Eventide (Plainsong #2)(42)

I have to sign something?

You need to commit yourself before we go into court.

She removed two sheets of paper from his file and turned the top sheet so they could both see it, then leaned over and began to read each section aloud, looking up at him frequently as she went through them. The Advisement Per Colorado Rule of Criminal Procedure, Rules Five and Eleven, Plea of Guilty stated his rights and the terms he would agree to in waiving his right to a trial, made sure that he understood the elements of the offense, that he was entering a guilty plea voluntarily, and that he wasn’t under the influence of drugs or alcohol.

Those are the terms, she said. If you understand the terms and agree to them, you sign it.

What’s that other paper you’ve got there?

Standard Conditions.

What’s that?

It’s a list of conditions you’ll be expected to adhere to while you’re on probation.

Like what?

She read through these aloud too. Sixteen conditions saying he would not violate any law or harass any prosecution witness, that he’d maintain a permanent residence, that he wouldn’t leave the state of Colorado without permission, that he’d get a job or at least try to get one, that he wouldn’t use alcohol to excess or other dangerous drug.

I don’t have to sign that?

No, there’s nothing here to sign. This is simply for your information, so you can make an informed decision. You only have to know about it and understand it.

Okay.

Then you’re ready to sign this form of Advisement?

If it gets me out of here, I’ll sign anything.

No. Now wait a minute, she said. You’re not signing just anything. You have to understand exactly what you’re signing.

I understand that. Give me your pen.

You’re sure.

You want me to sign this thing, don’t you.

That’s entirely up to you.

You going to let me use that pen or not? I don’t have one of my own. They’re afraid I’m going to stab somebody.

She handed him the pen and he looked at her and then ducked his head over the paper and printed and signed his name on the two lines and wrote the date beside them. There you go, he said. He pushed the paper across the table.

She took up both sheets of paper and put them in his folder.

What am I suppose to do now?

You wait with the sheriff’s deputy in the courtroom until you’re called.

She rose from the table and took her stack of case files under her arm and went out the door. He watched her leave, looking at her skirt and legs. The deputy waiting outside in the hallway came in, accompanied by the second inmate, and put the cuffs on Hoyt’s wrists again and walked the two of them down the wide corridor to the courtroom to wait for their cases to come up. The second inmate wore shackles on his ankles in addition to his handcuffs, and shuffled along slowly.

There were several people in the courtroom already, sitting and talking. The deputy led Hoyt and the other inmate to a bench near the back, and they sat and watched as more people entered and filed into the rows of benches.

After a while Hoyt leaned toward the sheriff’s deputy. I got to take a piss, he said.

How come you never thought of that earlier?

I never had any reason to think of it earlier.

Get up then, the deputy said. Let’s go. You too, he said to the other inmate. Before they get this thing started.

How come I got to go?

Because I said so. I ain’t about to leave you here.

They went out into the corridor past the lawyers talking to clients and past other people standing in groups below the tall narrow windows. They went down the wooden stairway to the main floor, the other inmate turning sideways taking one step at a time, then the deputy led them into the public rest room behind the staircase. Try not to piss yourself, he said to Hoyt.

Ain’t you going to unzip me? Hoyt said. I know you been wanting to.

I wouldn’t touch you with a goddamn cow prod, you sorry son of a bitch.

You’re missing your chance here.

I’m going to tell you something, Raines. Not everybody in Holt County thinks you’re real cute.

There’s some that do. Some of these women I could name.

Nobody I know of.

You don’t know the right ones.

That must be it. Now hurry the f*ck up there.

The other man used the urinal too and they went back upstairs to the courtroom and sat down and waited. The D.A. came in and the young red-haired public defender took her place opposite him at the table in front of the benches where some of the other lawyers were already seated. The bailiff came in and checked the thermostat, tapping the little cage with his finger and peering at it before he sat down. Finally the clerk entered from a side door and called: All rise, and the judge came in, a short heavy dark-haired man in a black robe, and everybody stood until he was seated behind his high desk, then the clerk said: Be seated, and the judge called the first case.

Hoyt’s case came about an hour later. He sat beside the sheriff’s deputy, barely able to stay awake, while various Holt County defendants rose as their names were called and stood at the lectern between the lawyers’ tables and listened to the judge. A boy came forward and the judge motioned for him to take his cap off. The boy removed his cap. The judge asked him if he had acquired auto insurance since the last time he’d appeared in court. The boy said he had and held up a paper. All right, you can go, the judge said. A woman in jeans and a pink shirt was next and her lawyer rose beside her and told the court that one of the causes of her current stress was in custody in Greeley now and that she herself was ready to go to jail today at five o’clock. The judge sentenced the woman to seven days in the county jail and ordered that she abstain from alcohol for two years and informed her that she was to serve one year of supervised probation and do forty-eight hours of public service. When he finished speaking the woman turned and went out into the hall with two girlfriends. Her face had turned red and she had already begun to cry. Her friends put their arms around her waist and whispered softly to her whatever encouragement they could think of.