Chapter Thirty-Two
Eight AM.
Above downtown Greensboro, the skies were a rich Carolina blue with only hints
of puffy white cumulus clouds carelessly caressing the warm near-summer lower
atmosphere, while numerous commuters below zigzagged their vehicles as if
driving bumper cars at a county fair. Every parking lot surrounding Guilford
County’s fifty-year-old courthouse had reached full capacity over a half hour
previous. Nevertheless, cars continued to pull into their entrances almost
every five seconds in false hope that even the smallest of spaces would
potentially be vacant.
Street meters lined along both sides of nearly every side street continued to tick. Most had been feed so many coins; the owner of the nearby-parked vehicle wouldn’t have to worry about receiving at a ticket for at least the next three hours. If lucky, before the meter’s time expired and a dull red flag appeared, the vehicle’s owner would have been able to see whoever they came downtown to meet and/or complete their dealings with one of the local state or federal judges.
Inside one of the largest multistory antique block and mortar buildings, each courtroom was not only full; it overflowed with patrons waiting to see a judge. Others currently occupying the too few wooden benches were only doing so because they had a vested interest in someone.
In the back left corner of one of the modest-sized, rectangular-shaped, second floor courtrooms, a collection of teenage youth waited. Approximately ten miles east of this locale, the kids had established the recognized title as being the Gibsonville School Gang.
Needless to say, today would not be the first time members of Butch McGuire’s hood had visited a courtroom. Their leader usually was required to report to either the Alamance or Guilford County courthouse at least once every six months.
However, unlike the previous “visits,” this particular one was extremely different from the rest. For the first time in Butch’s short history, the odds of him being sentenced with something more than a small fine or ninety-day probationary sentence was definitely against him. For Stan Ramirez – the gang’s second in command, just the thought of his comrade receiving ten to fifteen years of prison for an Attempt First-degree murder charge was enough to cause his spine to tingle.
Could Butch survive in prison that long without getting himself killed? And what would happen to the gang if he were sentenced long-term?
Feeling bored, Stan turned and began to gaze at a thin dark-haired officer standing by the door. He then frowned.
Why didn’t Butch listen to the rest of us? If he had, then he might have left Paul Pontiac alone and none of us would be in this mess. … Oh well. At least it seems like Cathy, Paul, and that stupid Baptist minister believed the sad sap story we made up about Butch. And since I don’t see any of them inside the courtroom, I would guess they’re still talking to Butch’s attorney or perhaps the prosecutor.
*****
On the third floor of the courthouse, only a short distance from the public restrooms, an intensive meeting was in progress.
Charles Greenfield, one of Guilford County’s prosecuting attorneys, was currently sitting behind a badly scratched walnut desk inside one of the normally empty offices. And from the way the corners of his mouth turned downward, it seemed like he wasn’t extremely happy. It had taken him years to build notoriety for being ruthless against gang members, arsonists, wife beaters, and others, society considered to be lowlife. Yet, on this particular day – a collection of people, none whom he expected to see outside of the courtroom, wanted him to go easy on someone.
It’s eight AM, and I should be making final preparations for Butch McGuire’s court appearance, he thought as he reviewed those sitting in the wooden chairs which lined the rearmost wall in front of him. These people ought to be in the courtroom, not waiting in this office, wanting to discuss Gibsonville School’s gang leader’s case. … It just doesn’t make sense. John McKinney knows I have solid evidence proving Mr. McGuire’s guilt. And what kind of victim is Paul Pontiac that he wouldn’t want a hoodlum like Butch to be sent to prison for a long, long time?
In an attempt to clear his throat before he resumed their conversation, he reached for the five-dollar espresso he picked up at Starbucks on his way to work and took a prolonged drink. At least my coffee’s still warm.
Among those waiting for him to start this meeting was Pastor Graham. To his right, Ellen and Paul Pontiac, Cathy Skinner and Tim Hegler had taken a seat beside him. On his left Butch’s Defense Attorney, Mr. John McKinney – wearing his usual gray suit, white shirt and maroon colored tie, fidgeted.
*****
“So, what do you think, Mr. Greenfield? Do we have a deal or not?” Mr. McKinney asked, revealing a hint of impatience in his voice. “Earlier this week I discussed with my client what the Pontiacs and Pastor Graham were wanting, and needless to say, after considering the alternative, Butch is willing to accept the proposed offer.”
For a second or two, Mr. Greenfield stared directly into John’s eyes and then veered his line of sight, so he could gaze out the window – before returning his attention to the small crowd in front of him and shaking his head. “I don’t really see how I could agree to this Mr. McKinney. In reading over the proposal you have given me, justice definitely would not be served.”
“It wouldn’t?” Pastor Graham’s mouth formed a question as an eyebrow raised.
“No, it wouldn’t,” Charles confirmed, banging his fist on the top of the desk. “After committing an act worthy of one being charged with Attempt First-degree murder and in all right should have permanently killed his victim, Butch needs to do some serious prison time. Not only do I consider the punk to be a major threat to society. I'm hoping after doing at least ten years in prison, he’d have second thoughts before attempting anything like this again.”
Pastor Graham laughed a very serious but hearty laugh. “Do you actually believe the words you just spoke?”
Charles Greenfield grimaced. “Of course, I do. I’ve been practicing law for over twenty years and have learned that giving someone like this a harsh sentence is best thing you can do. It’s the only way lowlifes like Butch McGuire ever learn anything.”
“Oh really?” Pastor Graham took a deep breath and folded his arms across his chest, before giving the prosecutor a smile. “Mr. Greenfield, have you ever set foot inside a North Carolina prison?”
Charles hesitated. “No. I can’t say I have. However, I’ve been inside of our local county jail and would imagine things aren’t much different.”
Pastor Graham loudly exhaled and shook his head in disbelief. “I’m afraid you’re badly mistaken, Mr. Greenfield. Not only have I personally visited a fair number of our state’s juvenile prisons. I've work with a right good number of youth who’s done serious time in them. I can assure you that today’s prison environment is not only notorious for being breeding grounds for rapes and murder, over 95% of those who manage to survive come out as angry non-rehabilitated beings that get little or no help upon their release and usually end up committing another crime within their first twelve months of freedom.”
“They do?” Greenfield mouthed, exhibiting a mock surprise.
“Of course, they do.” The pastor’s pupils widened in anger. “Are you trying to tell me as one of the leading prosecutors for the Guilford County legal system, you are ignorant of these facts?”
“Actually, I’m not,” Greenfield admitted. “I’m very aware of them. And as far as I am concerned, they’re kind of security blanket. As long as inmates never get rehabilitated, they’ll continue to commit crimes, and I’m guaranteed employment.”
Instantly, everyone in sitting in the line of wooden seats before him jaw dropped.
“You must be kidding?” Mrs. Pontiac exclaimed after a gasp. “Are you really that heartless and self-serving, Mr. Greenfield? We’re talking about people’s lives here, not some dumb animals’.”
*****
Approximately two hours when court resumed, after taking a lunch break, Butch McGuire, handcuffed and wearing a bright orange jumpsuit, entered the still overflowing courtroom via a secured doorway and was led to the defense attorney’s table. An armed guard, Mr. Perkins, stood waiting, less than five feet away.
“State of North Carolina versus Butch Edward McGuire. Docket number 9654374,” a Clerk of Court standing near the judge’s bench loudly announced.
“Mr. McGuire,” Supreme Court Judge Sandra Atkins said after giving him a brief, but thorough look-over. “According to these documents, you have been charged with one count Attempted First-degree murder and one count of Assault and Battery – on a fellow high-school student, a Mr. Paul Michael Pontiac. This incident supposedly occurred almost a full six months ago on Monday, January 3rd, the first day of the Guilford County School’s spring semester. “How do you plea, sir?”
At once, Butch’s attorney rose from his seat. “In light of the plea bargain reached this morning between the Prosecutor Mr. Greenfield and myself, my client has authorized me to plead guilty, your Honor.”
“I see,” the judge said shuffling her papers. She then took a few seconds to read one before focusing her attention directly at the gang leader sitting behind the defense table. “Mr. McGuire, please rise.”
Butch politely and contritely responded.
“Mr. McGuire,” the judge repeated, taking on a solemn demeanor. “You have been in my courtroom a number of times during the past three years for a number of incidents, and each one has been a bit more serious than the previous. … Now, you are standing before me with a charge, which could easily cost you up to fifteen years in prison. Have you not paid attention to any of the advice I have been providing you all this time?”
Butch’s cheeks blushed bright crimson. “Ah. … No, ma’am. … ah … I mean, yes, ma’am … ah … well, sort of.”
The judge gazed at him and smiled. “You really don’t know what to say. Do you, Mr. McGuire?”
“No, ma’am,” Butch admitted, glancing downward. “I try to stay out of trouble, ma’am – at least serious trouble. But being the leader of …”
“Yes, I know what you are,” Sandra completed for him as she turned to view his fellow gang members sitting in the corner. “And my question is, why can’t your … ah … group, let’s say … transform into one that does something worthwhile for the Gibsonville community. You know, one that does community service – instead of participating in activities you know will cause you to end up in trouble, Mr. McGuire? … Do you really want to spend a major portion of your life in state or federal prison?”
Butch vigorously shook his head. “No, ma’am. And I promise if you approve the plea bargain my attorney got for me … I promise I’ll do right from now on."
Sandra Atkins grimaced and then read over the negotiated plea bargain, once again. “I really don’t know what to do with you, Mr. McGuire. … Every time you come into my courtroom, you smile and give me a song and a dance. Then a few months later, here you are again.”
“Well … I.” Forming a perfect “o,” Butch’s mouth remained open. Yet, no words seemed to be able to come out.
“Don’t say a word, Mr. McGuire. You know I’m right. Now, it’s just a matter of deciding what to do with you.”
“What about the plea bargain?” John McKinney asked.
“Almost everyone deserves a second chance,” Pastor Graham added, rising to his feet. “And I don’t know about you, ma’am, but I’m willing to offer it to him.”
“And you are, sir?” the judge asked, carefully eyeballing the suited gentleman who just spoken.
“I’m Pastor Graham, ma’am, from the Ossipee Baptist Church. … And I’ve known Butch and his family ever since he was knee high to a grasshopper.”
“You have?” Sandra leaned backwards in her seat. “Then you’re fully aware of Butch and his gang’s doings – and resulting criminal history.”
Pastor Graham nodded affirmably. “Yes, ma’am. And my wife and I would like a chance to save the boy before it’s too late. We both know what happens to kids when they’re sent to prison.”
Sandra Atkins paused, and a minute smile appeared upon her lips. “Yes Reverend, I do. If they survive, which is a miracle in itself, they become harden criminals who become trapped in a repeating cycle.”
“That’s correct, ma’am,” John said with a wink.
Sandra glanced downward and re-read the document before her. She then stopped to gaze at various parties in front of her, and a smile formed across her lips as if she had been able to reach her decision.
“Do you have any qualms if I agree to the plea bargain your office has agreed to Mr. Greenfield? This sentence is far lighter than I would normally expect from you.”
Charles displayed an expression that was something between a small smile and a grimace. “No, ma’am.”
“Okay then.” Sandra turned toward the defense table. “Mr. McKinney and Mr. McGuire, please rise for the sentencing. … Mr. Butch Edward McGuire. I hereby charge you with one count of Assault and Battery and one count of Attempted First-degree murder. However, the sentence for the latter will be suspended.”
She then paused and took a deep breath.
“On the account of Assault and Battery – I am sentencing you six months jail time – time served. … Upon your release, as agreed to in your plea bargain, you will be required to successful complete a one-year Christian rehabilitation program at the About Face boot camp in Conover, North Carolina.”
Butch stared at the judge and involuntarily swallowed.
“Immediately after your release from boot camp, Mr. McGuire,” Sandra continued. “You will be placed in the custody of Pastor Graham and his wife for the following two years. … And while there, you are court-ordered to abide by the rules of his household.”
Butch turned toward Pastor Graham and presented him with an expression, like he was about to panic.
“During the time you are residing with the Grahams, you will also be starting a five year probationary sentence. … During this time you will be required to successfully complete 200 hours of unpaid community service.”
Sandra then paused, once again – so everything could sink in.
“Should the court find you in violation or noncompliance of any or all the above, a fifteen-year prison sentence with no opportunity for parole will be immediately activated. Do you agree to these terms, Mr. McGuire?”
Though still on his feet, Butch felt like a five hundred pound weight had instantly been placed upon him. Not only was his days of being the leader of Gibsonville School’s Gang obviously over, he knew he would have his change his ways or else. “I agree, your Honor.”
Sandra Atkins smiled. “Okay, Mr. McGuire. If that’s your response, I am now going to consider this case closed.” She then banged her gavel.
The Pontiacs, and both Cathy and Tim immediately rose to their feet and began to clap. Mr. McKinney reached out and shook his client’s hand and the two of them began to discuss Butch’s upcoming adventure.