“Split plea?” I ask Mason, but have to wait for the bailiff to turn away before I get a response.
“Guilty to some, not guilty for others, I imagine,” Mason says quickly as Chris’s lawyer continues.
“We are not looking at a split plea at this time, your honor,” Chris’s lawyer, Mr. Silver, replies. “We’re fine with a comprehensive plea.”
“In that case, Mr. Ellis, on the charges of fraud, how do you plead?” the judge asks.
“Not guilty,” Chris answers.
“On the charges of theft by deception, how do you plead?” the judge asks.
“Not guilty,” Chris answers.
“On the…” the judge looks down at the paper yet again. “On the surprisingly numerous charges of impersonating a doctor, how do you plead?”
“Not guilty,” Chris answers.
“A doctor?” I ask Mason.
He shrugs and the judge continues.
“On the charge of impersonating an officer of the law, how do you plead?” the judge asks.
“Not guilty,” Chris says.
The judge sighs and double-checks his page to make sure he’s covered everything. He finds something else.
“On the charge of resisting arrest, how do you plead?” the judge asks.
“He didn’t look like he was resisting,” I whisper to Mason.
“Yeah, but we didn’t get there until after he was already in cuffs,” Mason whispers back.
“Not guilty,” Chris says.
“Finally, on the charge of lewd conduct, how do you plead?” the judge asks.
“Not guilty,” Chris says.
I glance over to Mason to see if he knows what that one’s about, but he just shrugs again.
“Do the people have anything to add regarding their request for remand?” the judge asks.
“Your honor, we are looking at a man who has spent the better part of his life trying to swindle decent people out of their hard-earned savings,” the prosecutor starts. “I think the court would be doing not only this city, but this state and possibly others, a great injustice by not remanding—”
“Your honor, all of these charges can be easily explained and we have nothing but the word of the people Mr. Babish has cobbled together to form his prosecution,” Mr. Silver interrupts. “We’ve had no time to look over these new charges, and honestly, I’m appalled at the behavior of Mr. Babish, trying to publicly railroad an innocent man just to get his name in the papers.”
Mr. Babish almost shouts, “Your honor—” but the judge holds up his hand.
“Mr. Silver, this court has seen a lot of things. As a judge for fourteen years, I’ve presided over hundreds of cases. With that said, I haven’t seen a list of charges like this in a long time,” the judge says. He leafs through his papers a moment and out of nowhere, he starts chuckling.
“Your honor?” the prosecutor, Mr. Babish, says.
“Could the two of you approach the bench?” the judge says, trying to hide his smile.
The judge covers his microphone as the prosecutor and Chris’s attorney make their way to the bench. They’re talking quietly for a few seconds until the judge can’t hold it in any longer and lets out a loud guffaw.
“What do you think that’s about?” Mason asks.
“I was about to ask you the same thing,” I tell him.
I have no idea whether this is good for Chris, bad for Chris, or if there’s just an amusing misprint on one of the pages in front of the judge and he just wanted to share. Finally, the lawyers go back to their original positions and the judge uncovers the microphone.
“Mr. Ellis,” the judge starts, “while this court can find some sort of amusement in regard to the specifics of some of these charges, the charges are no less serious. I am granting the people’s request for remand until trial which will be on the…” the judge trails off, looking to his clerk.
“We can do it on the eighteenth at ten-thirty, or if you’d prefer, there’s some open space the following Monday, that’s the twenty-first at noon,” the clerk, a smarmy-looking man who’s sweated through his shirt so thoroughly at this point, it looks like it’s made from a darker fabric.
“Given the sheer volume of charges, I’m going to schedule trial for the twenty-first at noon,” the judge says. “Mr. Silver, I trust that will be enough time to fold these new charges into your defense?”
“No objection, your honor,” Chris’s lawyer answers.
“So ordered,” the judge says, tapping his gavel. “Mr. Ellis, you are hereby remanded to the custody of the state until the completion of your trial. I encourage you to refrain from attempting this kind of deception while in custody. Neither prisoners nor guards are known for responding well to the efforts of confidence men.”
“Your honor,” Chris’s lawyer says, “I move that the last portion of your remarks be removed from the record as I believe it to be prejudicial against my client.”
“The guy’s got some balls calling out a judge,” Mason whispers to me.
Even the judge looks stunned for a moment, but after considering the request, he states, “So ordered. My personal comments directed at Mr. Ellis are to be stricken from the record.”
“Holy shit,” I mutter, then cover my mouth.
I never swear, and I just did it in a courtroom. Not only that, I must have said it pretty loudly, because the people around Mason and I are stifling laughter and the judge is now staring me down. I’m almost expecting to be arrested for contempt or something.
Still, Chris’s lawyer just got the judge presiding over his case to strike his own remarks to the defendant. It’s entirely possible that Chris’s lawyer is, himself, a conman, and I don’t just mean in the same way that every lawyer is skilled at parsing the truth. The guy may very well be in the confidence game.
Chris doesn’t really react as they take him away. He just goes as he’s guided with those shuffled little steps.
With that, Mason and I get up and leave the courtroom.
It’s not until we get out of the courthouse that it feels okay to talk again.
“What do you think they were laughing about?” I ask.
“I really don’t know,” Mason says. “You’ve heard as much about what he’s actually being charged with as I have. He never really goes into specifics with that kind of stuff because he knows I’ll lecture him. It’s a strange world when I’m the responsible one in the family.”
“Seriously,” I tease.
“Chris has actually pulled some funny stuff over the years, if I’m honest,” Mason says, chuckling. “Like, when I was just about to turn eighteen, he decided I needed something to burn the day into my mind. So, he called up a local radio station and told them I had this rare genetic disease that made everything taste like a roast beef sandwich.”
“What?” I laugh.
“It was actually pretty great there for a little bit,” Mason says. “The radio station said something about it on the air, and before I knew it, people were sending me gift certificates to restaurants and coupons for free sauce and that kind of thing. I was a little pissed he’d given my address to the DJ, who apparently then blabbed it on the air, but I ate really well for a couple of months. So yeah, he made the call on my eighteenth birthday and just told me that my present was in the mail. I guess people thought if I just had the right kind of food, I’d be able to taste something else—I don’t know, it sounds pretty weird saying it out loud, but he’s always loved making a con look like a stupid prank.”