A naïf shows up for sentencing: “Why are you here?”

Thinking I would simply set the record straight about not being married to a journalist, I felt kind of good being back at the courthouse. On a restroom visit, I noted that the courthouse had the same leaking soap dispenser as other county bathrooms, with the same garbage can underneath it to catch the drips.

“L” and I had a great wide-ranging conversation of the way over, and she suggested we let the DA’s office know we were there. I thought the right room was on the second floor, but I followed “L” up to the fourth, where we entered the District Attorney's Office of Victim/Witness Services. “L” told the receptionist why we were there, and we were asked to wait. A moment later the victim/witness worker appeared and asked us to wait in the hall. We sat there for 10 minutes or so, then she came back and said, “Why are you here?” Her tone was icy and perplexed. I felt myself wither. I have worked with her in cases involving some of my clients and have found her unfailingly warm and supportive. I was in the middle of some kind of faux pas, I decided.

“I thought I would be able to tell the court that I’m not married to a journalist. All this is happening because of a falsehood.”

She looked perplexed. “Sit right here,” she said. “I’ll let the ADA know you’re here and see what he says.”

Another long 15 minutes, during which Alan Simon and his supporters passed by several times, then disappeared down the stairs. I heard Alan say to someone on the steps, “Ahh, it’s something about one of the jurors. He was SUPPOSED to be sentenced today, but defense is moving for a mistrial.” Oh. Crap.

Finally the victim/witness worker reappeared, accompanied by a public defender, the very one that Richard Peacock had rejected. “I’m here to tell you about your rights,” the attorney said, and my stomach did another swoop of panic. This was bizarre.

Any juror, she told me, once they’re dismissed, is a private citizen, with the right to refuse to discuss the case with anyone who asks.

But I wanted to set the record straight.

Attorney and victim/witness worker exchanged glances. Victim/witness worker said, “Well, you have the right to be in the courtroom as a private citizen. We could get a couple of extra bailiffs to be between you and the gallery.” Huh?

Slowly, as if she were a teacher in a special-needs class, the attorney said, “This is a very emotional case. If you go into the courtroom, you may be exposed to hostility from the defendant and his family, and also, truthfully, from the people of Westport. They were hoping to see a sentence passed today.”

I felt about 2 inches tall. It seemed at once so unfair that I couldn’t just say my piece, and also so humiliating that I had not thought of all this before I came. Of course she had had me wait in the hall – she had had Alan Simon in her office, probably going off about how disappointed he was that there was a jury mess-up and his assailant was not going to be sentenced today.

As I sat there nonplussed, trying to sort out my emotions and decide what to do, the attorney excused herself, and the victim/witness support worker said, “Think of it as a chess game. This is just one more move.” With that, I decided to drive back home with “L” without going into the courtroom. I realized that I was holding on too tightly to the outcome. Tough as it was, I needed to let it go.