—
RECESS WAS CALLED. Rob showed me where Patrick’s name was on the docket to explain why it hadn’t been called yet. It was a long list, and a bunch of the cases, he explained, had already been delayed and wouldn’t be heard until spring. Some were out on bail, and others had already been sent back to jail to wait, as Patrick had waited, for another trial date.
Every third or fourth name I recognized as that of a former student—sometimes, two in a row. Each name triggered a wave of associations. Samuel Toggins. He wrote in light, nearly imperceptible cursive. William Batts. William had been stealing with Brandon the day Brandon died. He’d gone to jail for robbery. “How can they put him in jail?” someone had said. “His best friend dying is punishment.” He must have served his sentence, gotten out, and then returned. Jemarcus Lane. Face round and flushed, like a valentine; had a learning disability. Cameron Storey. Another learning disability; could not spell dog; kept asking me if I had a boyfriend. Ms. Jasper had paddled him. Later I would ask a jailer what Cameron was in for. She said, “I ain’t sure. Probably for getting mad. Or stealing little things. I tell you one thing, it sure ain’t for selling drugs. He ain’t got a mind for that.” She chuckled to herself.
The names went on. Ray Reed. The fifteen-year-old who’d stolen my Picasso poster. Malik Jones. Hot-tempered; surprisingly toothy smile. Wrote a paper that began: The hardest thing in my life is not growing up with a father.
I tried to count the number of black males of my sixty-something students over two years who had at some point gone to jail, and I ran out of fingers. The docket was the coda to the STUDENT DROPOUT REPORT—the county jail was where the dropouts landed. There were no jobs in Helena. They had no skills. Most had a disability or an emotional or mental disorder. Where else had I thought they would go?
—
THE JUDGE LOOKED up from his papers and swiveled his head toward an inmate at the far end of the wall. “Now, who are you, sir?”
Unaware, the inmate stared emptily at his lap.
“You,” the judge repeated.
The inmate jerked up, gestured toward himself questioningly.
The judge asked, “Who’s your lawyer?”
The people in the courtroom turned toward him expectantly, and the inmate opened his mouth but no words came out. “Garvin,” he finally stammered.
The prosecutor and judge started to shuffle through papers.
“Mr. Garvin has withdrawn,” said the judge to the prosecutor. “We need to find who this man’s lawyer is.”
The judge shifted more papers in front of him. The prosecutor made a slight shrug, apparently unsurprised that a man whose fate hung partially in his hands had no counsel.
The judge finally said, “Come up.”
The inmate now walked to the front. He tried to straighten his shoulders, but they remained hunched.
“How long have you been here?”
“Eight months.”
The judge looked down, made some marking with a pen, and said, “A public defender will be appointed for you tomorrow morning.”
It was obvious that the judge was done with the man, but the man continued to stand, back facing us, apparently waiting for permission to leave.
The rest of the courtroom said nothing, pitying the inmate. I looked over at Patrick. He had grown used to being seen and now sat slumped, like the others.
The judge finally spoke. “That’s the last case we’ll be hearing today.” I looked at my watch; it wasn’t yet three-thirty. No wonder there was such a backlog. Patrick would have to wait until tomorrow. The gavel sounded, the judge stood, and Patrick was taken away as we, like an obedient flock, rose in unison.
—
PATRICK WAS BARELY recognizable on his second day in court, in a collared shirt with baby-blue stripes and freshly ironed khakis. Kiera had brought him clothes from home.
Today was the big day: the day of “closure,” the termination of legal limbo, the final conclusion to a night of September 2008.
Kiera waved to me as I walked into the private alcove in the courthouse. Her red nails flew in the air. Mary sat next to Kiera, resting her hands on her thighs. They had all been waiting for me to arrive. Rob had disappeared already; he was talking to the prosecutor.
“Your lips be chapped, Ms. Kuo,” said Kiera. “Want my lip gloss?”
I declined. “You look cute,” I said. She had a nice blouse and wore tall brown boots with laces on the sides.
“I wanted to wear me some blue earrings, but I thought that’d be too much. You know, ghetto.”
She turned to Patrick. “You like the clothes I picked for you?”
She beamed; it was not meant to be a question. Then she sighed: She’d caught sight of his broken sandal. “I sure wish I knew about them shoes. I didn’t know they got you wearing flip-flops.”
He wore the same broken sandal he’d been so self-conscious about when I first visited him in prison. Scraps of orange plastic now hung from the flap.
“I got a string,” he said. “Tied it together.”
We all looked at it in silence. Then Kiera announced, “I’m gonna get you some nice shoes. Some clean Nikes for you to take back there.”
Patrick waved his hand. “Naw, they just gone throw it away.”
Then he asked, “How Cherry?”
“She look just like you, man,” Kiera said.
Patrick looked pleased at this. No matter how many times someone said it to him, he always lit up.
“Well, you looking good, Pat. Your skin got lighter. You got some pretty skin.” She paused. “But you still got ugly feet.”
We laughed.
Kiera disappeared, looking for a bathroom. Patrick said to his mother, “Kiera, she got a boyfriend now, ain’t she?”
“She got a couple boyfriends,” Mary said, and let out a sigh. She began rocking back and forth. “I just be praying every night.” She squeezed her eyes shut, as if she was praying here.
“Don’t worry about me, Ma,” he said.
Mary opened her eyes but stared ahead, still rocking. She wrapped her arms around herself.
“You set aside your prayers and take your medicine.”
“I don’t eat no sugar, and my sugar still be high. It’s stress. Got to be stress. At work, at home.”
“You still be cooking that gravy and biscuits?”
“It been a long time.” Now she turned to look at her son. “Kiera’s sure right. You do look nice in those clothes.”
I asked if they’d like a picture together. A picture was something I could give them.
They glanced in unison at the guard. He nodded, giving permission.
At once Mary and Patrick leaned closer, having reason now to touch each other. She hugged him sideways. They smiled, then, inexplicably, broke into near laughter.
I put down my camera phone and Mary took her arm away. But Patrick still held on to her, his arm hanging over her shoulder.
“Want to see it?”
They leaned forward, heads touching, and quietly studied the image of themselves.
A sound: The door opened to Rob in his sharp black suit and bright-yellow tie.