IX
My arraignment hearing is set for ten o’clock in a fifteenth-floor courtroom at the old Post Office Square courthouse, with Superior Court justice Christina McArdle presiding. Christy McArdle and I are not old friends, but we have had enough friendly encounters over the years that, if we run into one another at a party or a political event we automatically exchange a brief hug and air kiss. There will be no air kisses today.
After being transported in handcuffs and leg irons from the jail to a small lockup cell just off the courtroom, I am escorted by two court officers to the defendant’s box just in time for the proceedings to begin. Christy looks over to where I stand, still in irons and an orange jumpsuit I was issued at the jail. She nods without any further expression, as does a young man who approaches me tentatively after stepping through a little half-gate in the partition that divides the business end of the courtrooms from the spectators’ seating. I see that this man is wearing a cheap brown suit and has wispy shoulder-length brown hair pulled back in a ponytail. This man must be the attorney that Wade Gannon has “found” for me.
My case is called and I look around to see if there are any other familiar faces in the courtroom. If pressed I might be able to recognize or identify a couple of the lawyers who are milling around the partition gate, but they look quickly away to avoid my scan. Diana is not present, to my relief. Nor is Crocker Talbot or anyone else I would likely call a colleague from the Transcript. There is a woman named Flooker from the Herald who I recognize as the by-line from the story I read about myself earlier this morning. There is a guy sitting next to her writing in a reporter’s notebook, and his face is reminiscent of one I have seen in recent months as I passed through the Transcript city room. This guy, when he gets back to the building this afternoon to write his story, will enjoy the biggest audience of colleagues he has ever had in his life. I remain poker-faced: no need to give away any material gratuitously.
In a distant back corner of the courtroom, a woman is sitting behind a larger person and thus largely obscured from the view of others including myself. I recognize the presence of a friend. Amy Tuckerman looks smaller than life from my vantage point, and she is shying away from direct eye contact with me. To use the lingo that she sometimes affects with people who didn’t know her at Concord Academy or Smith, she is not exactly fronting for me. But she is there, and I am grateful for that. It cannot be easy for her.
“Daisy Hamill for the Commonwealth, Your Honor,” says a tiny, well-groomed woman as she steps to the attorney’s podium and adjust the microphone downward.
“Kevin Judkins representing the defendant, Your Honor,” says the ponytailed fellow. He has yet to actually speak to me, but now he steps sideways over in my direction, as if he is trying not to get caught, and whispers: “Mr. Branford, do you want to plead innocent for now?”
“Of course,” I whisper back to him as I wonder what the hell “for now” is supposed to mean. Obviously I am going to plead innocent and either the Commonwealth is going to come to its senses or we are going to trial. Gnawing away at me somewhere beneath the surface of these judicial interactions is a growing anxiety that, if I am not going to be represented by Wade Gannon, this mess could cost me a great deal of money.
“Ms. Hamill, what’s this all about?” asks Christy.
That’s the question I wish somebody would ask me. Not that I could answer it comprehensively, but I am sure my take on it would be different from Ms. Hamill’s.
“Your Honor, I am afraid to say that the Commonwealth has just begun to file charges in this case. On the 112 counts of larceny over that we have filed to date, we will show that Mr. Branford has stolen over six million dollars from his victims. The money has flowed directly through Mr. Branford’s personal bank accounts and off into various directions for his personal use and gain. We are still harvesting additional leads and we anticipate we will bring additional charges prior to a trial.”
“Mr. Judkins, is your analysis of the evidence such that you anticipate a triable case for the defense?”
“The discovery process is incomplete, Your Honor. We are prepared today to enter a plea of not guilty on each count,” says the Ponytail.
“But?”
“But we don’t want to get too far ahead of ourselves at this point in time.”
Jesus. What other way is there to read what he has just said, other than that my attorney is begging for a plea bargain on my behalf?
He is not going to be my attorney for long. As soon as he gets me released I am going to be on the phone.
“Ms. Hamill?”
“Yes, Your Honor?”
“Do you anticipate any other kinds of charges being filed against this defendant?”
I look up and across the room towards Amy Tuckerman. She averts her gaze and looks out the window to her right.
“Quite possibly, Your Honor. We are investigating several leads that may involve the distribution of certain drugs and of pornography, including child pornography, and including other pornography that depicts, well, it involves animals, Your Honor, animals and women together, but until we are sure that we will want to bring these issues to trial we do not wish to tarnish this defendant’s good reputation by bringing such explosive charges.”
I look over at the two reporters. They have just died and gone to heaven. They are scribbling furiously in their narrow little spiral pads, both of them with gleams of totally professional excitement in their eyes.
Thanks a lot for your care and concern for my reputation, Madame Counselor.
“Mr. Branford?”
I try to take a step forward in the defendant’s box, but my leg irons will allow me only half a step.
“Yes, Your Honor?”
“This officer is going to hand you a statement of the charges that have been filed against you. So far. The charges that have been filed against you so far. Then I am going to ask you if you understand the charges against you, and then I am going to ask you to state your plea, whether you believe you are guilty or not guilty, on each charge. Is that process clear to you, Mr. Branford?”
“Yes, Your Honor,” I answer with just a tiny bit too much of a resigned sigh. Christy shoots a sharp look back at me over the tops of her stylish eyewear, which she slides down the bridge of her nose just a fraction of an inch for effect.
“Mr. Branford.”
“Yes, Your Honor?”
“Let me apologize to you personally on behalf of the Court if you find this process tedious.” One of the court officers standing near me stifles a snicker. “But we honor these conventions and rules of procedure not only to protect the rights of victims, but also to protect your rights, or the rights of any defendant who might appear before us at any time on any charge, no matter how heinous the charge.”
I am not exactly sure what Christy McArdle is running for, but I could survive without the civics lesson.
“Regardless of what may have been printed in the newspapers about you, Mr. Branford, this Court will treat you as innocent until such time as you are proven guilty. And found guilty.”
It is I who is the wordsmith, not her, and I realize that I cannot hold her to my own standards for verbal precision, yet I would be lying if I did not acknowledge that I am annoyed by the sloppiness of her statement. But regardless of my annoyance, I suspect that she is going to continue with her platitudes until I somehow acknowledge the wonderful lessons she is sharing with me, so I oblige her.
“Yes, Your Honor, I understand.”
“Officer?”
He approaches her, she hands him a document that he passes over to me, and I quickly scan it. It is all form and very little substance, eight stapled pages that repeat the same line, essentially, over and over. My heartbeat quickens, but I look up brightly like a good student who has finished a classroom assignment ahead of his fourth-grade classmates and now follows the teacher’s instruction to fold his hands on his desk and look up at the teacher.
“Mr. Branford, have you finished reading the Commonwealth’s charges against you?”
“Yes, Your Honor.”
“And you understand what the document says.”
“Yes, Your Honor.”
Christy and the bailiff then walk me through the tedious process of entering a plea of not guilty to each of the 112 counts. It feels like a form of punishment in and of itself. My mind wanders to an image of O.J. at his arraignment and I wonder if I should go for effect as he did: “Absolutely, one hundred per cent not guilty.” No, but I do make a special effort not to mumble, as if enunciating extra clearly will somehow be dispositive as to my innocence.
When I am finished proclaiming my innocence, Christy proceeds:
“Ms. Hamill, what are the Commonwealth’s thoughts on bail?”
“Your Honor, the Commonwealth is concerned both about the possibility of flight and of the defendant’s potential for future endangerment, either to others or to himself. The Defendant by virtue of his past work possesses a global network of contacts, friends, and colleagues or former colleagues who could potentially provide access or safe harbor if he attempts to flee this jurisdiction. Moreover, his work in the newspaper business has given him nearly infinite access to the normally private identity information of other citizens. He may well have harvested and used such information in the commission of the crimes with which he stands charged, and in the future he could use it both to commit further crimes of the same type and/or to create a false identity and documentation to facilitate travel and flight from this community. By most standards he is an affluent man. The money needed for flight poses no difficult for him. He would have little difficulty raising any bail amount this Court might set, and he would likely be right back out on the street preying on other innocent citizens.”
“What amount do you recommend, Ms. Hamill?”
“Your Honor, the Commonwealth recommends that Mr. Branford be held without bail.”
I look over to my ponytailed defender, expecting to see him charging toward the bench to protest this outrage. He stands perfectly still, his lips pursed, his hands set in the air before him as if in an attitude of judicial prayer.
“Counselor?”
As dismayed as I am by the absence of urgent protest, I am even more concerned to note that Christy apparently has already forgotten my attorney’s name.
“Your Honor, the Defendant’s access to funds and to information is not as my sister suggests. He has recently become estranged from his family and from some former friends, and he no longer has access to his computers at home or at work, or to his electronic tools as a newspaperman.”
With a defense attorney like this, who needs a prosecutor? He obviously did not get any of this information from me, but he is using it to portray me as a pariah, which will of course become a kind of self-fulfilling prophecy, poisoning public opinion against me, if it continues.
“And?”
“The Defense submits that personal recognizance is allowed frequently in a white-collar case such as this, but if the Court deems it appropriate to set a bail amount, we would suggest five thousand cash and fifty surety.”
Finally he has said something that conceivably could actually help me, even if his lack of passion in my defense is palpable.
Ms. Hamill takes a step forward and clears her throat.
“Daisy?”
I am momentarily suspicious that Christy and Daisy are in a women’s reading group together out in Lexington or Lincoln, and that they meet Tuesday evening with four or five others to sip wine or hot water and lemon and dissect the latest works of Annie Proulx, Anita Shreve, and Isabel Allende.
“Your Honor, counselor’s reference to these crimes as ‘white-collar’ requires a response from the Commonwealth. Too often the notion that some crimes are ‘white-collar’ is used as a code to suggest special treatment for the criminal because he appears to have more in common with those of us who come to work each day in the halls of justice, whether as attorneys, judges, or even journalists. Justice is seldom served by such distinctions of color, nor are they particularly meaningful when so-called white-collar criminals like Mr. Branford can hijack the identities of good men and women like a thief in the night and destroy their lives and their financial security with the same hideous remorselessness that one might associate with an addict who knocks down a drug store for an Oxycontin fix. The Commonwealth merely suggests that this Court maintain a single standard of justice and pay no attention to the color of a defendant’s collar nor to any other real or imaginary issue of pigmentation.”
Jesus, she’s good. She could probably make it as a Transcript editorial writer if the law does not pan out, and I hear there may be a slot opening up.
“Mr., uh, Mr. Jenkins?”
“Kevin Judkins, Your Honor.”
“Just so. Mr. Judkins?”
“I thank my sister for her eloquence. The fact remains that Mr. Branford is a first time offender.”
I can no longer hold my tongue. As soon as I open my mouth I know it is a mistake, but in my powerlessness and my abject sense that I am totally alone, without any defender, I am unable to stop myself from speaking out.”
“Alleged offender,” I blurt out.
In the corner of my field of vision I notice that Amy Tuckerman is shaking her head, the same exasperated headshaking I observed yesterday when I offered her food from across the cafeteria. Was it yesterday or a year ago? The two nearest court officers move silently nearer me and take a position a foot or so away as if awaiting orders to pummel me if I let out another peep.
“Mr. Branford, if I have a question for you I will ask you directly. Otherwise the Court would appreciate your kind indulgence in allowing us to proceed with our business without further eruptions. Rest assured that this court is well versed in the doctrine that you or any other defendant is to be presumed innocent unless proven guilty. But also be aware that, contrary to popular opinion, this doctrine is not absolute. It is incumbent upon this Court to balance and temper the doctrine of the presumption of innocence with an abiding concern for the public safety, for the operational requirements of the judicial system, and even for your own personal safety as an individual human being.
“Yes, Your Honor.”
“Zip it, Mr. Branford.” Suddenly Christy is Judge Judy and I am a young punk.
“The Court will set a bail of one hundred thousand dollars cash, one million surety, and the Defendant is remanded—“
I am totally out of control, at least by my personal standards:
“I’m innocent! It’s just a frame-up, a stupid mistake!” I call out. The person of whom I most remind myself right now is Lee Harvey Oswald, hollering out “I’m just a patsy,” as the Dallas police trotted him out before the news media during the initial questioning. I have no prospects now, I realize, for making bail. The two court officers are in my face, gripping me very firmly and painfully by the upper arms.
“Shut up, asshole,” says one of the cops under his breath. He is trying to help me. Suddenly there are a dozen court officers in the courtroom, as if they have multiplied spontaneously. All but a couple have shaved heads.
“Mr. Branford,” says Christy, “in a moment I am going to repeat my bail and remand order without interruption. However, if I do experience any interruption, I am simply going to go along with the prosecutor’s recommendation that I deny bail altogether, and I will also consider the possibility of a separate contempt finding, which would have the effect of either holding you without bail or, if you are already being held, of deny you any jail credit for time served from your eventual sentence, in the event you are convicted and sentenced to a prison term. I am not going to ask you now if I am making myself clear, Mr. Branford, because I don’t want to risk any possible confusion about whether or not I wish to hear you speak again.
“Now, Mr. Branford, before I repeat my bail and remand order, I have a little something I would like for you to hear. I clipped it out of the newspaper a long time ago and every year I tape a fresh copy of it inside the front cover of my new year’s calendar book so that it is there for me to see every single day. Here’s what it says, Mr. Branford:
“The Simpson case has turned the tables on the expectations that we, as citizens, have formed about the American judicial system. Few of us, frankly, would be very surprised at the mere fact of a rich defendant going free in spite of considerably evidence of his guilt. Such outcomes seldom provoke a widespread sense of public outrage, beyond the friends and loved ones of a crime’s victims. What distinguishes the Simpson’s case is the color of the rich defendant’s skin, and the fact that a rich black defendant stood accused of the brutal murders of a young white woman and a young white man.
“Now that rich black defendant has been acquitted, and the good white people of this nation appear to be united in their outrage. But perhaps we should all take a step back and reflect on these circumstances. It is at best unseemly to maintain our silence when rich white defendants unjustly walk free, and then to turn around and rail against the outcome when the rich defendant who can afford the Dream Team defense happens to be black. If it is justice for which we thirst rather than merely to perpetuate the injustices of race and class, those of us who find the Simpson outcome offensive may find that they would have greater moral authority with which to press their case if they were to begin by expressing and acting upon an equal sense of outrage against the far more frequent phenomenon of rich white defendants getting coddling and special treatment in our courts.”
Touché and Bon point, Christy. My own words from an op-ed column that I write almost a decade ago are being used to illustrate to me why I cannot expect any consideration today for my protests that I am wrongly accused. Christy speaks again:
“Bail is set at one hundred thousand dollars cash, one million surety, and the Defendant is remanded to the custody of the Massachusetts Department of Corrections.”
I catch another glimpse of Amy as I am being perp-walked shuffling in my leg irons out of the courtroom. She is clear-eyed, but she blows me a kiss. Jeesh, I think, were you born yesterday, Tuckerman?
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