Where the River Ends - Charles Martin [129]
What is the name of that perfume?
He took a deep breath. “Do you understand the charges made against you?”
I shook my head. Nervy scooted a few more inches away. “Nope. Don’ do that neither. He ’spect you to speak when spoke to. When he aks, you ansuh.”
I looked at the judge. “Not…not really, sir.”
The judge raised an eyebrow and spoke mostly to himself, “What is it with me, northeasters and idiots?” He leaned forward. “Mr. Michaels, you are being charged with…” He eyed the stack of papers on his desk. “Kidnapping. Breaking and entering. Tresspassing. Larceny. Grand Larceny. Possession of a controlled substance. Resisting arrest. Assault. Battery of an officer. Illegal administration of a drug. And last but not least, first degree murder.” He tapped the desk with his index finger. “Down here, Mr. Michaels, ‘euthanasia’ is just a sophisticated name for murder. And a premeditated one at that.”
Nervy nodded and looked up and down the row of men next to us. “He good.”
I swallowed. The judge continued, “Do you understand these charges as I’ve read them to you?”
“Yes, sir.”
“How do you plead?”
“Well, I mean…”
“Mr. Michaels.” Sweat beaded on his forehead and trickled down the ridge of his nose. “The charges made against you are either true…or not. Yes? Can we at least agree on that?”
The fan made a ticking noise as it turned. The name of the perfume hung on the tip of my tongue.
“Son.” The judge waved at me. “Are you guilty or not guilty?”
I turned to the recorder. “Ma’am? Excuse me, ma’am?” She stopped tapping long enough to look up. “What is the name of your perfume?”
The judge stood and slammed his gavel on the desk. “Mr. Michaels! I will find you in contempt of this court if you do not answer my question. Now”—his forehead was starting to glisten—“while there’s still an ocean to surf in. Guilty or not guilty?”
The tape of the last two weeks ran across the backs of my eyes. Sorrow, laughter, deep-down hurt and a touch I could not reach tumbled together. Raindrops in the river. I stared at the judge—my mind miles from his oaken courtroom. “Sir, I didn’t kill my wife. Least not intentionally.”
“There are some people in very high places who believe otherwise.” He scribbled something on the desk in front of him. “I’ll take that as ‘no contest.’”
“Sir, you can take it however you want, but—” He held out his hand, but I spoke over him, “I’d do it again.”
He shook his head and sat down. “Mr. Michaels, do you have counsel?”
“Sir?”
“Do you have an attorney?” I shook my head. “Can you afford one?”
“I don’t think so.”
He studied me. “Given your popularity over the last two weeks, I doubt you’ll have trouble finding one. And do you know that I have personally received calls from both the governor and senator this morning—neither of which like you very much.” He turned to the bailiff and was about to open his mouth when the senator stormed through the doors. “Your Honor, may I see you in chambers?” He didn’t wait for a reply but walked through the swinging wooden half-door and around the bench, where he and the judge disappeared through the judge’s office door. We waited while the whispers grew louder up and down the bench.
The judge reappeared by himself, sat, swung his gavel and said, “Set bail at two hundred and fifty thousand dollars.”
Nervy whispered beneath his breath. “He def’ny don’ like you.”
I sat down, my nose bobbing in the air.
The tape rewound. Two years. Then three. Ten. Fifteen. I walked back through the moments. Some good. Some not. All hurt. I looked around and found myself flying somewhere between Central Park, the Battery and Cedar Point.
50
THE THIRD DAY
Two days had passed. They’d moved me to the Duval County jail while I awaited trial. Because most of my “crimes” occurred on the border between Florida and Georgia, and because Florida has a death penalty and is pretty good at using it, the senator pushed for Florida to retain jurisdiction. Which it did.
Jesse was the guard assigned to cell block E. Mine. We didn’t cause him too much trouble. Sometimes, late at night, he