It's Complicated: A Zombie Romance Novel

Judged

My representative wanted me to plead guilty.

"It's the best thing for you," he told me as we waited outside the courtroom. The guards had the decency to leave the cuffs off when I can out of the bathroom. It wasn't like I was going to run away or attack anyone. Neither would help my case anyway. And I was pretty sure pleading guilty wouldn't help, either.

"Will I get my transcripts back today if I plead guilty?" I asked.

"Your what?" my court-ordered defender asked, pushing up his glasses again. They still hadn't been able to get ahold of my mom, so they'd assigned him as a legal advisor, me being a minor and all. Usually this small of a case didn't require defense. It was just you, the facts, and a judge, unless you were an unaccompanied minor apparently.

"Look, you don't want this going on any records," he said. "As a minor and first offender, the worst punishment you can get is community service and time served. If the judge is feeling generous, he might wave the community service. But this kind of deal only happens when you don't waste the court's time." The implication being that pleading innocent equaled a waste of time. Which was kind of true. I was guilty of breaking and entering my own home.

"But will I get my transcripts?" I asked.

"Look miss," he pushed up his glasses. The action made him look bored. I guess I was just one of many juvenile delinquents he had to defend today.

"I don't know anything about transcripts or whatever it is you are talking about. I'm just..." Personally I think he just didn't want me to waste his time.

"It's what I took from the house. The officers on the scene took them into evidence." He looked down at my case, which was the first in a large stack he was carrying.

"Oh, you mean the papers mentioned as exhibit A," he said in my direction.

"Ok, exhibit A," I said. "So if I plead guilty will I get them back?" I repeated.

"All evidence will be returned to the proper owners at the convenience of the court after sentencing," he said. Which was a fancy way of saying no. That settled it in my mind. If I didn't plead not guilty and get the judge on my side there was no way I was getting my transcripts back before the end of the week.

We walked into the courtroom. It wasn't the grand high ceilings and uncomfortable bench seats I remembered from movies. It was more like the daytime television shows. Just not as clean.

The bailiff announced the case number and then asked me, "How do you plead?"

"Not guilty," I said. I looked back at my public defender to find him visibly slumped in his chair. Slowly he rose to his feet.

"If it please the court," he started to say.

"I object," came a voice from audience. There were only a handful of people, most of whom looked as if they'd come in to escape the rain. A smallish man in a blue power suit and bright red tie started walking towards the prosecutor's bench.

The judge did not look pleased.

"Who are you to object?" he asked.

"Gray," the man said as if his name alone carried weight here. "Carl Gray."

"I am aware of your name, Mr. Gray," said the judge. "What I am not aware of is your right to be here. You are not this girl's attorney, nor are you the prosecution. Explain yourself."

"I am currently representing the house in question," said Mr. Gray. His face clicked in my mind. He had been at the house when I was arrested. And on billboards all over town. What was his slogan? Something like, 'The Law isn't Black or White, It's Gray.' So that was the name of the man working David's case. Gag me with a spoon.