POSTED: The Home

                                       (Signed: RealEyesRealizeRealLiez = Leah )

Leah - Chapter 1

“All rise!”

Like an army of soldiers following the commanding officer’s order, every person that had filed into the mahogany-finished courtroom rose to their feet, myself included, and waited for the judge to make his grand appearance. Aside from the creaking of the floorboards that move in time with each orange-clad woman shifting the weight on her anxious feet and the ticking of seconds going by on the antique clock, the oversized room is silent. Eerily silent.  

The last thing I want to do right now is make a spectacle of myself by looking around, especially considering the friendly reminder that my court-appointed lawyer had given me, but as the saying goes, curiosity killed the cat. My large, chocolate brown eyes scan over the shape of each and every woman, strategically seated in the rows ahead of me. Looking to the row across the main aisle to see at least two other females that, like me, must be deemed “volatile threats to society” judging by the chain around their waists to secure their handcuffs to the matching set of cuffs on their ankles, I silently wonder what exactly they did to land themselves in restraints identical to mine.

My eyes’ wandering was stopped abruptly when the ornate door that leads to the judge’s chamber opened. The silhouette of a large, uniformed man cut off the light, which streamed through the door’s opening. He wears a stern look as he takes in all the faces of the room before he steps aside and takes his post next to the door. His face is familiar to me, as is one of the guards I’ve dealt with more than once during my stay in the adjoined prison. Let’s just say I’m on a first name basis with a few guards. In a stark contrast to the burly size of his predecessor, the judge steps through the doorway dwarfed by the room’s size. The petite, white-haired man who wears a friendly, even grandfatherly expression, though he can’t be more than his mid-fifties moves swiftly up the three steps to his podium. The vibe he puts off is one of authority, which leads me to believe this guy is going to be a hardass on all of us gathered today.

“Court is now in session,” the guard, who gave the command to stand up and pay attention earlier, began, “The Honorable Judge Walsh presiding.”

“You may be seated.” Walsh’s tone carried all the authority of his robe, and then some. I quickly realized in the time it took me to go from standing to parking my ass on the hard wooden bench that this may not be much of an easy, quick, in-and-out type of progress check proceedings I was hoping. With those four simple words strung together the bailiff called the name of the first defendant here for her review.

First was the reading of the charges, then her plea, followed by an absurdly boring rendition of Walsh reading her the riot act before laying down her sentence. A newbie to the system, from what I gather. That’s one going right back to the prison food and cell block. Damn. Without any hesitation, she was led through the door to the left of the room, which from my angle I can see leads back down the LED-lighted hallway of grey concrete cinderblocks, directly back to the transfer area of La Push County Correctional Facility. Victim ‘Numero Uno’, as my mind decided to name her, wasn’t even fully through the door with her lawyer before the next case number was called.

For more than an hour I allowed myself to space out, not paying any mind or attention to the many cases being heard while I, as well as the other VTS’s wait in our body shackles at the back of the room. Perhaps spacing out isn’t the appropriate description of the journey my mind had taken me on, though. Reflecting would be more of an apt descriptor, one that even Judge Walsh would approve of. Shit, my lawyer, which was pathetically assigned to help me out, would even be proud.

Over the past eighteen months of staring at the inside of my cell, with the exception of my counseling sessions twice a week, the phrase “reflect on your choices” was used more than I would like to think. It was sickening really, but the longer and the harder I fought against it, the more my reflective thoughts encroached. Just as they have done for uncounted months now, as I let my mind wander in an effort to pass the time until my case was called, my reflections took a hold of my mind and wouldn’t grant me release.

It was the loud, wood on wood, bang of the gavel followed by the judge calling out “The court will take a brief recess!” that finally blew a hole through the wall that had enveloped my mind and caused me to jump, sitting straight up in my seat fully alert as I looked around. With a heavy thud, my shackled feet fell to the floor after my lawyer kicked them from their propped position on the back of the bench in front of us and hauled me by my underarm to stand on my feet with him while Walsh made his exit.

“Jesus Christ, Cherney! You mind?” My tone clipped as I spun on my lawyer. Shaking my cuffed wrists in irritation and to prove a bit of a point, I continued, “They don’t body cuff just anyone. Clearly there’s a fucking reason I’m deemed unsafe, you asshat.”

“Ah, Ms. Clearwater. I’ve dealt with you long enough to know what I can get away with.” I watched my lawyer actually roll his eyes at me with his all-knowing smirk as he released his grip on my upper arm and gestured for me to walk past him out of the row. “Court’s in recess, Ms. Clearwater…”

“Leah.” I quickly corrected him. He claims to know what he can get away with after working with me for so long, and yet the moron can’t seem to get my name right.

“Fine. The court is in recess, Leah,” the tone of his voice almost brought me close to salivating. Almost. The velvety texture of his authority and knowledge of the situation made me feel like putty. “When Judge Walsh returns there are three cases left to be heard,” he continued to explain while carefully guiding me out of the courtroom to get a drink from the water fountain, “Your case could be the first or the last. I have no way of knowing. But just the same, we need to be prepared for your plea of guilty.”

“No contest, Ben. That’s my plea. No Contest.”

“We’ve already discussed this, Leah. If you plead no contest, you’re not getting out. At least by admitting guilt, you show that you acknowledge…”

“No.” If not for the chains holding my cuffed wrists in position, I would have folded my arms like the petulant child like whom I’m acting. The sigh and the way that Ben pressed his forefinger and thumb in to his eyes and rubbed told me just how unimpressed he is with me right now. But fuck it. This is my life, I know damn well what I did and more importantly, what I did not do; therefore, I will plead as I want. However, I know my time is ticking away before court is back in session and as it stands right now, I may just be going back in without a lawyer if I don’t at least pretend to play the game by his rules.

My options are simple: If I plead Guilty, I can either be locked back up which is not a fucking option in my mind, or I could be let go on ‘Time served’ with an extensive record to my name; or, if I plead No Contest, well, my options are most likely the same, but I won’t be admitting guilt to anything, just stating that I do not contest the charges against me. I’m not much of a gambler under normal circumstances, but I’ll say what I need to in order to get the hell out of prison and have my freedom back.

“I’ll plead Guilty if you swear to me that it gets me back on the fucking outside, Ben. Free. No bullshit.”

The victorious smile turned smirk Ben wears as he slides his hand off his face has me rolling my eyes this time. Arrogant bastard. “A guilty plea is your best option, Leah.”  Right on cue and before I had any time to ask further questions, the courtroom door swung open with a guard coming to announce one minute until the recess was over and court would resume. Ben guided me by the arm, far more gently and even gentlemanly this time, back through the doors and in to the room where my fate will linger in the balance of the next unknown amount of time. Minutes? An hour? Though I’m almost certain it can’t possibly take that long, I know it will feel like an eternity. But, then again, what’s one more hour after spending the past 13,140 in a prison cell for something I don’t really think was bad enough to warrant any time behind bars? This time Ben didn’t stop me and shove me in to one of the very back bench seats, but rather he directed me up to the front bench, directly behind the half-wall that separates the viewing area of the courtroom from where the defendants sit at the table before the judge.

“All rise!”

I involuntarily let out an audible groan at the announcement for us to, once again, stand after I’d just planted myself. It didn’t go unnoticed, both Ben and Judge Walsh shot me a look that told me of the inappropriateness of my protest. I could feel the heat build in my cheeks and the flesh of the inside of my lower lip give way to where I’ve chewed it raw enough to bleed. “Sorry,” was all that I managed to whisper to the still glaring attorney at my side.

“Court is now back in session. The honorable Judge Walsh will now hear Case Number 753401.” The court’s henchman, more commonly known as the bailiff, called everyone to wake up and pay attention then scanned the three faces of my fellow waiting defendants and me. His look screamed with annoyance as he announced the number again, “753401.”

Ben cleared his throat loudly beside me and gave a flick of his wrist to make the back of his hand connect with my elbow. “What the hell was that for?”  I questioned before I was able to place the weird feeling of being watched and it all made sense. The bailiff called out the number for a third and final time, clearly irritated, with his hand growing whiter from the force of his grip on the baton attached to his belt and I snapped straight. Blowing out a breath I didn’t realize I’d been holding I shuffled my way up the short distance of the main aisle and moved in to my position in the defendant’s chair with Ben taking his stance next to me.

“Ah, Ms. Clearwater, we meet again.” Every fiber in my body was waiting to flip Walsh off for his attempt at humor. Of course we are meeting again, the bastard is the one that sentenced me all those eighteen months ago and promised this progress check. It all clicked in my mind as to why he looked familiar upon entering the room earlier. “My apologies, for keeping you waiting, it will just be a few more moments.” The look of shock and disbelief was painfully plastered on my face. I can feel it.

My eyes swung to Ben’s face looking scrunched with his own confusion, frantically flipping through his folder of papers in front of him for some sort of explanation as to what was going on. This is apparently new to my lawyer, as well. A chorus of loud, rambunctious laughter broke the confused silence causing all people present in this courtroom to reel around and see a handful of bulky, over-muscled, casually dressed and armed men storm in through the large double doors and take a seat. One of them caught my eye but I quickly diverted my attention from him before he could recognize me. “I’m glad you could join us, gentleman. Please, take your seats. Court is already in session.” The authoritative, don’t fuck with me tone was back in full force as Judge Walsh spoke to the crew of newcomers.

I took the opportunity, while Walsh was reprimanding the men for their lack of respect for authority and the judicial process, to lean in to Ben’s side. “Who are they?”

“Ms. Clearwater, your questions, should you have any, are to be directed to the Court.” Shit. I swallowed the lump in my throat that had just formed with my acceptance of the fact that Judge Walsh is not in a forgiving mood today, and what that could very well mean for me.

“Your Honor, my client would like to enter a plea of…”

Walsh’s hand flew in to the air silencing Ben declaration, and it remained there for a second asserting him as the all-powerful. A moment of respectful silence later, Walsh calmly folded his fingers together and leaned forward speaking directly to me as he did so, even though his words targeted the man trying to fulfill his duties and represent me to the best of his ability. “Mr. Cherney, your client, Ms. Clearwater, is not on trial here. I’m not sure you’ve heard, but she has been incarcerated for the last eighteen months following her guilty plea, sir.” There was a quiet rumbling coming from the few gathered behind us in the gallery, one of whom I could hear quietly laughing, but my attention was squarely on Judge I Am The Law.

“Yes, Your Honor,” I could hear the figurative frog stuck firmly in Ben’s throat and in my mind, I picture him as a young boy hanging his head after being scolded by his mother. “I understand that, Your Honor.”

“Very well then, Mr. Cherney. Then you will kindly allow me to continue doing my job with no further interruptions. Now, Ms. Clearwater,” I could see his lips purse as he flipped to the correct page in front of him before continuing. “According to my notes here from the corrections officer, you have shown minimal improvement and a concerning lack of remorse for your chemical substance abuse.”

I opened my mouth to speak out my protest that the reporting officer has had it out to get me since the day I was sent in, but once again Walsh’s hand went up to silence any protests.

“Based on these reports, I’ve no choice to deem you unfit for society at this time. However, I do not feel another stay in incarceration is in order. Therefore, I am sentencing you to no less than two years at the La Push Home for Women, where your assigned parole officer will closely monitor you. You will submit to regular, random drug screening, and you will attend private counseling sessions with the court appointed counselor twice a week for the duration, also assigned to your case.” The quirk in his eyebrow as our eyes locked was a dare for me to open my mouth and protest. It was a dare I couldn’t pass up.

“A HOME?! You have got to be fucking kidding me!” A hand was tightly clasped over my mouth as another strong arm pulled me back tight against the solid rock of a body to which it belongs.

“We’ll take it. Thank you, Your Honor.” Ben’s voice was right above my ear. He was thanking the white-haired bastard? My body thrashed as best it could despite the body cuffs restricting my movements to minimal. As easily as if I weigh no more than a piece of paper, Ben picked my fighting frame up from the floor and carried me out of the courtroom, shushing next to my ear to calm me. “Easy there, tiger.” Our movement never stopped until Ben had thrown my ass in to yet another wooden bench, in another smaller courtroom, identical to the one in the courtroom I was just physically removed from.

My breathing comes out in ragged, labored breaths through my clench teeth. How the hell could this happen? Ben assured me it was one of two things, back to prison, or home free. There has never been the option for a halfway house. Never. A home is worse than thrown back in my cell. The tease of having freedom at the threshold of my door and not having the ability to bask in it is a worse fate than living in the cellblock. Ben crouched in front of me to be at my eye level and I have to remind myself not to attack him, at least not here, still so close to being locked away. The large door behind me opened and quickly closed, the room instantly filling with the sound of heavy footsteps and the jingling of metal.

“I’m able to release her from the restraints, if you feel your client is sedate enough to handle it, Mr. Cherney.”  Remaining still, apart from my eyes shooting a look from the corner of my eyes, I work to keep my breathing even. Ben nods his head and motions towards my cuffs before standing and stepping aside.

Taking his place a guard eyes me skeptically and makes slow, careful work of undoing all the metal locks, starting with my right ankle then my left, and moving with practiced movements to the cuffs at my wrists before finally removing the chain-link belt that has served to anchor them all to my body. A sigh of relief blows past my lips feeling the freedom of not being chained like a rabid dog, for the first time in far too long.

“Thank you.” My voice laced with the sincerity and gratitude I feel deep down. I turned in my seat watching the guard leave the room, whistling a tune on his departure. My hands took to rubbing at the red marks ringing my boney wrists. “You never said anything about the possibility of a halfway house, Ben.” Pushing myself to stand up, there is a physical weight lifted from me knowing that I am not going back to my 4x6 foot cell and wrought-iron bed. Stretching my limbs in a way I’ve not been allowed in too long, my feet begin pacing the floor of the main aisle.

“The La Push Home for Women will be a good fit for you, Leah. All you have to do is follow the Home rules, and cooperate with your parole officer and counselor. Then you’re home free. You’ll see that it’s a far less horrible fate than going back to prison.”

“Right. Cooperate with some steroid-driven, gun-slinging parole officer who thinks himself to be God, that’ll be just great!” My words dripped with sarcasm.

“Hey! Watch who you’re calling steroid-driven and gun-slinging and for your information, I don’t think myself to be God, but you’re welcome to think it of me if you wish.” I spun around recognizing the voice as soon as the first syllable was uttered. My breath hitched in my throat as soon as my eyes confirmed what my heart had already known. Standing just inside the door of this courtroom, grinning like a damn handsome as sin Cheshire cat was my new parole officer. This has got to be some kind of a joke.

“Quil…?”