Babies Cowboys and Brides

You've found me out. I'm horrible at titles. The words I want to say to you all today are running through my head and I'm looking at a blank page - late - because at the top of the screen there's this little box that says Title: And, well, I don't have one. As you can tell. I profusely apologize.

And now that that's out of the way...

My daughter turned 21 last week. (I had her when I was a baby.) And yesterday, after just flying in from five days in the Midwest, I rushed downtown to court to watch her in her very first trial. She's working at the county attorney's office even though she's still in her third year in law school (there's some funky law here called 38E that allows that.) Anyway, they've given her a criminal trespassing case and she's the prosecutor. She's a nervous wreck - my child. Still a kid. I sit there with butterflies in my stomach, wanting her to do well because she wants so badly to do well. Part of me knew she would. And the other part - the loudmouth - worried about everything that could go wrong.

At that point in the old and rundown courtroom in Superior court, sits the judge, the two cops who are testifying, Rachel, her supervisor, a bailiff, and a court recorder. Trial is due to start. We have no defense attorney. And no defendent. In walks the defense attorney. The judge says, "Counselor, your client refuses to wear his clothes."

I kid you not. That's what he says, the words booming out into the sacred silence. I'm sitting back on one of the three rows of scarred wooden benches where the observers sit and almost laughed out loud. Highly inappropriate. And embarrassing to said daughter, I'm sure. I grab my pocket pc and write the words down, knowing they'll be in a book someday. "Counselor, your client refuses to wear his clothes." I love it!

The defense attorney appears to be somewhat taken aback. It takes him a couple of seconds to respond, and then he says, "Uh, what clothes does he want to wear, Your Honor?"

Oh. Good. We aren't about to have a naked defendent enter the courtroom. He just doesn't want to wear his OWN clothes.

The judge says, "His pinks."

Okay, I'm really confused, until I remember that our nationally famous Sheriff Joe Arpaio (The Sheriff of Maricopa county where we live) insists on male jail inmates wearing pink underwear.

"He wants to wear his jail clothes," the judge added.

The defense attorney frowns, says, "I'll go talk to him."

The judge tells him where in the building the inmate is being housed. D. attorney leaves. We all sit and wait more. Rachel is writing something. Really fast. Completely absorbed. Or so it appears. If you don't look at the floor where her feet are bobbing, probably as fast as her nerves are jumping.

Ten minutes later in walks D. attorney. "Judge, I can't find him. I went up to the 8th like you said. They said he was on 6. He wasn't there either."

I'm taking copious notes. This is superior court. There's a huge seal of God and the state of Arizona looming over us at the front of the high ceilinged room. The scene is set - and they can't find the defendant.

I decide he's escaped. And a story begins racing through my head. But wait. In walks the judge's deputy. He's got the defendent. Who doesn't want to come to his own trial. He'd rather be taken back to jail. After the legal mumbo jumbo that allowed that to happen the jury who'd been picked the day before finally files in and Rach is on.

That's when her mom went slightly off. Do you have any idea how weird it is to watch your baby stand up in a court of law, face a seasoned police officer, and nail him with questions? What if the guy was mean to her? Or rude? What if she forgot what she wanted to ask? Lost her train of thought. An eight member jury was seated only a few feet away from her. Most all of them old enough to be her parents. But gosh, she looked good. I knew the suit well - my money had paid for it. The necklace she was wearing was one my mom had had made for her after my father died. It had her wedding diamond, set in the middle of my father's baby ring. And the diamond earrings were a twenty-first birthday present from my best friend, her second mother. I focused on those. They were familiar. And I love jewelry.

The trial goes on. Cross examination. Another witness. The state rests. The defense has no further questions. They do jury instructions (boorrriiinnnggg if you're sitting in the audience) and then it's time for closing arguments.

Rachel stands. I quit breathing. She opens her mouth to speak and I'm lost in her words, in the picture she builds, the clear and concise way she tells the jury why their job is to find the defendent guilty. As she delivers her last line, I have tears in my eyes. How did we get from diapers to here?

I don't remember anyone ever once asking me if I'd like to leave twos and threes behind. They didn't get my opinion about changing my life so drastically. Or hers.

The D attorney stands up to give his close. He's a little shaky. I'm not surprised. Before he can get to the part where he tells the jury that their job is to find his client not guilty, he starts to bluster. There's an objection. It's sustained. He huffs, says he's done, and returns to his seat.

Rach has the opportunity for rebuttal. She calmly stands, faces the jury of her parent's peers, and procedes to explain that they'd just been given a red herring and they were bound by law to ignore it.

The jury was out for twenty minutes. And came back with a guilty verdict.

My daughter's a felony prosecutor.

I can't believe it.