The Bailiff

“All rise!” the bailiff announced after he entered the rustic courtroom even though he was the only one there. Briefly he cleared his throat then repeated the command but not quite as loudly.

Better, he thought to himself, much better.

The first time he ever uttered those words his voice cracked badly and many in the courtroom snickered, including the judge. He was so embarrassed he swore that would never happen again. So always, before he conducted a security sweep of a courtroom, he practiced saying the command because he didn’t want to be laughed at again.

Prior to inspecting the well of the courtroom, he paced up and down the six rows of benches where the public sat during the proceedings. He walked slowly, his sturdy black Oxfords clicking emphatically on the hardwood floor which was polished after hours so that the smell of wax in the morning was as familiar to him as the smell of coffee. Often he found an item someone left on a bench and today he noticed a single leather glove which appeared to belong to a woman because of its size. It was in a corner of the bench directly behind the defendant’s chair so he assumed it belonged to a family member or a close friend. Promptly he tucked in in his back pocket because he always wanted the benches to be pristine when members of the public entered the courtroom.

Next, he examined the defendant’s chair because over the years he had discovered razor blades and ice picks and slivers of glass taped to the bottom of the chair. It was clear except for a wad of gum stuck on one of the legs. After prying it off with a fingernail file, he checked under the other chairs, as well as the tables, made sure the windows were locked, and the curtains were a foot and a half apart. Then he walked up to the judge’s bench, straightened the name plate of the presiding jurist, and set the gavel on the right side of the desk. Turning around, he surveyed the room from behind the imposing bench and satisfied all was in order he practiced his command one more time before court was in session.

i

“I don’t belong here,” the defendant insisted as the bailiff escorted him to the courtroom.

Seldom did any defendant believe they should be in custody, let alone on trial, the bailiff thought, as he led the wiry little man down the narrow corridor. He knew it was pointless to argue with them so, as a rule, he kept his mouth shut.

“Swear to God Almighty, I’m not a hit and run driver,” the defendant continued. “I never saw the person I hit, didn’t even know I hit anyone, so how can I be accused of leaving the scene of an accident that I didn’t know happened?”

The bailiff was not a bit sympathetic to hit and run drivers. Two summers ago, leaving the court house late one evening, a driver struck him in the middle of a crosswalk. Somehow a sleeve of his jacket got caught on the passenger side mirror and he was dragged for several feet before the driver stopped and, as a result, he suffered a fractured right ankle. As soon as he was able to untangle his sleeve, the driver took off and was never seen again

“You believe me, don’t you, officer?” the defendant asked as the bailiff opened the side door to the courtroom.

Again, he remained silent.

“If you don’t believe me, who will?”

“That’s not my concern,” the bailiff said, pulling the chair out for the defendant. “Not my concern at all.”

*

Soon after he graduated from high school, Craig Clifford enlisted in the Army and for three years served as a military policeman. Not having any immediate prospects for employment after his discharge, he decided to follow the advice of a career sergeant he was close to and became a court bailiff.

“It’s not difficult work,” the sergeant told him, “and you still get to wear a badge and carry a firearm.”

He figured he would serve as a bailiff for a couple of years then, perhaps, enroll in college and pursue a teaching certificate in criminal justice. That didn’t happen, however. Toward the end of his first year at the court house he got married and couldn’t afford to quit his position. Six years later, after his wife died from congenital heart disease, he again thought about quitting but he didn’t because he had become too comfortable to leave. The salary he earned was sufficient enough for a single person and the work really wasn’t very demanding. He did what he was told and did it well enough to secure a few commendation awards.

As a bailiff, he performed many tasks but, mainly, he was just part of the furniture,” as one judge told him early in his career. At trials, he stood quietly and attentively beside the judge’s bench ready, at any moment, to quell any disturbance that erupted in the courtroom. Above all else, he was there to maintain order and security.

“You should be particularly vigilant during the sentencing of defendants,” a senior bailiff cautioned him the first week he was on duty.

“Why’s that?”

“Sometimes defendants aren’t expecting the long sentences they’re given and they can get very upset and lose control.”

“I see.”

The senior bailiff then tapped an index finger against the bridge of his nose. “That’s how my beak got busted.”

“Is that so?”

“This burglar thought he was only going to have to serve three years behind bars but the judge sentenced him to eight years. He was furious and looked over at his lawyer and rammed an elbow flush into his face. When I tried to restrain him, his elbow caught me across the nose as well. The damn thing bled for a good ten minutes.”

“I’m sure that’s something you’ll never forget.”

He nodded. “I can’t because every time I inhale my nose stings.”

*

The one time when he was more than a piece of furniture was when he brought evidence into the courtroom then all eyes were riveted on him alone. For a minute or two, he felt like the most important person in the trial. Just the other month, at a trial of a young man accused of arson, he carried in a box large enough to hold a microwave oven and was well aware that he was being watched by everyone in attendance as he delivered it to the judge who then instructed him to unseal the box. With a pocket knife he slit through the thick packaging tape and took out of the box another box just a fraction smaller. Suddenly he felt like a magician on a stage. He then opened that box and pulled out a small blue business envelope which the judge asked him to open. He did and took out a Zippo cigarette lighter emblazoned with the green matte U.S. Army logo. It was the instrument the defendant was alleged to have used to set a Greek Orthodox church on fire.

“Please, bailiff, let the members of the jury see what you took out of the envelope,” the judge told him.

Immediately he held the lighter above his head then stepped back and took his place with the rest of the furniture.

ii

Early Saturday morning Clifford drove out to the target range operated by the sheriff’s office where bailiffs were required to qualify with a handgun once a year. Not once had he ever drawn his weapon in a courtroom, few bailiffs had, but he always looked forward to going out to the range because he enjoyed target shooting. He had in the Army, as well, because it was a challenge to see how close he could come to hitting the bull’s-eye. He was fortunate if he could hit it once during a session but many times he got pretty close which still filled him with satisfaction.

“What are you doing here?” the deputy in charge of the range asked when Clifford approached his desk. “I understood you were set to retire in another month.”

“I am but I thought I’d come out here one last time.”

“Well, have at it,” the deputy said as he handed him a handgun similar to the one he wore on duty and a box of shells. “And don’t let the bull’s-eye get away.”

“I’ll try not to.”

The deputy nodded as Clifford opened the steel door next to the desk and entered the firing range. It was an indoor facility with nine round targets set up at the north end. He took his place at the stall in front of the sixth target, slipped on the pair of safety goggles that were there, and stared at the black-and-red target, trying to visualize his first shot striking the bull’s-eye. As he was taught in the Army, he stood with his feet about a shoulder-width apart and, gripping the pistol with both hands, aimed at the center of the target. Taking a deep breath, he let half of it out then slowly squeezed the trigger.

“Damn,” he groaned.

He missed the bull’s-eye by a couple of inches. He fired again and missed by a couple more inches.

“Come on, Craig,” he urged himself. “Concentrate.”

He did and nearly hit it and then, with his next shot, he struck the bull’s-eye. Instantly a smile wreathed his entire face he was so elated. He was more than ready to retire after twenty years of service but, as much as anything, he would miss qualifying with a handgun at the firing range. It filled him with so much satisfaction when he made a good shot, made him feel as if he mattered somehow.

*

“Are you looking forward to your retirement?” Selma, a court reporter, asked as she and Clifford entered the court house early one morning.

He shrugged. “I suppose so.”

“So you haven’t been counting the days until you’re through here?”

“I haven’t. I’ve enjoyed being a bailiff. Sure, it can get monotonous standing against a wall for hours on end in a courtroom but there are more than enough other things to do that make it worthwhile.”

“You know what you’re going to do with all your free time after you retire?”

He grinned. “A neighbor in my apartment building gave me this huge magnifying glass when he learned I was near retirement.”

“Whatever for?”

“He knows I collect baseball memorabilia so I guess he figures I’ll be spending a lot more time looking for things to add to my collection.”

“And will you”

“More than likely.”

“Well, that should keep you out of trouble, Craig.”

“I expect so.”

iii

As a youngster, Clifford never collected baseball cards like other boys his age, never collected much of anything. His wife, however, was an avid collector of all sorts of things who spent weekends going to garage and estate sales all around town. Some of the items Miriam purchased to keep but most she sold on the internet and earned a sizable sum of money some months. Often he accompanied her on these excursions and occasionally made some purchases of his own. At first, it was just random items, like car parts and yard tools and advertising signs and old license plates. Then, after he bought a Brooks Robinson endorsed fielder’s glove that was similar to the one he had as a kid he began to concentrate on baseball artifacts. He was not sure why but assumed it was because they reminded him of the many pleasant summer afternoons he spent outdoors playing the game.

After his wife passed away, he continued to go to yard sales on the weekend, adding more and more things to his collection. The spare bedroom in their apartment was used by Miriam as a sewing room but now it was where he stored his purchases. It was so packed it was difficult to walk in the room, which he had come to refer to as the “dugout” because of all the things there. The first week after he retired, he spent half of every day inside the dugout, cataloging all the items he had collected. Diligently he separated the equipment of players—gloves and bats and caps and helmets and balls and uniforms—from pennants and photographs and books and cards and magazines and put them in large cardboard delivery boxes. Some of the stacks of boxes nearly reached the ceiling.

One morning, after exploring a couple of garage sales without making any purchases, he drove across the river to an estate sale where he came across a chipped Rocky Colavito model bat. He had seen old clips on television of the Cleveland slugger and always was fascinated by his stance in the batter’s box. Very deliberately he would aim the barrel of his bat at the pitcher as if to let him know he intended to hit whatever he threw. It was so audacious it always made Clifford smile.

“Do you know if he ever used the bat in a game?” he asked the owner of the estate.

“I imagine so but I don’t know for sure.”

“I gather then you don’t have any provenance that says it was actually used?”

“I don’t.”

Clifford picked up the heavy Louisville Slugger and took a couple of lazy swings with it. “How much are you asking?”

“Ten dollars.”

“Fair enough,” he said. “I’ll take it.”

The owner grinned. “Do you collect vintage bats?”

“I have a few.”

“I understand from a neighbor of mine there’s a Ty Cobb game bat that might be for sale.”

“Is that so?”

“His brother-in-law is moving to Nevada and needs to sell a lot of odds and ends.”

“Is he around here?”

“No. He lives in Cottage Glen.”

Clifford grimaced.

“Do you know where that is?”

“I do.”

“I’ll tell you what,” the owner said, slipping a cell phone out of the pocket of his corduroy jacket. “I’ll call my neighbor and get you the phone number of his brother-in-law.”

“You don’t have to do that.”

“No problem.”

Briefly he stepped away to make the call and, after a couple of minutes, returned with the number which he wrote down on the back of a sales tag.

“I appreciate it.”

“I don’t have any idea what he’s asking for the bat but I assume it’ll be more than ten dollars.”

“No doubt.”

*

Clifford called the owner of the Cobb bat and made an appointment to look at it the following Saturday afternoon. It was a four hour drive to Cottage Glen and he arrived half an hour ahead of time. So, rather than wait outside the owner’s house, he decided to drive to a house across town where, as a nine year old boy, he lived for close to six months. After his mother separated from his father, she moved in with her stepbrother, Harold, until the divorce degree was granted.

The old two-story Queen Anne house was still there but now it was a charred hovel held together with reams of yellow restoration tape. Stunned, he stared at the burnt house in disbelief and could not help but smile.

He hated living there, hated every single minute because of Harold who treated him as if he were some kind of plaything. Often, when his mother wasn’t around, Harold would twist one of his ears for no reason, sometimes so hard Clifford was afraid he was going to twist one off. He complained about it to his mother but she said her stepbrother was just being affectionate. She just never understood the blatant meanness of the man until one afternoon when she saw Harold slap him so hard across the back of his neck that he lost his footing and fell down the basement stairs and fractured his collarbone. She was so furious she slapped her stepbrother across the side of the face then moved out of his home that day.

Clifford had observed many awful people in the courtroom during his long career as a bailiff but he didn’t believe if he ever saw one quite like Harold whose cruelty seemed to be something he enjoyed inflicting on him. If he had the nerve, he thought, he would take out his cigarette lighter and set what was left of this miserable house on fire but then he would be no different than that young guy who was tried for burning down the Greek church a few months ago. Maybe, though, if he purchased the Cobb bat this afternoon, he would return and take a couple of whacks at the burnt house with it that just might be enough to cause it to collapse.

Smiling again, he drove past the house without looking at her for another second.