sequestered, as they are in this trial. According to the focus groups, I’m supposed to be demonstrating respect for the process, an understanding of what’s at stake, and a fundamental trust in the American system of jurisprudence, and staring at the judge’s legs or grinning at the thought of her serious, but charming face are likely not in sync with those values. Under no circumstances should a man in my circumstances be grinning.
“Pinch your sack if you have to,” Barry counseled.
With a brief wave of her hand the judge indicates that everyone should be seated as she settles in her high-backed chair behind the bench high above us. The judge’s clerk approaches from the side to privately confer on something with the judge as the court reporter, just to the right of the witness chair, cracks his knuckles in anticipation of going back on the record. For the last week or so I’ve had this urge to tell the judge how impressed I am with her, how good she is at what she does. She appears overwhelmingly comfortable with each and every action, like the way she unhurriedly takes her chair, even though she must know the entire room is waiting for and looking at her, that she is the focal point. Or how she accepts a file from her clerk with a graceful flick of one wrist, while the other hand moves the stylish reading glasses hanging from a chain around her neck into place on the bridge of her nose. She has a nod she gives the court reporter that signals it’s time to go back on the record that I couldn’t even see until I took care to look extremely closely, but somehow it always snaps the court reporter from his dazed inactivity into a straight-backed virtuoso of the steno machine.
But what is most impressive is how she handles the lawyers. Even Barry is a lapdog in the presence of the judge. During testimony, she rarely looks directly at the witness or the questioning attorney and yet she is apparently always attentive, as demonstrated by the speed of her rulings when one of the lawyers offers an objection, followed by a slight smile to herself that seems to say, “I knew you were going to say that.” When she looks at me—which is not often, mind you—I see total dispassion, which strikes me as completely right while also being probably difficult to pull off. After all, I am untalented, successful, a bad husband and father. Three-quarters of those surveyed think so. The other 25 percent likely think something worse. She must feel something about me. Everyone else does. I’d just like to tell her how much I appreciate the fine job she’s doing, that in her work I recognize a true professional, that I get it.
There is at least one period during each day where it seems possible that I could say these things to her. It comes when it is just me and Barry and the prosecutor with the judge in her chambers when something needs discussing out of earshot of the jury. It is mostly Barry and the prosecutor who do the talking with the judge listening, but I still have to be there, and at the end of each conference when whatever it is that had to be decided is decided, from behind her desk the judge will look up at me over her reading glasses, he small mouth on her charming face moving and say, “Is that agreeable to you?” and I will say, “Yes, Your Honor,” just as Barry has instructed me, but what I want to say, or more accurately what I want to ask, is how she got so comfortable in her own skin, how she is capable of such authenticity, because I would really like to know what that feels like again.
As I think about it, I’ve actually been very impressed by everyone involved with the trial, the judge, the bustling prosecutor, the court reporter, the sketch artist, even the jury. And Barry, of course. He has not disappointed. They’ve all played their roles marvelously. I just hope I’ve done my part. I may be untalented, but I try to be a pro.
At these thoughts I feel a smile playing at the corners of my mouth and I am not sure if this is my appreciation for all these jobs well done or simple nervousness that any moment this whole thing could be over. Barry has explained to me that after the prosecution completes its case it is usual for the defense to request a directed verdict of not guilty for lack of prima facie evidence. If no reasonable person could believe me to be guilty, then I will go free without having to mount any defense whatsoever. I had never heard of this before until Barry told me about this particular judicial wrinkle the day after the blowup in the town car, a salve for the wounds inflicted thus far.
“Why didn’t you tell me this earlier?” I asked.
“I didn’t want to get your hopes up.”
“Then why are you telling me now?”
“It seems like the right thing to do at this time, considering.”
“Considering?”
“Considering your apparent emotional distress.”
“And could we get that, the directed verdict?” I asked. There was a surprising amount of hope in my voice. There have been periods during this time where I honestly felt like I didn’t care which way this whole thing went.
“Possibly.”
“Possibly or probably?” My conversations with Barry sometimes remind me of an Abbott and Costello routine. Truthfully, I’ve never cared for Abbott and Costello, never found them funny, though I’d never admitted it publicly since these thoughts were blasphemous for any “real” comic. Seeing those two stupid assholes do “Who’s on First?” makes me want to leap through the television and knock their heads together. Draw a diagram, fuckwads.
“It’s unusual to win on a directed verdict on a jury trial, but not unheard of.”
“How not unheard of?”
Barry sighed. Usually Barry does not like to show irritation because irritation is weakness, but there it was, him briefly pinching his thumb and index finger at the bridge of his nose. I felt immediately sorry that I was such a pain in the ass. I wish I could blame it on me not being myself, but I fear it’s the opposite.
“It’s rare,” he said.
“How rare?”
“Rare.”
“Halley’s Comet rare? Cubs winning the World Series rare? Rare rare? Or medium rare?”
“That’s very funny,” Barry replied. “The answer is rare. It could happen, but it’s not likely.”
But is it going to happen? Barry said that the ruling should come quickly, that the judge will know the motion is coming and as such will have an answer ready. Regardless of how it turns out, I know that this judge will make the right decision. She is very wise, this judge. She is very wise and very good at placing her reading glasses on her nose and she also understands the importance of attractive shoes on a woman. Sweat pools behind my knees. If I’d known this was going to happen, I would’ve taken an extra pill this morning. I feel rooted to the chair. If the case is dismissed I may not be able to leap with joy because the chair holds me down so strongly. If the case is dismissed, as we planned prior to the shooting, Bonnie and I will be able to be together, maybe. It was going to be difficult before and now, even with an acquittal, I will be further damaged goods, but love conquers all. (Except when it doesn’t.)
I look over and see that, for once, the prosecutor is still, waiting to see if any more activity is actually going to be necessary. The jury is not present because hearing the judge’s answer will prejudice their future opinions. Finally, the judge looks up at Barry and says, “I understand you have a motion for me.”