“No, we don’t,” Bruton says, ignoring me and answering his own question.
“And the policy in this court is that only physicians and dentists may refer to themselves as doctors.”
I look down at Andy and then back at the judge.
“Would the court feel more comfortable if I address the defendant by his first name?”
It takes Bruton a few moments to catch on. He squints at me as if his patience has run out.
“What are you insinuating, Mr. Page?”
That you are a racist asshole tyrant.
“Nothing, Your Honor,” I say blandly, “I’m just trying to find out how the court wants me to address the defendant.” Baiting him is not a smart thing to do: judges can always get back at you if through no other way than by dumping on your client. Still, there is a fine line that I haven’t crossed. Like a student who knows how far he can push a teacher, I keep my tone of voice flat and my face solemn.
At this point Bruton would rather play to the crowd than take the trouble to figure out if he can get away with holding me in contempt. A triumphant sneer comes to the old man’s lips.
“I don’t care what you call him just as long as it’s not ‘doctor’!” he thunders, looking around to see the expression on the faces of his audience.
I follow his gaze. There are a few snotty grins, but mostly the faces in the courtroom are frozen into embarrassed half-smiles that tell me they find this colloquy something short of a brilliant legal debate. Still, Andy shouldn’t have to put up with such blatant racism.
“Your Honor, I move that this court recuse itself. By the court’s failure to permit the defendant to use the title of ‘doctor,” the court exhibits an appearance of racial bias.”
Chapman shoots me a look of total dismay. If Bruton disqualifies himself, he might have to spend another night in jail because of the delay. Pat chance. There is no conceivable possibility that Bruton will not hear this case. The last thing a bigot like Bruton will do is admit to prejudice. What I’m worried about is how high I’ve sent Chapman’s bond by raising this issue. If I were black, I’d have more credibility.
White lawyers often deal with this issue by trying to work around it-pretending racism no longer exists and then using valuable peremptory jury challenges to weed out suspect jurors.
By raising this issue, I have committed a major faux pas. Officially, we are all reconstructed. Privately, nothing could be further from the truth; but, in the South, cowardice is considered good manners. Under no circumstances will we insult each other’s so-called honor.
Color creeps up Bruton’s neck. I have pissed him royally.
He knows he is vulnerable. There are too many stories the media has suppressed in the past.
“That’s ridiculous-motion denied!” he spits.
I clear my throat, waiting for inspiration to strike, when I am saved by an unlikely source. Fingering red suspenders that make him look about eight years old instead of like a young sophisticated professional on the make, Bobba Stewart pipes up, “Judge, we don’t have any objection to a bond of say, five thousand dollars. We don’t think this defendant is a major threat to attempt to flee the court’s jurisdiction.”
I look gratefully at Bobba, who nervously adjusts his turquoise bow tie. If he had disclosed this when I first asked him this morning what he thought would be reasonable (I had suggested that Andy be released on his own recognizance), I wouldn’t have sweat pouring down my sides now;
but beggars can’t be choosers.
Bruton is on the spot. If the prosecutor isn’t worried, why should he be? It’s not as if Chapman has been charged with an intentional act or is likely to get drunk and run out and shock another child. Shaking his bald head in disbelief, Bruton folds quietly.
“If you’re willing to live with that recommendation, it’s fine with me. Let’s set this for a hearing so we can move on.”
I nod at Bobba, who is surely following direct orders from Jill Marymount. Is this a sop to the black community or what? I suppose this is Jill’s way of saying to blacks that this charge is nothing personal. Obviously, she hasn’t done her self any favors politically by charging a black male with a Ph.D. Blacks constitute about twenty percent of the population in Blackwell County, and it’s not as if there is an assembly line somewhere in Arkansas turning out minority doctoral candidates.
“Your Honor, “Bobba says, how about Monday morning?”
Bruton goes through the pretense of consulting his docket.
He can bump traffic cases any time. He looks at me but does not condescend to speak after our most recent exchange. He won’t permit me to believe, nor should I, that I have had anything to do with the outcome of this hearing. He has acquiesced in a low bond in spite of, not because of, my representation.
“What time?” I ask, more to force him to speak to me than needing to know the time. Bruton will make it the first order of business so Bobba can get back to misdemeanor court.
“Nine o’clock Monday. Court’s in recess for ten minutes,” he rasps indistinctly. We are like children who have to have the last word. He rises, and still without looking at me, departs for his chambers.
As soon as Bruton shuts the door behind him, Andy shakes his head at me and says quietly, “Gideon, don’t ever raise the issue of race again while you’re defending me.”
This instruction seems a little dramatic. I assume he is pissed because of my motion that Bruton recuse himself. I do not want to admit that it was done on the spur of the moment and out of spite. I sit down next to him so I can whisper.
“You have to keep a bastard like Bruton honest or he’ll run over you the entire time.”
Andy picks a piece of dirt from his jumpsuit. He is not fooled.
“We’ll talk about it later,” he says calmly.
“The prosecutor saved me some money.”
Instead of having to use a bail bondsman, my client saves himself five hundred dollars by putting up a cash bond. Where is he getting his money? If Bruton had jailed me for contempt, I’d be there until Labor Day; in contrast, Andy has forked over more money than I’ve made all summer. While we were waiting for his hearing to begin, he agreed to pay me a $5,000 retainer and $100 an hour. With any other client charged with causing someone’s death, I’d be suspicious as hell. The criminal defendants I’ve represented don’t seem the type to join the Christmas savings club at their place of employment. As I wait down in the jail for Andy to change, I wonder about his instructions not to raise the racial issue in his case. Where does this guy think he is? Throughout the proceeding, he sat as erect and proud as a king, even a bit detached from it all. Arrogance won’t do at all in front of a mostly white jury in this case. The girl was white. I don’t want him to beg for forgiveness; but he will have to warm up, or they won’t give a damn.
Andy’s clothes, now that he is out of his jumpsuit, should be badly wrinkled, but he manages to look as if he has stepped out of an ad for L. L. Bean, as fresh as a sprig of mint. He is wearing a tailored olive-green suit over a Hathaway canary-yellow shirt and a gold-and-green tie. As we walk upstairs from the jail, I notice for the first time an attractive white woman waiting for us by the door that leads back into the courtroom. I need no introduction. Olivia Le Master, as poised as a high-fashion model, looks just like her real estate ads. She is a tall, lithe woman with permed black hair that reaches the collar of a white blouse. A green peasant skirt comes to her ankles. On her feet arc a pair of white Birkenstocks. Though she is too flat-chested for my taste, I think I could make an exception.
Her gray eyes, framed by dark eyebrows, seem puzzled.
She asks Andy, “I missed it, didn’t I?”
His eyes are on the reporters who are waiting at the other end of the hall for him to come out the front door. I have already advised him to make no comment. He says softly, not looking at her, “Just barely. Why don’t we talk later?”