The remainder of Elsie’s weekend had not been ideal. On Saturday night, she brought Ashlock up to date on Mandy’s revelations while they drank a Corona at the Baldknobbers Bar. Ashlock’s reaction to the information goldmine she provided almost led to a fight. As she outlined the details of Mandy’s relationship with her abuser, Ashlock played the role of devil’s advocate, contesting her assertion that a charge should be filed at this juncture. He stressed that the sad story of Mandy’s life didn’t change the fact that she knew her attacker’s true identity but had yet to reveal it to anyone.
By the time they left the bar, Elsie was so mad at Ashlock that she almost didn’t want to have sex. Almost.
And on Sunday, she had no time to fret about Mandy. Although she thought it fruitless to conduct a jury trial over a bar fight, she nonetheless needed to prepare. Sunday was spent drafting jury instructions, voir dire questions, and arguments.
On Monday at nine o’clock sharp, Elsie and Breeon squeezed through the crowded hallways of the third floor of the courthouse. All the seats on the wooden benches that lined the marble hallways were occupied by county residents; those who weren’t fortunate enough to snag a seat loitered in the halls and leaned against the railing of the rotunda.
The misdemeanor jury case set in Judge Calvin’s court was gearing up on the third floor. Elsie kept her expression serene as she passed the potential jurors in the hallway; but behind the facade, she was grumbling. No county prosecutor wanted to invest the time and energy required to try a misdemeanor before a jury; but Elsie drew the short straw. She had sacrificed precious chunks of her weekend on the piddling case of State of Missouri v. Sweeny Greene.
“Jesus, how many prospective jurors did Calvin call in for this piece of shit case?” Elsie took care to lower her voice as she spoke close to Breeon’s ear.
Breeon answered in a whisper. “The associate circuit judges don’t get to try a lot of jury cases, not like the circuit judges on the second floor. Maybe he’s excited about it—who knows?”
Elsie pulled a face. “Judge Calvin’s gonna eat a glory sandwich, preside over a jury today. Meanwhile, I ate a shit sandwich all weekend, preparing for this dog.”
She was speaking too loudly. At the phrase shit sandwich, a gray-haired woman seated at the end of a bench looked up in alarm.
Breeon pushed through the glass-paneled door into the courtroom, with Elsie at her heels. Eldon, the judge’s bailiff, spun around in his chair to face them.
“Judge is waiting for you in chambers, Elsie. Public defender is already here.”
Elsie nodded, and the women approached the door to Judge Calvin’s office, adjoining his bench in the courtroom.
Elsie knocked, and called through the door. “Judge?”
“Come on in.”
Elsie and Breeon entered. Josh Nixon, the assistant public defender, already occupied one of the two seats facing the judge’s desk. Elsie nudged Breeon and said, “You sit. I’ll stand.”
Breeon nodded and took the empty seat. Judge Calvin fixed her with a quizzical look.
“Ms. Johnson, I was told Ms. Arnold would be handling the prosecution.”
Nixon laughed, scornful. “Are you all double-teaming me? On a class A misdemeanor? You must be hard up for something to do in the Prosecutor’s Office.”
He flashed an irreverent grin and tucked his longish blond-streaked hair behind his ear. Though she struggled to suppress it, Elsie nursed a private appreciation for his casual, surfer look as well as his skill in court.
But he was a little bit of an asshole, most days.
She spoke up. “I’m trying it, Judge. Bree is just sitting in with me for jury selection. She had this same panel of prospective jurors in a trial in Judge Rountree’s court last month.”
Judge Calvin shifted his gaze to Nixon. “That okay with you, counselor?”
“Sure, no problem. If Elsie isn’t confident in her ability to choose a jury to try this case, then by all means: let Breeon babysit.”
Breeon turned to him with a mocking laugh. Elsie just kept a poker face. She and Nixon had faced off in court on countless occasions. He would try to make her lose her temper, if he could.
The judge continued. “Ms. Arnold, has there been any attempt to plea bargain this case?”
She stepped forward and grasped the back of Breeon’s chair.
“Judge, we made a very reasonable offer: in exchange for a plea of guilty to the charge, the state will recommend three months in the county jail and stand silent on the issue of probation.”
She would have said more, but Nixon broke in. “Judge, this charge should never have been filed in the first place. It’s a classic scenario: a bar fight over a woman, outside the Baldknobbers Bar. Both parties were intoxicated. Both guys swear the other one started it.”
Judge Calvin’s brow rose. “And the man who was charged—”
“Was the guy who won the fight. My client. He got the better of the other guy. So when the police showed up, they sent the state’s witness to Barton Memorial Hospital and threw my client in the paddy wagon.”
The judge studied the computer screen on his desk. “And charged a class A misdemeanor. I’m curious; why is the public defender’s office involved in a misdemeanor case? You all have bigger fish to fry.”
“Because the prosecutor refuses to waive jail time,” Nixon said, in a tone that conveyed his disbelief over their unreasonable stance.
Behind her stoic expression, Elsie privately agreed with everything Nixon said. The jail time stand had come from Madeleine; she was so unrelenting that Elsie wondered how the victim was connected to her boss. A political supporter, maybe; or more likely, an employee of Madeleine’s husband.
If Elsie had her druthers, she’d plead him out to a reduced charge and recommend probation, just to wash her hands of it. But the offer was set by her boss; she couldn’t alter it.
“Well, counselors, let’s get going, then. I don’t like to keep the panel waiting.”
The three attorneys slipped through the doorway as Judge Calvin thrust his arms into the sleeves of his black robe.
They took their places at the counsel table. Eldon rose from his desk, holding on to a sheaf of paper that identified the jury panelists. A woman in her forties with her hair twisted into a bun on the back of her head settled down at the court reporting device. Elsie knew the court reporter; her name was Heidi Morris, and she was a member of Riverside Baptist. Elsie had seen Heidi in church on the rare occasions when Elsie attended services with Detective Ashlock and his son.
“All rise!” Eldon said. “The Associate Circuit Court of McCown County, Missouri, is in session, Judge Calvin presiding.”
Elsie and Breeon stood until the judge invited them to be seated.
Adjusting his eyeglasses, he flipped open a file. “Before we bring the prospective jurors in, are there any remaining motions or evidentiary questions to be ruled upon?”
“No, your honor,” Elsie said; and Nixon echoed her. This was not a case involving any complex legal issues.
“All right, then. Eldon, invite the panelists to enter.”
As the door opened, Elsie swiveled in her chair to greet the McCown County citizens with a respectful smile when they entered the courtroom. She didn’t flash her teeth, lest she leave the wrong impression, like she thought a criminal case was a party. Just a genial expression, to radiate warmth and confidence.
A glance at the defense showed Nixon ignoring the procession of jurors altogether. He had an arm around the meaty shoulders of his client, and was whispering in his ear.
Well, Elsie reflected; defense attorneys didn’t have to uphold the same profile as prosecutors. Elsie was on the side of law and order; in court, she did her level best to keep a white hat on her head.
The benches inside the courtroom were filling up with the usual suspects: gray-haired women, a few farmers, some blue-collar men between thirty and sixty years of age (Elsie’s favorite brand of juror), young mothers, a double handful of white-collar men and women. She picked up her legal pad, preparing to take fast and furious notes when the questioning of jurors began.
Then a screech assaulted her ear, followed by a string of high-pitched gibberish. Elsie looked from left to right, trying to identify the source of the noise.
When she saw it, she dropped her ink pen onto the floor. It was a monkey. An actual monkey, walking into court holding the hand of a gaunt middle-aged woman.
The woman and her monkey passed by Elsie’s counsel table as they made their way to the jury box, where a few empty seats remained.
The creature wore a diaper—a dirty one, from the whiff Elsie caught. And a little striped shirt.
Elsie and Breeon exchanged a look. Elsie pinched her lips shut to keep from laughing.
After four years as a trial lawyer, she thought she’d seen it all. Apparently not.
She hadn’t seen a monkey in court before.