This is the story of a man whom the Angel of Death has decided would die in six months, although he is not ill. Death announces this to the man to see what he will do. The story opens with our hero, who is a lawyer, in court with a defendant who is about to be sentenced.
Copyright 2011 Michael E. Henderson, all rights reserved. Return to:
Henderson's The Literary Man
Works in Progress
“Will the defendant please rise?” said the judge, about to pass sentence on a burglar. They rose, Margold the lawyer and William the defendant. Margold touched the defense table with his fingertips, his arms straight down in front of him. This was a habit he learned early in his 25-year career to keep himself steady at moments like this, and to hide the shaking of his hands from fear or, more precisely, stage fright, before he had gotten used to standing in front of a judge with a client about to be sent to jail. Today he was not afraid because it did not make that much difference to him what happened, although he hoped for a good result for the client, mainly because he hated to lose. There had not been a trial. The defendant had come to a plea agreement with the State, there had been a pre-sentencing investigation, and now, today, the sentencing, with victim impact statements, and pleas and crying from the defendant’s mother, brother and friends. Margold James, the defense attorney, had put on what he termed a ‘dog and pony show,’ with all sorts of people parading in front of the judge begging for mercy for the poor, misguided defendant, who needed but one more chance. The State, on the other hand, had presented certain of the victims, and read letters to the judge from those of the victims who could not make it to court. Everybody, except for the judge, the prosecutor and Margold, were crying, or had cried, at some point in the proceeding. Margold checked his shoes—they were still dry. Any more tears, he thought, and I’ll have to take a canoe out of here. All he really wanted at this point was a nice big martini.
In the moment between the rising of the defendant and the passing of sentence, Margold looked around the room. The judge was a man in his 60’s, known for leniency. The prosecutor was a woman in her early 30’s, plain of face, uninteresting of figure, and dressed in a black pantsuit. Margold hated pant suits on women, particularly lawyers. It was his understanding that they were not allowed, or were at least frowned upon in court, but they all seemed to wear them. At least it wasn’t yellow.
The courtroom itself had once been nice and new, and built to look dignified and modern in its day, but now was shopworn and tired. The carpet was filthy, and the tables were older than Margold. The judge’s bench was so far from the counsel tables he might as well have been on another planet, and no doubt contributed to its black-robed occupant’s aloofness and air of superiority.
The defendant, a tall athletic college boy from a well-to-do but not rich family had burglarized several apartments. While in police custody, and without the benefit of counsel, he had had the wisdom to write out confessions to all of his crimes. He had been actually caught perpetrating only one. So, what Margold had accomplished on behalf of his client was reduction of a seventeen count indictment to one single little ol’ charge of first degree burglary. The potential problem for Margold, however, was that the boy and his family thought he would get off with a slap on the wrist and sent home to smoke weed and play with himself in the comfort of his upper middle class bedroom. The investigator for the pre-sentencing report had recommended probation, and had told the family that’s what he would get. Even the State thought nothing would happen to him, maybe some probation. Margold thought the same thing, really, but he tried to prepare the boy for the fact that what he had admitted to doing, and actually been caught doing, carried 25 years in the State Penitentiary, and that the judge could give him some or all of that. Society frowns on breaking into other people’s houses and taking their stuff.
The judge read the boy the riot act for a while, which Margold expected, while the prosecutor looked on with a smug grin on her face. Margold was thinking, yeah, yeah, yeah, we know what he did, all against the peace, dignity and government of the State—out with it. Finally, the judge pronounced sentence, giving him actual honest-to-God jail time. Take him away.
Holy shit, thought Margold, the son of a bitch is standing here with his pockets full of bullshit, he’s got a belt on, a cell phone, a wallet the size of a Volkswagen, and now I gotta stand here like a shmuck while he empties his pockets, takes off his belt, and take all this shit and give it to his now hysterical mother.
Copyright 2011 Michael E. Henderson, all rights reserved. Return to:
Henderson's The Literary Man
Works in Progress
Chapter 1
“Will the defendant please rise?” said the judge, about to pass sentence on a burglar. They rose, Margold the lawyer and William the defendant. Margold touched the defense table with his fingertips, his arms straight down in front of him. This was a habit he learned early in his 25-year career to keep himself steady at moments like this, and to hide the shaking of his hands from fear or, more precisely, stage fright, before he had gotten used to standing in front of a judge with a client about to be sent to jail. Today he was not afraid because it did not make that much difference to him what happened, although he hoped for a good result for the client, mainly because he hated to lose. There had not been a trial. The defendant had come to a plea agreement with the State, there had been a pre-sentencing investigation, and now, today, the sentencing, with victim impact statements, and pleas and crying from the defendant’s mother, brother and friends. Margold James, the defense attorney, had put on what he termed a ‘dog and pony show,’ with all sorts of people parading in front of the judge begging for mercy for the poor, misguided defendant, who needed but one more chance. The State, on the other hand, had presented certain of the victims, and read letters to the judge from those of the victims who could not make it to court. Everybody, except for the judge, the prosecutor and Margold, were crying, or had cried, at some point in the proceeding. Margold checked his shoes—they were still dry. Any more tears, he thought, and I’ll have to take a canoe out of here. All he really wanted at this point was a nice big martini.
In the moment between the rising of the defendant and the passing of sentence, Margold looked around the room. The judge was a man in his 60’s, known for leniency. The prosecutor was a woman in her early 30’s, plain of face, uninteresting of figure, and dressed in a black pantsuit. Margold hated pant suits on women, particularly lawyers. It was his understanding that they were not allowed, or were at least frowned upon in court, but they all seemed to wear them. At least it wasn’t yellow.
The courtroom itself had once been nice and new, and built to look dignified and modern in its day, but now was shopworn and tired. The carpet was filthy, and the tables were older than Margold. The judge’s bench was so far from the counsel tables he might as well have been on another planet, and no doubt contributed to its black-robed occupant’s aloofness and air of superiority.
The defendant, a tall athletic college boy from a well-to-do but not rich family had burglarized several apartments. While in police custody, and without the benefit of counsel, he had had the wisdom to write out confessions to all of his crimes. He had been actually caught perpetrating only one. So, what Margold had accomplished on behalf of his client was reduction of a seventeen count indictment to one single little ol’ charge of first degree burglary. The potential problem for Margold, however, was that the boy and his family thought he would get off with a slap on the wrist and sent home to smoke weed and play with himself in the comfort of his upper middle class bedroom. The investigator for the pre-sentencing report had recommended probation, and had told the family that’s what he would get. Even the State thought nothing would happen to him, maybe some probation. Margold thought the same thing, really, but he tried to prepare the boy for the fact that what he had admitted to doing, and actually been caught doing, carried 25 years in the State Penitentiary, and that the judge could give him some or all of that. Society frowns on breaking into other people’s houses and taking their stuff.
The judge read the boy the riot act for a while, which Margold expected, while the prosecutor looked on with a smug grin on her face. Margold was thinking, yeah, yeah, yeah, we know what he did, all against the peace, dignity and government of the State—out with it. Finally, the judge pronounced sentence, giving him actual honest-to-God jail time. Take him away.
Holy shit, thought Margold, the son of a bitch is standing here with his pockets full of bullshit, he’s got a belt on, a cell phone, a wallet the size of a Volkswagen, and now I gotta stand here like a shmuck while he empties his pockets, takes off his belt, and take all this shit and give it to his now hysterical mother.
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