I’m
in court when my phone rings. It’s a Tuesday, just after three. We’re all
sitting in silence – the court clerk, the prosecutor, myself and the usher –
while District Judge Long peruses the papers for the next case. The judge is a
tall, thin-framed man in his sixties with wavy grey hair, kind intelligent eyes
and a soft-featured face. We call him Lock-’em-up Long because, in spite of his
gentle appearance, he’s known for being tough. You could say he takes no
prisoners but, actually, he does – a lot. I sometimes wonder what he’s like at
home, what happens when he falls out with his wife. He must feel annoyed that
he can’t lock her up. Maybe they don’t argue; I wouldn’t. No, that’s not true –
I probably would.
The judge finishes reading and looks up as Cathy from the Youth
Offending Team walks in. He asks her if my client, Jerome, is complying with
his Youth Rehabilitation Order. Cathy shakes her head. ‘No, sir, unfortunately
not. He’s not been engaging well, I’m afraid—’
She pauses and glances in my direction. We can all hear it: there’s a
deep buzzing noise from beside my feet and a familiar tune now starts to play.
My heart sinks. I reach down, grab the handle of my bag and leap to my feet.
‘Turn it off, Ms Kellerman.’ Judge Long looks hard at me from the bench.
‘Yes, sir. I just have to find it, sir.’
I’m rummaging as quickly as I can. My bag doesn’t seem to have anything
in it apart from an inordinate quantity of half-used tissues and a tangled-up
mobile phone charger lead. ‘I’m so sorry, sir. Can I just…?’ I nod plaintively
in the direction of the courtroom door.
‘Turn it off, Ms Kellerman,’ the judge repeats, his voice booming across
the room.
‘Yes, sir. Of course.’
The phone’s in the side pocket. Just as I find it, it stops. I lift it
up a little and try to sneak a peek at the screen – I can’t help myself. But
it’s a withheld number; goddammit. Out of the corner of my eye I can see
Malcolm, the usher, shaking his head.
‘Ms Kellerman,’ says the judge, enunciating my name as if it contains
two separate sentences.
‘Sir,’ I mutter. ‘I’m so sorry, sir.’ I turn the phone off and sit back
down.
‘Stand up,’ the judge orders.
I stand up again.
‘Ms Kellerman, I have the power, do I not, to deal with you immediately
under section 12, subsection 2 of the Contempt of Court Act 1981 and Criminal
Procedure Rule 48.5. I can imprison for one month anyone who wilfully
interrupts the proceedings of the court.’
I take a deep breath. ‘It wasn’t wilful, sir. I thought I’d turned it
off. It has to be wilful. Section 12, subsection 1.’
The judge leans forward. ‘It was wilful when you looked at it just now.
It had already stopped ringing.’
I nod. ‘Sir, that might be true. But if it was, it was a split second of
wilfulness, as set against a strong background of compliance with the protocol
of the court.’
‘Is it a man?’
The court clerk covers her mouth and coughs. Cathy bites her lip and
looks pointedly down at her papers.
I give him a long, hard stare. ‘Sir. The number was withheld.’
‘Very well.’ The judge’s face relaxes suddenly and his mouth curves into
a smile. I’d forgotten that, whilst tough on crime, Judge Long has a wry sense
of humour. ‘I was young once,’ he tells me. ‘Sit down.’ He turns to the usher.
‘Call on the next case.’
Comments
Post a Comment