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THIRTY-FIVE

“Docket number five-two-zero-two.” Bailiff Ben Hudson’s deep baritone voice resonated through the courtroom.

Judge Horace Vanderbergen was behind the bench. He had known me since I was ten. Our families went to the same church, his kids went to school with me and Lizzie, and he and his wife, Fredda, had been Friday-night regulars at our restaurant for years.

That doesn’t mean that he cut me an ounce of slack when I appeared before him. In fact, there were times when I thought he’d been tougher on me than he had to be just to assert his impartiality.

But that Christmas Eve morning, with the judge nearing retirement and me on the cusp of motherhood, I’m pretty sure he glanced at me with a faint smile and a warm paternal eye.

The bailiff went on. “John Rollo, charged with criminal possession of a controlled substance in the seventh degree.”

As I’d expected, the judge snapped his head toward the bailiff, then looked down and rifled through the papers in front of him.

A solid minute passed before he looked up again. He smiled at me, and this time there was nothing faint about it. “Good morning, Mrs. Dunn,” he said. “I didn’t expect to see you here.”

“Nor did I, Your Honor. Hopefully this is my last hurrah before...” I patted my belly. Judge Vanderbergen appreciated brevity.

“Mrs. Dunn,” he said, “possession in the seventh ? The people are charging Mr. Rollo with a misdemeanor ?”

“Yes, Your Honor.”

“Approach, please.” His voice was stern, the smile gone.

Johnny’s freebie lawyer, Will Tucker, looked at me across the aisle. He was young, green, and visibly nervous. In the grand scheme of things that was better than old, jaded, and callous. I could tell by the look in his eyes that he wasn’t sure whether the judge wanted me to approach the bench or both of us.

I hand-gestured, and Will followed me.

“Maggie,” Judge Vanderbergen said, his mic turned off, “the defendant has a history of dealing?—”

“Your Honor,” young Will piped up, “my client’s prior?—”

“Zip it!” the judge barked.

Tucker shut up fast.

The judge went on. “They had half a kilo of uncut cocaine in the trunk, and the only thing the people are looking for is a slap on the wrist?”

“Your Honor, if I may...” Tucker said.

“Go ahead, Mr. Tucker.”

“The police found a small fraction of that amount on Mr. Rollo’s person, which he has admitted was for personal use. He has a bad drug habit. The real culprit here is Samuel Womack. I’m sure the prosecutor would have liked to come down hard on Mr. Womack, but the wrath of God beat her to the punch.”

“Some might say that’s one dealer down, one to go, Mr. Tucker,” the judge said. He turned to me. “God can’t smite them all, Mrs. Dunn. Why aren’t the people stepping up to the plate? Wouldn’t you at least like to take this to a grand jury?”

“Your Honor, if we were confident we could secure an indictment, we would go forward, but the coke we found on the defendant was separate from what was found in the trunk, and without the ability to link the two, we don’t feel we’d be able to meet the threshold of a higher charge.”

Vanderbergen frowned. He wasn’t buying it. “Counselor, the man was booked Saturday afternoon. It’s Monday morning. The people are entitled to more than a day and a half to make a case.”

“I realize that, Your Honor, but in that short period of time Mr. Rollo provided us with information that will assist us in ongoing narcotic investigations. He also admitted that he has a substantial narcotic addiction, and he is willing to plead guilty today if Your Honor would remand him to inpatient drug treatment at a substance-abuse community residence.”

The judge rubbed his chin. He was wavering.

“Your Honor, my client is desperate to get clean,” Tucker said. “And I strongly believe that this is one of those cases where rehabilitation would be more effective than incarceration.”

“I will take it under consideration, Mr. Tucker, but for now I am inclined to give the people a few more days to?—”

I felt the pop and let out a yelp as the water gushed out of me and splashed to the floor.

“Maggie!” It was the court stenographer.

“Mrs. Dunn, are you all right?” the judge asked.

“Yes, Your Honor,” I said meekly. “A little embarrassed.”

“Nonsense,” he said, peering over the bench at the puddle beneath my feet. “There’s nothing embarrassing about going into labor. However, my thought to give you more time to formulate a convincing argument for the grand jury seems academic at this point. Step back, please. Mr. Tucker, help counsel to her seat.”

Tucker, his shoes and pants cuffs wet, did as he was told.

“Mr. Rollo,” the judge said.

Johnny stood. “Yes, Your Honor.”

“Do you understand that you have been charged with a misdemeanor seventh-degree possession of a controlled substance with a recommendation of drug treatment in exchange for a guilty plea today?”

“Yes, Your Honor.”

“How do you plead?”

“Guilty, Your Honor,” Johnny said.

“The court accepts the guilty plea, and you are sentenced to six months of inpatient drug treatment. I want you back here in ninety days with a status report... and it better be glowing.”

“Yes, Judge, it will be.”

“And Mr. Rollo, I hope you understand that you just got the best Christmas gift ever. Don’t squander it.”

He banged his gavel. “Bailiff, get an ambulance. And get someone from maintenance up here with a mop.”