Chapter 32
The Plea
At first glance it seemed like just another Monday docket. All the seats in the courtroom were occupied, just like any other Monday; the court reporter was sitting at her station with her fingers arched atop the reporter machine ready to make a record, just like any other Monday; and the judge’s assistant was sitting at the opposite side of the judge’s perch behind her own desk prepared to take notes and do the Court’s bidding. Yet, on this day those present who knew about such things knew that this docket would be very different than the typical Monday. For one, only one case was on the docket with all others moved to the following weeks. All those seats normally occupied by attorneys and defendants were instead filled with reporters and interested citizens, many of the latter consisting of MADD or other victim advocacy group members. Thus, nary a drug-addled or otherwise criminal-looking person could be spotted amidst the mass of bodies. Despite the lack of defendants and attorneys, there were even more people present on this day than a typical Monday. Indeed, while one might conclude that it was not possible to fit more bodies in the tiny courtroom than were usually in attendance, this day was proof that it didn’t take a bunch of clowns with a VW bug to defy the laws of physics by packing in more people in a tight spot than was safe.
The reason behind Darkwell County Court’s newfound popularity was Michael Thomas. Between the arraignment and this day (probably immediately after the local newspaper headlines filtered through the Internet like wildfire, which led Bill O’Reilly of Fox News to rip into a system, in particular, Charles Fleming and other defense attorneys, that allowed twice-convicted drunk drivers to go free), word got out to every major news outlet imaginable that a former client of the semi-famous criminal defense lawyer Charles Fleming had almost killed the lawyer’s grandson. Reporters from Oklahoma City, Wichita, Dallas, Chicago, New York, and a few places in between, as well as TV reporters from all the major TV networks, cable and otherwise, took up the entire front two rows of the courtroom gallery, and many of them had hundreds of pounds of camera equipment to boot.
The only people not in the courtroom for the plea were the victim and the state’s witnesses. They were gathered in a quite pleasant and plush waiting area in the DA’s office. There was a TV monitor in that room, which was tuned to Fox News, with most of those present sipping sodas and coffee and reading back issues of Sports Illustrated, Cosmopolitan, and Field & Stream magazines.
At around 9:00 A.M. the door leading form the judge’s chamber creaked open and the court reporter stood up and announced loudly, “All rise,” telling knowledgeable veterans of the judicial process that the judge was about to enter and that they better stand up or face the judge’s wrath. Almost everyone simultaneously stood up, except for two elderly gentlemen of the local community who got their kicks from sitting in on trials. They had been engaged in a heated conversation with each other about nothing in particular and missed the call. Sitting in the back of the room when everyone else rose, they stood up slowly, looking as if their aged bones were creaking and groaning at the effort, once they realized what had happened. One looked over at the other with a very sour expression and said, “Pay attention, you idiot!”
“Huh?” he asked as he reached up to turn up the volume of his hearing aid.
“I said, ‘pay attention’!”
Obviously hearing a much louder voice this time, both to others sitting nearby and in his own more sensitized hearing aid, the other slapped his elderly buddy in the chest with one hand, stuck his finger to his lips with the other, and said, “Shhhh!”
“You may be seated,” Judge Bosco said as he pulled his chair out from under the bench and took his seat. He gingerly reached under the bench to make sure his insurance policy, a .357 magnum revolver, was still safely secured in its holster, which the bailiff had helped him attach just days after he took the bench for the first time after his initial election. “The matter of State of Oklahoma versus Michael Thomas will now come to order,” he said in a voice heavily tainted by his southern drawl. “Please announce your appearances.”
“May it please the court,” said the prosecutor after she stood to attention. “Barbara Dixon appears for the state.”
Jacob stood and said, “Your Honor, the defendant appears in person and through counsel, Jacob McAllister.”
Looking down at the court file, Judge Bosco replied, “I understand we have a plea in this case, is that correct?” He looked in Barbara’s direction.
Standing up, she replied, “Yes, Your Honor, there is an offer on the table, but I have not yet received defense counsel’s answer, one way or the other. However, in the event that the defendant is not prepared to plea, the state has its witnesses and is ready for trial.”
Jacob shook his head and winced, seemingly objecting to the prosecutor’s spin on his intentions. He stood to reply, but was interrupted by the judge, who glared at him. “So what are we doing this morning, Mr. McAllister?”
“Your Honor, after explaining the offer to my client, he has decided to accept its terms and enter a plea this morning.”