On a sharp, clear Monday in mid-January, fifteen weeks after the rain-soaked morning of my arrival, I returned to Courtroom Three to call my first full calendar.
The winter sun cut through the tall clerestory windows, casting long, clean rectangles of pale yellow light across the oak parquet. The defense counsel table had been stripped and refinished, the green blotter replaced with fresh leather, and the condenser microphone polished to a bright, unbroken brass. In the hallway outside, the floor where my briefcase had spilled was immaculate, the granite reflecting the overhead lights like still water.
At seven-fifty, I stood in the inner vestibule of private chambers, buttoning the high collar of my blouse. The left wrist still held a dull ache when the humidity dropped, but the brace was gone, leaving only two thin, silvered lines across the skin where the metal had cut through. I reached into my bag, took out a new pair of tortoiseshell reading glasses, and slipped them into the inner breast pocket of my robe beside my leather credential case.
The service door clicked open. Bailiff Carl Henderson stood in the opening, his uniform immaculate, his white hair combed back with the same military precision he had kept for thirty years. He looked at me, his weathered face softening into a quiet, respectful nod that carried no pity, no awkwardness, and no hesitation.
“The calendar is printed, Judge Vance,” Henderson said, his hand resting on the polished brass knob. “Forty-two matters on the morning call. Public defenders and the state are seated at counsel table. The room is ready when you are. ”
“Thank you, Carl,” I said.
I stepped through the door and ascended the three oak steps to the high bench. Below me, Marsha Diaz looked up from her screen, her hands poised above the keys, the emerald diode of the recording system glowing steady and clean on the console. At the defense table, two young attorneys rose to their feet, their papers rustling in the quiet air of the vaulted room.
I sat in the high-backed leather chair beneath the state seal, adjusted my glasses, and placed both hands flat against the polished oak blotter. The surface was cool, solid, and immovable beneath my palms.
I picked up the maple gavel, held it steady for a fraction of a second above the block, and brought it down with a single, sharp stroke that filled every corner of the room.
“Court is in session,” I said.
FINAL THANK-YOU NOTE
Thank you for making room for these pages today.