“Not very long. An agreement has been reached already. You just have to show some contrition, and—”
She interrupts me. “I've got to show some what? ”
“Contrition. It means you have to say you're sorry. Just tell the judge you're sorry and you won't do it again.”
“Okay.”
“And Wanda, when you say it … mean it.”
She nods an unconvincing nod. I tell her that we're fourth on the docket, and she should be called in about an hour. She frowns and looks at her watch, as if she has theater tickets and is in danger of missing the overture.
I leave the room wondering how a father can be so blind as to not realize what his child has become. I feel sorry for Cal because getting Wanda out of this is not going to come close to turning her life around. And I feel sorry for Wanda, because she's never going to put on a corsage and go to the prom.
The county is considerate enough to provide defense attorneys with small offices in the courthouse so that we can productively pass the time while waiting for the wheels of justice to ponderously come around to us. I head for the office assigned to me, which is on the third floor.
When I get off the elevator, I run into Lynn Carmody, a court reporter for the Bergen Record. She tells me that she has been waiting for me, and asks if I've got some time to talk. I say that I do, since I've been planning to start speaking to the press about our side of the Willie Miller case anyway. I invite her into the office, stopping off at a vending machine to get some absolutely undrinkable coffee.
I've never really had a problem with reporters. I treat them as human beings, not as objects to be manipulated. I find I can manipulate them better that way. I've long ago learned that in dealing with the press, sincerity is the most important quality you can have. If you can fake sincerity, you've got it made.
Lynn is a particularly good reporter. She's been covering the courthouse beat for almost fifteen years, without aspirations of going anywhere else. She recognizes the incredible human drama that takes place in courtrooms every day, and enjoys conveying that emotion to her readers. She and I get along pretty well, because we understand each other. She knows I will only tell her that which will further my agenda, and she'll do the same.
I'm not really sure what to tell her about Willie, so I mouth platitudes about our confidence at trial, hinting at new evidence by talking about how different this trial will be from the first one. The strange thing is that I don't have to answer a bunch of penetrating questions about the case, since she doesn't seem terribly interested in it.
Lynn asks as many questions about the reason I am here today as she does about the Miller case. I tell her about Wanda, though I leave out my connection to her through Cal. He doesn't need his name dragged through the papers, though I can't imagine why Lynn would want to write about this anyway. She asks me if she can go with me downstairs when Wanda's case is brought up, and I shrug and say that it's fine with me. She's obviously a courtroom junkie.
The call comes moments later, and Lynn and I go downstairs. We enter the courtroom, and I'm surprised by the number of press in attendance. Obviously there is a case after mine that has some public interest, and I consider the possibility of hanging out afterward to lobby the assembled reporters about Willie's prospects. I just wish I had a more compelling story to tell.
On the way down to the defense table, I pass Alex, who has been the bailiff here since the fourteenth century. Alex looks twenty years older than his seventy-one years. In this courthouse, the metal detectors are the first and last line of defense; it the bad guys get to Alex they win.
“Big case today, Alex? The press is out in force.”
He turns around in surprise, as if he hadn't noticed them.
The Russian army could sneak up on Alex. He shrugs. “Beats me. I ain't never seen that many of them here before.”
I take my seat at the table, while Judge Walling finishes up a misdemeanor drug possession case. Walling is