Chapter 7

CHAPTER 7

A COURT-ORDERED ORDEAL

Holly

I usher Jack into the courtroom and get him seated at the defense table in the otherwise-empty courtroom. Then I straighten my suit jacket, check the knot at the nape of my neck to ensure no stray tendrils of hair have escaped, and sink into the seat beside him.

“Now what happens? Jack whispers worriedly.

I manage a weak smile. “Now you have an arraignment and we get Judge MacIntosh to see the idiocy of these charges. But first, I need a minute.”

I pat his arm reassuringly before I close my eyes and focus on my breathing. I need to deal with my white-hot rage at stupid Anderson and his stupid face and his stupid new name if I’m going to have any chance of making a cogent legal argument.

Breathing in, I accept my anger. Breathing out, I feel my anger. Breathing in, I hold my anger lightly. Breathing out, I release my anger.

Breathing in, my anger returns, flaring in my chest, when I hear Anderson’s stupid feet clomping up toward the well. Breathing out, my eyes pop open at the sound of his stupid voice greeting the judge’s courtroom deputy, who must have followed him into the room.

As Anderson settles in behind the table across the aisle, the judge’s deputy crosses over to greet me.

“Hiya, Holly.”

“Hi, Nate.” I smile.

“Any chance you and the ADA can work this out without the judge?” He gives me a hopeful look.

“Nope. The state has taken leave of his—its—senses.”

Nate huffs out a soft laugh. “I guess it was too much to expect you two to be able to play nice after all that’s happened, huh?”

I bristle as I feel Jack’s curious gaze on me, and I know he’s wondering what Nate’s talking about.

“I tried, Nate. Believe me. I tried.”

Nate pats my arm, an echo of the gesture of comfort I gave my client just moments ago. Then he heads to the front of the courtroom. The door behind the bench opens, and the judge sweeps into the room, his black robe fluttering behind him and the red bells affixed to his collar jingling.

Nate intones, “All rise. The Honorable Christian MacIntosh presiding.”

We pop to our feet as the judge takes his place on the bench. He peers down at us over the rims of his half-glasses.

“Be seated.”

We sit.

Nate hands the judge a folder. “First up is the State of Vermont versus Jack Henry Bell. Actually, it’s the only case on the arraignment docket today,” he says as an aside.

I’m gratified to see the judge’s eyebrows shoot up as he flips open the folder and scans the sheet. He closes the folder and gives Anderson a long look. “Do the honors, counselor.”

Anderson stands and smooths his tie over his chest. “Anders Wilson Carson for the State, Your Honor. The State charges that shortly before sunrise this morning, in Mistletoe Mountain, Vermont, Jack Henry Bell knowingly entered and remained on lands of another without legal authority or the consent of the landowner, specifically by entering the property located at 128 Lake Road under cover of darkness, in violation of Title 13, Vermont Statutes Annotated, Section 3705.”

Again with the cover of darkness. Then again, he does sleep with a nightlight.

“Do you understand the charges against you, Mr. Bell?”

I nudge him and we both stand.

“Uh, to be honest, not really.”

The judge narrows his eyes then says, “I’m not asking if you agree with them. Do you know what they mean?”

“Yes,” Jack says uncertainly.

Apparently satisfied, the judge turns to me. “Counsel, how does your client plead?”

“H. Evelyn Jolly for the defendant. Your Honor, Mr. Bell pleads not guilty.”

He turns toward his deputy. Nate already has the calendar pulled up on his computer, ready to assign a trial date.

I clear my throat. “Your Honor, if I may?”

He gives me a nod.

“Respectfully, the State has failed to establish the elements of unlawful trespass.”

At his table, Anderson clucks like a pissed-off hen. The judge and I both ignore him.

“In what way?”

“Section 3705(a) requires a no-trespassing notice, either verbal or a posted sign. As far as I know, the Swansons’ property has no such signage, and the officer’s affidavit doesn’t mention Mrs. Swanson asking Mr. Bell to leave.” I slide Anderson a gotcha grin.

He smirks right back at me. “While Ms. Jolly is correct about the requirements under Section 3705(a), she’s mistaken that it matters.”

Judge MacIntosh narrows his eyes. “How so?”

“Mr. Bell isn’t charged with trespass under section a. We’re charging him under section c.”

I squeeze my eyes closed and try to recall the subsection of the statute. But all I can come up with is entry into a building other than a residence, and that can’t be right. Frustrated, I shake my head and open my eyes.

Luckily, the judge is equally perplexed. He gestures for the deputy to hand him the laptop and pecks out a search one finger at a time. He studies the screen, then leans forward and reads it aloud. “The pertinent section provides, ‘A person who enters a building other than a residence, whose access is normally locked, whether or not the access is actually locked, or a residence in violation of an order of any court of competent jurisdiction in this State shall be imprisoned for not more than one year or fined not more than $500.00, or both.’”

He frowns at Anderson. “There’s no allegation the defendant entered a structure, locked or unlocked.”

“Agreed,” Anderson says entirely too cheerfully as he returns to his feet.

“Care to explain how this case fits into subsection c, counsel?”

“Happily. The structure Mr. Bell accessed was the little free library itself. While it was unlocked, Mrs. Swanson generally keeps it locked as is made clear from the placard on the box that reads ‘to choose a book, ring the bell.’ The bell in question is a doorbell camera that records activities at the box and sends the feed to her mobile phone.”

He rocks back on his heels with a satisfied expression.

“Your Honor,” I sputter, “respectfully, that is not how little free libraries are intended to operate. Mr. Bell was entitled to rely on social norms here, placard or no placard. And again, he didn’t take a book. He donated several. In light of?—”

The judge holds up a hand. “Save it for trial.”

“Seriously?” I blurt the word before I can catch myself.

He gives me a cautionary look. “Seriously.”

I glance over at Jack, who shakes his head in disbelief. I know exactly how he feels. I pat his shoulder in a show of support.

He grabs my hand and stage whispers, “A year in prison?”

“That is not going to happen,” I whisper back fiercely.

Nate leans over and points to the judge’s calendar. The judge nods.

“Mr. Bell, your trial is set for the third of January.”

Anderson and I nod in unison.

The judge asks, “What’s the State’s bail recommendation?”

“No bail, Your Honor.”

I turn toward Anderson and tilt my head like I must’ve misheard him. “No bail?”

He keeps his eyes on the judge when he responds. “The defendant is not a member of this community. His driver’s license, registration, and license plate indicate that he’s a resident of Florida. As the court is aware, Florida is a long way from Mistletoe Mountain, Vermont. We have no confidence that he would return for trial.”

I turn toward Jack. “Stand up.”

He stands.

“Mr. Bell, if released on bail, will you promise to return to stand trial in the new year?”

“Of course.”

He looks at me as he says this, and I jerk my head toward the bench.

He picks up the cue and addresses the court, “I will, Your Honor.”

“Where do you live, Mr. Bell?” the judge asks.

“I’m a nomad,” he tells the judge.

Anderson pops to his feet. “He’s homeless? He’s obviously a flight risk.”

I grit my teeth.

“I’m not homeless, Your Honor. I’m a traveler. I go where the spirit moves me.”

This has to be a nightmare. I dig my fingernails into my palms. He’s going to get himself thrown back in jail.

“Where is the spirit moving you next, Mr. Bell?” the judge asks from the bench.

“I’m on my way to Montreal.”

“A lovely city,” the judge decrees.

Anderson leans forward like he’s about to spring. “Your Honor, the defendant has just revealed his plan to flee the country.”

“He doesn’t want to flee the country, Anderson. He wants to go on a vacation.”

“Criminals don’t get to go on vacations, Holly.”

“I’ll have no more bickering,” the judge says. “Mr. Bell, the assistant district attorney is correct. You’ll have to wait until this matter’s been settled to visit our neighbors to the north. Mr. Bell will turn his passport over to the court and remain in town until a hearing can be had on this matter.”

“Your Honor,” I try again. “My client is entitled to a speedy trial.”

“This is speedy. You know this court has reduced hours during the holidays.”

“Your Honor, with all due respect, Mr. Bell’s constitutional rights trump holiday festivities.”

The judge looks aghast at this assertion.

Beside me, Jack clears his throat. “Your Honor, I don’t mind, uh, waiving my right to a fast trial or whatever. I wouldn’t want to interfere with the court’s plans.”

“See,” the judge says, as if this settles it.

I frown at my idiot client. “Surely Mr. Bell has plans of his own for the holidays. It’s really not fair to keep him here. For a month. In county lock-up.”

The corners of Judge MacIntosh’s mouth turn down and his eyes droop thinking about Jack Bell sitting in a cell while all of Mistletoe Mountain celebrates around him.

“You’re right. The court will remand him to your custody.”

It takes several seconds for this statement to sink in. When it does, I go wide eyed and gasp for breath. “Sidebar, Your Honor?”

“Approach.”

I turn to Jack and tell him to sit tight. Anderson uses the delay to race-walk to the bench ahead of me.

As soon as I catch up, I maneuver in front of him and whisper, “Your Honor, I live in a one-bedroom apartment. It would hardly be appropriate.”

The judge scoffs, “I’m remanding him to your custody, not to your loft.”

“I don’t understand, Your Honor.”

“Take him to the inn.” As I’m processing this idea, he adds, “You’ll also have to stay there, of course.”

“Your Honor, this is very unusual, and I?—”

“I was under the impression you don’t have plans for the holiday, Holly.” A faint smile crosses his lips.

It’s at this moment that I realize Christian MacIntosh, my sister Ivy’s godfather, a distant relative on my mom’s side, has been talking to my father. Or my father’s fiancée. Someone has shared my plan to hole up with my pile of books this holiday season.

“Uncle Chris, Please don’t do this. I don’t want to be at the inn for Christmas.”

“Is that your legal argument, Holly?”

“No, I’m throwing myself at the mercy of the court,” I counter.

“The inn is so festive this time of year,” he responds mercilessly.

Anderson just stands there with a stupid grin pasted on his stupid face.

“Does the state have a position on my order?” the judge asks.

“Your Honor, I think the county lock-up is sufficient,” Anderson says.

“The Court disagrees. You withdraw the no-bail argument or I remand the defendant into Ms. Jolly’s custody until trial.”

Anderson’s sugarplum-eating grin vanishes. If he agrees to bail, he’ll have to go back to the office and admit I outmaneuvered him. If he doesn’t, I’ll have to spend the month of December babysitting a hot, albeit scruffy, book lover in a winter wonderland of hell. I silently implore him with my eyes, but I already know what he’ll choose. He’s chosen it before. He picked his career over my happiness when we were a couple. Of course, he’ll do it now. And he does.

“Upon reflection, the state agrees with Your Honor’s order,” Anderson says.

I can’t pretend to be surprised. Looking at him now, it’s hard to believe I ever found his raw ambition attractive.

“Step back.” The judge shoos us away from the bench. Once we’re back at our respective tables, I give Jack a reassuring smile even though I feel slightly queasy.

“Is there anything else?” The judge’s tone makes clear the only correct answer is no.

“Yes, Your Honor,” Anderson says.

Of course there is.

He ignores my loud sigh and continues, “The district attorney’s office would like the court to order the contraband in the defendant’s car to be seized as evidence.”

“Contraband?” I whisper-hiss at my client. “Are there drugs in your car?”

“What?” He gives me a bewildered look. “No!”

“What contraband?” I demand.

“The books.”

“The books?” The judge and I both echo.

“May I approach?” Anderson asks.

The judge waves him forward. He hands me an inventory and a photograph and takes a copy of each up to the court. I study the photo. The tailgate of a red station wagon is raised, revealing two rows of boxes tidily packed full of books.

“Your Honor, even if Mr. Bell is ultimately found guilty of trespassing, which I am sure he won’t be, the books themselves are not contraband or illegal in any way.”

“They’re evidence of his criminal enterprise,” Anderson argues.

“Will you be serious for a minute, Anderson?” I snap, out of patience.

“The district attorney’s point, while strained, is not completely off the mark, Ms. Jolly.”

I take one look at Jack’s stricken expression and dig in my heels. I am not letting Anderson take these books. This is a hill I’ll die on.

“Noelle Winters,” I blurt.

“What about her?” The judge’s tone is curious.

“She can take possession of the books until Mr. Bell wins his trial.” I turn to Jack. “Noelle runs the Mistletoe Mountain Library. She’s a friend—and she’s engaged to my father. She’ll hold on to these for you.” I turn back to the judge. “If that’s satisfactory to the Court, of course.”

“It is. Now then, there’s a maple-glazed donut with my name on it,” the judge says. He gives us a nod and rises from the bench, his bells jangling. “Hope to see you all at the tree lighting,” he calls over his shoulder.