Page 87 of Malaise
Maybe a little distance isn’t such a bad thing after all.
***
The public seating in the courtroom is next to empty. There are five other people here aside from Tanya and me, and they’re what I assume to be the family or friends of the people who’ve stood before the judge prior to Carver.
The time we were given was for the general court session, not his judgment specifically. I’ve listened to the judge hand out decisions on drunk drivers, repeat offenders for minor things such as tagging and fine evasion, and even the grilling he gave a man regarding domestic violence before he sent him off to remand without bail.
All of our futures hang in the balance with a man who may or may not have had enough coffee this morning. It’s his decision, and that’s final.
I’ve lost interest in the goings-on by the seventh person, and stare down at my hands as I pick at the nail polish Tanya gave me before we came to try and kill time. She glances over and smacks my hand as the court officer stands to announce Carver.
This is it. I’ve never been more anxious in my life. My ears hurt from the pressure of my elevated pulse, my head pounds, and my legs feel like cement. I could vomit. I feel so damn sick, so nervous, and so helpless to what happens next.
The door to the right of the judge opens, and everything fades around me as Carver walks in. He’s still in the clothes they arrested him in, obviously never given a chance to change into what we handed over at least two hours ago. His head is down, his hands cuffed before him. Look at me. Just look up. He keeps his head bowed the whole way to where he is supposed to stand, even as the officer guides him around so he faces the judge and his back is to us. Why didn’t you look up?
Tanya’s hand finds mine and we sit like statues as they go through the motions before the decision is handed down. This is it. The judge pauses to look Carver over head to toe. Crunch time.
The charges are read, the situation explained as though none of us have already heard it, or replayed it, a thousand times. The whole time Carver refuses to look at anyone, even when the judge states his final decision.
“Given your prior conviction, and the danger you represent as a flight risk with your violence when being taken into custody on both occasions, I have decided against bail in this instance. You will be transferred to a remand facility to await trail.” He slams the gavel down, and my stomach hits the floor. “Dismissed.”
Look at me! I scoot forward on my uncomfortable-as-fuck wooden seat and grip the back of the vacant chair in front of me. He shuffles to the right, lifting his arm slightly so the court officer can grab his elbow, and heads back to the holding cells.
No. I slump, certain he’s hell-bent on avoiding us, and almost miss him twist in the officer’s hold to look back over his shoulder. The jerky way he moves, the fact he leaves it to the last second—it’s as though he battled within himself not to do it.
Our eyes meet, for the briefest of seconds.
So much is said.
I’m sorry.
I’ve let you down.
I understand.
His lips stay downturned at the corners, and he swallows when I give a weak smile. Carver’s eyes drop to the floor as the officer gives him a jerk to keep moving, and that’s when I know it.
He’s not going to fight the charges.
He’s going to plead guilty.