ANTHO
Judge Roberts looks like my father. This is not a good thing.
Courtrooms are not what they look like on TV, or at least this one isn’t. It’s mostly off-white, with dark paneling at the judge’s bench and witness stand, and the Seal of the State of Arizona hanging behind him. Despite the fact that the ceiling isn’t two stories tall or that the floor is dark, polished wood does not make the space any less intimidating. My heart squeezes behind my ribs like a hand around a tennis ball.
Judge Roberts has asked me a question and is now waiting for me. So is everyone else.
I better make this good. This ain’t—
This isn’t a speech tournament. Lose there, and you don’t get a plaque. Lose here, and I’ll spend freshman year in the Maricopa County jail.
I clear my throat, wipe my hands on the thighs of my best navy blue dress pants, and stand.
“Yes I do, Your Honor.”
With that, I stride to the podium on my side of the room. I can see my lawyer, Mr. Goldsen, is both nervous and confident. He’s honestly not a lot older than me, by the look of him. My parents have known his parents for a long time. They play golf and tennis together at the club.
Judge Roberts sits back in his chair and appears to rock back and forth, holding a pen between his index fingers. He’s just asked if I have anything to say for myself, as Mr. Goldsen had said he probably would.
I have no note cards, nothing written down. This is extemporaneous speaking at it’s . . . what? Best? Finest? Most important?
Here we go:
“First of all, thank you for the opportunity to speak, Your Honor. I appreciate the consideration being shown me.”
He arches an eyebrow.
“Secondly . . . to be clear, I do accept responsibility for what I’ve done. It was a bad choice, and I do want to extend my apologies to Joe—uh, Mr. Bishop—for the harm I caused. I also want to apologize to my family and friends for putting them through this ordeal.”
The judge either nods, or rocks in his chair.
“I won’t try to excuse what I did, Your Honor, but I do wish to say that when it comes to my family and my friends, I am very protective. I’ve known Ashley Dixon most of my life. She’s like a sister to me. So when it was clear that someone had—by the definition of the law, Your Honor—had sexually assaulted her, I lost my cool and I reacted inappropriately. And while I certainly won’t let that happen again, I need to tell Ashley’s parents right here and now that I will always be there for her, and I will always do my best to protect her. If that protection has consequences, then I accept them.
“But again, Your Honor, if I ever face another situation like this, and I sincerely hope that I will not, then I will behave in a manner commensurate with the situation.”
Judge Roberts drops his pen on the desk and yanks his eyeglasses off. “Did you just say ‘commensurate’?”
“Um . . . yes, Your Honor.”
“And you’re how old again?”
“Almost fifteen, sir.”
He snaps his glasses back into place. “Go on.”
“That’s all I have, sir. Thank you.”
“I have to say, Mr. Lincoln, you are without a doubt the most eloquent and well-spoken fourteen-year-old I’ve ever met in this courthouse. In fact you may be the most eloquent and well-spoken person I’ve ever met in this courthouse.”
There’s a mild chuckle behind me from all the people here. They shut up when the judge shoots them a look.
“I don’t suppose you plan on becoming a lawyer.”
“As a matter of fact, yes, I do, Your Honor.”
He picks up some papers and snaps them with his hand to get them to stand straight on their own. “Straight As in junior high. You just started high school at . . . Camelback?”
“In August, yes sir.”
“Mmm-hmm. What are you taking?”
I struggle to remember my schedule. “Um . . . integrated math, honors English, speech one, business keyboarding, French, and earth science.”
“Speech? Are you competing? National Forensics?”
“Yes, sir, two weeks ago there was an AIA practice tournament.”
“How did you do, Mr. Lincoln?”
It is very hard not to smile. “First place in extemp debate, sir.”
“Well done, Mr. Lincoln.”
I force myself to be cool, and nod my thanks. I’ll start bragging if I open my mouth, and that feels like a poor idea right now.
“What about your extra-curriculars?” he asks.
“Speech and drama club, Your Honor. Masque & Gavel.”
“No athletics?”
“No, sir.”
The judge stares at the papers for a long moment before setting them down and pulling his glasses off again. “Mr. Lincoln, for the record, I want you to acknowledge that I have every right to sentence you to a jail term. Do you understand?”
My heart skips. “Yes, sir.”
“I also intend to make sure a young man of your caliber doesn’t step foot in this building again until you’re trying your first case.”
My heart resumes. Maybe—maybe—I pulled this off.
“I understand, Your Honor.”
“It is the order of this court,” he says, “that you serve one hundred hours of community service and attend not less than twenty hours of anger management classes and counselling. I’m also recommending without enforcement that you find a good sport or two to work out whatever aggression you’ve got to work out. Is that understood?”
Someone behind me lets out a breath like they’ve been holding it. I think it’s Mom. Or Dad. Or maybe Mr. Goldsen.
“Yes, Your Honor!”
“And finally, Mr. Lincoln, make no mistake. If you ever appear before me again for a charge of this nature, I will make it my business to ensure you won’t hurt anyone else for a very long time. Understood?”
“Yes, sir!”
“Very well. I’ll see you in about ten years, defending or prosecuting your first case. Court adjourned.”
He banges his gavel, and that’s that.
I’m not going to jail.
This time.
