Ringer by Brian M Wiprud Page B

in wire-rim glasses and pinstripe suits marched toward us, briefcases in full swing, a flash of blond hair just visible behind them. Court officers pushed our crowd apart, and the lawyers marched into the courtroom, Purity a half step behind them, and then three harried legal assistants a half step behind her.
    Purity was smaller than I thought she would be, or maybe she just looked smaller because she had her head down and shoulders folded in, as though she hoped to vanish into her trench coat entirely like a snail into its shell. Remarkably, she was proportioned very much like Dixie, which is not to take anything away from either woman.
    Our crowd of reporters folded in behind Purity’s gang. Skip put his arm around my shoulder and greeted the court officer by name as I flashed his ID. He guided me to the spectators’ gallery, fifth row.
    It was pretty much like on TV—that is to say that the doors were closed, the session was called to order. A slim blond judge seated herself behind a placard that bore her name: CAROLYN GEHMAN . She tapped her gavel and said something to the prosecutor—it was hard to hear in that room as there were many hard surfaces and a high ceiling. The prosecutor stood and said that a deal had been worked out so that Purity would accept a guilty plea to a list of violations such as public nudity and disorderly conduct rather than a felony conviction for theft of the horse. Judge Gehman looked over her glasses at the defense table and asked them if the arrangement was correct. They said yes, but with about two dozen words, most of which meant nothing to me. I guess when you’re being paid what that legal team was being paid, the client didn’t get his money’s worth if the lawyers simply said “yes.”
    Judge Gehman’s eyes shifted to Purity, rested there a moment, and then drooped to a document on the bench. “Will the defendant please rise.”
    Purity stood, letting the trench coat fall to her chair. The pros had been at work on her, and the pigtails had been combined into a contrite French braid. The makeup was slight, and she wore a gray skirt suit with a white blouse. Her eyes were on the floor.
    “Will the defendant please look the judge in the eye.”
    Purity looked up, and there was no defiance, simply the eyes of a girl who was in trouble. I couldn’t tell by looking if it was an act.
    “Purity Grant, I don’t have to review your record aloud, do I?” The judge held the thick document up for everybody to see.
    “No, ma’am.”
    “And this doesn’t even contain your juvie record. You’re getting a little old to be rebelling like this. There’s a clear and continuing pattern of misdemeanors and petty crimes, none with any apparent malice except the disregard you show for the efforts the police have to expend parenting you. I’m seriously tempted to say no to this arrangement, send this to the grand jury for indictment on felony charges, and throw the book at you.”
    One of Purity’s lawyers stepped forward, finger raised. I can’t even come close to repeating what the lawyer said, because like before, the words were expensive. The gist of it was that Purity had been diagnosed with ADD, and that various documents submitted on the defendant’s behalf showed that Purity had had problems with the dosage and adverse reactions, and that the doctors were busy trying to adjust her medications in order to alleviate some of the symptoms, which apparently included stealing horses and riding through Central Park topless. He finished by saying that inasmuch as Purity clearly did not mean to steal the horse and sell it for gain, this was more or less a prank that a person with a disorder might commit, so the violation arrangement was more fitting with the crime.
    Judge Gehman’s eyes were dull over her glasses.
    “If I had a buck for every kid who stands before me because of ADD medications I’d be retired. Got anything else?”
    The lawyer took a deep breath and launched into