THE ADAMS COUNTY JUSTICE Court stands across the street and half a block down from the sheriff’s department. It’s housed in the same one-story building as the county coroner and the sheriff’s department’s investigators. The low structure is fronted with squat, cream-colored Doric columns that look like a giant compressed them to half their intended height.
Judge Charles Noyes has obviously been awaiting my father’s arrival. A man of sixty-plus who spent most of his life selling insurance, Charlie Noyes made the transition to this new career about ten years ago. In Mississippi, Justice Court judges aren’t required to be lawyers, a strange reality that isn’t as rare in America as one might think. The same rule applies in New York State and several other supposedly enlightened jurisdictions. Law enforcement officers tend to resent this state of affairs, and often blame the legal ignorance of Justice Court judges for lowering charges against defendants, thus sabotaging prosecutions before a “competent” judge even becomes aware of the case. At least Charlie Noyes has a hardwood desk, a secretary, and a court reporter. In some Mississippi counties, Justice Court consists of a card table in the storeroom of the judge’s house.
Few defendants in this court are represented by lawyers, since most appear to contest traffic tickets and DUIs—the minor league of the legal system. But Justice Court judges sometimes handle initial appearances in criminal felonies, which is why today I stand at my father’s side, ready to deal with the issues of bond and whatever other surprises Shad Johnson might have in store. I never believed Shad’s claim that he wouldn’t be here today, and Shad quickly validates my skepticism by walking into the modest courtroom at one minute before nine.
Plainly saddened to see my father standing before his desk in handcuffs, Judge Noyes looks surprised to find the district attorney exhibiting the body language of a lawyer about to argue a major case. My mother’s outfit gives the proceeding an even more formal air. She’s dressed for a ladies’ bridge party in 1962, and Judge Noyes seems flustered by her presence. After running his hand over his balding pate, he begins the hearing with an unexpected comment.
“I see no reason that this defendant should be handcuffed. Everybody knows Dr. Cage has terrible arthritis. Look at his hands. Take those restraints off, Wilbur.”
The deputy standing behind my father instantly complies. Dad’s wrists look red and inflamed after only a short time in the chafing cuffs. That’s what psoriatic arthritis will do to you.
Taking refuge in routine, Judge Noyes reads the charge against my father and asks if he understands it. When Dad answers in the affirmative, the judge recites his rights, concluding with the promise that if he can’t afford an attorney, one will be appointed for him. At this point, I state that I’m representing my father in this matter, at least for the time being. Judge Noyes gives me a smile of appreciation, as if this is only as it should be.
When the judge moves his gaze to Shad Johnson, he looks like an artilleryman bringing a cannon to bear. “On the matter of bond,” he says, a note of challenge in his voice. “Does the district attorney have anything to say?”
“Yes, Your Honor.” Shad steps forward, compensating for his diminutive height with hidden insoles, a bespoke suit, and his naturally powerful voice. “I realize that Dr. Cage is a long-standing resident of this county. But this was a particularly heinous murder, and life imprisonment is a possibility. The defendant is wealthy by local standards, he has a passport, and he could easily flee the jurisdiction if he so chose. To ensure that he appears at trial, I respectfully ask that bail be denied in this case.”
Shad’s request stuns me speechless. Granted, the charge is murder, but he could easily have covered his ass with his primary constituency by asking for a one-or two-million-dollar bond.
Judge Noyes’s gaze hardens into a basilisk stare. “Mr. District Attorney, are you suggesting that Dr. Cage be held in the county jail for up to nine months while he awaits trial in the Circuit Court?”
Under Mississippi’s laughable “speedy trial” rule, the state is allowed to wait 270 days before a defendant must be given his day in court. This long delay pleases most defendants, who are in no hurry to accelerate the wheels of justice. But this case is different.
“The charge is first-degree murder, Judge,” Shad says with quiet insistence.
“It is, indeed,” says Noyes. “And here’s my thinking on that. Tom Cage has been practicing medicine in this town for … how long?”
“Forty-two years,” my mother says softly.
“Forty-two years!” the judge exclaims. “Forty-two years taking care of the people of this county. And so far as I know, Dr. Cage has never even spit on the sidewalk, much less broken a law. Now, Mr. District Attorney, you surely know that this town has a serious shortage of primary-care physicians. And I see no reason why a doctor of Tom Cage’s exemplary reputation should languish in jail when he could be providing desperately needed health care to the citizens of Adams County.”
In an almost apologetic tone, Shad says, “Judge, if I may? I understand your logic. But if—and I say if—this defendant were to flee this jurisdiction prior to his trial, we would all find ourselves with a great deal of egg on our faces.”
Judge Noyes nods slowly. “Of course, of course. The political argument. Let’s all be sure to cover our behinds. Mr. District Attorney, I seem to recall you once telling me how you and a friend spent the year between high school and college traveling around Europe on a Eurailpass. Do you recall that?”
Shads blinks in confusion. “Yes, but—”
“When Tom Cage got out of high school, he didn’t take a year off to go gallivanting around Europe. He spent a year fighting Chinese communists in North Korea, repelling human-wave attacks in weather that would freeze the hooves off a bighorn sheep. Machine-gun barrels melted from firing for hours without a break. Can you wrap your steel-trap mind around that, Counselor?”