Big Day

“You always knew you would never do better than this.”

The proclamation seemed directed at the professionally dressed woman in front of me, confidently placing one pristine designer pump after another up the courthouse steps. She was a superior court judge. I was her court reporter.

Neither of us had to check the source. We both knew it was Susan; aka psychic Sue. A wiry middle-aged woman with short hair bleached almost white and an unflinching gaze from strangely cloudy blue eyes. It was uncomfortable to hold that gaze, so nobody did. Susan had been a fixture around the courthouse entrance for as long as I could remember. She sometimes yelled at the objects of her clairvoyance. Mostly she just projected her voice like an oracle. As with all unhoused people encountered on the outskirts of the courthouse, we ignored her. If we didn’t engage, or even look in her direction, she would stay calm and we could continue with our guiltless day. Court security didn’t try to muscle her away. No one complained about her outbursts. Maybe because we knew she was always right.

This time I saw my judge’s head turn a fraction to her left, to where Susan was standing on the lawn next to the steps. It was the slightest involuntary response. An acknowledgment.

⁂

The felony courtroom was a sort of crucible within a crucible for me. In this setting humanity compressed into life-altering moments, as I fell into a personal daily trial of holding concentration while witnessing desperate stories, manipulative stories, heartbreaking stories. And very rarely, psychopathic stories. I had become good at concentrating on the words, not the stories. A certain numbness is necessary.

To someone first experiencing the microcosm of one criminal courtroom, it might feel like a graphic novel; as simple as defenders versus prosecutors, champions fighting to protect the subjects of their respective realms, each champion believing in the righteousness of their cause. This is where the bold primary colors of a graphic novel bleed out to gray scale. In this gray scale, rights and consequences are sketched frame by frame—a perpetual narrative with no bright superhero, no sneering villain.

In this gray scale, I was invisible. Once court was in session, no one seemed to notice me sitting at my steno machine, playing a soundless piano.

I was the keeper of the record. I liked the faithful capturing of words. I took this seriously, like a mythical figure assigned a heroic task. Like Sisyphus. I craved the hours of concentration, the respite from my own worries, case after case, life after life.

At the end of each verbatim day, I walked out of the courtroom unaware of an incremental disintegration of my own vocabulary, my ability to describe a sense of loss, of something receding.

⁂

It was a glorious spring Friday, making it hard to let go of the soft morning light, walk through the courthouse doors, enter the institutional fluorescence, enter the unpredictability of the crucible. Fridays were always busy in felonyland.

“Your Honor, I have to declare a doubt in Mr. Wilcox’s case. I don’t believe he’s competent to assist me in his defense.”

The public defender had been speaking to her client in the custody box, trying to calm his agitation while explaining release was unlikely. The agitation had only intensified.

“She shouldn’t be saying that, Your Honor. I understand everything.”

Mr. Wilcox spoke quickly, through gritted teeth. I noticed a twitch in his jaw.

“All right. And you feel you’re able to participate and assist your attorney in your defense through all proceedings, possibly up to and including trial?”

“Of course. I went to law school. Just never graduated because I was recruited by the CIA and sent to Baghdad. I’m on leave to deal with these fucking legal issues, but the government wants me back on a mission to—well, it’s classified, but it involves my expertise in Arabic and my—”

“That’s okay, Mr. Wilcox, I don’t need the details.”

The public defender gave the judge a resigned look as the judge made the orders she was required to make under the applicable Penal Code section. This meant Mr. Wilcox would be transported to a psychiatric facility until his mental competence was deemed restored and he could be returned to the criminal justice system to face charges.

The bailiff called another sheriff’s deputy to remove Mr. Wilcox from the courtroom. Mr. Wilcox’s eyes widened, his jaw twitched more violently. But he followed the deputy’s commands and left the courtroom, shackles dragging and clanging with every awkward step.

I no longer tense at the potential for altercation in these circumstances. A certain numbness is necessary.

The defendant in the next case had been arrested for arson, setting fire to a trash can outside of a downtown bank sometime around 1 a.m. Unhoused and wandering the streets, he wanted a light in the dark. It made sense to set the trash on fire with his cigarette lighter. The city police found him standing perfectly still over the trash can, watching the flames flash and leap.

The public defender argued for release, explaining his client had been recently diagnosed with bipolar disorder, stabilized with medication. Believing the medication had cured the condition, he’d stopped taking it. The public defender emphasized that his client was willing to resume medication and would no longer be a public safety risk but could not say this client lacked the mental competence to assist in his defense.

He seemed hardly more than a boy. His perfect bone structure and thick chestnut hair were beautiful. His hazel eyes shining.

“I promise I’ll take the meds. I just thought it was a mistake, them thinking I’m crazy. I’m only 22 years old. I’m in a band. I left my dog at a friend’s place. I have to go back and get her.”

His voice was soft, incredulous. Genuine disbelief in his eyes. I was surprised to feel my throat tighten. This hadn’t happened in a very long time. I closed my eyes for a moment, steadied myself.

Arson is a serious charge. The judge denied release, made the appropriate orders, and set the next court date. The beautiful young man fell silent and was escorted from the courtroom.

Several other cases were called. I reported diligently, muscle memory moving my hands on the keyboard.

Now only one defendant remained in the custody box, but the courtroom was still half full with audience members—people from the community interested in a high-profile murder case, some local media reporters.

She had been arrested for suffocating her toddler because voices were telling her he was the devil. There had been a preliminary hearing a few weeks earlier, which I had reported. It was the only time I’d seen a law enforcement officer’s eyes well with tears on the witness stand. He’d been the one to find the child’s body.

The defendant refused to stand when her case was called. More accurately, she just stayed seated, eyes fixed straight ahead, cuffed hands limp in her lap. I glanced quickly into her face and felt the blankness. Maybe the jail doctors had medicated her. A certain numbness is necessary.

Legal arguments ensued—debates over next steps, retaining medical experts, whether a trial date should be set.

My hands went still on the keys. Words were flying through the air but I was no longer grounding them.

Someone entered the courtroom, swinging the door extra wide, allowing a glimpse through floor-to-ceiling windows in the outer hallway—sunlight on plum trees so ecstatic with blossoms I only saw a blur of saturated pink.

I stood up and started walking down the aisle, through the audience, toward the door. It wasn’t until my hand touched the brass bar to push the door open that anyone noticed. I heard my judge’s voice, reedy with alarm.

“Ms. Remy, where are you going? We’re in the middle of a case.”

I pushed the door open, walked through the hallway, past doorways to other courtrooms and public defenders intently talking with out-of-custody clients. No one looked at me until I was through the outer courthouse doors and down the steps.

This is when I felt her gaze. I turned to meet those cloudy blue eyes. I’d never seen her smile, but she smiled at me before she spoke. It was a kind smile. It seemed kind to me.

“This is a big day for you. Very big day.”