51

Everybody has limits. I reached mine on Wednesday, June 13, at 3 p.m. Ironically, the meltdown took place in front of Judge Brown, a judge for whom I had the utmost respect. In fact, we were kindred spirits. I was straightforward and methodical in presenting my cases, and he was equally straightforward in his rulings.

But unfortunately, we also had equally strong wills.

I had obtained a guilty verdict on a breaking and entering. The defendant had two prior drug convictions. For me, he was Antoine Marshall all over again, except that fortunately the homeowners hadn’t been there this time. Ignoring the guidelines in Bill Masterson’s memo, I asked for a seven-year prison sentence with two years suspended.

Judge Brown seemed taken aback by my recommendation. All the judges knew about Masterson’s guidelines—no jail for nonviolent offenders. And B and Es didn’t qualify as violent crimes if nobody was home.

Brown listened politely as the public defender went through the usual spiel about how her client had gone through an addiction recovery program and was no longer a threat to society. She suggested that seven years was extreme even under normal circumstances—and these were not normal times in Milton County. She asked Brown to give her client two years, suspending the entire sentence except for time served.

I stood. “May I respond?”

“That won’t be necessary.”

“But, Judge, this is ridiculous. Just because the defendants all refuse to plea-bargain doesn’t mean they get to dictate what the sentence should be.”

“Nobody said they did,” Brown said, his voice growing edgy. “Now sit down.”

He put on his glasses and reviewed the file. All the judges in Milton County knew my family’s history, and it was certainly a subtext in today’s sentencing. I would have some explaining to do later with Bill Masterson, but I just couldn’t bring myself to let this man walk out of the courtroom on time served.

“In pronouncing its sentence, the court must consider a variety of factors,” Judge Brown announced. I played with my pen, watching him intently.

“Included among those is whether the defendant is a further risk to society, making sure the punishment fits the crime, and advancing the twin goals of retribution and rehabilitation.

“The court finds that the defendant poses some risk for recidivism but that such risk will only be increased by additional time spent in jail. Moreover, the court is mindful this was a nonviolent crime and that, pursuant to directives from DA Masterson, most prosecutors have been recommending such defendants be released on time served. Given the overcrowding in our county’s prison system and the fact that this man served thirty days before posting bond, I’m going to release him on time served. I will impose a seven-year prison sentence as the prosecution suggests, but I will suspend all but thirty days.”

“That’s ridiculous,” I mumbled.

“Ms. Brock,” Judge Brown snapped, “do you have something to say?”

I stood again, bristling from the court’s ruling. In four years as a prosecutor, I had been nothing but unflinchingly respectful of the judges. I would always mumble, “Thank you, Your Honor,” even when rulings went against me. But on this day, fatigued from an endless caseload and weighed down by the concerns about my father and his reputation, my patience had worn thin.

“With all due respect, Your Honor, I think it’s a sad day in Milton County when a repeat offender like this man, caught red-handed, gets to walk without one additional day in jail.”

“Maybe you should take that up with your boss,” Judge Brown said.

“Last time I checked, my boss was not the one handing down the sentences.”

Judge Brown’s face reddened, and his lips pursed. He stared at me for a moment. “Ms. Brock, I realize you’re under a lot of pressure right now; otherwise that comment would have earned you contempt. But I suggest you think twice before addressing the court in such a flippant manner again.”

I bit my tongue, but my smirk apparently telegraphed my disdain.

“Is there something funny about my remarks?” Judge Brown pressed.

“I just find it ironic that the jails are too crowded for defendants but not too crowded for prosecutors.”

I had always been too much of a smart aleck for my own good and usually regretted my words later. But this time, saying them felt right. I was tired of defendants calling all the shots in Milton County. It was about time somebody stood up for the victims.

“That remark will cost you a five-thousand-dollar fine for contempt,” Judge Brown ruled. “Is there anything else you’d like to tell the court?”

“No, Your Honor. That’s about all I can afford.”

Word of my meltdown made it back to the office faster than I did. Bill Masterson was on the road, so I was called into Regina Granger’s office for a chewing out via speakerphone. I apologized to both Masterson and Regina and didn’t have much to say in my own defense. I agreed to apologize to Judge Brown the next day, but I balked when Masterson also suggested some counseling.

“I’ll be okay,” I said. “It’s just that what this guy did was so close to what Antoine Marshall did. The only difference was that nobody was home.”

“Jamie, I understand that,” Masterson said. “But I’ve got a responsibility to the public as well as to everyone in our office to make sure my ADAs are taking care of themselves. And I really would like to see you get some counseling. I know you’re friends with Gillespie. Even if it’s just one or two sessions with him, I think you should at least talk to him.”

Regina looked at me and nodded. “It’s a good idea, Jamie. I think you’re under a lot more pressure than you realize.”

I slouched a little lower in my chair and mumbled, “Okay.”

“Jamie, your work ethic is an inspiration to everyone in the office,” Masterson said, apparently trying to change the tone of the call. “But you’re not Superwoman. I want you prosecuting cases for a long time, and that means you’ve got to take some time to work through some of these issues you’re up against.”

I could hear somebody in the background on Masterson’s end of the call. “Sorry,” he said. “I’ve got to run.”

Masterson ended the call, leaving me stewing. If anybody thought he was superhuman, prosecuting cases by day while running a campaign by night, it was Bill Masterson.

Regina thanked me for agreeing to the counseling.

“One session,” I said.

Bill Masterson usually had an acute sense for all things political, but it turned out he was dead wrong on this one.

That night, I read the newspaper article online that quoted verbatim from a transcript of the hearing. It was titled “Prosecutor Held in Contempt.” The comments following the article ran four to one in my favor. The citizens believed the judges were letting defendants off too easy. They liked the fact that at least one prosecutor thought a guy with two prior drug convictions and now a B and E ought to spend some time in jail.

My in-box was flooded with supportive e-mails, and the local TV shows had no problem finding lawyers who would speak out in my defense. For some reason that escaped me, I was becoming a folk hero.

By the next afternoon, even before I could attend my first appointment with Dr. Gillespie, Bill Masterson had become one of my loudest defenders. “Jamie Brock has apologized to Judge Brown for her lack of respect, and I think her apology was very appropriate. But I must say, I would take another dozen prosecutors just like her tomorrow.”

Only in the land of fun-house mirrors known as Milton County Superior Court could a prosecutor’s emotional meltdown turn her into a legend. Maybe I should do it more often, I thought.