makes what’s nothing more than a halfhearted attempt to remove the handcuffs, Holzner pulls away violently.
“Why are you doing this?” I whisper to Holzner. “Other than sabotaging your standing with the judge and the public?”
“I’m honoring my son Dylan’s memory,” he says. “I’m a political prisoner who’s exposing a country that would send him to his death for the oil companies and financial conglomerates.” He raises his arms and gently touches my shoulder with his bound hands. “And know this, Parker. It’s just the beginning.”
CHAPTER NINE
There was a time when I delighted in the clerk’s solemn announcement that court was in session, in the metallic click of the lock on the chambers door, in the judge’s ascent to the bench. Ever since the glossophobia struck, the intercom buzz makes my muscles tense; the door’s opening is sniper fire aimed directly at the center of my chest; the judge’s entrance transforms me into a callow law student first-chairing the trial of the century. I never know whether to feel cowardly for experiencing the stage fright or brave for fighting it.
When the clerk calls, “All rise,” everyone in the courtroom stands—everyone but Ian Holzner, who remains seated at the table with his head down. It’s the ultimate act of disrespect, but it also distracts me from the fear.
In federal court, a magistrate judge usually conducts routine bail hearings. But our case has been assigned to District Judge Carlton F. Gibson, and he’s made the exceedingly rare decision to conduct the bail hearing himself. Ever since he was appointed to the bench over forty years ago, he’s relished handling high-profile cases. The walls of his chamber are covered with photographs of him and celebrities who’ve appeared in his courtroom—actors, singers, reality-TV stars, a software magnate, and a couple of crooked politicians.
He was an all-conference lineman at a small college in El Paso, Texas, just across the border from Juarez, and he often talks about his stellar football career while court is in session. He fancies himself bilingual in Spanish and English. Once, when he got tired of an attorney raising repeated hearsay objections, he left the bench, got down in a three-point stance, and challenged the attorney (a former college-football player himself) to block him. The poor lawyer refused, of course, and ended up losing the case. His client appealed the ruling, arguing that Gibson’s antics showed judicial bias. The appellate court held that the actions might have been peculiar but didn’t indicate bias. Judges give their brethren a lot of leeway.
“United States versus Holzner,” the judge says, reading from notes and blinking his puffy eyes on every other word. He rubs the top of his head, which is bald except for a ring of feathery white hair. “Counsel, have you ever appeared in this courtroom before?”
“I have, Your Honor,” Reddick says.
“Of course you have, Marilee. You’re the US Attorney. I know that. I was speaking to defense counsel, Mr. Parker.”
“Parker Stern for the defense,” I say, making it sound like I’m announcing my appearance rather than correcting him. “It’s been a while, Your Honor, but when I was with Macklin & Cherry, I appeared before you on a case for Lake Knolls.” Knolls is a former actor who was elected to Congress and then got into some trouble a few years ago because of his secret relationship with the Sanctified Assembly. There’s a photograph of him and Gibson hanging in the judge’s chambers.
Judge Gibson scrutinizes me as if I’ve said something offensive, half stands, and peers down at me. His bulbous nose twitches scavengerlike, and for a moment I think he’s going to climb over the bench and challenge me to a tackling drill, and while I’m decades younger, I don’t know that I’d come out on top. But then he sits back down, nods, and smiles knowingly.
“I know you, Parker Stern. You were that kid
“Why are you doing this?” I whisper to Holzner. “Other than sabotaging your standing with the judge and the public?”
“I’m honoring my son Dylan’s memory,” he says. “I’m a political prisoner who’s exposing a country that would send him to his death for the oil companies and financial conglomerates.” He raises his arms and gently touches my shoulder with his bound hands. “And know this, Parker. It’s just the beginning.”
CHAPTER NINE
There was a time when I delighted in the clerk’s solemn announcement that court was in session, in the metallic click of the lock on the chambers door, in the judge’s ascent to the bench. Ever since the glossophobia struck, the intercom buzz makes my muscles tense; the door’s opening is sniper fire aimed directly at the center of my chest; the judge’s entrance transforms me into a callow law student first-chairing the trial of the century. I never know whether to feel cowardly for experiencing the stage fright or brave for fighting it.
When the clerk calls, “All rise,” everyone in the courtroom stands—everyone but Ian Holzner, who remains seated at the table with his head down. It’s the ultimate act of disrespect, but it also distracts me from the fear.
In federal court, a magistrate judge usually conducts routine bail hearings. But our case has been assigned to District Judge Carlton F. Gibson, and he’s made the exceedingly rare decision to conduct the bail hearing himself. Ever since he was appointed to the bench over forty years ago, he’s relished handling high-profile cases. The walls of his chamber are covered with photographs of him and celebrities who’ve appeared in his courtroom—actors, singers, reality-TV stars, a software magnate, and a couple of crooked politicians.
He was an all-conference lineman at a small college in El Paso, Texas, just across the border from Juarez, and he often talks about his stellar football career while court is in session. He fancies himself bilingual in Spanish and English. Once, when he got tired of an attorney raising repeated hearsay objections, he left the bench, got down in a three-point stance, and challenged the attorney (a former college-football player himself) to block him. The poor lawyer refused, of course, and ended up losing the case. His client appealed the ruling, arguing that Gibson’s antics showed judicial bias. The appellate court held that the actions might have been peculiar but didn’t indicate bias. Judges give their brethren a lot of leeway.
“United States versus Holzner,” the judge says, reading from notes and blinking his puffy eyes on every other word. He rubs the top of his head, which is bald except for a ring of feathery white hair. “Counsel, have you ever appeared in this courtroom before?”
“I have, Your Honor,” Reddick says.
“Of course you have, Marilee. You’re the US Attorney. I know that. I was speaking to defense counsel, Mr. Parker.”
“Parker Stern for the defense,” I say, making it sound like I’m announcing my appearance rather than correcting him. “It’s been a while, Your Honor, but when I was with Macklin & Cherry, I appeared before you on a case for Lake Knolls.” Knolls is a former actor who was elected to Congress and then got into some trouble a few years ago because of his secret relationship with the Sanctified Assembly. There’s a photograph of him and Gibson hanging in the judge’s chambers.
Judge Gibson scrutinizes me as if I’ve said something offensive, half stands, and peers down at me. His bulbous nose twitches scavengerlike, and for a moment I think he’s going to climb over the bench and challenge me to a tackling drill, and while I’m decades younger, I don’t know that I’d come out on top. But then he sits back down, nods, and smiles knowingly.
“I know you, Parker Stern. You were that kid
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