Normal day in the court room. Man named Eric Crenshaw sits accused of battery in a drunken alleyway brawl. A violent man certainly but no more surprisingly different than most of the people coming in and out of the swinging doors at the back of the room every day. Always someone ready to go to court. File a complaint or motion. Needs a reason that in turn initiates the need for me tapping it all down.
I’m pretty sure the DA was the first to notice the man gearing up. His distraction while directing a writ request to the judge was enough to distract me. A glance at DA lead my glance over to the defendant. His leg was jittering under the desk overtime. His anger unrelenting. I missed typing the last line the judge right before the man charged her desk. The bailiff, even standing right beside the man, whiffed on Eric as he dashed by. I was to the backdoor almost as quickly as anyone but not fast enough to disappear before the judge, Judge LouAnn Clarence, pulled a snub nosed .38 from underneath robe and stuck in directly in line with the defendants face.
“I can see that nothing leading up to this moment has made an impact,” the judge stands up from her chair, cocked her neck to the right, and pulled the trigger.
Eric, a hardened man that has four previous accountants of some type of violent act, let out a squeal like a female pig as he fell backwards onto the floor. The courtroom feel dead silent. The attention first aimed at the perp, startled but uninjured. A moment later, to the judge, Judge Clarence, water still dripping out her water gun. A smile worn from ear to ear.
“Let’s go with maximum, twenty years, and mister Crenshaw,” the defendant slowly picked himself off the ground, ego still left on the floor, “this moment will be played every Friday night after chow time.” The judge glanced over to her cameraman who responded with a thumbs up to confirm that the incident was documented for posterity. Or lack thereof.
The room kept their attention on mister Crenshaw as the bailiff locked up him up and hauled him out the back door, past me as I held open the door.
“Reporter, what was the last statement?”
Shit, I missed the last thing she said. Afraid I’m going to get the gun next.
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