“I want my objection on the record.”

“Fine. On the record. But this is my courtroom, and I will run it as I see fit. Mr. Pickens will not be treated like a common street thug.”

“Justice is supposed to be blind, Your Honor.”

“Blind but not stupid,” the judge responded. Then she looked directly at me. “And not without some feeling.”

“Thank you, Your Honor,” I managed to say.

She studied my face for long seconds before speaking. “How did you come by that black eye, Mr. Pickens?”

My fingers moved of their own accord, touching the swollen purple flesh beneath my left eye. “Nothing serious, Your Honor. A disagreement with another inmate. Earlier this morning.”

“Bailiff?” She turned her eyes on the bailiff.

He cleared his throat. “One of the prisoners was trying to intimidate him, Your Honor. But just verbally. Mr. Pickens started it.”

“That’s not the entire story, Your Honor.”

She looked back down at me. “Would you like to elaborate?”

“It’s not important.” I thought of the inmate across the pod. Although I’d never represented him, I’d seen him in and around court for years. He was a drug addict and a wife beater. He’d come straight for me as soon as the cell doors opened and we lined up for breakfast.

The judge, however, continued to hold my eyes, and it was clear that she wanted an answer, so I shrugged. “He wanted my orange juice, Your Honor.”

She turned her hawkish eyes on the district attorney. “You assured me this man would be kept out of the general population,” she said, and looking at her intent features, I realized something. She had signed the arrest warrant. She felt responsible.

“I did, Your Honor. I cannot control events inside the jail.”

Again her eyes found mine; they moved over my face, and in them I saw a profound sadness.

“Very well,” she said. “That will do.”

We returned to our respective places and the proceeding continued. The judge advised me of the charges against me, first-degree murder, and informed me of my right to an attorney.

“Do you wish to have an attorney to represent you, Mr. Pickens?”

“No, Your Honor.” At my words, a ripple moved through the lawyers assembled behind me, and I had another revelation. They wanted the case, each one of them; it would be a high-profile one, with lots of press. Television interviews, newspaper, radio-even a loss would make a reputation for the attorney who represented me. A victory and the attorney might succeed Ezra himself. “I intend to represent myself,” I said. The last thing I wanted was another person prying for a truth better left uncovered.

“Sign the waiver,” I was told. A bailiff handed me the form wherein I waived my right to court-appointed counsel. This was a mere formality. Only the indigent qualified for state-sponsored lawyers. I signed the form and the bailiff passed it up.

Now we came to the crux of the matter. Normally, this would have concluded a defendant’s first appearance. Later, he would face a probable-cause hearing, wherein the state carried the burden of convincing a judge that sufficient probable cause existed to bind the defendant over to superior court, there to stand trial for whatever felony charge he faced. Once past probable cause, a person could request bail, but all of this took time. And there was one significant problem, and I knew of only one way around it.

“Your Honor,” I said. “I move for an expedited bail hearing.”

Douglas surged to his feet. “I object, Your Honor. I most strenuously object.”

“Sit down,” the judge said, exasperation clear on her withered features. “Of course you object.” She turned her attention to me, laced her fingers, and leaned into her words. “This is very unusual, Mr. Pickens. You know that as well as I. There are procedures to be followed. Steps. We’ll need to have the probable-cause hearing. Your case will have to be bound over to superior court.” She paused, as if embarrassed by her lecture. Clearly she was puzzled.

“I waive probable cause,” I said, and my words generated a windstorm of conversation among the lawyers seated behind me. The judge leaned back, as surprised as the rest. No defense attorney going to trial waives probable cause. The state has to show its case at the probable-cause hearing. Not all of it, necessarily, but the broad strokes. It’s a perfect opportunity to probe for strengths and weaknesses. Beyond that, there is also the possibility that the judge will find insufficient probable cause and dismiss the charges. I knew this, of course, but I knew something else, as well. Douglas would object to any local judge hearing the matter. Too much bias, he’d claim. The judge would have to recuse. Another judge would be brought in, someone from out of county. And that would take time, time in jail, time behind bars. It could be days.

Gradually, the buzz of conversation faded and the courtroom settled again into near-perfect silence.

“Are you aware of the ramifications of your request?” the judge asked, rustling beneath her robes. “The probable-cause hearing is one of the cornerstones of procedural due process. I am loath to proceed at this point, Mr. Pickens. I fear that your judgment may be clouded.”

I focused on a point beyond the judge and looked neither right nor left as I spoke. “Shall I renew my motion, Your Honor?”

She sighed, and her words descended into the courtroom as if weighted down with regret. “Very well, Mr. Pickens. Let the record show that the defendant has waived his right to a hearing on probable cause and moves this Court for an expedited bail hearing.” She raised her voice as Douglas came to his feet. “A motion that this Court is inclined to grant.”

“I object,” Douglas almost shouted.

The judge settled back into her chair and waved a narrow hand. “Approach,” she commanded. “Both of you.” At the bench, she looked down on us with the stern disapproval of a schoolmistress and used the same parchment hand to cover the microphone. Douglas opened his mouth to speak, but she rode him down with iron-shod words. “What is the problem here, Douglas? You’ve arrested him, charged him, and brought him before this Court. Do you honestly think that he’s a flight risk?… No? Neither do I. Now, I’ve seen your evidence, and between us, it’s got holes in it. But that’s your bailiwick, not mine. What’s mine is this decision.” She looked pointedly at my face, and I felt her eyes linger on the injuries. “You intend to rebut these charges, do you not, Mr. Pickens?”

“I do.”

“And you intend to do so in court. Is that not also true?”

“Yes.”

“So you’ll be here.”

“I wouldn’t miss it,” I said.

“There, Douglas,” the judge said. “He wouldn’t miss it.” I thought I heard teeth grind. “Now, we are off the record and speaking in private, and since I will not preside over the trial, I am going to say what I must.” She directed her next words at me. “I signed the warrant because I had no choice. On paper, probable cause to arrest did exist, and if I’d not signed it, some other judge would have.” She turned to the district attorney. “I don’t think he did it, Mr. DA, and if you quote me on that, I’ll deny it. But I’ve known this man for ten years, and I cannot believe he killed his father. I won’t. So you can stand up in this court and argue against bail. You can rant and rave. Your choice. But I’ll not have this man put back into the general population. That’s my discretion. My prerogative.”

I looked at Douglas, whose calcified features barely moved as he spoke. “It will stink of favoritism, Your Honor.”

“I’m sixty-nine years old, and have no plans to run for reelection. Do you think I give a damn? Now, step back. Both of you.”

My feet carried me back to the defense table, where I sat down. I risked a glance at Douglas, who was red-faced and studiously ignoring Detective Mills.