Directed Verdict by Randy Singer

year, including no more protests or prayer meetings within one hundred feet of any abortion clinic.”
    Ichabod quit reading and looked at Brad. He sat absolutely stone-faced, determined not to give her the satisfaction of a reaction. It was a good deal. And he knew it was motivated by Ichabod’s desire to avoid looking bad in front of the appellate judges in Richmond. But he didn’t want to look too anxious to jump on it. Better to make the judge sweat a little.
    “I’ll have to discuss it with my client,” Brad said, thoughtfully rubbing his unshaven face.
    “Judge, I don’t know if I can agree to this,” Bennett blurted out. “It’s very lenient. But this case is getting out of hand, and I would love to put this matter behind us.” She paused for effect.
    All part of a carefully choreographed show—with me as the audience, Brad thought. He was flattered.
    “I’ll agree to it,” Bennett finally said, trying to sound reluctant, “but only if we can wrap it up by 5 p.m. I’m not willing to spend all weekend wondering about what we’re going to do. I’ve got a closing argument to prepare for this trial . . . assuming, that is, that Mr. Carson will find the good sense to apologize.”
    “Oh, that’s another thing,” Ichabod said, looking back at her notes like she just remembered something. “If we can all agree to this plea bargain, I will release Mr. Carson from custody on Monday morning.”
    What a surprise.
    “So, Mr. Carson, what’s it going to be?”
    He was tempted to say “whatever” again. He was tempted to tell Ichabod how much he liked jail, and how much the marshals liked him because he had stood up to her. Instead, he just stared down at his flip-flops. It really was a good deal for his client, and he didn’t want to say anything to jeopardize it.
    “My client is a man of strong convictions,” Brad said solemnly. “And I’m not sure he’ll go for it. But I’ll talk to him, and I’ll recommend it. And I’ll let you know by five o’clock.”
    “Thank you, Mr. Carson,” Ichabod said, sounding both sincere and smug at the same time. Then she looked at Bennett. “I’d like a moment alone with Mr. Carson, please.”
    The government lawyer quickly excused herself. Brad studied his flip-flops some more, knowing what was coming. No court reporter, no witnesses. Ichabod was going to lower the boom.
    “Mr. Carson,” she began, her voice low and even as she measured each syllable, “you may think that you are clever. And, I will admit, you have done well for your client by your little stunt in this case. But the most important thing any lawyer brings into my courtroom is his or her own credibility. And once you lose it, you can never, ever, reclaim it. You have lost every ounce of your credibility with this judge, Mr. Carson. In my courtroom, you are a marked man. And I have a very long memory.”
    Brad felt a deep breath leave his body, and with it went some of the pride of his cunning achievement. He had indeed done well for his client, but at what cost to his own career? Did he really want to be known as a lawyer who couldn’t be trusted, even by someone as petty as Ichabod?
    He began to carefully choose the words for his response, but Ichabod didn’t give him a chance. She simply pushed a button under her desk, and a marshal appeared at the back door.
    “Clarence,” she said, “give Mr. Carson a half-hour leave from his contempt sentence so that he can go buy a toothbrush.”
    Brad stood and flashed Ichabod a puzzled smile. He waited for her to look up so he could offer to shake hands. No hard feelings?
    But Ichabod began reading some more papers, not bothering to stand or extend her hand or even look at him.
    “Good day, Mr. Carson,” she said without taking her eyes from the page in front of her.
    * * *
    “What did he say?” Bella asked.
    She was sitting in the muggy, dank jailhouse conference room with Brad. He had recounted the plea bargain offered by Ichabod, then