All Rise
FIRST EDITION Copyright © 2020 by Rosemarie Aquilina
Published by: Sabieha Press
This book is a work of fiction. Names characters, places, and all incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, dates, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental and beyond the intent of either the author or the publisher.
Cover Design and Interior Layout by Melissa Williams Design
woman ©2020 Utkamandarinka, Adobe Stock; court house ©2020 bluraz, Adobe Stock
Editing by Teresa Crumpton, AuthorSpark.org
Author Photograph by Josefina Hunter, Josefina © Photography 2018
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No part of this publication may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles, or reviews, or for teaching purposes.
Requests for reproduction or other permission should be addressed to: Sabieha Press, AuthorAquilina@gmail.com.
Author Aquilina Website: rosemarieaquilina.com
Printed in the United States of America, International by permission
ISBN: 978-1-7336964-6-3 (paperback)
ISBN: 978-1-7336964-7-0 (Large Print paperback)
ISBN: 978-1-7336964-8-7 (eBook)
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
Chapter Thirty-Three
Chapter Thirty-Four
Chapter Thirty-Five
Chapter Thirty-Six
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Chapter Forty
Chapter Forty-One
Chapter Forty-Two
Chapter Forty-Three
Chapter Forty-Four
Chapter Forty-Five
Chapter Forty-Six
Chapter Forty-Seven
Chapter Forty-Eight
Chapter Forty-Nine
Chapter Fifty
Chapter Fifty-One
Chapter Fifty-Two
Chapter Fifty-Three
Chapter Fifty-Four
Chapter Fifty-Five
Chapter Fifty-Six
Chapter Fifty-Seven
Chapter Fifty-Eight
Chapter Fifty-Nine
Chapter Sixty
Chapter Sixty-One
Chapter Sixty-Two
Chapter Sixty-Three
Chapter Sixty-Four
Chapter Sixty-Five
Chapter Sixty-Six
Chapter Sixty-Seven
Chapter Sixty-Eight
Chapter Sixty-Nine
Chapter Seventy
Chapter Seventy-One
Chapter Seventy-Two
Chapter Seventy-Three
Chapter Seventy-Four
Chapter Seventy-Five
Chapter Seventy-Six
Chapter Seventy-Seven
Chapter Seventy-Eight
Chapter Seventy-Nine
Chapter Eighty
Chapter Eighty-One
Chapter Eighty-Two
Chapter Eighty-Three
Chapter Eighty-Four
Chapter Eighty-Five
Chapter Eighty-Six
Chapter Eighty-Seven
Chapter Eighty-Eight
Chapter Eighty-Nine
Chapter Ninety
Chapter Ninety-One
This book is dedicated to all those who have been
bullied, harassed and/or demeaned.
I’m hopeful it serves as a reminder
that you didn’t do anything wrong.
And, that you know it is never too late to
walk away, start over, and take your power back.
Always know that you are magnificent
and that you matter!
Chapter One
As soon as I took the bench that morning, I knew it was going to be a long Wednesday.
Defense Counsel was looking up in my general direction, but unable to maintain eye contact with me. “Judge Kikkra, my client—” Counsel looked embarrassed. “—he would like you to amend his terms of probation, that is, lift the restriction against consuming alcohol, that is, since breaking-and-entering is not an alcohol-related crime.” He mumbled that last bit as if somebody had set his playback speed to 2X. But he straightened and added brightly, “There is absolutely no history of alcohol abuse.”
I gave him the slow-blink to acknowledge his effort and turned to the Defendant. He was 22 and needed to grow up and make some new friends.
Leaning toward Defendant and his Counsel, I asked, “Do you smell flame-broiled burgers?” I waited.
Defendant’s eyes widened, and his attorney frowned.
“When the Courthouse offers you a side of fries, and I put on a snazzy paper crown, you may have it your way. Until then, you’ll abide by the law like everyone else. No alcohol on probation.” I kept my face perfectly still. I could do a fair Snow-White-in-a-coma.
Defendant didn’t blink, but his attorney tugged at his sleeve. “Understood, Judge.” He sideways glanced at his befuddled client. “Thank you, Your Honor.”
“Next matter,” I said.
The Assistant Prosecutor grabbed a file from the top of his stack and called the case.
A young Defendant and her navy-blue-suited I’m-all-business attorney stepped up to the podium.
After the Prosecutor and Defense Attorney gave me very different opinions of how I should sentence the young woman, I turned to Defendant. “What would you like me to know?” I asked.
Without blinking, she asked for time served. Then she bowed her head the tiniest bit and promised never to steal again—if only she could return to her mother and baby, finish high school, and find a job.
The only real hope she had was to turn her life around now before the system swallowed her and spat her out—forever damaged. I had one shot to sell this. So I craned forward for effect, placed my gavel where she could see it, and folded my hands just below the handle. “You had a mother when you chose to steal. You had an infant when you chose to steal. And, you had the ability to complete your education, but you chose to steal.”
She lowered her chin so far she left me addressing her cr
own of spiky pink and purple hair. I noticed little green and orange tufts center crown. “You’re right. Judge Kikkra, I’ve learned my lesson.” She paused just long enough to look up. “That week in jail—I can’t go back; please don’t send me back.” She seemed to be fighting an urge to back up and run out of the Courtroom. “Please.”
For a second, I thought about one of my boys coming home with Crayola-colored hair and a pierced face. My own face relaxed. This girl needed a wake-up call and help understanding the gravity of her actions. I paused long enough for her to feel the depth of my best judicial stink-eye. “With your Easter-egg chain-gang look, you can’t be taken seriously. No respectable employer will hire you.”
Then she did inch back. But her trusty Public Defender steadied her. And the Courtroom deputy stepped closer.
“God put two letters together in the alphabet: N and O,” I said and raised two fingers—one at a time. “Use those letters as He intended. No jelly-bean hair color, no nose rings, no blue lipstick. Follow my Orders while on probation, or you will go to prison.”
Several seconds passed before the legal light bulb glowed for my young Defendant. But the second she did understand, her entire body softened.
Seated in the audience behind her, a woman silently cheered me on with a steady head-nod. She was two sizes larger and two decades older than the girl. Had to be the girl’s mom.
I kept my voice stern, my eyes on Defendant. “I’m thinking you’ve heard all this from your mother, yet you chose to steal.”
The older woman nodded in long swipes as if her longtime prayers had just been answered, and she was about to jump up and testify.
“Yes, Ma’am.” Purple Girl wiped tears from her face. “I should’ve listened to my mother.”
“I am now your other-mother, the one you don’t want.” I recited a long list of probation Orders and her rights and said, “Go thank your mother and apologize. Come back and show me the magnificent things you’ve done. I know you are capable of greatness.”
She nodded, and then streaked toward her mom so fast, I swore her purple faded two shades.
On the outside, I kept my head still and my chin high, but behind the bench, I slipped out of my Ariat cowboy boots, crossed my Levi-clad legs, and propped them on my padded footstool. What went on under my robe was between me and my Maker.
Chapter Two
Almost two hours and several Pleas-and-Sentencings later, I was sorely overdue for a caffeine break and a few blood-moving stretches. The ice storm plinking on the Courthouse roof—only one of the perks of a Michigan January—made me want to retreat into my chambers for hot coffee and mental yoga.
I’d take a break after the next case. Right now, I was intrigued by the approaching attorney in the banana-yellow suit.
When he reached the podium, I half expected to see a mischievous monkey holding the esteemed Counselor’s big yellow hat. He waited while the deputy brought out a man from lockup in an orange jumpsuit and green crocs. My Courtroom now glowed a few colors short of a rainbow.
“Judge Kikkra, I seek release of my client on bond,” the attorney said with more apparent confidence than I’d thought a banana could muster.
I turned to the Prosecutor’s table. “On behalf of the People?”
The Prosecutor looked disgusted. “This Defendant owes almost forty-thousand dollars in back child support with an ongoing obligation.”
“Judge Keeekraaa,” yellow Counsel interjected.
I wondered if he’d gotten a mini-banana was stuck in his throat.
“Counsel?” I turned from the Prosecutor, raised a brow, didn’t blink, and waited.
“That’s exactly why my client needs bond—to find employment,” Banana Man said. “He can’t pay in lockup.”
“I didn’t interrupt Counsel,” said the Prosecutor. “Surely, I’m due the same courtesy.”
I reached for my gavel, raised it a bit, and then set it down. Both Counsel understood the silent warning that I wasn’t afraid to pound Orders holding them in contempt. I turned to the Prosecutor. “You may proceed without interruption.”
“The children have a constitutionally protected right to be supported by both parents,” he said over-annunciating each syllable. “They’re receiving public assistance, and one of them is in and out of the hospital. The mother has paid. The public has paid. In over four years, Defendant has paid—not one dollar in support.”
“Again, Your Honor—” Banana paused for effect and slow-grinned. “My client can’t pay if he’s incarcerated.” He spread his hands, palms up, lawyerly body language for: if I didn’t agree with him, I was an idiot.
I didn’t, and I wasn’t. I pictured the banana suit ripening in jail.
Defendant smirked. He seemed proud his attorney was a hell of an advocate and smarter than the Judge he’d just enlightened.
I ignored the Bananorama and addressed the Defendant. “Sir, you are here for felony-nonsupport.”
No response from him. It was truth-time, so I asked him, “How do you support yourself?”
“My girlfriend. Until I find a job.” Defendant half turned toward a well-dressed woman with a too cut-low blouse. Evidently, he was proud of his survival skills. The barely clad woman returned a lop-sided grin to Defendant.
“Defendant can be released,” I said, “on a Personal Recognizance Bond.” The Prosecutor opened his mouth to interrupt, but I finger-signaled him to wait. “Only upon payment of twenty-five-thousand dollars toward his child-support arrearage, and he must remain current on his ongoing obligation, or he will again be bench warranted, immediately followed by a chauffeured ride courtesy of the Sheriff and an extended sleep-over at our County hotel.”
Defense Counsel looked embarrassed for me and my obvious lack of mental capacity. “Your Honor, he can’t—”
“If he’s inclined to stay in jail, I understand. Although it’s several months away, Thanksgiving is the best meal and Christmas is the second best meal of the year.” I grasped my gavel. “This mother deserves respite. Condoms are free; babies are not. The public will not pay for his seven-and-a-half minutes of fun.”
Gavel-bang.
Defendant was escorted back through the jail exit, and the mother of his children mouthed a ‘thank you’ to me.
I tossed her a quick smile of acknowledgment. “That’s all for the record,” I called out. Experience taught me the bastard would be bailed out by tomorrow morning. “Next matter.”
A court-appointed attorney in a pinstriped-gray suit stood next to a pineapple blonde in red stilettos. “Your Honor, this is a motion to modify bond conditions.”
I acknowledged the Prosecutor, and the People took no position.
I couldn’t figure out what she could possibly want, so I spoke to the young woman’s attorney. “Counselor, your client has a Personal Recognizance Bond. All she has to do is to stay out of trouble. Get up. Go to work.”
“That’s it, Your Honor. She needs to work.”
“I want her to work,” I said. I really wanted to know how she walked through the snow in those cute, skyscraping heels.
The attorney de-frogged his throat. “She makes a good living—dancing. However, she needs you to reconsider the tether you ordered because it interferes with her pole dancing.”
I tried to imagine a pole dance that would be hampered by a smooth, hard-plastic bracelet monitor, a third the size of a smartphone.
The dainty dancer leaned toward me with a sister-like pout, apparently certain that woman to woman, I would understand. “Your Honor, my costume and this tether clash. I can’t go nowhere mismatched like that. And then there are the other pole dancers. We all have to match, Ma’am.”
I appreciate a pulled-together look as much as the next person, but let’s be real. “Ma’am, bedazzle the tether to match your costume. Invite the other dancers to craft night and create matching faux
-tethers. Motion denied.” I slammed my gavel. “Next matter.”
Chapter Three
My criminal-motion morning ended just before noon, which gave me time to freshen up and toss back a handful of cashews and another of chocolate-covered coffee beans.
My early morning updo was still updone, so I combed my bangs and recharged my hair with a cloud of energizing hairspray, re-glossed my lips to berry red, and hustled into the breakroom across from the judges’ suites.
Semi-patiently, I waited for the microwave to ding. Chocolate-espresso oatmeal and a mug of coffee would energize me while I reviewed my afternoon.
Pulling the oatmeal from the microwave, I inhaled the aroma, but before I could turn, some pervert smacked my backside. I whirled and sloshed chocolate-coffee-oatmeal.
“Nicoletta!” Chief Judge Warren Donnettelli jumped back from the oatmeal and raised his hands. He leered down at me.
Must not throw steaming gooey cereal at the obnoxious Chief Judge.
“Nic-o-lett-a.”
“It’s Judge Kikkra to you.” I steadied the hot cup in my hand, but the oatmeal wanted to leap out at the clod.
He jabbed a meaty finger at my nose, forcing me to jerk my head back.
A volcano in my chest flared heat up my face, and my pulse erupted in my temples.
Donnettelli raised a substantial fist to my eye-level. His pointer finger bulleted against my sternum. “I told you what I expected in that Manville case.” Poke. “My domain. My Orders.” Poke. Poke.
He tapped my updo just above my temple. “Get that through your pea-brain.”
I giant stepped around him, but his robed enormousness blocked me. “You have no authority over my decisions.” I kept my voice strong and steady. “We were both elected by the people. I answer to them, not you.”
Grabbing my oatmeal, he snickered, then made a big show of tossing it into the trash bin. “Get in my way on this verdict, and you join the oatmeal.”
His threats were getting nastier. He had to be insane to think I’d decide a case based on anything but the law. I’d lost my appetite and my lunch, but not my pride. I stepped around His Giantness, squeezed between two law clerks from other courts, and pointed my boots toward my chambers.
With his nastiest voice, Donnettelli assaulted his next prey. “Wade Mazour, why aren’t you at the Hall of Justice taking care of our business?”