The Decision
By
Russ Durbin
Copyright © 2011 by Russ Durbin
Cover Design: Charlene Lavinia
The Decision
“Give therefore thy servant an understanding heart to judge thy people, that I may discern between good and bad: for who is able to judge this thy so great a people?”—I Kings 3:9
Davis stared at the words on his notebook screen. They hadn’t come easily. Yet Davis wondered if they had been predetermined. He also wondered if he was right.
He began to proofread. No spell checker here; he preferred to study each word, phrase and sentence methodically and meticulously. He edited a phrase here, a word there. He corrected, rearranged and honed until he had the ones he wanted and in just the right order. But were they the right words? Or were they just … words, nothing more. As individual entities, they were nothing; as a whole---well, that is what he would find out later.
Suddenly, he was weary. He closed the notepad, leaned back in his worn leather chair and passed his hand over his eyes.
Never in his nineteen years on the bench had he been so beset by people urging, pleading, threatening, cajoling and just plain telling him what to do about a case as he had about this one. But then, never in his career had he been running for public office as Attorney General. He had been appointed to this position on the bench by the Governor.
Davis wondered about young Tyree Sharif. What was he doing now in his jail cell? What was he thinking? Was he frightened? Was he sorry for what he had done? Or was he still full of hate and scorn?
Henry sighed as he stuffed his notepad in his scuffed briefcase and locked the bag. It was too late for second guessing now. His decision had been made. The rest was anti-climactic.
There was a light tap at the door of his library. It was Arnold Quinn, a longtime friend, political crony and his campaign manager.
“Morning, Henry.”
“Good morning, Arnie.” There was the briefest moment of silence before Davis spoke again. “I suppose you want to know what I’ve decided.”
Quinn grinned, but there was little humor in it. “You know I do, Henry, only I think I’ll wait and hear it in court.”
“Thanks, Arnie. You always had a flair for the dramatic, even in high school.”
Quinn helped himself to a seat in an imposing chair near the large bow window and stared out at the crisp, brown countryside. “It’s going to snow soon.”
“How do you know?”
“My toe,” Quinn replied matter-of-factly. “Yep, it looks like it’s going to be a long, cold winter.”
Quinn spoke softly now. “There was a show on CNN last night about the Sharif kid. A kind of debate, I guess. They talked a lot but didn’t really say much. Funny thing is they talked about the kid as if he were a laboratory specimen instead of a human being. They also had Mike Barnes parents on.” Engrossed in their own thoughts, both men were silent.
“Either way, Henry, you’re a dead duck.” Quinn’s voice seemed loud in the room. He swiveled his head around to look directly at his friend. “Either way,” he repeated.
Davis sighed as he fingered the leather Bible on his desk and nodded. “I know. Tyree has become a cause célèbre. And my words could make him a martyr, couldn’t they?” It was a rhetorical question; he already knew the answer.
“Depends on what you decide, Henry.” Quinn looked up, a quizzical light in his eyes. “I don’t suppose you would consider becoming ‘ill’ until after the election next week?”
“No,” Davis said shortly, picking up his hat, coat and the briefcase. “Let’s go.”
Davis and Quinn saw the pickets as they neared the courthouse. They were lined up like two opposing armies. Signs on one side proclaimed, “Save Sharif.” “Tyree is not a political football.” On the other side, signs solemnly spelled out “Capital Punishment, It’s the Law” and “Exodus 21:23”
The judge’s driver wheeled the black SUV expertly into Davis’ parking space and Jack Fresno, the Court Clerk, walked briskly to the car to escort Judge Davis inside. “It’s been a bit rough out here, Your Honor.”
As the trio, their heels clicking smartly in unison, walked through the tiled hall, a group of news reporters and cameramen rushed toward them, thrusting mikes forward.
“Judge Davis, could we have a statement, please?”
“Will Sharif get the death penalty?”
Davis didn’t look at the reporters nor did he break stride.
Quinn took over, running interference for Davis and Fresno like a Notre Dame fullback. “You know the rules, ladies and gentlemen,” he said, holding up his hands to stop the reporters’ headlong rush. “The judge never comments on cases outside of the courtroom.”
Grumbling, the reporters turned away and hurried into the courtroom to get set up for the announcement of the Judge’s decision. Davis was one of the rare judges who allowed cameras in his court during a trial.
Inside his chambers, Davis felt somewhat calm as he put his coat and hat in the closet and turned to the large walnut desk. Fresno handed him his briefcase.
“It’s a damned madhouse. The TV trucks are all over the parking lot and the streets.” Fresno added, “They’ve practically taken over.”
Davis unlocked his briefcase and handed the notepad to Fresno. “Please download the decision and have hard copies made up for the media after I announce it.” Fresno took the notepad carefully as Davis warned him, “Just make sure you guard it with your life, Jack.”
“You bet I will.” Fresno hurried out.
Davis studied the notes on his desk of phone calls, mostly media, he had received. But one note in particular caught his attention. James Roosevelt Williamson had called four times.
“Trouble,” Davis thought. Williamson was perhaps the most important man in state politics outside of those who actually held office. Publisher of the state’s largest newspaper, Williamson was a king-maker with enormous influence. And Williamson, apparently, was concerned about Davis’ handling of this case. On top of that, the party leaders in the legislature had supported re-instatement of the death penalty.
He was about to hit the button to speed dial Williamson but the man himself burst unceremoniously through his chamber door. “I have to talk to you, Davis.”
“I thought it was customary to knock before entering,” Davis said icily, realizing that this was a blunder. Williamson, he knew, had a short fuse.
“Damn what’s customary!” Williamson stormed. His rotund body fairly shook. “Listen to me, Davis; you’ve got to find a way out, at least until after the election.” He leaned across the wide desk, his red face only inches from Davis’ own.
“If you don’t you’ll be committing political suicide. You’ll be handing the election to your opponent. This thing is hot, Davis; it’s hot!” He said it as if Davis wasn’t aware of the importance of his decision.
Williamson managed to gain partial control of his emotions, mopped his face with a silk pocket handkerchief, and said, “Maybe you could postpone the sentencing until later. Say you needed to give it more study. Or maybe you could get sick. That’s it! You could be sick—till after next Tuesday.” He added, “This case is a no-win situation for you and for the party.”
“If that’s all, Jimmy, I have some calls to make,” Davis said quietly.
Williamson sputtered with rage, then blurted. “If you announce your decision now, you’re through, Davis. The party can do without you. We’ll bury you so deep you’ll never see political daylight again. You’re dead!” He wheeled and stormed out.
Davis stared at the door and wondered if there was any decency left in people anymore. He picked up a small, black book on his desk and turned to the bookmark. He read and re-read the passage, the last line in par
ticular.
“For who is able to judge this thy so great a people?”
He sighed, donned his black robe and started toward the door.
There was a small core of coldness in him as Davis approached the moment when he would open the notepad and read his decision. Everything seemed unreal, even the familiar gavel which he had been forced to use repeatedly to quiet the spectators. His nerves were like strung violin wire. The hysterical outbursts of Tyree’s mother and his grandmother had increased the tension. Meanwhile, Mike Barnes parents sat quietly in the back of the courtroom, solemnly eyeing Davis.
Davis pounded the desk for order, and then summoned the prosecutor and the attorney for Sharif. “Under the circumstances, I will make allowances for Sharif’s family and they can remain in the courtroom,” he told counsel for defendant, but emphasized, “Another such outburst can not and will not be tolerated.”
The attorney conferred with Sherif’s family. All the while, the boy