Two - That Afternoon

At noon, Harry went directly to clean up. He wasn’t interested in lunch anyway. There was no way his stomach was going to tolerate food just yet. He went through the motions of showering and dressing in a daze, and the jailers shaved him sloppily. He had at least two cuts on his neck that were bleeding. Harry was suddenly concerned whether the blade they used on him had been new or properly sterilized after the last inmate. He shuddered and tried not to think about the long-term ramifications of bloody used shaving blades as he struggled to staunch the bleeding.

This time, his jailers took the usual precautions, wrist to waist and ankle cuffs, when transferring him to court in the van. From the underground parking lot, he was transferred to an elevator that took him to a secure hallway behind the courtrooms. They entered through a metal door that opened into the courtroom to the left side of the judge’s desk.

It was a stately old courtroom, with maple paneling covering the walls, white and black marble floors. Broad maple tables for both the prosecution and defense teams dominated the middle of the room, with three sturdy old maple rail back armchairs behind each. A short maple rail wall separated the court from the maple benches in the visitors’ gallery. The judge’s desk, flanked by the bailiff’s station on the right and the court reporter’s on the left, was only two feet higher than the attorneys’ tables. There was no jury box in this tiny courtroom; in the interest of expedient justice, only judicial procedures took place here. The state of New York took fine care of this building. Harry could smell the well-oiled antique wood.

The bailiff freed Harry from his shackles and sat him down next to Bob, who greeted him warmly.

“Bob, you don’t happen to have a flask tucked in your briefcase there, do you?” Harry immediately regretted that question. He was acting like a stereotypical alcoholic, and it wounded his pride.

Bob just smiled gently and said, “Sorry, Harry, not allowed in court. Rules.”

Harry studied his shoes.

“All rise for the Honorable Judge Maria Elena Sencilla,” the bailiff boomed while opening the door on the right side of the judge’s desk. As the judge entered from her chambers, the sound of chairs creaking and shoes scuffing filled the room as everyone stood.

Harry leaned hard on the desk to push himself up. No amount of Excedrin Migraine could mitigate the intense longing he was experiencing in every cell in his body. His hands were shaking, and he was perspiring. He believed he actually looked like a skel. Not even his refined suit could conceal his pallid complexion or the torment he was feeling. All it would take would be one shot, and his whole body would even right out. His sadistic sonofabitch attorney had refused. Harry was thinking of firing the prick.