Kate Wilhelm - Justice For Some

Justice For Some by Kate Wilhelm

THE TROUBLE WAS that Sarah Drexler did not look like a judge. She knew it, and suspected that so

did everyone who came before her in court. She was forty-six and still had frizzy red hair, not as red as

it used to be, but unmistakably red, and she had freckles that she had long since stopped fighting, and

she was sturdy. Not fat, not even overweight, but sturdy, built for endurance, Blaine used to say. She

stood at her window overlooking the parking lot at the courthouse, and held the blind back to watch

heat patterns rise and rise and rise.

It was May, but Pendleton, Oregon, could be an inferno in May, or it could snow. This year, hell was

winning.

If it were snowing she would be even more dissatisfied; what she really wanted was idyllic May weather,

storybook, poetry May weather.

She let the Venetian blind close again when she heard the door opening behind her. Her fingers felt dirty.

The building was air-conditioned, but the blinds were always gritty, there was always pale grit on the

desk, on every flat surface, on her fingers now. She couldn't understand how it got inside, not just here in

the courthouse, but in her house, in the car, everywhere.

"They're ready," her secretary, Beatrice Wordley, said.

When Sarah turned to face her, she caught the gleam of delight in Beatrice's eyes. "Damnit all," she said,

going to her desk for a tissue. Beatrice nodded. She had been with Blaine and Sarah when they were in

private practice, then with Blaine here in the courthouse, and now with Sarah, altogether for nearly

twenty years. Her expression of glee said clearly that she knew as well as Sarah that Homer Wickham

was not willing to give any woman the authority to tell him the time of day, and that Homer Wickham

was due for a surprise. Sarah wiped her hands, tossed the tissue into the waste can, and stepped into the

hall outside her door.

She entered the conference room next to her office, and nodded pleasantly to the small group already

there, two attorneys, and Mr. and Mrs. Wickham, who wanted to kill each other. The conference room

was opulent compared to the office. Blaine had kept his surroundings nearly barren, nothing that wasn't

absolutely essential had been allowed, and she had done little to change that. But the conference room

had old-fashioned furniture, overstuffed chairs and sofas, a long scarred table with ladderback chairs,

ferns in pots. The ferns kept dying because the humidity was too low, but when they looked terminal,

new ones appeared; the old brown plants vanished as if by magic.

Everyone in the little group awaiting her had been sitting upright, stiffly uncomfortable in the comfortable

chairs. The two attorneys had risen with Sarah's entrance, and belatedly Johnny Weber hauled Mr.

Wickham to his feet. Mrs. Wickham glared at her husband and then nodded to Sarah. Sarah sat in her

own chair and said, "Thank you for coming. I wanted this informal conference before the hearing in

order to make a suggestion. Mr. Weber, Mr. Howell, please understand that this is an informal

proceeding."

The attorneys nodded.

"It is agreed that Mr. and Mrs. Wickham are exemplary parents, and the custody of the four children is

the major difficulty to be resolved."

Mr. Wickham shook himself and muttered, "And the house."

"Yes, the house," Sarah said, nodding. "You have both stated that one parent should be allowed to

remain in the house where the children have lived all their lives, so they can continue to attend the

schools they are familiar with, enjoy the friendships they have made, and suffer the least amount of

trauma. This arrangement, of course, would mean that one parent would have primary custody;

however, you have both requested and agreed to joint and equal custody, and this issue must be

resolved. The court appreciates that you both recognize," she went on smoothly, "that divorce is always

traumatic, and that probably the children suffer even more than the parents in these cases. In studying

your financial statements, I came to the conclusion that the parent who must move out will suffer a severe

economic hardship in trying to maintain a second house large enough to accommodate the four children

during their visits.

Therefore, that cost must be borne equally between you, since you are being awarded joint custody, and

it is the stated purpose of this hearing today to assure that your children are not plunged into poverty

along with one of the parents."

Mr. Wickham glowered, but almost instantly he crossed his arms and then nodded. Mrs. Wickham

began to shake her head; her eyes filled with tears. "I don't have enough money for another house," she

whispered.

"I know you don't," Sarah said. "And neither does Mr. Wickham, not really, although he may think at

this moment that he could manage it." "What I said all along is that we gotta sell the house," Mr.

Wickham said.

"No," Sarah said firmly. "You have very little equity in the property, although the payments are quite

manageable, but payments on two houses, or even two apartments large enough for four children, would

be a burden. Everyone would be impoverished very quickly." She paused a moment, then said, "What

this court is prepared to order is that the children remain in the house, and that you take turns living in it

with them.

Their trauma will be lessened considerably, and you could joint rent an apartment, or rent separate

affordable apartments, as you prefer."

The silence in the room was profound for several seconds as they all stared at her.

Mr. Wickham began to change color, his ruddy face growing darker and darker red, and Mrs.

Wickham was shaking her head again, harder this time.

"You can't do that!" Mr. Wickham cried. He turned to. his lawyer. "She can't do that!" "Yes, Mr.

Wickham, I can," Sarah said, and stood up.

"You both asked for custody of the children, and this court will grant joint custody on those conditions.

Now, what I suggest is that all of you discuss this, either here, or perhaps across the street in the coffee

shop. Let us meet again this afternoon at four. Thank you."

She walked to the door, and glanced back at them.

Johnny Weber had moved to stand behind Mr. Wickham's chair, and had his hands firmly on the larger

man's shoulders, holding him down.

Johnny Weber met her glance and winked.

Carol Betts was the prosecutor for the state against Steven Mancero that afternoon. It was a simple

matter: the restaurant where Mancero worked had come up two hundred dollars short and the manager

had accused him of stealing from the cash drawer. Sarah listened, but without a lot of attention. She was

more interested in watching Howard Bartles, the defense attorney, who seemed to be in an endless

whispered conference with a man seated behind him. He appeared unaware when Carol Betts

concluded and sat down.

"Mr. Bartles," Sarah said, and he hurriedly faced her and half rose.

"Sorry, Your Honor. Mr. Mason wishes to plead guilty."

She glanced at the sheet before her. Steven Mancero.

She was well aware that in large cities, New York, Philadelphia, and sometimes in not-such-big cities

where the attorneys were overworked, they often spelled out their clients' names in big block letters for

easy reference during a hurried trial, but here in Pendleton, Oregon9 No one had rushed in Pendleton

since the Oregon Trail was first blazed.

Now she looked more closely at the young man, too thin, very dark, dressed in jeans and a sport shirt.

He looked young enough for juvenile court.

Bartles nudged the young man. "Stand up, Mason."

He stood up and clasped his hands before him, watching her with big frightened eyes.

"Mr. Mancero, are you ready to plead?" she asked.

He looked quickly toward Bartles, who nodded.

"Yes, ma'am."

"Have you ever been in court before, Mr. Mancero?

He shook his head.

"You have to answer," she said, "so the court recorder can hear your words and get them in the record."

She added to the recorder, "Indicate the answer was no," and then turned to the young man again. "How

old are you, Mr. Mancero?"

"Twenty-one."

"And how long have you worked for the restaurant?"

"Three years."

"Mr. Mancero, do you understand that you have the right to a trial by jury? Has that been explained to

you?" He shook his head, then quickly said, "I didn't know that. No, ma'am."

"Did anyone explain what reasonable doubt means?

Or preponderance of evidence?"

He glanced at his lawyer, who was staring off into space. "No.

Nobody told me anything, except to stand up and say guilty."

"Did anyone promise you anything?"

"No, ma'am."

"Or threaten you with anything?"

"No, ma'am."

"Did anyone tell you what the sentence could be if you're found guilty?

Were you told you could be sentenced to jail?"

"No." His voice was a near-whisper. He moistened his lips.

"Mr. Mancero, did you have a conference with your attorney?"

He shook his head. "No, ma'am."

"When you went to his office, didn't you talk with him?"

"He wasn't there. His secretary said it would cost a hundred dollars, and I should be here today, and

today he said I should stand up and say guilty."

"I see. Please be seated, Mr. Mancero." She waited until he was in his chair, stiff, wary and frightened.

"Mr. Bartles, Ms. Betts, please," Sarah said then, and stood up.

"We will be in recess for twenty minutes." in her office she watched Bartles and Betts as they entered,

and he started to sit in a chair close to her desk.

"Don't bother to make yourself comfortable," she snapped. "I will file a formal complaint, Mr. Bartles,

charging you with malfeasance.

I am removing you from Mr. Mancero's defense and will have a continuance until he can arrange for

other counsel. If he can't afford counsel, this court will appoint a defender. And you are ordered to

return the hundred dollars you accepted from him."

"Good Christ," he muttered in disbelief. "Sarah, that kid's as guilty as hell and you know it!" "I'll add

contempt if you push me," she said fiercely.

"I am Judge Drexler in these chambers and in that courtroom, and don't forget it!"

"Yes, ma'am, Your Honor," he said with heavy sarcasm.

"I want that check made out to Steven Mancero, that's Man-cer-o, by five. Now you may leave."

He shrugged and went to the door. Carol Betts followed him. She paused at the open door and gave

Sarah a long searching look that revealed nothing, and then she left.

Sarah sank down into her chair and drew in a long breath, curiously weak now. That sarcasm, that

eloquent shrug, she knew exactly what he had meant: what possible difference could it make if she filed a

complaint, since she was only a fill-in judge serving out her dead husband's term?

And she wondered what in the world she was doing here. She didn't look like a judge, didn't think like a

judge, didn't talk like a judge.

She could not think of this bare little room as a judge's chambers.

Blaine, she thought then, oh, Blaine, damn you. Damn you. She trailed a finger over the desk that had

been Blaine's, and would be hers for a few more months.

Then she closed her eyes and took several deliberate breaths and finally stood up, ready to go on with

the day.

By three on Friday afternoon of that week she had her desk as cleared as it was ever likely to be, and

she was ready for her vacation.

First, haircut, she was ticking off as she walked to her car. the lot was broiling, the concrete sent heat

through the soles of her shoes, made her toes want to curl up. Then, dry cleaning. A little laundry...

"Hey, Sarah!"

She turned to see Dirk Walters hurrying toward her.

He was a long thin man, with what seemed to be too many angles, although it was hard to say just where

the extra ones came from.

Blaine used to say Dirk was a pol's pol-a politician's politician. In his mid-sixties, he had been in politics

long enough to have met everyone, and he remembered every name, knew everyone's histories, their

triumphs and tragedies, never forgot a face or a vote. He never had run for any office, and it was said

that no one ever won a major office in Oregon without his help. He was grinning broadly as he

approached her, both hands outstretched exactly as if they were friends of long standing.

"Hi, Dirk. What are you doing out here in the wilderness ?" With some amusement she submitted to

having both hands held warmly for a moment.

"just passing through," he said, as she had known he would. That was his stock answer. "Buy you a nice

cold drink?"

She shook her head. "Sorry. Things to do, vacation coming up, you know."

"Yeah. Down to good old C.A. How's the old man?

What's he now, eighty, eighty-one? You're going to the birthday party?"

"How do you know all that?" she asked, laughing.

"You're just showing off." Actually he was wrong. Her father's birthday had come and gone back in

April; now the family was having a reunion.

She did not correct Dirk; she felt that catching him in even a simple little mistake like this gave her a

certain edge.

"True," he admitted cheerfully. "Look, I really want a word with you before you take off. Later today?

Lunch tomorrow? When are you leaving?"

"Dawn or even earlier tomorrow. Oh, come on. Just so I get to the beauty shop by four."

He glanced at his watch. "Plenty of time." "Benny's?" she asked, glancing toward the coffee shop across

the street.

"Too noisy. Let's go to your place. You can kick off your shoes and we'll talk. You have

air-conditioning, don't you?"

When she hesitated, he patted her shoulder. "You just go on ahead and I'll be along in ten minutes. See

you."

She watched him as he went back to the courthouse and entered; then she got in her car and turned on

the ignition. He wanted a private talk, she understood. It was all right for him to be seen talking with

anyone briefly at a party, in the parking lot, even in a restaurant with others, but this was something else.

In a town like Pendleton everyone would know if they sat in a booth in Benny's and discussed anything

of substance. There was nothing of substance for them to discuss, she told herself, and engaged the

gears, started to drive.

When Blaine died three years earlier, it had been Dirk who came to talk to her, offered her the

appointment to finish Blaine's term as county judge. She had been too numb to respond, and he had

returned in a month, and this time she had said yes. She had seen him infrequently since then, and always

at an official function at the side of the governor, or a senator, or a foreign dignitary, never alone.

She had been driving automatically, she realized when she started up the bluff road to her house. No

doubt she had nodded to people, or waved, smiled, but she had no memory of them. What did Dirk

want?

Were they going to call in their chips? Try to call them in?

The narrow, twisting road demanded her attention now. The pines in the valley below did not try to

climb the dry hills; instead there were dusty cottonwoods, and dustier junipers with a straggly sparse

understory of sagebrush. No houses were visible from the road, but here and there lush green grass and

shrubbery stood out glaringly, as out of place in this and land as sequins on cowboy boots, and as

durable. She turned into her own driveway at the sumiit of the bluff.

The house and the dry grass might have been painted with the same camouflage brush; the building was

low and almost as unadorned as Blaine's office at the courthouse. There were native grasses and sage,

contorted juniper shrubs and trees, but when she went into the house the drabness changed. Here were

new colorful pottery vases, some taller than Sarah, glazed with brilliant green and copper finishes, with

plumes of pink pampas grass, snow white grasses. The furniture was covered with fine glove leather,

mahogany-red in the living room, and bright yellow and white and green in the dining room. The walls

were stark white that showed off the Navaho rugs hanging on them, and the copper plates and shields...

The rear of the house overlooked the valley and from here it seemed that Pendleton huddled so close to

the Columbia River it was in danger of tumbling into the water and drowning.

The Columbia was so blue it looked uncanny, so still it looked painted.

When Dirk arrived minutes later, he was carrying a paper bag with a bottle of wine; condensation had

turned the bag into a pulpy mess. "Oh well," he said, laughing as he peeled bits of sodden paper away

from the bottle. "Not the suave entrance I was planning, but what the hell." He opened the bottle and

poured, and they took their glasses to the living room where they sat near the wide windows. "Real

nice," he said. "Very nice indeed."

Sarah sipped her wine and waited. It didn't take long.

With a decisive motion, Dirk set his glass down on a low table and said, "You don't need the beauty

shop.

You look just fine. We're all impressed very much, Sarah. That's the word."

"We who?" He shrugged. "Look, I know you said in the beginning that this was temporary, you

accepted the responsibility of finishing Blaine's term. We all understood that this was an interim

appointment, and everyone was grateful. But it's gone way beyond gratitude, Sarah, way beyond that.

You're one hell of a judge."

In spite of herself, she felt a warmth on her cheeks.

She looked down at the glass in her hand. "Thank you, Drk."

"Sarah, we want you to run in November."

She looked up in surprise then. "I'm not a politician, Dirk. I told you that. I hate the whole idea of

campaigning, of trying to sell myself.

Shaking hands with everyone, smiling at everyone, saying the right things all the time, being circumspect

every second of my life.

It's... it's not for me. I hated it when Blaine did it and I had to go along sometimes. I despised it all. And

I'm very bad at it. I don't remember names, and I say the wrong things." Helplessly she shook her head.

"Sarah, hear me out," Dirk said. "We chose Blaine, you know. Every step of his career was planned

after a certain point. He had everything going for him. Yale Law School, private practice, prosecuting

attorney experience, and then district attorney, and finally county judge. Like a neat ladder without a

missing rung. The next step was to run for state judge in November, and then after another year or so be

appointed to the Ninth District federal judiciary. That was the plan, Sarah."

"What do you mean, plan? Whose plan? Blaine made those choices, he decided to run for the

judgeship..."

State judge? He had not mentioned that at any time.

"He had guidance and advice every step of the way," Dirk said flatly.

"Believe me, he had help. And then he died in that accident. And one day we realized that whatever

Blaine had, you have double in spades. Except for the prosecuting experience, but you handled a private

practice that included a lot of plaintiffs, as well as defendants. Your grades were higher than his. Your

win record was better than his. And you had two kids to look out for. If you were black and in a

wheelchair, it would be heaven." He flashed a grin, then added, "But, Sarah, I kid you not, you are one

hell of a judge.

You've made a lot of friends; others have noticed even if you're not keeping score."

She felt as if she had wandered into a mire that threatened to drag her under. What made it even more

ridiculous, she thought, was that she could recognize what he was doing, where the traps were, and yet

her familiarity with the game was of no help whatever. This was how Blaine used to get his way: he

would propose something, and if she protested, he would come back at it from a different angle, over

and over until he won.

"Why don't you listen to me?" she said. "I told you I can't campaign. I won't campaign."

"You campaign every time you open your mouth," Dirk said, and picked up his wine glass, drank.

"When's the last time you turned down an invitation to talk to a school group? A college assembly, or a

class? A local meeting for whatever cause comes along? How many committees are you on? How many

hours a week do you put in? You're already campaigning, Sarah, whatever you call it.

That's all campaigning is, you know.

It's getting out there and selling something, and for most of us all we've got is ourselves, but you've got

the law, and some kind of integrity that shows, and wisdom that shows."

She realized she was staring at him fixedly. She had found herself believing him, accepting his words, and

that was the real trap, she knew. She looked away. I "We don't want you to do a thing you're not

already doing," he said. he drained his glass and put it down. "You just say yes, and we'll take care of

the rest."

"We again. Who? Judges are supposed to be nonpartisan, I thought."

"And you will be, too. A committee, Sarah, of your peers, if we can find anyone who qualifies. We'll

form a committee and take care of it, the ballot statement, the bio stuff, all of it." He laughed suddenly.

"No one's going to run against you, you realize. A sitting judge is as automatic a shoo-in as you can get."

He stood up and stretched. Daddy Longlegs, she thought; he could touch the ceiling if he chose. He

looked at her appraisingly, then smiled.

"I'm afraid you've missed your appointment with the beauty shop, but like I said, you look fine the way

you are. How long will you be at your father's place?"

"Two weeks."

"Okay. Think about this, and I'll give you a call a week from Monday, see what you've decided." He

regarded her thoughtfully for another moment. "You're so suspicious of politics, aren't you? It's endemic,

I'm afraid. But it isn't a dirty word, and it doesn't have to be a dirty business. If we wanted a corrupt

judge, we'd go buy one.

There's no shortage of candidates. If I offered Bartles two hundred, he'd agree to be a lap dog; for three

hundred he'd poop on command."

He laughed.

"And, Sarah, while you're thinking about all this, remember that Blaine came to us, but this time we've

come to you. It makes all the difference who does the asking. All the difference in the world." He

walked toward the door. "I'll call a week from Monday, in the afternoon. Say hello to the old man for

me."

She stood at the wide window for a long time, no longer seeing the town or the river, thinking, three

years and six weeks. Blaine had gone skiing in April with half a dozen others, and the group had been

caught in an avalanche. Three of them died, and one should have been left in the snow a few hours

longer. He was in a permanent vegetative stage.

Someone had come to tell her, and she had never been able to remember who it had been. A shadow

against the white wall, evil shadow, evil words. She had not wept then, and for weeks she had not wept,

but then one day, the tears had come, unexpected, out of place. And after that she had found herself

weeping again and again at inappropriate times; while doing the dishes, or backing the car out of the

driveway, or reading the newspaper, suddenly she would be blinded by tears.

She had not wept in court, but twice she had called a recess and fled to Blaine's office, her office, and

cradled her head in her arms on Blaine's desk, her desk, and wept like a child.

"Three years, six weeks," she said silently. The hurt kept changing; a physical hurt, her body demanding

his body, aching for love, for a caress, for a touch. Then, forgetting that he was not there, and starting to

speak to him, that brought a sharper pain, a life-threatening spasm of pain. And anger. She could admit

anger now, and strangely, admitting it lessened it, lessened the intensity of the pain it always brought with

it. The pain of guilt was as fierce as it had been from the start. They had quarreled; he had wanted her to

go to the ski lodge even if she had not wanted to ski, and she had said no.

Too much work, a case pending, just no. She did not like to ski, did not like snow sports, did not like

sitting in the lodge with other women whose husbands were out on the slopes, and later would drink too

much and play cards most of the night.

She realized with a start that lights were coming on in Pendleton, twinkling stars in the dusk below, and

her legs were aching, her back hurt. She had not done this for a long time, lost herself in glimpses of the

past, how he had come loping up the hill with sweat dripping, three times a week. How he had hunched

over the newspaper in the evening, how he had looked up at her and smiled. His arms around her.

His body and hers joined in love. She hugged her arms about herself and turned from the window. That

was the hurt she could not bear, the need her body had for his body, her need for his love, his passion

and hers.

She had to do some laundry, had to eat something, had to start packing.

Instead, she went to the bedroom they had shared, that she had abandoned after two weeks of trying to

sleep in their bed without him.

She stood in the doorway; the room was spartan, the way he had liked things around him. It was almost

obsessively clean; she used to leave a blouse on a chair, or panty hose on the chest of drawers, her

purse on the dressing table, something that indicated she lived here, too.

Now every surface was bare, the bed made with the green spread he had liked, drapes closed the way

he had liked them.

The children had come home for Blaine's funeral, had stayed with her for the next two weeks, then had

gone back to school. The night they left she had made up the bed in Winnie's room and had slept in it,

the first night she had been able to sleep without pills. She had slept there ever since. They weren't

coming back, she had realized that night. Blaine had left her, the children had left her, and none of them

would ever come back.

I She entered her room. She had taken out most of Winnie's things, replaced frilly curtains with lace

panels and drapes, put in a blue rug, and an easy chair and reading lamp, made it her own, with the

children's pictures on one wall, every stage of their childhood faithfully recorded, framed. They were

both beautiful, she often told herself in wonder. Even if Winnie had inherited her frizzy red hair, she had

been a beautiful girl, was a beautiful young woman now. And Virgil was so like his father, with brown

hair, dark eyes that often looked black, but were actually dark blue. The same crooked grin. He was

twenty-three and lost.

Somehow he had become lost. And that was what the reunion was all about, she admitted to herself.

She had to have a little time with the children, find out what Virgil was doing, what he wanted to do, why

he had dropped out of school, if he intended to go back. Find out if he was sick, into drugs. In serious

trouble. And if the children wouldn't or couldn't come to her to spend some real time, she had decided

to go where they were willing to be, her father's house. She gazed at Virgil's picture, his crooked grin,

and she wanted to demand: Who are you?

What are you turning into? Abruptly she swung away from the picture.

She had to pack, she reminded herself, and remembered that she still had not done the laundry. And a

few minutes later, starting the laundry, she remembered that she was overdue for dinner. Some nights

she forgot to eat until it was almost bedtime. She had posted a note on the refrigerator: Seven o'clock

Eat! She sat down at the kitchen table and drank another glass of Dirk's wine and then wrote a list of as

after nine.

It was one-thirty when she finally dropped into bed, exhausted and restless, the way she was before a

trip.

She wished she had sleeping pills, anything to put her over the edge swiftly, stop the tape loop that

Kate Wilhelm - Justice For Some

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