Judge Leon Long is the only black judge ever to sit in Barnstable County. He has been on the Superior Court bench for more than eighteen years. A liberal Democrat who began his legal training during the turbulent sixties, Judge Long is the favorite draw among criminal defense lawyers. He is immensely popular with the courthouse staff and the bane of Geraldine Schilling’s existence.
I met Judge Long more than a decade ago, on Christmas Eve of my first year as an assistant district attorney. I handled only the small matters that year. Geraldine tried the serious cases, as she had for eight years before I was hired. Because of that arrangement, I knew all of the magistrates and judges in the District Court but almost no one from the Superior Court bench.
That Christmas Eve, though, the magistrate assigned to hear traffic offenses in District Court was down with the flu, and Judge Leon Long from Superior Court volunteered to fill in. Insisted on it, the bailiff reported. A civil trial in progress before Judge Long had settled on the courthouse steps that morning, the judge explained, freeing him to step in for his ailing colleague.
It was odd, I thought, for a Superior Court judge to seize the reins so eagerly in traffic court, especially on a Thursday morning, the slot set aside in Barnstable County for contested parking tickets. Every Thursday morning, the county’s aggrieved citizens packed into District Court to argue about how far their cars were, or were not, from the hydrant or the neighbor’s driveway. Not exactly the stuff that great judicial opinions are made of.
There he was, though, a portly man of average height who somehow filled the entire courtroom the moment he walked through the door. He wore his robe, but he didn’t take the bench. Instead, Judge Leon Long strode the length of the cavernous room, took my hands in his as if we were old friends, and flashed a dazzling smile. “Judge Leon Long,” he said. “Leon when it’s just us.”
Leon’s smile disappeared before I could answer. His eyes moved to the courtroom’s side door, and I turned to follow his gaze. There she was, glaring at the judge, just three feet away. Geraldine.
“Sit down, Martha,” she said.
I did, thinking that an odd situation had just taken a turn toward the bizarre. A Superior Court judge appeared more than eager to review parking tickets. And the First Assistant District Attorney, buried up to her eyeballs in violent crime, apparently intended to prosecute traffic infractions instead. I half expected F. Lee Bailey to show up at the defense table.
Judge Long retrieved his radiant smile for Geraldine. “Attorney Schilling,” he said, beaming at her. “Always a pleasure.”
In her spiked heels, Geraldine was almost as tall as the judge. She planted herself squarely in front of him, crossed her arms over her tailored jacket, and cocked her blond head to one side. “Go ahead,” she said to Judge Leon Long, “get it over with.”
The judge turned to the crowded gallery, his arms in the air like a televangelist addressing the living-room masses. “Brothers and sisters,” he bellowed, “how many of you are…”
I swear I thought he was going to say “without sin.”
“…here because you have been accused of a parking violation?”
I felt sorry for him then. I thought he didn’t realize they were all accused of parking violations.
They raised their hands. Every person in the jam-packed room put a hand in the air, but not one of them made a sound. Their eyes were glued to the judge.
“Brothers and sisters,” Judge Leon Long repeated, his bellow louder now, his drawl thicker, “I can’t hear you. Tell me. I want to know. How many of you stand accused of parking your automobile where it did not belong?”
“I am.” “Me.” “Me, too,” came from the gallery, the voices hesitant and low.
“And brothers and sisters,” Judge Long boomed, “how many of you stand wrongly accused? How many of you know in the depths of your soul that you had the right to park your automobile exactly where you did?”
Geraldine glowered at him as the answers began.
“I’m wrongly accused,” ventured one brave soul. “I am, too,” said another. “Me, too.” “Nothing wrong with where I parked.”
They all started talking at the judge then, a chorus of voices growing to a full crescendo in about ten seconds.
“Just as I thought,” the judge announced, his booming Baptist minister’s baritone silencing the room once more. “We are here today, brothers and sisters, to right the wrong that has been done to each and every one of you.”
At this point I thought I had seen it all. But I was wrong. Judge Leon Long turned his back to the crowd and, for the first time, ascended to the bench. He took a small figure from the pocket of his robe and wound the key in its back, set it on the edge of the raised judge’s bench, released his grip on it, and music began. Judge Long stepped back to enjoy the show, his smile enormous.
Santa Claus. An instrumental version of “We Wish You a Merry Christmas” lilted through the courtroom as the small mechanical Santa Claus marched the length of the judge’s bench, turned around, and marched back.
The judge’s arms were in the air again, this time brandishing a blank parking ticket. “Brothers and sisters,” he implored, “dispose of these false allegations.”
With that, the judge ripped his parking ticket in half, in half again, and again, until he held nothing but tiny squares of white confetti. After just a moment of stunned silence, those in the gallery began shredding their own tickets, hooting and hollering in the process.
I left my seat and joined Geraldine, who hadn’t moved a muscle. “He does it every goddamned year,” she said, her face like stone.
“Every year?”
“It’s his little Christmas gift to the citizens of Barnstable County,” she told me, her voice barely audible above the ruckus from the gallery.
“But the magistrate?” I questioned. “The flu?”
“No flu. Just a day off.”
“But the settlement-on the courthouse steps?”
“No settlement,” she said, “just a brief recess.”
Judge Leon Long threw his handful of confetti in the air then, and everyone in the room followed suit. Tiny squares of white paper snowed down on us as Judge Long left the bench and joined the crowd in the gallery, shaking hands, clapping shoulders, and exchanging wishes for happy holidays. Santa Claus continued his march and the music played on.
Even then, even as a prosecutor, I liked everything about Judge Leon Long. Now that I’m defending Buck Hammond, I view Judge Long as a godsend. In Judge Long’s courtroom, the presumption of innocence is more than a constitutional protection. It’s a sacred guarantee. And that means Buck Hammond has a fighting chance.
Judge Leon Long flashes his radiant smile when he takes the bench for jury selection, and I laugh out loud. I can’t help it. I still remember Geraldine’s final words that day, as she headed for the courtroom door. “Proceed, Martha,” she called over her shoulder. “Convict the bastards. I just stopped by to make sure you and the good judge were properly introduced.”