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Chapter 43

Afew dayslater Beckett was led to his arraignment hearing. Roscoe was waiting for him wearing worn out, faded jeans and a green shirt, not at all lawyer attire. The exact opposite of the clothes he should be wearing. Beckett was wearing his dirty-beige prison-pantsuit. He looked like a criminal, and his lawyer looked like an amateur. Beckett took a deep breath and tried to trust Roscoe’s instincts.

Beckett had so many questions that his head hurt. He had just been waiting, no visitors, lonely, confused, staring at the walls, it wasn’t even until this morning that he was told there would be a hearing. Today, no preparation. No rehearsal. Roscoe greeted him and simply said, “When we get in here I’ll do the speaking. You try to look reformed and apologetic. No arguing.”

Beckett chewed his lip and wondered what he might have to argue about. As far as he could tell this was done; he was headed East, the front lines, as bleak an ending to his short life as he could imagine.

Roscoe shoved the door open. “But smile a little or you’ll look like an ax murderer and then there’s nothing I can do.” And Beckett realized that Roscoe was joking, and his confusion deepened.

Beckett scanned for Luna. He didn’t expect her, but he hoped. She wasn’t there. Dan was though, about eight rows back. He was sitting between Sarah and Rebecca. Dr Mags was there and even Captain Aria. That sucked. He didn’t like wearing prisoner garb in front of Captain Aria. That really, really sucked. They all waved. Beckett nodded in return.

The room was crowded. People sat in rows of folding chairs nervously watching the judge, a silver-haired man sitting at the front of the room. He looked dignified, his spine straight, his hair on point, even though the temperature in the room was extremely elevated, and his table and chair were the folding kind. Temporary. The furniture worried Beckett, it didn’t seem like the kind of furniture his case required.

Beckett wiped at his sweaty forehead with the back of his arm, looked down at his filthy clothes, and glanced again at Roscoe’s jeans. He reminded himself about a time two years ago when Roscoe had won a case against the company that was stealing water from the local aquifer. He had been wearing jeans. He had won all of Beckett’s cases through the years, always in jeans. Though this case seemed more dire, extreme enough to require a bit more dignity.

A young man stood in front of the judge’s table, looking confused and frightened. The judge’s expression was stern, worn out, and unhelpful. The young man’s lawyer was wearing a suit.Crap.

Roscoe leaned in. “Chickadee wishes she could be here, but she’s tied up at the moment — with your friend Luna.”

“Oh, um, okay, good, good.”

Beckett followed Roscoe to the side and as he leaned on the slightly cool cinderblock wall, Roscoe whispered, “I know the judge.”

Beckett said, “Really? Is that good?”

Roscoe shook his head and Beckett couldn’t tell if he meant that wasn’t good, or if he meant Beckett should be quiet.

So Beckett quietly watched people approach the front table and speak in hushed tones about their cases. He watched them looking distressed after the judge spoke. One woman cried. The judge seemed to enjoy making people suffer.

After about an hour Beckett’s name was called by a bailiff who gestured for them to approach the table. Roscoe pulled a stack of papers from his briefcase. The judge didn’t bother to look up, instead lifting pages, reading notes, and acting as if their presence at his table was an annoyance. Beckett had been standing there for about thirty seconds and already felt like that was too much. Perhaps he should bow and back away, possibly come back when the judge was in a better mood. . .

The judge huffed and allowed the last page to drift back down. Then his gaze traveled up Roscoe’s jeans, to his lack of belt, past his frayed belt loops, to his wrinkled shirt, and finally, up to his face. He gasped, “Roscoe Gentry, is that you?”

“The one and the same.”

“Are you practicing law again?”

Roscoe said, “When the world requires it.”

“Well imagine that. This fellow, um,” the judge looked down at the paperwork, “Beckett Stanford — this is your case? Desertion. Isn’t this beneath you? This decision is simple — time East, at the front. There’s precedence.”

Roscoe nodded and responded slowly, “That’s all true, but, well, Beckett is unprecedented. He comes from a good family near me, and he volunteered to live on an Outpost for six months.”

The judge looked at Beckett for the first time. “You volunteered?”

“Yes sir.”

There was a pause while the judge peered up into Beckett’s face, and Beckett tried to look respectable and civilized, despite the drip of sweat sliding down his cheek.

Roscoe added, “He came back early — the Outpost was unstable, and there were family issues to deal with. A death in the family. A friend who went missing. He missed his report back time, but was headed there when he was picked up by the police.”

The judge flipped through the paperwork again, located a page and scanned. “Any trouble during the arrest? It doesn’t say here, but he has injuries.”

“He did not resist arrest.”

“I see. So what are you proposing, Roscoe?”

“That he be allowed to resume his duties with his battalion. They need him, especially with the water rising. He can finish out his time.”

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