The Harris County District Civil Court has long set, by its own bylaws, an ancillary judge, a name assigned and rotated every two weeks, to handle emergency motions, and Judge Irwin Little, through no choice of his own, got this one. A “doozy,” he calls it from the bench. He leans his pudgy torso all the way back in his leather chair, resting his hands on the mound of belly beneath his black robe, waiting to be entertained. He took an oath to uphold the United States Constitution and administer fair justice to all, but it doesn’t mean he’s not entitled to a show every now and then. And that’s what this is, of course, a farce, a joke in poor taste, at least according to the morning’s front-page headline: “Amid Trailing Poll Numbers Hathorne Bid to Halt Election Seen as ‘Hail Mary’ Pass.” After a docket of garden-variety requests for temporary restraining orders, this one ought to be interesting.
The 152nd Civil Court is packed this Thursday morning, just one day after Jay filed the motion to request an oral hearing on the matter. From his perch at the bench, Judge Little has a clear view of the gathered spectators: Dick Urton, the sitting mayor, plus multiple representatives from the campaigns of the candidates looking to replace him, including Reese Parker in the front row of the gallery, sitting on the opposite side of the courtroom from Jay, who is seated alone at a table just ahead of the bar. The only faces from the Hathorne campaign are those of Marcie, the communications director, and Stan, the moneyman. Axel thought his presence would be cheap. And Sam, well, Jay has no idea where Sam is. He’s slipped through Jay’s fingers of late, slow to return his calls. Jay did not demand that Neal be present for this. “In fact, it’s probably better that you’re not,” he told his client. “You’re not the one on trial here.” To which Neal plaintively replied, “Not yet.” In addition to press from the Houston paper as well as the Morning News in Dallas and a reporter from the New Orleans bureau of the New York Times, there’s on-air talent in the room too, a rarity. Melanie Lawson from Channel 13 is here. So is Dan O’Rourke from Channel 2, the NBC station. Jay recognized two people from the CBS affiliate coming off the elevator when he arrived this morning. Besides the high-profile lookiloos, there’s also a gathering of prominent local attorneys, men and women who approach this as they might a wacky sporting event, or a high-flying circus act: part of the pleasure of watching is the possibility of total disaster, a very public fall. Johnetta Paul is here too, having filed a last-minute companion brief demanding to be heard on the matter, as did two other city council members who are up for reelection and prepared to argue orally all the ways postponing a city election just three weeks away would adversely affect their chances at the polls. Technically, only Jay and the county’s elections clerk have been selected to address the bench, although Matt Nichols, the D.A. prosecuting the Nowell case, is sitting openly at the same table with the county clerk.
Jay is up first.
He’s nervous, sure he is.
He’s got a full house at his back.
Last he turned and stole a glance, he could see that Maxine and Mitchell Robicheaux had squeezed themselves onto a slim sliver of wood at the edge of the bench nearest the back of the courtroom, as if they weren’t sure how much space they were allowed to take, how much this particular hearing has to do with them, or justice for their daughter. Maxine looks to have come straight from work. She’s wearing slightly stained, pale pink scrubs from the previous night’s shift. She cranes her neck slightly, trying to see over the crowd. Her husband is wearing a heavily starched plaid shirt. Mitchell put himself together for this, shaved and ran a pair of clippers along his hairline. He sits staring straight ahead. In all the television interviews, all the pleas for help and justice for their daughter, Jay has never heard the man speak. On the opposite side of Maxine, Pastor Keith Morehead is holding tightly to the woman’s hand. He has, over the last few days, become the family’s unofficial spokesperson, claiming, as a man of the cloth, to be unaligned politically and therefore able to offer, without earthly distraction, spiritual counsel to Alicia’s parents in their hour of need. Jay does not try to make eye contact with Maxine, not sure she would understand that he has pledged himself to her as much as he has to his client, not sure Maxine Robicheaux would cross the street to spit on his shoes. Still, as he looks down at his notes to start, he hears the words, a whisper at his back. Do it for them.
“Morning, Your Honor,” he says, his speech tightened by the pain still throbbing in his jaw. He had to chew a handful of aspirin just to get through this. Citing paragraphs one through three of his motion, a copy of which rests on the judge’s desk, Jay lays out his argument, enumerating the ways the court is in danger of allowing a mayoral candidate to use her office as district attorney to infect and influence a city election, an act of malfeasance with wide-ranging implications for millions of individuals. Letting the election go forward under the current circumstances, “threatens irreparable harm to the entire electoral process in which the citizens of Houston are putting their faith, not to mention harm to my client and the family of Alicia Nowell, who are victims here as well. They’re being used, sir,” he says from his place behind the counsel table. “Thank you,” he says, before returning to his seat.
The courtroom is remarkably still.
Not a cough, not a twitch, from the gallery.
For a brief moment, Jay can hear nothing but the soft sigh of air coming from the vents overhead. Even the judge’s clerk has momentarily stopped her typing. It may be the first time that most of the people in this courtroom are hearing the actual details behind the filing for this injunction, particularly the fact that the dead girl was working for Sandy Wolcott, a fact that Wolcott never disclosed to the police and that the Chronicle never reported. Irwin Little has been doing this long enough to give no premature signal from the bench, but it’s clear that he too has had his eyes opened. He leans forward, rolling his leather chair a few inches closer to his desk. He takes a second look at the motion in front of him, or maybe his first look, Jay thinks. The judge reads for a few moments, silently to himself, the desk’s slim microphone picking up the sound of his slow breathing.
Finally, he peels off his reading glasses.