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Confirming Justice

By Diane Munson/David Munson

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Something was about to happen in the courtroom. Judge Dwight
Pendergast sensed it as surely as he knew Owen Jones was guilty.
No one watching could know that Dwight longed for the trial
to end and the jury foreman to announce, “On the count of conspiracy
to bribe the Secretary of the Interior, we find the defendant, Owen
Jones III guilty.” A federal judge wasn’t supposed to think like that. The
jury would decide the verdict. Still, looking at the defendant sitting at
counsel table in his thrift-store suit, a wily smile on his face, Dwight
felt his stomach churn.
Jones may not be on trial for mass murder or terrorism, but he had
the aura of someone that bad. Dwight’s dark eyes, which saw nearly
everything in his courtroom before it occurred, searched out the defendant’s.
They were light brown, big-cat eyes that made Jones look like
a hungry tiger on the prowl. Early on in the trial, Dwight was caught
off guard when he saw Jones signal to a man in the gallery. Dwight
immediately halted the testimony of an FBI agent, called the lawyers
to the bench, and ordered Constance Ingles to keep her client in line.
Since then, Jones sneered at Dwight whenever their eyes locked.
Oh, he was savvy enough to mask his arrogance for the jury, but
this morning the fourteen good men and women had been sent to the
jury room, thanks to the maneuverings of Ms. Ingles, who now was
thumping the podium in support of her motion to dismiss. His head
splitting, Dwight renewed his vow not to be caught again. He gripped
his wooden gavel and his fingers itched to pound it, silencing the defense
attorney. As soon as she drew a breath, he would.
Outside, a summer storm raged, but in the courtroom, Dwight
couldn’t hear thunder, or see flashes of lightning. All the same, he felt
static buzz on the back of his neck, pricking the little hairs that had
grown there since his last haircut. The recent warning from his friend
and fellow judge Louis Sumner, tormented Dwight: Jones is a political
fireball. Touch his case and you’ll be burned.

An expert fisherman since he was a boy, Dwight was familiar with
sudden squalls that swept water into your boat and swamped you,
but he’d never been caught in any political storms. That was luck, he
guessed. But, Louis was right about one thing: This case had all the
signs of a relentless storm, one that tore from its moorings the kind of
justice Dwight had spent a lifetime working for.
At last Dwight shifted in his chair, bought for his six-foot-one-inch
frame, and interrupted the longest-practicing attorney in Alexandria
right in the middle of a sentence. “Ms. Ingles, it’s the government’s
turn to rebut.”
As if he were co-counsel, rather than a defendant facing criminal
charges in U.S. District Court, Owen Jones leapt from his seat. He
hurried around the table and tugged on his lawyer’s jacket, almost pulling
her over. A Deputy U.S. Marshal rose to his feet, while Constance
caught herself on the podium with both hands.
Dwight slammed down the gavel. “Mr. Jones, take your seat immediately,
or I will have the Marshal remove you!”
Before sauntering back to his chair, Jones whispered something to
his attorney, all the while glowering up at Dwight as if daring the judge
to toss him out. After thirty years in the legal profession, Dwight saw
through Jones’s subterfuge—playing a poor dupe for the jury, but causing
trouble whenever they were out of sight. A woman reporter in the
back row got up and hurried out, as if she were about to call her editor
and release a scoop. Like every other courtroom regular, she had to be
aware that Constance Ingles never surrendered a microphone easily.
Dwight’s smile turned to a scowl as Constance persisted. “Your
Honor, the government needs Agent Williams to prove my client conspired
to bribe the Secretary of Interior. And—” she whirled around
and faced her opponent, “the prosecutor’s key witness is AWOL.”
Dwight barely heard Constance drone on. He was transfixed by
Jones, who grabbed his water bottle and was slowly twisting the neck
with both hands. Dwight was about to call over the Marshal and have
the bottle removed when the doors burst open.
Four men wearing suits and earpieces entered the room, fanning out
against the perimeter like secret service agents protecting the President.
The court-watchers’ gasps magnified Dwight’s own surprise. Blood
throbbing in his ears, he wondered if Louis’s warning was somehow
coming true.
Dwight motioned forward Deputy U.S. Marshal Hal Leitsma. As
Hal hastened to the bench, Dwight noted no trace of the injury that
confirming justice 3
had sidelined the seasoned marshal for almost nine months. Hal sustained
a gunshot wound to his leg in a Washington, D.C. courtroom
shooting the year before.
Dwight cupped a hand over the microphone. “Is this show of force
related to the missing FBI agent?”
Hal leaned so close, Dwight saw the jagged scar that ran from his lip
to his chin. “There’s a gun in the building. A security guard let it pass
without seeing it, but another guard glimpsed the imprint still on the
monitor. Judge Sumner has a civil trial, and we sent deputies up there.”
Dwight decided instantly. “I’ll order a break. Can we set up magnetometers
outside my courtroom before we let anyone back in?”
Hal nodded gravely, then stood in front of the bench, arms folded
across his chest like a human shield ready to safeguard Dwight from
any threats.
Oblivious to the marshals, Constance held her ground. “Judge, because
you prevented me from cross-examining the government’s prime
witness, you must dismiss the case!”
Laughter rippled through the courtroom. Dwight pounded his gavel
for quiet, his black eyes becoming darker still as he narrowed them
in disapproval at the defense attorney. The trial had been delayed the
week before because of the defendant’s antics. Yesterday, in the middle
of the defense cross-examination of FBI Agent Frank Williams, Dwight
called a recess for his own personal reasons. When Williams failed to
reappear for cross this morning, the jury was sequestered to let the lawyers
argue, so at least they were out of range of the missing gun.
Dwight was losing patience fast. If Williams was avoiding being
cross-examined, he’d throw him in jail, FBI agent or not. Constance
smiled at her client, who nodded his mop of brown hair back at her,
then narrowed those tiger eyes at Dwight as if to say, if you don’t dismiss
my case, you’re part of the conspiracy.
Dwight announced, “We’ll take a ten-minute recess.”
Just then, a tall man in the middle of the second row stood up, his
long, flowing hair an odd contrast to the tailored gray suit he wore, and
reached inside his suit coat. Dwight watched Hal bolt toward the man,
giving Dwight a kernel of hope that Hal would not let violence erupt
in the courtroom.
Still, his mind raced. It might be the gun! Dwight’s left hand hit the
silent alarm button under the bench. Hal jumped over the rail that separated
the well from the gallery. The tall man unfurled something. The
white blur didn’t look like a gun. He spun around, holding up a banner
for all to read: JUSTICE DENIED, TWICE DENIED. Hal reached the
assailant, grabbed his hand, and wrested the banner away.
Dwight blew out his breath, took in another sharply. Two more
marshals joined Hal and pinned the man in a bear hug. The man shouted,
“The tribes have rights!” Then, as the deputies wrenched him by
the arms and hauled him out the doors, he began to chant, “Justice
denied, twice denied.” Like a radio being turned down, the strange
words echoed behind him.
Was the man a victim or a troublemaker trying to get on the nightly
news? Several journalists scurried out. Dwight ground his teeth as he
pictured the Washington Star headline, “Pendergast denies free speech
to Native Americans.”
A court security officer spoke into a walkie-talkie, while another
deputy marshal assumed his post to protect Judge Pendergast. Dwight
slammed down his gavel and shouted, “Order in the courtroom!”
Nothing happened. He yanked off his reading glasses and looked
across the courtroom at FBI Special Agent Griff Topping, who had
taken over the investigation of the defendant when Agent Frank Williams
was transferred to Arizona a month before. Topping stood tall,
both hands by his waistband. His chiseled features and thick moustache
reminded Dwight of the carving of Theodore Roosevelt
at Mount Rushmore. Next to Topping, Assistant U.S. Attorney Patrick
O’Rourke sat in a wheelchair. A car accident at sixteen had left
O’Rourke paralyzed from the waist down.
The judge’s gavel came down again. “Anyone who interrupts this
trial will be held in contempt of court. Clear the courtroom, and I
want both attorneys in my chambers. Now!”
He left the bench, black robe swirling behind him like a western
dust storm. A U.S. District Judge in the Eastern District of Virginia for
five years, he usually relished the challenge of applying the law from
his bench. But not this morning. These events made him feel as if a
prankster had ripped the blindfold from Lady Justice. Today was different
all right, but Dwight had no idea how it would stick to his future
like glue.

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