600 Hours of Edward

Billings remains in many ways the small cow town that it started as in 1882.
    The courthouse is an eight-story granite building, and it sits on the southeast corner of Third Avenue N. and North Twenty-Seventh Street. Among downtown buildings, I would say that only the Crowne Plaza Hotel, the Wells Fargo building (which is next door to the courthouse), and the First Interstate Bank building rival the courthouse in terms of distinctiveness. When I worked at the courthouse, I was proud to come to work every day at so important a building.
    We park in the garage attached to the Wells Fargo building, then walk across Second Avenue N. to the courthouse.
    Donna tells me that the hearing will be in Department 1. That’s Judge Alan Robeson’s courtroom, I tell her.
    “Is that good?” she asks.
    “That’s very good. Judge Robeson is a wise, logical person.”
    “Good.”
    We ride the elevator up to the fifth floor, where Judge Robeson’s courtroom is (Room 506, technically).
    It’s 9:21 a.m. It won’t be long now.
    – • –
    For first court appearances, those who are charged with crimes generally don’t show up in person. It’s often done by video from the county jail. For arraignments, however, where formal charges are presented and bond is haggled out by the prosecutor and defense attorney, the accused often does show up.
    The district courts in Yellowstone County are austere places. (I love the word “austere.”) The furniture dates from the 1960s and is built for function, not style. The gallery, of which we’re a part, sits on five rows of benches that look like church pews. The rows are divided by an aisle down the middle that leads to the lectern in front of the judge. When we came in, Donna chose a spot in the front row of the gallery.
    There are two tables, one for the defense and the other for the prosecutor. The judge sits on an elevated stand called a dais, flanked by the witness stand and a court reporter. The jury box today is full of inmates wearing the distinctive orange jumpsuit of the county jail. Their hands are shackled in front of them, connected to a waist chain. Their feet are shackled, too. Mike is one of them, and he stares at Donna Middleton in her seat and at me next to her. I look away and focus on the symbols behind Judge Robeson’s bench—the Montana and US flags and the state of Montana seal directly behind him. Donna, I hope, is also looking away.
    Criminal hearings are a cattle call of arraignments, changes of pleas, violations of parole, and the like. The judges work through the caseload deliberately but quickly, handling upward of twenty cases in a couple of hours, and sometimes faster.
    Mike’s case is the fourteenth of the seventeen that Judge Robeson is dealing with today. When the case comes up, Mike is led from the jury box by two armed guards. As he shuffles to the lectern, he fixes a gaze on Donna, and she reaches down and grabs my hand and squeezes. It hurts. I glance at her and see that she is returning Mike’s withering stare.
    The hearing is as I told Donna that it would be.
    First, the prosecution requests that the charges—violation of a restraining order and a felony charge of assault—be served. This is called “requesting leave to file.” Judge Robeson waves his hand, and the prosecutor steps up to Mike and his defender and hands them the charging document.
    The defense attorney, Sean Lambert, says, “We’ll waive a reading, Your Honor.”
    Judge Robeson peers down over the top of his glasses at Mike. “Do you understand the charges, Mr. Simpson?”
    “Yeah,” Mike says.
    “That’s ‘Yes, Your Honor,’” Judge Robeson corrects him.
    “Yes, Your Honor.”
    “And your plea to the first charge, violation of a protective order?”
    “Not guilty, Your Honor.”
    “And your plea to the second charge, felony assault?”
    “Not guilty, Your Honor.”
    Now begins the haggling over bail. The prosecutor—I don’t recognize him—says, “The people are seeking bail in the amount of twenty-five thousand dollars, Your Honor Mr. Simpson blatantly disregarded a restraining order against him, appeared at the complainant’s home, engaged her in an argument that became physical, and choked her. We feel that the gravity of the situation and Mr. Simpson’s clear disregard for a legal order of restraint merit this bond.”
    Donna Middleton is again gripping my hand.
    “And you, Mr. Lambert?” Judge Robeson says, gesturing at the defense attorney, Sean