Shad is still blinking like a man who finds himself unexpectedly staring into a blazing spotlight.
“Dr. Cage was taken prisoner in that war, Mr. Johnson, and only by exceptional personal fortitude did he escape with his life.”
This statement leaves me flabbergasted. Never in my life have I heard that my father was a POW. But one glance at his solemn profile tells me it’s true. When I look back at my mother, she nods once.
“So—here’s my thinking on the matter of bond,” Judge Noyes concludes. “If Tom Cage didn’t run then, he won’t run now. Do you have any further argument, sir?”
Shad controls his notorious temper with difficulty. I can only imagine what kind of restraint it must take for a black graduate of the Harvard Law School to stand silent while a white man who never attended any law school lectures him from the bench.
“Your Honor, the defendant’s military record has no bearing on—”
“Hush,” says Judge Noyes, using what could only loosely be described as local courtroom argot.
Shad is quite right in his argument, but as every attorney knows, it’s the judge’s courtroom, whether that judge ever passed a bar exam or not.
“Your Honor,” Shad says in a rigidly controlled voice, “I ask that bond be set at an amount commensurate with the seriousness of the crime, and one sufficient to assuage the community’s choler.”
Confusion distorts the judge’s smooth face. “Color? Just what color community are you talking about assuaging here?”
“Cho-ler,” Shad says, trying to clarify his intent. “Displeasure.”
Judge Noyes looks like he’d like to throw his gavel at the district attorney. “What amount would you recommend, Mr. Johnson?”
“Two million dollars.”
The judge grimaces like a constipated bulldog. At length he gives a sigh of resignation and says, “All right.”
A deputy against the wall, probably the one who cuffed Dad at the house, nods with satisfaction.
Two hundred grand in cash, I note silently.
“Bond is set at fifty thousand dollars,” says Judge Noyes.
A choked sob of relief breaks from my mother’s throat. Shad stands openmouthed in a theatrical display of shock. Judge Noyes has sent a very loud message with this ruling. He clearly believes something is amiss in this case, and he’s willing to take political heat for his faith in my father.
Before Shad can protest, a new voice comes from the back of the room, taking us all by surprise: “All right. All right, I see how it is.”
The voice is soft but resonant—far deeper than any other man’s in the room—and my chest tightens at the familiar sound. Turning in my chair, I see Lincoln Turner standing at the back of the small room. His suit hangs loosely on his large frame, as though he’s recently lost weight. My first wild thought is that the Justice Court door has no metal detector. Men whose mothers have been murdered have been known to execute the alleged killer in the presence of a dozen deputies. A millisecond after this thought rises in my mind, I stand and interpose myself between Lincoln and my father.
“Who is that man?” Judge Noyes asks irritably.
“Your Honor,” Shad says, obviously discomfited by Lincoln’s appearance, “this is Mr. Lincoln Turner, the victim’s son.”
Noyes’s eyes narrow. “I see.” He directs his next comments to the back of the room, which is less than twenty feet from his desk. “Sir, you have my deepest sympathy, but I must ask you to refrain from interrupting this proceeding.”
“This is a public hearing,” Lincoln growls. “And I ain’t what you’re used to up in here. I ain’t some field nigger, Judge, or the son of one. I’m a lawyer.”
“Public it may be,” Noyes says, squinting. “But as a lawyer, you surely understand contempt of court.”
Despite his warning tone, Noyes is clearly uncertain about how to handle this unexpected confrontation.
Shad moves toward Lincoln, motioning for him to calm down, but Turner raises a big hand to stop him. “Get out of my face, Johnson! I’ve come to say one thing, and then I’ll go. If the sheriff hauled me up in here on a murder charge, I’d be lucky to get a million-dollar bail. But I guess white doctors get a free pass. Man, you people don’t even try to hide this shit. It’s right out here for everybody to see. Ain’t nothing changed down here in a hundred years!”
Judge Noyes bangs his gavel. “That’s it. Mr. Turner, you are now in contempt of—”
“I hold you in contempt!” Turner shouts, but by then the DA has gotten to him and started pushing the larger man toward the door.
“I’ll take care of this, Judge!” Shad calls, making a pleading motion with his right hand.
“You’d better!” Noyes shouts back. “Or he’s going straight to jail!”
When the door closes, all of us stand like stunned witnesses to a bar fight. My father and mother look shell-shocked, but Noyes and his staff are scarcely less rattled. “Wilbur,” Noyes says to his deputy, “are you tits on a boar hog or what?”
The deputy reddens and looks at the carpet.
“I’ll be damned if that’s ever happened in here,” Noyes mutters. “I think I’d better put that fellow in jail for one night, just on principle. Hell, as a matter of public safety.”
I step toward the bench and speak quietly. “Judge, with respect, this might be one of those times where the less that’s done to exacerbate matters, the sooner grief can run its course.”
Noyes clearly thinks my suggestion presumptuous, but after he glances at my father, who also nods, the air seems to go out of him.
“Where’s the district attorney?” he asks, glaring at the deputy.
As Wilbur moves toward the door, Shad reenters the courtroom, smoothing his lapels. “Judge, I apologize for that outburst. I advised Mr. Turner not to come to court, and he chose to ignore my counsel. The man is distraught over his mother’s death, and as you know, in murder cases emotions can run very high.”
“That’s no excuse, Counselor.”