The Dark Shield

“All rise!” the clerk commanded. “Supreme Court, Part Thirteen, is now in session. The Honorable Judge Manuel Lopez Ramos presiding.” Ramos entered quietly, ignoring the spectators and armada of reporters who filled his large courtroom. Ambling to the bench and up its three steps, he slipped his tall frame into his leather chair and casually opened a black looseleaf book. Flipping a few pages, he finally announced, “You may be seated.” Turning towards the clerk, he said, “Okay, Eddie, let’s go.” “On the sentencing calender,” the clerk announced, “People versus Antonio Del Pedro.” “Both sides ready to proceed?” Ramos impatiently asked. The question was required at all sentencings; in this case the answer was obvious. Since the day the jury delivered its verdict, each side had anxiously awaited this moment - the prosecution gleefully, the defense fearfully. “Ready, Your Honor,” both sides answered simultaneously. “People,” Ramos growled, taking his first glance at the prosecution’s table, “anything to say before I pronounce sentence?” Until now, Ramos hadn’t noticed Thomas Heany, the District Attorney, seated next to the Assistant District Attorney who had successfully tried the case. Tommy’s grandstanding for the press, Ramos thought. He hasn’t tried a case - much less been in a courtroom - for over a decade. Now he’s here taking all the bows - as if he was the only prosecutor to ever convict Tony Del Pedro. At least that’s what he’d like the public to believe! “Yes, Your Honor,” the D.A. exclaimed as he jumped from his seat. Leaving the trial prosecutor behind, he gave the reporters a friendly wink as he proudly strutted to the podium. “May it please the Court,” he announced as he smiled garishly at the press. “As Your Honor is aware, after a trial by a jury of his peers, I have convicted the defendant of each and every count of the indictment. All felonies! All involving extremely large amounts of cocaine! Cocaine! The curse that’s plagued our society, our youth, our safety, our very American way of life! Your Honor, as you know, I have dedicated my career to defending justice and . . . .” Oh, God, Ramos thought, he’s on his soapbox. Anytime he smells a headline he’s as shameless as a dog in heat. Three terms as District Attorney, and still a political prostitute. If he wasn’t from my party, I’d shut him up. Instead, I have to look as if I’m interested. The D.A. rambled on for a full forty minutes. Little of what he said was relevant, and most was redundant. Finally satisfied that he had exhausted every opportunity to utter any imaginable self-serving sound-bite, he gathered his notes and pranced proudly back to his seat. Ramos turned to the defense table and barked, “Does counsel for the defendant wish to be heard? If you’re so inclined,” he added, “you may address any relevant issue raised by the prosecution,” he added. “But,” he warned, “it’s not necessary.” “Yes, Your Honor,” Francis McKeefe, the defense attorney, uttered softly. Unlike the D.A., there were no other lawyers at his side - only his client, Tony Del Pedro, dispassionately sitting handcuffed in his bright orange jail garb. Behind him stood two burly court officers, and a half-dozen more were within striking distance. As McKeefe pushed back his chair, it dragged on the tile floor with a loud, shrilling screech. Nervous, and now embarrassed by his awkwardness, he sheepishly approached the podium, then held it so tightly his knuckles turned white. “May it please the Court,” he began, his voice subdued. Unlike the prosecution, he had no notes. He knew this was neither the time nor place to be verbose - no matter what he said, he’d be finished before he started. After a nervous cough, he delivered a brief yet passionate statement. In response, all Ramos gave was silence and an emotionless, blank stare. It wasn’t until the remarks seemed near conclusion did he move ever so slightly. "Your Honor, in closing, I believe that mercy, fundamental fairness, and our rule of justice under the law, the foundation of all that we do in these sacred halls, cry out to you on my client’s behalf, beseeching you to sentence him on each count to periods of incarceration that are reasonable, concurrent, and not consecutive. . . . I thank you for your time and patience. . . . Your Honor, I apologize if I was perhaps a little emotional. But, please Judge, take that as how sincerely and strongly I believe in everything I have said. Thank you, Your Honor." A long, pregnant pause followed. All eyes turned toward Ramos. It was his turn to speak, yet he wasn't saying a word. He just sat there, completely motionless, his face stoic and indifferent. Either he had been totally entranced by McKeefe’s remarks, or totally bored. The next few minutes would supply the answer, and the next few decades of Tony Del Pedro's life hung in the balance. Anxious to hear every word, the hushed crowd leaned forward. Suddenly, the silence was broken as Ramos came alive, lashing at his microphone and pulling it closer. Feedback squelched throughout the courtroom, its loud shrill visibly jolting most of the apprehensive audience. His voice just above a whisper, Ramos said crisply, “The defendant will rise.” It wasn’t a request, it was an order, its ominous tone an unmistakable foreboding of what would follow. For sure, Del Pedro was bound for some upstate maximum security prison so far north there were only two seasons: July and winter. The only question was how long, but more than likely Del Pedro’s parole officer was yet to be born. Ramos’ sentences were so severe it was said he made criminals disappear, earning him the nickname “Manuel the Magician.” This morning, Ramos’ reputation, coupled with his tone of voice, told everyone that another trick was coming. Slowly standing, Del Pedro defiantly riveted his eyes on Ramos, their message clear: You can take away my freedom, but not my pride. Smirking slightly, he was daring Ramos to try. Returning the challenge, Ramos looked him straight in the eyes. The two stared at each other silently, patiently, and most of all, contemptuously. For what seemed like a full minute but was less than half, neither so much as blinked. Finally, a strange look came across Ramos’ face. Not a smile nor a sneer, it was somewhere in the middle: cheerful, yet simultaneously sinister, eerie, and evil. No one in the courtroom dared utter a word. Ramos’ voice hissed across the courtroom, "Does the defendant have anything to say before the Court pronounces sentence?" No one was surprised by Ramos’ question - it was also required. The law’s self-righteous quest to at least appear fair and, perhaps, even merciful demanded that, in the statute’s words, the sentencing judge "afford the defendant an opportunity to be heard and to make a statement." The question had rolled off Ramos’ lips easily and unemotionally, as if it were rote, nothing more than an inconsequential line in a script, a question he might have asked countless times before. And he had. Each time he had asked it, his voice projected what everyone knew: He’s only asking because he has to. In fact, whenever he asked the question, he could be thrown off the bench for saying what went through his mind: You may have the right to be heard - but I don't have to listen. It didn’t matter whether a defendant spoke or not; no words, tears or pleas would change the result. Long before the sentencing date, even before the jury delivered its verdict, Ramos would craft what he considered the appropriate punishment. After his first few sentences, lawyers quickly recognized his system: Anyone who refused to cop a plea and went to trial automatically got the absolute maximum - some even more. Del Pedro stood mute. He knew he was about to be sent away for a long, long time, no matter what he said. So was using his only remaining weapon: silent but contempt