My name is Lawrence Alacriter and I've been on the Circuit Court bench for nearly twenty-five years. The criminal defense bar says that I never lost my middle linebacker mentality and calls me "Crazy Larry." The prosecutors think of me as "one of them." My attitude is that the State had better prove its case or the defendant walks. On the other hand, if a defendant wants to put everyone through a trial and loses, then I have absolutely no hesitation in throwing the book at him.

    You should also know that I don't put up with any crap from lawyers. They are the ones who try to get away with murder, if a judge will let them.

    It was no surprise to me when Kane wound up representing Jack Hunt. Hunt was one of those guys who could have made it in the business world if he wanted to. It wasn't for him. He preferred being a con man. His rap sheet was as long as War and Peace.

    When one of his partners became a problem for him, Hunt not only killed the guy in cold blood, but also murdered the guy's wife and two little kids. In his confession, which I unfortunately had to exclude as evidence because the police screwed up, Hunt mentioned casually that the wife and kids got it because he was "really pissed" at his partner. What a guy.

    So here's Arthur Kane and a couple of his young radical assistants handling the Hunt case. His ilk all use the same trial strategy: get the Judge to lose control and make mistakes, so they can win a new trial on appeal if the jury comes back against them. It's very effective. Throughout the trial, I had to resist my natural impulse to scream at them. I was the very model of judicial restraint. It was not easy, because they really pushed me, but I did it.

    We got through the trial with Kane objecting to every ruling I made and demanding a mistrial every five minutes. Now we're just waiting for the jury to come back. I can hardly wait.

* * *

    "Gentlemen," I said, addressing the lawyers, "it's nearly five o'clock. The jury doesn't seem to be on the verge of a verdict, so I'm inclined to adjourn for the day."

    Just as I'd gotten those words out of my mouth, the bailiff comes up to me and hands me a note. It's a given that the note will either say that the jury has reached a verdict or that they have a question. I always hate it when they have a question. So do the lawyers. The jury's not supposed to have questions. It probably means that they think the Judge and the lawyers haven't done a good job explaining things to them.

    I opened the note.

    "It appears that I spoke too soon," I said. I stared down at Hunt. I couldn't wait to pronounce sentence on that cold-blooded monster. Hunt looked up at me like he didn't care. Something in his cold, steel blue eyes made me believe that he didn't care. "We have a verdict," I announced.

    The bailiff brought the jury in. The jury members must have been anxious to get done with this case. They were in their seats within two minutes. I couldn't blame them. I felt the same way.

    Everybody thinks they know how to read a jury. No one can. That's the beauty of the system. Most of the time, the plain folks on the jury ignore all of the lawyers' carrying on and pay little attention to the Judge's recitation of the law to be applied in the case. They just do what's right.

    I wish now that I'd paid more attention to Hunt rummaging through the briefcase of one of his lawyers. I still don't know whose briefcase it was, Kane's or one of the longhairs that work with him. Would anything have been different if I'd realized that somehow a gun got smuggled into my courtroom? Who knows? My first inclination was to blame Kane, but he's one of those liberals who wants to prevent everyone from bearing arms, so I'm sure it was pulled off by Hunt and not his lawyers. Hunt is one clever guy.

    What really happened is that I got distracted by the foreperson of the jury (please note my political correctness), a beautiful civil engineer named Kathleen O'Toole. Her looks had distracted me throughout the trial. She could've been a model. She has long red hair, big green eyes and the most perfect little chin cleft in the world; she’s like something right off the cover of Cosmopolitan. I kept thinking about how I would contact her after the trial was over and I discharged the jury. But even that beautiful face with a body to match couldn't prevent me from enjoying the sweat on Hunt's well-tanned face and blow-dried hair. Sometimes the lights in the courtroom reflected off Hunt's fingernails. I hate it when men polish their fingernails.

    In my not so humble opinion, there's something really wrong with our system when the best-dressed guy in court is the defendant. What a contrast the defendant was to his lawyer, the tall, thin, aging radical with a rumpled suit and wild hair that was more salt than pepper in color.

    Hunt was beginning to tremble as he stood next to his lawyers.

    "Guilty as to count one of the indictment," Kathleen O'Toole read. "Guilty as to count two of the indictment," she added. And so she continued through the remaining murder and related charges against Hunt.

    Kane charged toward the bench. "I want the jury polled," he demanded.

    I pointed my finger at him. "Get back in your place, Mr. Kane. I'll poll the jury when you act like an officer of the court."

    Kane stalked back to the defense table. Each juror confirmed that the verdict was his or hers. Kane was glaring at the jurors over his half-glasses as they took turns saying, "That is my verdict."

    "We move for a judgment of acquittal. This verdict is a joke," Kane screamed and flailed his arms like a baby bird making its first attempts at flight.

    That was it. He had pushed me too far. I knew the trial was effectively over, so my internal restraint system wasn't working very well. "Well done, Mr. Kane. Number one, you're in contempt of court; number two, your motion is denied, with leave to argue it again on the grounds of incompetence of defense counsel; and, number three, the least you could do is behave in a civil manner." Pretty well said, I thought to myself.

    His face was bright red. He was leaning on both hands as he stood behind the defense table. "I demand that you disqualify yourself," he said.

    I focused on the dandruff on his dark-blue suit jacket. "You move, you don't demand, of this Court, Counselor," I replied.

    "You want me to be civil? Okay, I realize your Honor hasn't been on the criminal side of the court that long. Let's try the civil counterpart to my earlier motion for acquittal. The Defendant moves for judgment n. o. v., also known as judgment non obstante veredicto. That's judgment notwithstanding the verdict, Your Honor."

    The way he said “your honor” was dripping with disrespect.

    "That's better, Mr. Kane," I said. I raised my voice and spoke slowly. "Coming from you, it probably stands for nail other victims, which is what your client wants to be able to do. Your motion is denied." I was on a roll.

    "You better not deny my motion," a new voice said. I looked away from Kane. His client, Hunt, was speaking now. He was pointing a gun at me. I'm not really the gun nut that people say I am. However, I was familiar with the nine-millimeter, Sig Sauer P228 aimed at me. Familiar enough to know that it had a thirteen shot magazine. I didn't like my odds. That gun was a very cold blue.

    "Take it easy, Mr. Hunt," I tried. I held my hands up in front of me with my palms toward him, not so much in surrender as I was trying to calm him. "That's not going to accomplish anything."

    "The hell it won't," he said.

    "What are you doing?" Kane screamed at him. "Are you crazy?"

    Personally, I thought a man with Kane's gift for impromptu speech could do much better with a line to his client. He may not have had this happen before, but he's supposed to be a big-time trial lawyer.

    The gun was still pointed at me. Under the circumstances, there's not much a Circuit Judge can do about the situation. I knew that I couldn't count on my bailiff, who was seventy-four years old. He was unarmed and fairly hard of hearing. To tell the truth, I couldn't be sure he knew what was going on. He often slept through trials. His job was a reward for fifty years of service to the Democratic Party.

    "Order them to let me go," Hunt said. He was waving the gun around, although it never strayed too far from my general direction.

    I watched as my court reporter, Janie Delling, a charming and capable woman in her early thirties, backed away from her position immediately in front of my bench. When Hunt saw what she was doing, the gun moved in her direction.

    "Don't move or I'll kill you," he shouted.

    For a moment, Janie was unable to utter a sound. She froze in her place, in a very awkward position. If someone had walked into the courtroom at that moment, they would have witnessed a bizarre tableau. It might have been called Courtroom Under Siege. So much for art commentary.

    A moment later, the ability to speak returned to Janie Delling. I say the ability to speak, but more correctly, it was the ability to scream. Out came the loudest, most frightening, bloodcurdling scream anyone has ever heard. Where were the horror film talent scouts when Janie was performing? Everyone, including the gun wielding Mr. Hunt, was paralyzed by Janie's outburst.

    That gave me the opportunity I needed. Before you join those who call me Crazy Larry or think I'm a gun nut, I want to point out that it can be very dangerous to be a Judge these days. That's why I carry a gun when I'm on the bench. Plenty of judges carry guns. Anyway, I stood up, gathered up the fabric of my too-long robe, and reached back for my holster.

    I don't like to be outdone when it comes to firepower. With almost no delay, thanks to a lot of practice, I had my Glock 20 pistol aimed at Hunt. My gun has fifteen rounds in the magazine and uses ten-millimeter ammunition. I also carry an extra magazine with me. No sense being out-gunned.

    I held my gun with both hands and assumed the shooter's position. "Drop it or you're dead, Hunt," I said. That was the best line I could come up with. I really wanted to say something Clint Eastwood might say, but I didn't feel it was right for a Judge to steal lines.

    "I've got nothing to lose, Judge," Hunt said. His gun was trained on me again.

    "Please, Jack," Kane pleaded. We can win this on appeal. Give it up. Hand me the gun."

    "No chance, Mr. Kane. If you couldn't get me off, nobody can. You tried your best and I've got no beef with you." He turned to me. "What's it gonna be, Judge?"

    I had the feeling he was going to start using Clint Eastwood lines. I carefully thought about what to say. The temptation to tell him that I felt lucky today was almost overwhelming. I resisted the urge. "I can't let you leave. I won't let you leave," I said.

    "Have it your way, Judge," he said.

    I saw his arm and hands tense. He was going to pull the trigger! I wasn't sure I could get a shot off first, so I dropped behind the bench.

    A single shot rang out. I considered a memo to the Chief Judge about courthouse security, but this wasn't the time. I stayed down.

    The next sound in the courtroom was Janie Delling's encore. As frightening as her first scream was, this one out-did it. In a movie theater, when one person screams, everyone else starts screaming. The same thing happened in my courtroom.

    Curiosity overcame personal safety and I care  fully pulled myself up and looked out over the bench. Jack Hunt was on the floor, bleeding from a chest wound. Arthur Kane was kneeling next to him, his hand on Hunt's shoulder.

    Kathleen O'Toole stood with a revolver at her side. I didn't even look to see what make and model it was. I looked over at her. She looked back at me. She was trembling.

    "Thank you," I said, still unable to come up with a single good line.

    "We can't let a gun set aside a verdict, " she said. "Only a court can do that. This is America, Jack."

    The only good line in the whole case and it's the jury foreperson who comes out with it. She is beautiful, I thought to myself. I think I will ask her out. She is a bit young for me. Still, it's obvious that she's a nineties woman; she carries a Lady Smith in her purse.

    I could take her to a target range. Nah. Dinner. Yeah, dinner would be better. I'm not that crazy.

Contact the Author -kuvasz@attbi.com