Every courtroom has its own vibe. I learned that as a trial lawyer in Alabama, but it’s true everywhere. That vibe produces an atmosphere inside the courtroom, like an electrical charge in the air. Everyone in the gallery can almost smell it.
The judge is responsible, you understand. Whether the atmosphere in court is good or bad is determined by the person in charge. If the courtroom is relaxed and people are courteous to one another and to the public, the judge has set a standard for that behavior. On the other hand, if a court operates with a bailiff who’s a bully, and a docket that never starts on time, and a court reporter who’s surly to lawyers and snaps at witnesses? That’s the judge, too. Shit’s rolling downhill, staff is copycatting the judge’s attitude.
In most US courtrooms, all interested parties are in place before the judge arrives. The judge’s appearance is announced with pomp and ceremony. The bailiff shouts “All rise!” and people jump to their feet. That’s how it’s done.
But it’s not necessarily standard procedure in my courtroom. Not always. Sometimes, I like to be the first person to the party. Helps me get in the right headspace.
So when folks started drifting into court, taking their seats in the spectators’ gallery, I was already seated. In the big rolling chair at the raised wooden bench, I was suitably attired in my black robe zipped up and topped with a bright yellow scarf—my substitute for a man’s necktie.
Bullock County Courthouse has a huge courtroom, designed when it served a wide variety of purposes. Back in the day, there was a function in addition to upholding law and order by enforcing the criminal law and serving up justice in civil cases. Because the courtroom also provided entertainment to the masses. The public would turn out for jury trials to see the show. Jury trials are live theater, in which the script is written as the drama unfolds.
The defendant didn’t have a cheering section, no family willing to claim him, not that we’d seen at trial. But journalists had picked up on the sympathy for the childless murder victims and wanted to report on the sentencing to curiosity seekers inside and outside the courtroom.
The defense attorney, Bradley Tyler, was a member of the death penalty team in the Birmingham public defender’s office. He walked in with a stoop that was probably related to the weight of his occupation.
I called out to him. “Good morning, Mr. Tyler.”
He was startled to see that I already occupied my perch. Still clutching his briefcase, he took a step toward the bench. “Am I late, Your Honor?”
“Late? No! I’m early.”
That comment generated a chuckle from my bailiff, Ross Carr, who’d put up with my idiosyncrasies for almost six years.
“Mr. Tyler, you’re from out of town. You don’t know all my quirks.”
The lawyer set down the briefcase. “No, ma’am. But I appreciatethe restraint and professionalism you’ve shown in this case. I know it’s been a tough one. I understand why you’re held in such high regard. I’m familiar with your reputation. Before we tried this case in Bullock County, I asked around.”
First-class bullshitter. Trying to butter me up. Hopes I’ll show some mercy today. That will not happen.
That suspicious voice in my head was familiar. A symptom of the impostor syndrome I couldn’t shake. I was among the first Black women in the state to be elected to the circuit bench. And in law school at the University of Alabama, even though I ranked at the top of the class, it never felt like I got the respect I deserved. Yeah, I still suffered from self-doubt. The habit had a way of sticking with me.
I worked hard to conceal it. Particularly when the DA was in court.
Robert Reeves, district attorney for the 3rd Judicial Circuit of Alabama, walked in late. As he set his laptop on the prosecution counsel table, he didn’t apologize. Didn’t even meet my eye. I was debating whether to call him out for it.
My bailiff interrupted my thoughts. “You ready for me to bring the defendant in, Judge?”
I nodded, rising from my chair. Decided that the morning called for ceremony. “Ross, I’ll be in chambers. Let me know when everyone’s ready.”
A few minutes later, I walked back into court as Ross called out, “All rise! Circuit Court of Bullock County is now in session, Judge Mary Stone presiding.”
The public defender jumped to his feet. All of the people gathered in the gallery stood up. Even the DA waited for leave to sit down.
“Y’all be seated,” I said. “We’re here in the matter ofState v. Ferrell Gray,Case No. CR193878. The State appears by DistrictAttorney Robert Reeves. Defendant appears in person and by counsel Bradley Tyler.”
Two uniformed deputies sat within snatching distance of the defendant. I was glad to see it. Ferrell Gray was the kind of dude who could put a courtroom at risk.
I gave the folks in court a minute to get settled before I made my announcement.
“I received a letter from the defendant this morning. I have copies of the correspondence to share with the parties.”
When I picked up the folder containing the copies Luna had stapled together, my bailiff stepped up to take it from me. I signaled to him with a shake of my head as I descended from the bench. I didn’t need Ross’s assistance.
I personally hand-delivered the copies: one to the DA, one to the defense. I was glad to have an excuse to leave the bench. I prefer to move around the courtroom, like I did as a trial lawyer. Thinking on my feet was always my strong suit.
After the public defender skimmed the letter, he turned to his client, demanding in a stage whisper, “Did you write this?”
I leaned against the empty jury box, curious to learn Gray’s response, but he didn’t reply to his lawyer. He twisted in his seat and directed a question to me.
