mention the administrative offices, the few holding cells required for the more dangerous criminal element, and the small public break room at the end of the main lobby. What surprised him most, though, was that he and Julie were the only observers in the courtroom. CJ counted himself a member of the People’s Court generation, and although he knew better he couldn’t shake the image in his mind of a perpetually filled courtroom for every case brought before the judge.
A deputy had already led Dorothy in and it bothered CJ to see her handcuffed, but considering what damage she’d been able to inflict on several grown men, he couldn’t fault the jail personnel their caution.
The judge was an imposing-looking man, perhaps in his early sixties, and he had the kind of face that CJ couldn’t read. The name plaque identified him as the Honorable Jerome Butterfield, and this looked to be the first case heard today. The only other people in attendance were the county prosecutor and Officer Hinkle, in full uniform, on one side, and a public defender who sat with CJ’s mother.
The judge was reading through Dorothy’s case file, and while CJ could have imagined it, it seemed Judge Butterfield’s frown deepened the longer he read. When he finally looked up, he fixed an imperious eye on the defendant.
“Discharging a firearm within city limits; disturbing the peace; resisting arrest; assault on a police officer—Ms. Dotson, do you realize how serious these charges are?”
“I do, Your Honor,” Dorothy said. If nothing else, his mother was sober, but CJ was beginning to think that sobriety did not favor his mother. She looked older when not under the influence.
Judge Butterfield grunted and looked back down at the papers spread out in front of him. No one said anything as he read. When he looked up again, his eyes went to the prosecutor.
“What do you want to do here, Harold?”
The prosecutor, a man who appeared even older than the judge and who looked as if he could use a shave and a cup of very strong coffee, said, “We’d be happy with thirty days and a thousand dollars.”
“Thirty days?” CJ muttered to Julie, who shushed him.
But CJ had drawn the attention of the judge.
“Are you related to the defendant?” Butterfield asked.
“I’m her son, Your Honor.”
That seemed to pique the man’s interest.
“Ah, you must be the writer.”
“I was a writer, Your Honor. Right now I stock shelves.”
While CJ’s experience in front of a judge was limited, he was of the opinion that if you could make one smile, you were ahead of the game.
“What about you, Sam?” Butterfield said to Dorothy’s attorney.
CJ saw the public defender glance over at the prosecutor and understood that, in a town this small, these two had probably been working alongside and against each other for years. For all CJ knew they attended the same church and even played cards together. He wondered how a dynamic like that played itself out in a courtroom setting.
“Your Honor,” the public defender began, “Ms. Dotson has been the victim of a long period of domestic abuse, and I submit that this pattern of aggression by her ex-husband was the cause of my client’s actions.”
“You mean George Baxter made her shoot at someone and take a swing at a cop?” Butterfield asked with a disbelieving smile.
“In a manner of speaking,” the other man said, although he didn’t sound as convinced as CJ would have liked.
He looked over at Hinkle, who hadn’t said anything yet and who was studying the floor with an intensity the thing didn’t deserve.
Before the judge could say anything else, the courtroom door opened and all eyes turned to watch as Artie stepped in and made his way down the aisle, taking a seat behind CJ and Julie.
“Good morning, Artie,” Butterfield said.
“Jerry,” Artie returned.
The judge looked from Artie to CJ, then back at the older man. “Who’s watching the store?”
“No one,” Artie answered. “I closed for the morning.”
Judge Butterfield wasn’t the only one surprised by this news. From where CJ sat, he could see the expressions on the faces of most everyone in the courtroom, and it appeared the only one who didn’t react in some fashion was his mother.
“Twice in one week,” Butterfield commented.
“Just here to offer my support,” Artie said, but the shrug he gave signified discomfort.
CJ caught the slight smile that touched the corner of Dorothy’s lips.
Judge Butterfield grunted and turned his attention to Hinkle. “Officer Hinkle, can you speak to these charges? Perhaps help the