Suspended Sentences Read Free Page A

Stanley stood up and addressed the bench.
    â€œYour honor, I don’t think anybody’s disputing the facts in this case. We seem to be caught up on a legal issue rather than a factual one. My client makes no secret of the fact that he had the gun on his truck seat as the officer testified. That its presence was not intended for felonious purpose is, in the eyes of the law, immaterial. We seem to be faced with a mandatory situation here, wherein the accused — even though our sympathies may go out to him wholeheartedly — appears to be uncompromisingly guilty in the eyes of the law. Even a suspended sentence in this case would brand my client a felon for the rest of his life and deprive him of vital constitutional rights, as you know.”
    Judge Berlin watched him suspiciously: apparently Stanley was only confirming the prosecution’s case. She said, “Are you defending the young man or simply throwing him on the mercy of the court, Mr. Dern?”
    â€œI’d like to defend him, your honor. I’d like to point out to the Court the provision of the state’s anti-gun-possession statute which specifically exempts from prosecution the honest citizen who, for purposes of self-protection or otherwise, elects to keep a gun — loaded or otherwise — on the premises of his own home or place of business.”
    â€œMr. Dern, I’m fully aware of that provision. I don’t see how it applies in this case.”
    â€œYour honor,” Stanley said quietly, “my client maintains, with perfectly good reason, that his Microbus is in fact his place of business.”
    There was a loud objection from prosecutor Ellenburgh but Judge Berlin had begun to laugh and Stanley knew by the tone of her laughter that he’d won.
    Deke Allen told me, some time later, after he’d had time to reflect on the experience, “I guess Justice is blind. But the rest of us sure as hell have to keep our eyes open, don’t we?”

HUNTING ACCIDENT
    â€œ Hunting Accident” is an exercise in wishful thinking: not the way things are but the way we sometimes would like them to be .
    When I arrived in the office Tuesday morning Cord’s wife was waiting for me. She didn’t rise from the chair. I’d heard the news on the car radio and her grief didn’t surprise me but it was mitigated by anger: she was in a rage.
    â€œI’m sorry, Mrs. Cord. I just heard.”
    Her lips kept working and she blinked at me but she held her tongue; perhaps she was afraid of what might come out. Her natural appearance was drab but normally she managed attractive contrivances. This morning there was no makeup. She sat with her shoulders rolled forward and her arms folded as if she had a severe abdominal pain. Now she snarled — a visible exposing of teeth — and afterward she remembered herself, tried an apologetic smile, gathered herself with an obvious effort of will. Her wrath had rendered her inarticulate.
    I tried to help. “I hope I haven’t kept you waiting. I didn’t expect —”
    â€œI want you to help me, Bill. I want you to go up there.”
    Her voice had lost its customary music; it was like a smoker’s morning voice — a deep hangover baritone. I stood at my desk unwilling to sit down. “Up where?”
    â€œThat place in Colorado. Whatever it’s called.”
    â€œYou’d like me to bring the body back? Of course.”
    â€œBill, I want you to find out who was responsible.” She spoke slowly with effort; the words fell from her with equal weight, like bricks. She said again, clenching a fist, “Responsible.”
    â€œThe radio said it was an accident.”
    She watched me with her injured eyes. It rattled me. I said lamely, “My work’s industrial security, Mrs. Cord. You seem to be asking me to investigate a homicide. It’s a little out of my —”
    â€œYou don’t like — you