HE HORIZONTAL RAYS from the morning sun played against the far wall of the hallway as Kate and Christina approached the guard station. Either because they didn’t care or they were too preoccupied, the security guards never broke from their conversations, never even looked their way as the young woman and girl stepped through the metal detector.
“Do you want to stop at the restroom before we go up?” Kate asked.
Christina nodded, flipped her hair to the side like a drill team cadet, and scanned the ornate walls and ceiling of the old building. In her 12 years she’d never been in such a place. After sidestepping the “Wet Floor” sign in the hall, Kate pushed open the door and they both entered.
Outside, the sheriff’s deputy helped his prisoner step from of the rear seat of the squad car. Manacled at the wrists, Don Rodriguez, a 29-year-old Hispanic man, towered above the guard. Six-foot-two, an athletic body built from hard work Rodriguez looked the part of a movie star, though his once black hair already had gray streaks running through it. His broad smile stretched across a black goatee belied the fact that he was a convict on his way to plead for leniency.
“Gonna’ smart-mouth the judge today?” asked the smirking deputy.
Don grinned. “I think I’ll keep my mouth shut this time.”
“I hardly recognize you in the suit. Maybe the judge will have forgotten.” The deputy rinsed his mouth in a brown ooze of chew before spitting it on the newly planted flowers that ran next to the walk. Then he reached up and wiped his chin with his sleeve. “Hear about the excitement last night?”
“No.”
“He got another kid. We know it ain’t you. You been in the county resort the last few weeks.” The deputy laughed at his own joke.
“Kill her?” Don asked.
“Nah. That K-9 unit got to her in time. Cap’n Bingham said he’d stop ‘em if he could. Done some shootin’, though. Someone’s butt’s in a noose this mornin.’”
The deputy stepped in front of his prisoner. “Lemme take off them bracelets. They don’t match your suit.” Don rubbed his sore wrists as the handcuffs fell away. “Sorry ya’ had to wear em, Don. Regulations, ya’ know.”
“No problem.” Don’s calloused hands, badly scarred at the knuckles, fiddled with the tie that hung awkwardly from the collar of his crisp, new shirt. The wool suit, charcoal-colored with pinstripes, chafed at his knees.
The deputy swung wide the door to the courthouse. One of the two security guards standing close by spoke quietly as they neared the metal detector. “Hey, Tony, what you think of the shooting last night? Did you hear? They found blood this morning.”
“They got him?”
“Just a few drops,” the guard answered. “Never found the guy.”
Don passed through the metal detector without a beep. The deputy followed, loaded down with gear. The machine went crazy. “Must be the new hip,” he chuckled.
The building was old but still grand. Its marble floors were well worn, ground by the wheels of justice that had rolled thanklessly along for almost a century. Don Rodriguez had been there many times before. He turned left as they passed a yellow “Wet Floor, Caution” triangle near the restrooms. Strange that the floors weren’t the least bit wet, he noted as he started up the stairs.
“Room 210,” the deputy said.
“I know—Judge Demick,” replied Rodriguez.
The old staircase, its polished handrails of brass, twisted around a towering marble column. When they reached the landing at the main level, both men paused to take in the view. The grand rotunda stretched upward another 50 feet. Built just after the turn of the century, the building took its design from ancient Greece. Six massive pillars held up the ceiling; the main floor opened up to the mezzanine above, its ornate entrances guarded by marble balustrades. The edifice was a magnificent work, pride of the county.
“My attorney is supposed to meet me here,” Don said. “He’s probably on the next floor.” He and the deputy turned up the stairs.
“Don...I’m up here.” They both pivoted and craned their necks to see who was calling. Dee Brady, Rodriguez’s attorney, clad in his customary western-cut suit, stood on the second floor, talking to the prosecuting attorney. He motioned toward his client, smiling, waving his arm.
Don smiled back. “We’ll be right up.”
“Ready to go?” asked Kate as she dried her hands. Glancing in the mirror, she straightened her dress and tussled at her short blonde hair.
“Yes,” Christina nodded.A bosomy woman in her late twenties, reeking of cigarettes and perfume, and wearing a short, tight skirt meant to complement her shapely figure, stepped from an adjoining stall, tucked an application for marriage in her purse, and approached the sink to wash her hands. Christina sneaked a longing glance as they exited the room toward the stairs.
“Do you think she was born with that beautiful hair?” Christina asked when they were out of hearing.
“I don’t think so, dear.”
“I wish I had blonde hair like you and mom.”
“You have the most beautiful hair of anyone I know.”
The girl’s mouth puckered and drew to the side. “But it’s almost black,” she sighed.
Kate smiled. “That’s part of what makes it so pretty.” They continued up the stairs. “Your dad doesn’t know you’re coming. Don’t be surprised if he’s a little angry. His attorney thinks it’s best if you’re here.”
“Will he be in jail clothes?”
“No, I gave his attorney the new suit we bought.”
Christina was small for her age, mature, emotionally stable, full of life. Her tenacious personality had carried her through the ugly divorce that seemed to have broken her father’s heart. Their close relationship stemmed from the countless hours he had spent with her, in the years when her mother started roaming. After the divorce Aunt Kate stepped in to pick up the pieces of a family broken by her sister’s reckless lifestyle. To Kate, her niece wasn’t at all one of those fractured pieces; she was more like her own daughter.
Christina caught sight of her father, standing on the floor above them amid the filtered light, shining like an angel. “Daddy! Daddy!” her voice ricocheted from the marble structure.
Don turned an angry eye at Dee. “What’s she doing here?”
“Relax, Don. She’s been living with your sister-in-law the last three weeks.”
“Three weeks? Where’s Monica?”
“We’re not sure. Kate thinks she’s in Europe with...a new boyfriend.”
“Figures.” Don shook his head in disapproval. “Probably has lots of money. Won’t last long. He’ll get tired of her shoving it up her nose.”
He and Monica had been married ten long years, years laden with infidelity, mistrust, vicious arguments, hollow promises. She was the one who finally filed the divorce papers, launching a tug-of-war which had raged for the past two years, costing both of them their savings, their home, and every last shred of friendship.
“If you get your act together, maybe you can gain permanent custody,” Dee suggested.
Don shot his attorney an angry glance, clearly embarrassed to have his daughter see him like this. “I don’t want her here!” he growled.
“It’s up to you, Don. I think it’s in your best interest to let the judge know you have responsibilities to see to.” Dee was serious. Rodriguez could tell by the way he spoke that the outcome would rest solely on his own shoulders. “Now put on a smile and let her know you love her.”
Christina rounded the corner of the stairs and dashed into her father’s embrace. He knelt to greet her. Then he stood to cradle her in his arms, lifting her feet well off the ground.
“Daddy! I missed you!”
“I missed you, too.”
“I don’t want you to go away again. I need you,” she whispered in his ear.
He swallowed hard, “I need you.” The phrase echoed in his mind. She did need him—and he needed her.
The courtroom was situated at the south end of the building. Huge sliding windows stood watch over the street below. The high ceilings, towering wood work and massive bench where the judge sat made Christina feel small. A clerk was seated at a desk off to the side, solemn-faced, tapping on her computer keyboard, glancing up occasionally to see who was present. Her father and his attorney took their places at a well-worn hardwood table to the right of the room. The sheriff’s deputy stood behind the railing to the side. She’d seen enough television to know the man at the other table must be the prosecutor, the enemy. She and her Aunt Kate were the only other people in the vast room. Christina glanced up at the clock: 9:05. “What time does it start?” she whispered.
Kate leaned over. “Nine o’clock, but they’re never on time.” “Why is that sheriff here?”
“He’s the one who brought your dad.”
“He smells.” Christina pursed her lips to let the words slip out
The judge’s chamber door swung open. A clean-cut deputy stepped out. “All arise, the fourth circuit court is now in session! The honorable Judge Demick presiding.” Everyone stood. The judge, dressed in his black robes, a scowl on his broad face, carried in his hands a file folder, which he laid on the bench as he took his seat. “You may be seated.”
After several appropriately dramatic moments, he cracked open the file and flipped through its pages. His full head of silver-gray hair was meticulously combed back, trimmed off his ears and collar, eyebrows groomed, shirt heavily starched and pressed, robe purposefully zipped down to show off his expensive silk tie and gold clip. Don turned and smiled back at Christina.
“Now let’s see....Mr. Rodriguez, it seems you wanted to argue with me last time we were here.” Judge Demick’s manner was at once arrogant and stern. He peered over his half-glasses as he spoke—as if no one else in the courtroom mattered but him. Don clenched his teeth and resisted the urge to curse.
“Yes, sir,” Don started to say.Dee gave Don a nudge as he rose from his seat to address the court. Don stood too and struggled to gain a calm voice. “I’d like to apologize for that, your honor.”
“So, why are we back in my court room today?”This time Dee came to the rescue. “Your Honor, Mr. Rodriguez has successfully completed an alcohol rehabilitation program, he’s been a model prisoner, and has served 30 days of the 90-day sentence at the county jail.”
“I can see that.” The judge again shuffled the papers. “Is there anything else?”
“We would like to petition the court to release him early so that he might find a job and care for his 12-year-old daughter Christina. We have reason to believe his ex-wife has recently relocated to Europe, leaving her in the care of her aunt.” Dee turned on his heels and gestured toward the girl.
The judge tucked his chin and glanced down. “And what’s wrong with her staying there until Mr. Rodriguez finishes his sentence?”
“Your honor, the punishment was harsh. Mr. Rodriguez has learned a valuable lesson and wants to take responsibility for his daughter.”
Judge Demick’s penetrating gaze again rested on Christina. His face softened. “What do you think, Mr. Sands?” he said, nodding toward the prosecuting attorney, who, in turn, rose to his feet.
“Your honor, I’ve reviewed the file and consulted with Mr. Brady. I think it’s in the best interest of the court to release Mr. Rodriguez and review his progress after 30 days. At that time, if he has found permanent work and is providing a stable home environment, I feel that we should suspend the balance of his sentence.”
Judge Demick reluctantly seemed to agree. “Mr. Brady, do you have anything further?”
Don started to rise, but Dee reached over to stop him. They spoke quietly. Then Dee stood up. “Yes, your Honor. Mr. Rodriguez wishes to petition for reinstatement of his driving privileges. After all, he was not driving under the influence.”
“I am aware that Mr. Rodriguez was not, by law, intoxicated,” intoned the judge. “He was, however, close to the limit. It was his lack of insurance that brought him in front of this court to begin with. He’s a professional driver. Therefore, his knowledge of the law makes him even more accountable than the general public. I will not review reinstatement of his driving privileges until he returns in 30 days.”
Don, now seething with anger, lurched from his chair. “Your honor, how do you expect me to get to work and–?”
“Mr. Rodriguez!” the judge interrupted. “I suggest you sit down and stifle yourself before you say anything that might jeopardize your return to society and the return of your daughter.”
“I need you.” At hearing the words echo once more through his mind, he forced himself down into his seat.
“Mr. Rodriguez, it was not your lack of insurance that landed you in jail. It was your temper—and lack of respect for my court.” Don nodded, his eyes on the polished floor.
“It is the decision of this court to release Mr. Rodriguez on his own recognizance, pending a hearing in 30 days.” The judge looked up from the open file and finished his sermon. “Furthermore, Mr. Rodriguez, I hope you’ve learned you cannot solve your problems unless you guard your temper. If the court learns that you do anything during your probation that reflects a lack of self-control, you will finish your time—and more.”
Don half stood. “Yes, your Honor.”
The judge jerked to his feet and brought the gavel down on his desk. “All rise,” the bailiff called out. Demick, head and shoulders erect, shook his robes aside and withdrew from the room, closing his chamber door behind him.
“The fourth circuit court is now in recess.”
Christina had studied the bailiff’s face as he made his announcement. “I think he likes to do that,” she whispered to her aunt.
Don turned and scowled at his attorney. But before he could open his mouth in protest, Dee cut him off short, commending the way he’d held his tongue. Christina made her way to the gate which separated them and excitedly greeted her father.
“You’re welcome to stay with us until you get back on your feet,” Kate offered. “Besides, everything you own is in a box in my garage.”
Don hesitated. His first response was to turn her down. But having been evicted from his apartment during his jail stay, he had no place else to go.
“Thanks. We won’t stay long.”
The yellow caution sign was still planted on the hall floor when they approached the guard station. Christina spoke up. “I need to stop at the restroom again.”
Dee leaned against the nearest wall to wait with his client. He was a regular at the courthouse and seemed to know everyone. The scuttle over the manhunt from the night before had already made its rounds.
“So what’s the latest, Tony?” he asked the guard.
“Sounds like Bingham might be suspended for ordering his officer to shoot. Chief Anderson wasn’t happy about it. Also heard he was pissed about Bingham having the whole neighborhood out on the manhunt. Someone could have been hurt...”
A muffled scream reverberated from the women’s restroom.
“That’s Chrissy!” Don bolted toward the door just as Christina emerged, her face blanketed in terror.
“There’s a big rat in the heater!” she whimpered. “It growled at me.”
The two security guards hurried over. “A rat?”
“Yeah! B-big red eyes...it growled, then ran away.”
The guards warily pushed the door open. Christina pointed at the heat register at the base of the far wall. “It was behind the heater cover.”
After calling out to make sure no one else was inside, they all entered and moved cautiously toward the vent.
“Are you sure it was a rat?” Don asked.
“Yes, Daddy, I’m sure!”
“Have you ever seen a rat before?”
“Not for real.” She could tell by their doubtful glances that they didn’t believe her.
“We’ll get a rat trap.” Tony slapped the second guard on the back.
Outside, a balding janitor reached over and shut the utility room door. Then he silently lifted the “Wet Floor” sign, placed it on his cart, and limped off down the corridor.
“Tony, do rats growl?” asked the guard after Don and Christina had walked away.
“Nope. Never heard one growl before.”