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He'd called every attorney in the phone book and got nothing but recordings, “You've reached the law offices of Merker, Stillman; our hours are ten a.m. to five p.m., Monday through Friday; if this is an emergency, please call 565-1608.” It was an emergency and he did call-some fifty-four different attorneys at law-and all but one of the emergency numbers fed him a recording as well. The one that didn't-this was Saturday morning-was answered by an overwrought woman who demanded to know who in hell had referred Bridger to her private number and what was so goddamned earth-shattering that he had to interrupt her on her day off. There were shouts in the background, the thwack of a tennis ball connecting with the sweet spot of a racket. He explained the situation to her and suddenly she was the most reasonable and beneficent woman in the world, outraged over what the legal system had done to his significant other-Dana, that was her name, right? Dana? — and willing to fight for her till she dropped… as soon as she got her retainer in the amount of $75,000, that is.

At eight twenty-five the room began to fill, people of all ages ducking through the door with a nervous glance at the judge's dais before sliding noiselessly into one or another of the pews. Their demeanor indicated how modest, submissive and blameless they were, men and women alike, each of them a dutiful citizen who wouldn't dream of causing the least disturbance or questioning the authority of the court. Their hair was freshly shampooed and they'd made an effort to dress for the occasion, the men in clean pressed shirts, some even with ties knotted meekly round their necks, the women in muted colors and clutching their best purses: these were the people who'd been arrested for brawling in the streets, public intoxication, domestic disturbances and DUIs, the ones who'd been bailed out to sleep in their own beds and see to their grooming and makeup. The others, the ones like Dana, were waiting in the wings somewhere, and Bridger felt his pulse jump each time the door behind the judge's desk swung open.

The cop had been joined by a colleague now-same shirt, muscles, walkie-talkie, but shorter and darker, with a hard incriminatory gaze-and the two of them stood sentry while the clerks filed in from stage left as if this were the opening of a play, which, in some sense, Bridger supposed, it was. When everyone had taken his place, the judge's door flew open and shut and the judge was amongst them and the taller cop cried out, “All please rise and come to order, the Honorable Kathleen McIntyre presiding.”

Bridger's hopes rose: a female judge. He studied her face even as he lifted himself from the seat and subsided again, and it was an interesting face, sympathetic, kindly even, poignant eyes, tasteful makeup, tasteful hair. He felt sure this whole fiasco would be resolved as soon as she got a look at Dana-she'd see in an instant that the woman before her was no forger, thief, batterer, no assaulter with a deadly weapon or fugitive from justice. Not Dana. Dana was lithe and beautiful. She was a teacher. She had no record of any kind. She was deaf. And innocent, purely innocent. Surely, Justice McIntyre would see that. Anybody would.

But Dana didn't appear. First a whole squad of lawyers in expensive suits, perfectly groomed, signed in and conferred with the judge on one motion or another or on behalf of so and so, and then the Spanish interpreter gave his spiel to the courtroom and everyone was admonished to watch the fifteen-minute video-first in Spanish, then in English-that explained their rights. Once the video was over, the judge started hurtling through the docket, people stepping forward as their names were called, the judge reading the charges aloud, apprising them of what the DA (cocky, square-shouldered, young, his hair right out of a fashion magazine) advised in their case and asking how they pled. Most, including the male half of the young couple with the comic pages, were charged with public intoxication and/or driving under the influence and most pleaded no contest and got off with time served, a fine and a contribution to the Victims' Assistance Fund. There were more compelling cases-an old woman with madhouse hair and staring eyes who'd been accused of driving on a suspended license, leaving the scene of an accident and failure to appear; a gangbanger sporting the ritual tattoos who'd been charged with distributing drugs in prison and who was there after surrendering on a warrant, only to be handcuffed and led away-but the real meat of the calendar, the serious charges, had to wait until after the noon-hour recess. Bridger couldn't believe it-he'd wasted a whole morning and Radko would have his ass-and for what? He still hadn't laid eyes on Dana since the night before she'd been arrested. He wanted to hit something with a mallet-with the judge's hammer, with a plank torn from one of the pews-hit it and hit it till it splintered.

Then came the afternoon. More lawyers, more criminals, suits, hangdog looks, Justice McIntyre growing sharper and more irritated as the day wore on. Finally, at a quarter past two, the door to the rear of the jury box opened and two long rattling files of prisoners in orange jumpsuits and leg restraints shuffled into the room, men and women taking seats in alternating rows. Bridger half-rose, straining to see as the face of one woman after another appeared framed in the doorway and was replaced by the next. When he did ultimately spot Dana coming through the door sandwiched between a rangy black-eyed woman with a teetering head and angry shoulders and a big butterball of a girl with her scalp shaved to stubble and a silver stud punched through her right eyebrow, he barely recognized her. Her shoulders were slumped, her head down, her hair unwashed and uncombed. There seemed to be a smear of something on her chin.

She sat with the others, her legs shackled, and she never even lifted her eyes to scan the gallery for him. He was riveted with anger, with horror. It was all he could do to stop from shouting out, and he saw too the insidious way the system worked, varnished wood and the grain of history notwithstanding-if you spent the weekend in jail, no matter how innocent you might be, you were doomed to the jailhouse look, to the look of incrimination and guilt. You were dirty, your spirit had been crushed, and if you weren't guilty of the charges against you, you were guilty all the same, of being accused, of being listless, hopeless, dirty and alienated. He made a promise to himself in that moment: never, no matter how much time passed, would he let this rest, never.

When the judge called her name, Dana rose to her feet and cried out that she was present, her voice ricocheting from one side of the courtroom to the other, and there standing beside her and responding in a high redemptive singsong, was her court-appointed attorney, a woman of fifty in a skirt and blazer and with a face that shouted out for justice. “Your honor,” the woman sang and it was a song she'd practiced on a hundred other afternoons in court, “I'm Marie Eustace from the Public Defender's office appearing for Dana Halter, who is in custody here beside me, and I'd like to request an immediate identity hearing in this case-it's obviously a TODDI. My client is locally known as an educator here in San Roque, she suffers from a disability and has no record whatever. She's been falsely arrested, Your Honor, and endured a weekend in County, and I'm confident we can fax these jurisdictions for fingerprint and photo ID and have her out of here this afternoon.”