Story #46 - Bail Out

Bail Out

Bailiff Brint Henderson looked bored as always. Few in the New York district office knew him well, and those that did said that he rarely had much to say, even when events warranted it. 9/11 came and went without so much as a tear from the large man; it wasn't as though he was callous, more that he had something else on his mind, something larger.

As the charges were read in and the defendant took a seat, Brint didn't move from his appointed station, didn't even glace in the direction of the young white man whose lawyer would be attempting to show that he was in no way guilty of the first-degree murder of a young girl. With no one looking his way, Brint allowed himself a small, feral smile. The time had almost arrived.

It wasn't that other bailiffs were uncomfortable with the thick, brown-haired man, it was just that he gave them no opportunity to get to know him. Those who had really pressed learned he was divorced, but he'd say nothing of his former wife or speak about any other family he might have had. Zack Remmon, most sociable of the lot in the office, had gotten Brint out for a few beers but from what he told everyone around the cooler the next day, the man simply had one or two, listened to Zack ramble on and then disappeared into the night.

Some of the women found him a mysterious figure and though he didn't exactly fit the definition of handsome they were willing to take a run at him. Bailiff's pay wasn’t much but Brint had the look of a man who got things done, and some of the ladies in the office hoped that thing might be them. He was friendly, always polite, but never encouraged any attention or asked for any dates. He was maddening.

Over the course of the year he'd worked there the entire office had shifted itself around him, molding into what he needed it to be. It wasn't that he did anything deliberate – quite the opposite, in fact. His stoic solidity garnered in turns rage, fear, interest and finally acceptance from those around him, giving him the space he wanted but leaving him as a member of the team. They were happy to say he was one of them, happy to acknowledge him as a part of the group, even if he stood well outside it.

A quick word from the judge and a strike of the gavel set the next trial date and Brint slipped out into the corridor and headed to the locker room. He'd been careful in applying for this job, careful that he never came in contact with prisoners directly. That was easy enough – a friend down at the PD had cluttered his record with just enough small infractions that trusting him to lead the bad boys in and out of the courtroom was not a possibility, but having him watch the doors was an acceptable risk. It had taken a number of strings pulled hard, but it wasn't as though he had anything he was saving them for any longer.

Of course, his co-workers had no idea of the trouble he'd gone to, of the work he'd done simply to be placed here. They had no clue about his former life, his former physique and his position as perhaps one of the top legislators in the southern part of New York state. They didn't need to know; couldn't really, since he had no intention of dragging them into his mess. He was just glad it was almost over.

***

Separating the pieces of his handgun effortlessly, Brint took a small cloth from the pile on the table and wiped down the carbon-coated surfaces. Qualifying with the pistol was a requirement every six months, and most of the other bailiffs only came to the shooting range when they had to.

Brint, however, made it a point to come in at least once a week and practice with the paper-man targets, setting goals for himself to match and surpass each time the gun flew from his holster. He was an excellent shot now, not bad for someone who had only picked up the pistol two years prior. Of course, the right motivation did wonders for effective learning.

A steel wire brush was next to ensure that the barrel and all striking metal surfaces were clean and then a drop of gun oil in order to make the entire pistol action smoother. Ten minutes of cleaning passed before he finally re-assembled the pieces and slipped the gun back into its holster at his left hip. A quick look at the wall clock told him it was time to go; work and the trial would be starting soon.

***

The court was a stirred ant hill of motion – media leeches and their lackeys running madly in all directions, trying to get a reliable quote out of someone, anyone in the building, but not one of them approached Brint as he stalked to the courtroom doors, white uniform shirt pressed and clean, black pistol hanging heavily at his side.

The defendant's lawyer had asked for two of the best bailiffs the courthouse had on duty at the doors when they brought his client in – the litigator had the notion that he could gain sympathy by parading his client in chains through the main avenue of the courthouse; a tactic that would probably work.

Brint took his station, hands behind his band, posture relaxed as the defendant approached.

He hadn't changed much in four years – the scar on his left cheek and the mole under his lip still stood out – there could be no doubt it was the same man.

But daddy, he could hear her voice in his head, insistent, I love him. He'd never hurt me.

He did, of course, as Brint had known he would. He'd just misjudged how much, given his only daughter too much leeway in her choice of suitors. He should have put his foot down.

Brint stepped forward, right hand reaching out for the polished wood of the courtroom door, left hand slamming down onto the grip of his gun.

Back, up and out came the weapon, steady in his hand as the crowd cried out.

A shot to the head for his daughter, a shot to the groin for himself and the defendant went down in a spray of blood. Brint dropped the gun and stepped back, hands in the air.

For once, he didn't look bored.

- D