eyes and I turned away, palms starting to sweat. I forced myself to mentally recite the main points from the Diaz and Lesley cases, the two best cases we’d found to argue that Walker wasn’t a flight risk. Walker's capital is invested in his business. He draws an income from his business. He does not have extraneous assets to live off of for an extended period of time. We have a sworn affidavit regarding his cash and securities; as riveting as they are, his wealth is not liquid. He is not in a position to run and hide away for years. In addition, he is pleading not guilty, vigorously opposing the charges against him. He wants to have his trial and clear his name.
He wants to have his trial and clear his name. We could do it — I felt sure that we could show that Blue Securities had a clean record and the irregularities the government was citing were not going to implicate Walker once explained — as long as we had the time. I just needed enough time to prove him fully innocent.
The bailiff opened the court door. We filed in silently. David looked like he was going to burst with energy; Walker looked tall, pale and resigned. My palms were still sweating and my breath was coming quickly, but it was good — it was as if all of a sudden, the adrenaline coursing through me had turned from poison to a magic potion, sharpening my senses and clearing my mind. Walker was in front of me and I wanted to touch him, squeeze his hand, something, to let him know that it was going to be all right. No matter what happened. But I couldn’t touch him; I couldn’t risk it. We sat in the row behind the tables as the other attorneys, plaintiffs and defendants came in. I caught sight of Marnie Edmonds’s carefully highlighted hair, pulled back into a low ponytail. She was sitting across the aisle again, wielding an enormous brown legal file.
This was probably the one place in the world where it was absolutely quiet. No one was chatting. Everyone was looking at papers or studying their hands. No one was talking or texting on their cell phone. I flipped through the bullet-points in my notebook, highlighting things that had been highlighted already five times. The court stenographer silently set up her computer while Judge Alvarez’s clerk organized files on his desk, placing a glass of water down precisely. I idly wondered how she could breathe outside in the ninety-degree heat with those pantyhose on, and immediately remembered that I had more pressing things to think about.
“We have a full docket this afternoon,” the clerk said, stepping over to her desk and grabbing a clipboard. “First is Sweeney, then Walker, then Ramsey. After that, Judge Alvarez will take a half-hour break. We should go pretty quickly through the rest of the docket after that.” There were some whispers and murmuring then, but they stopped as soon as she looked back up at us. “I will remind you that cell phones must be turned off, and members of the press, no internet activity or photography. The rest of you, if you need to get online, use the Court’s password: Justice4all. That’s the numeral four,” she said, and tension swirled through me. I bit my lip. I believed in what I did. I believed that the system worked, most of the time.
I just hoped I still believed it after this hearing.
“All rise,” boomed the bailiff, and in strode Judge Michael Alvarez, U.S. District Court Judge. He was a small man, thin and wiry, with peppery hair and no smile. He sat, and the bailiff told us we could, too. The procedure was as solemn as church, but I never had a stomachache from a mixture of fear and adrenaline in church before, on the rare occasions that Richie dragged me.
“What’ve we got?” Judge Alvarez asked the clerk.
“Sweeney. Entering a plea bargain,” she said, and so it began.
I watched Alvarez. He was efficient, to the point, and did not make small talk. I didn’t see him smile until Mr. Sweeney was finished hearing the deal he’d made
He wants to have his trial and clear his name. We could do it — I felt sure that we could show that Blue Securities had a clean record and the irregularities the government was citing were not going to implicate Walker once explained — as long as we had the time. I just needed enough time to prove him fully innocent.
The bailiff opened the court door. We filed in silently. David looked like he was going to burst with energy; Walker looked tall, pale and resigned. My palms were still sweating and my breath was coming quickly, but it was good — it was as if all of a sudden, the adrenaline coursing through me had turned from poison to a magic potion, sharpening my senses and clearing my mind. Walker was in front of me and I wanted to touch him, squeeze his hand, something, to let him know that it was going to be all right. No matter what happened. But I couldn’t touch him; I couldn’t risk it. We sat in the row behind the tables as the other attorneys, plaintiffs and defendants came in. I caught sight of Marnie Edmonds’s carefully highlighted hair, pulled back into a low ponytail. She was sitting across the aisle again, wielding an enormous brown legal file.
This was probably the one place in the world where it was absolutely quiet. No one was chatting. Everyone was looking at papers or studying their hands. No one was talking or texting on their cell phone. I flipped through the bullet-points in my notebook, highlighting things that had been highlighted already five times. The court stenographer silently set up her computer while Judge Alvarez’s clerk organized files on his desk, placing a glass of water down precisely. I idly wondered how she could breathe outside in the ninety-degree heat with those pantyhose on, and immediately remembered that I had more pressing things to think about.
“We have a full docket this afternoon,” the clerk said, stepping over to her desk and grabbing a clipboard. “First is Sweeney, then Walker, then Ramsey. After that, Judge Alvarez will take a half-hour break. We should go pretty quickly through the rest of the docket after that.” There were some whispers and murmuring then, but they stopped as soon as she looked back up at us. “I will remind you that cell phones must be turned off, and members of the press, no internet activity or photography. The rest of you, if you need to get online, use the Court’s password: Justice4all. That’s the numeral four,” she said, and tension swirled through me. I bit my lip. I believed in what I did. I believed that the system worked, most of the time.
I just hoped I still believed it after this hearing.
“All rise,” boomed the bailiff, and in strode Judge Michael Alvarez, U.S. District Court Judge. He was a small man, thin and wiry, with peppery hair and no smile. He sat, and the bailiff told us we could, too. The procedure was as solemn as church, but I never had a stomachache from a mixture of fear and adrenaline in church before, on the rare occasions that Richie dragged me.
“What’ve we got?” Judge Alvarez asked the clerk.
“Sweeney. Entering a plea bargain,” she said, and so it began.
I watched Alvarez. He was efficient, to the point, and did not make small talk. I didn’t see him smile until Mr. Sweeney was finished hearing the deal he’d made
Similar Books
