The Summer House

Chapter 99

Captain Allen Pierce is waiting for the judge to come back from his unexpected break, wondering what he’s going to do next. A minute after the judge left — which was nearly a half hour ago, and definitely not fifteen minutes — there was a look exchanged between Sheriff Williams and Staff Sergeant Jefferson.

A look of hate from the Ranger; a look of satisfaction from the sheriff.

The Ranger is about to be sentenced for the seven homicides committed here just over a week ago — or as it’s called in this state, malice murder — and yet he’s staring at the sheriff. Not the judge, not the district attorney who’s representing the state.

What is going on here?

Huang whispers, “Allen, you’ve got to do something.”

Pierce whispers back, “Like what? Raise my hand? Throw myself on the mercy of the judge? Does he look like somebody who’s flexible enough to bend the rules and let an outsider lawyer interrupt?”

Pierce wants to say something else, but what’s the point? Seeing Staff Sergeant Jefferson sitting by himself, an African American defendant in this courtroom, at this time, with so many of the court audience being white. How many of Jefferson’s brothers and sisters — hell, Pierce’s own brothers and sisters — have been in a similar position? Facing alleged justice with a white judge and a nearly all-white group of residents?

He’s no bomb thrower and knows a lot of progress has been made, but seeing Jefferson up there just stirs old history and old memories in him. Seeing the relaxed nature of the attendees in the courtroom, enjoying the break to talk and gossip with their neighbors, Sheriff Williams even holding court with four locals who’ve come up to talk to her, strengthens those old memories. So many cases of black defendants being railroaded.

The staff sergeant looks back again to the smiling sheriff, sitting in all her glory.

Why is this Ranger allowing himself to be railroaded? Why is he doing this?

Huang’s voice comes back to him: You’ve got to do something.

A door opens up, and the court attendant calls out, “All rise!” as the judge slowly walks in and back up to the bench. The attendees stand up, and the judge gavels the session back into order.

How many times has Pierce heard those words, from scared defendants he’s represented over the years, facing minor offenses that would ruin a career, or after a drunken brawl that got out of hand or a mistaken case of auto theft. All those defendants, looking to him to find some obscure phrase or reference in a law book to set them free.

You’ve got to do something.

The judge says, “Staff Sergeant Jefferson, I’m going to take a few minutes to repeat myself here, just so there’s no misunderstanding. Now. Before I pass sentence, I need to confirm once more, for my own peace of mind, that you are here of your own free will.”

“I am, Your Honor.”

“That you’re not under the influence of alcohol or drugs.”

“I am not, Your Honor.”

“That no threats or pressure have been made upon you to enter this guilty plea, correct?”

Just the slightest bit of a hesitation that Pierce notices from Jefferson, a slight tensing of the Ranger’s shoulders.

“Not a single threat or mention of pressure, Your Honor,” he says.

Something is not right.

Something is wrong.

You’ve got to do something.

He steps forward, trying to formulate something he’ll say after yelling, Your Honor, please! when his iPhone suddenly chimes.

Incoming text.

The judge stares at him, the district attorney turns to look at him, almost everyone in the courtroom is now looking at him.

He brings up the iPhone, slides his fingers across, sees the text, and shakes his head in amazement.

By God, he is going to do something.