Chapter 25
CHAPTER
Mary Stone
BULLOCK COUNTY COURTHOUSE UNION SPRINGS, ALABAMA
I was sitting at the bench, taking a guilty plea from a local miscreant who habitually broke into parked vehicles by busting the windows in the wee hours of the morning.
Then he’d get inside the vehicle, take a backpack, laptop, jacket.
Or dig in the console, take something from the glove box.
Steal whatever he could find, even if it was just a handful of change.
Take a nap, maybe. Jerk off, if he had the urge.
In Alabama, that’s a felony. Property crimes are strictly enforced. The law of FAFO. Fool around, find out.
“Mr. Wagner, you’ve been charged with seven counts of the Class C felony of unlawful breaking and entering a vehicle. Are you withdrawing your plea of not guilty and entering a plea of guilty to these charges?”
“Yes, Judge.” He sounded sulky, resentful. Bad attitude. I made a mental note.
“And you are pleading guilty because you are guilty?”
“Yeah.”
The public defender nudged the defendant, whispered something. Likely advising him to speak respectfully in court.
“Mr. Wagner, please describe for the record what happened on the thirty-first of August of last year.”
His eyes rolled up to the ceiling, as if he was asking the Lord to give him strength. That man should have started praying some years back. This wasn’t the first time I’d seen him in my courtroom.
“So me and a friend was hanging at his place. We didn’t have no money, wasn’t doing nothing. He thought we ought to go out, bip some cars. Maybe make some cash.”
Make some cash. Like he was engaging in honest work. “You used an expression: bip. Tell us what that means. For the record.”
“Bip. Bipping cars. You bust out the window. So you can open the door, get in there, and get what’s inside.”
“How many cars did you ‘bip’ on the early morning of August 31?”
“I don’t know. A lot.” The attorney whispered in his ear again. “Seven. We hit seven cars.”
I folded my hands on the bench. Asked a follow-up question, to check all the boxes. “When you broke the car windows and entered into those seven vehicles on August 31, did you do so with the consent of the owners of those vehicles?”
“Huh?”
“The people who owned those cars. Did they consent to you breaking the windows, getting inside to steal? They give you permission to do it?”
“Oh. Nah, no. We didn’t have nobody’s consent.”
I looked at the DA. “Is there a plea bargain agreement in this case?”
Reeves was present. His mood had improved in recent days; he wasn’t sending me any deadly looks.
He stood up, holding a legal pad. “There is, Your Honor. In exchange for his plea of guilty to counts 1 to 4, the State has agreed to dismiss counts 5 to 7 and recommends a three-year sentence of imprisonment.”
The door behind the bench opened. No way to ignore it—that was my chambers door. I glanced over. Luna was leaning out, peering at me. Which is not something I’d usually see. Luna doesn’t interrupt court proceedings. She knows better.
I turned my attention back to Reeves. “What is the State’s position on probation?”
“We stand silent, Your Honor. The State takes no position.”
So. It would be up to me. Without any argument from the prosecution, one way or another.
I’d ultimately decide whether the man would go to prison or go home.
But there were preliminary procedures in this situation.
I would need to order a pre-sentence investigation by the Office of Probation and Parole.
I heard a whisper.
“Judge Mary!”
I swiveled in the chair. “Luna? What on earth?”
She grimaced with embarrassment, gripping the edge of the wooden door. “You have a phone call!”
I dropped my voice; no need to shout at my clerk in front of the whole courthouse. “Luna. I’m in the middle of a felony guilty plea. Take a message.”
I swiveled back, facing the courtroom. The attorneys were exchanging a look. I saw the DA shrug, as if asking Who knows?
That whisper again. “It’s the governor!”
Wow. That was a first.
I paused for a moment, trying to decide. What was proper procedure in a situation like this? I didn’t have personal experience contending with high state officials.
Then I caught the defendant, Ray Wagner, rolling his head back, like he was bored.
This was my courtroom. Where justice was served. And I was dealing with the specific crime and punishment of a man standing before me.
“Luna, tell the governor I’m on the bench,” I said. I sat up straight. Adjusted the gavel so that the handle was within easy reach, as it should be.
I looked over my shoulder at my administrative clerk. She was pretty flipped out. She’d recover. The governor would recover, too.
“He can leave a number. I’ll call him back.”