Judge on Trial

By Kathleen DeRonde

Judge On Trial is an in-depth analysis of the 1983 "Amy" case, where a twelve-year-old girl was confined to juvenile hall for her failure to testify against her physician father who had confessed to molesting her. It occurred during the same week that ABC released its breakthrough incest drama, Something about Amelia, which attracted sixty million viewers. The mainstream media crucified the decision to hold the girl, calling it a Kafkaesque legal fiasco--the system punishing the child it was designed to protect--but local news media, legal experts, and victims of child abuse disagreed. This is the story of the case as written by the judge's wife, Kay DeRonde, detailing the pressure applied to the girl by the mother, the father, and their attorneys to drop the case so that the family could stay together. Its further goal was to save the doctor's medical license. The commentary in this pivotal book raises even larger questions: Are child witnesses free to testify? Should admitted molesters be able to access the victim by attorneys, acting through the mother? And was justice served by dismissing the case? This book provides the answers and confronts the legal, moral, and faith-based dilemma raised by the stunning series of events.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Christian Faith Publishing, Inc.
• Release date: May 26, 2023
• ISBN: 9798887516707

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Judge on Trial

Kathleen DeRonde

ISBN 979-8-88751-669-1 (paperback)

ISBN 979-8-88751-670-7 (digital)

Copyright © 2023 by Kathleen DeRonde

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods without the prior written permission of the publisher. For permission requests, solicit the publisher via the address below.

Christian Faith Publishing

832 Park Avenue

Meadville, PA 16335

www.christianfaithpublishing.com

Printed in the United States of America

Table of Contents

To my dear firstborn, Johnny, with love always from Mom.

Part 1

So Huge, So Hopeless to Conceive

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

The Court: All right. That's the order. She's remanded to the custody of the juvenile authorities without bail pursuant to Section 1219 of the Code of Civil Procedure. The case will be set for Tuesday for further proceedings.

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Mr. Finkas: You mean Section 166, defining contempt of court on the part of a witness?

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

The Court (to Mr. Russo): Well, you have a right to advise your client, certainly. And if you want to advise her not to talk to her daughter, that's your business. She may elect to take or reject that advice. Suffice to say that about the only thing the court could do is merely reiterate the proscriptions contained in the Penal Code, Section 136, which basically state that no one shall dissuade a witness, who has material facts to be presented on issues to be heard and determined in criminal proceedings, from testifying. Now I expect you're cognizant of that provision of the statute?

Mr. Hagler: It is not a basis for a lawsuit, but could I have the ear of the court? You have previously stated that Penal Code section which informed Amy about the ramifications of not testifying. But if the court went beyond its citations for contempt and sent an emissary to her, not a liaison of the court but of the district attorney's office, then the court has gone beyond its lawfully coercive objective and exceeds its jurisdictional power.

The Court: Okay. The district attorney is asking that two further individuals be removed from the court pursuant to the provisions of 288 of the Penal Code. Not 288. Excuse me. The applicable section of the code escapes me.

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

The Court (to Kobrin): Have you considered proceeding under the applicable 800 section here by making a motion to clear the courtroom?

Mr. Kobrin: Well, Your Honor, that's pursuant to the code sections I cited on Friday, 288a or 288c, and I think it was 868 point something.

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Part 2

[A]s These that Twice Befell.

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

About the Author

To my dear firstborn, Johnny, with love always from Mom.

Part 1

So Huge, So Hopeless to Conceive

Chapter 1

Vacaville, a city situated between Sacramento and San Francisco, means cow town, a rather uninspired name for a place so favored by nature. Huddled against the rolling English hills, green in winter, gold in summer, it is, moreover, safe from the blustery winds that flee inland from the fog on San Pablo Bay. Not too long ago, only small ranches were scattered within this tranquil valley of plum, apricot, and almond groves; and even now, it has miraculously retained its bucolic flavor. Yet this very attribute lures city dwellers to settle in such numbers that they themselves endanger the very beauty and serenity they seek.

Some lovely vistas do remain, but one must climb ever higher to view them. And how long can these endure? The old-timers know and shake their heads sadly when they watch bulldozers rearranging the pattern of their lives or when they see headlined in their daily papers such crimes which before were always too remote to be threatening and too bizarre to be discussed, except in whispers. Soon they would be reading of another such transgression. In fact, all America would be reading about it.

*****

On a warm July afternoon, three persons slowly made their way along a path that led to the Vacaville Police Station on Merchant Street. A tall, gaunt, white-faced man in his early thirties walked beside his wife. Dark and vibrantly attractive, she had high cheekbones, a smooth complexion, and full red lips. As her trim, lithe body moved away from under shade trees to the entrance, the sun turned her long hair to black satin; but tinted horn-rimmed glasses shielded her lively Spanish eyes from its glare as she glanced up furtively at her husband. He, however, stared straight ahead.

A girl walked two paces behind them. Like her mother, she had an olive complexion and wide, dark eyes, but there the resemblance ended. Her hair was cropped, curly, and cherubic cheeks and a pouty mouth made her seem younger than her twelve years. Pudginess, too, disguised her burgeoning figure, making it appear unlikely that she would ever attain her mother's height or possess her supple grace.

They were members of the Timmerman family: Kent, Lupe Reyes Timmerman—his wife of four years—and Amy Reyes, his stepdaughter.

The woman's other child, a son, also from the previous marriage, had not accompanied them. There was no need. He had not been a victim.

At the door, Lupe stopped, waited for the girl to catch up, then took her by the elbow to usher her through first. The trio found themselves in an anteroom, where a young, pleasant-faced policewoman, obviously the Pauline Hughes specified on the desk nameplate, looked up from her work. She greeted them affably and, pulling a chair from the corner, drew it alongside the other two in front of her desk.

Please sit down, she said kindly, for she had noted with trained observance that the child was shy to the point of petulance, the two adults extremely tense, particularly the man—his face, so drawn and ashen, reminded her of a cadaver she had once been compelled to identify in the morgue.

Visibly relieved was Lupe, however, when she realized that their interviewer was to be female. Moistening her sensuous lips with the tip of her tongue, she was the first to speak.

Officer, the County Medical Health Services people sent us over here, she said, her voice calm and controlled, although Hughes noticed that she kept twisting a gold band around her finger. I…that is, my husband, Kent…he— She broke off.

The policewoman regarded the man quizzically, anticipating that he would take up the explanation. His tone was casual, but his words seemed rehearsed. I was going in for counseling, Officer. You see, I'd been sexually molesting my stepdaughter, Amy, here. Though referring to the girl, his eyes remained on the policewoman's face as if expecting some reaction, but she had none. Rather, she glanced at Amy, who did not lift her eyes from the tightly clasped hands in her lap.

Kent, drawing a deep breath, went on, We all went to a counselor to help us with our—my problem. Then we were referred to a worker from Children's Protective Services. He told us that he was required by law to report cases like ours to the police. But he suggested that it would be best that I go immediately to the police myself and tell them what happened.

Hughes nodded. The CPS worker was referring to the Abuse Reporting Act just recently passed by the legislature. You were wise to comply with his advice. Do you wish to make a statement at this time, sir? she asked.

Yes, I do, he replied. Then, anxious to appear cooperative, he added, We'll all have statements to make.

Good, but first I've got to read you your rights. She slid a small Miranda card from under a desk pad. He knew that this first step was also in compliance with the law, but in his estimation, it seemed to transform her. To him, Hughes had become formidably efficient, wholly impersonal. She read quickly, then slipped the card back.

Do you understand what I've just read, Mr.—

Timmerman. Captain Timmerman. Had he only imagined it? Or had her eyebrows lifted slightly this time?

And do you still wish to talk to us, Captain? she asked.

Yes.

Then if you'll just sign this waiver, please, she requested, handing the document to him.

Kent's coal-black eyes scanned it hastily. He was anxious to be done with preliminaries. Besides, it was merely a repetition of the list she had just read: his right to remain silent, his right to an attorney when the police interrogated him, his right to a court-appointed attorney if he couldn't afford one. Well, he could afford one, all right, if it came to that, he thought to himself with some satisfaction. But it wouldn't be necessary. He'd sign this damned thing and get on with his statement. Afterward, everything would be all right. He felt confident of that.

Oh it was true enough that the Juvenile Court judge had forbidden him to see Amy, forcing his removal to temporary quarters elsewhere. But was that not all they were? Only temporary? Certainly, Lupe was being cooperative enough. The judge couldn't keep them apart for long, and that nosey neighbor who had threatened to turn him in to the police would calm down now that he had complied with her demands that he see a counselor. More relaxed now, he signed the waiver with firm, quick flourishes.

Thank you, Captain Timmerman, Hughes said, taking the document from him. Now each of you will be interviewed separately by me in another room. And I'll be taking down your statements regarding what took place. You can sign them, and then you're free to leave. She rose, smiling down at the girl. Come along, Amy, you can be first.

Hughes opened a side door leading to a narrow corridor, and Amy went to her. But before the police officer closed the door, Kent, hearing the clicking of typewriters, dreaded the possibility that he might have to pass through a crowded office.

The Timmerman file had then been sent to the District Attorney's office in Fairfield, the Solano County Seat, which was located a few miles from Vacaville. DA Mike Nail had scanned its contents and handed it to his deputy, Kenneth Kobrin, as soon as the latter had reported for work that morning. Get on this one as soon as possible, will you, Ken? he requested.

Kobrin gave a sleepy acquiescence. But he had forgotten that his second courtroom appearance of the day had been scheduled immediately following the first and in another department as well, so it was not until just before lunchtime that he was able to return to his office and the Timmerman file. Pouring himself a half cup of coffee, he ladled in cream to appease his growing hunger, then sat down to peruse the unopened packet before him.

Ken Kobrin was a serious young lawyer of about thirty. He had likewise been a serious student of the law with the zeal to become successful at it. The quest for money had not so motivated him but rather a desire to help his fellow man. And what better way to do so, he had reasoned, than by learning those codes which control—or fail to control—man's actions? Once fortified with this knowledge, he could then wisely counsel and protect them.

In his first year at McGeorge School of Law in Sacramento, however, there had been no opportunity for such altruism, nor even for pondering the clearest path to his goal. He was much too deluged by legal precepts which he must not only master, but also about which he must write and argue. During his final year, however, it came to him that he would champion those who were unjustly accused, those who were impoverished, deprived, downtrodden by society. Ironically, it was his best friend, similarly inclined, who landed a job with the Sacramento Public Defender; Kobrin himself interned with the district attorney, at first greatly lamenting the fact that he found himself on the wrong side.

Most of that year, in late-night gab sessions with his buddy, he would have traded jobs with him as freely as they both traded courtroom experiences. But, strangely enough, his friend was gradually undergoing disillusionment until one night, he admitted sadly to Kobrin that, in nine out of ten cases, the clients he had so staunchly defended were, in fact, guilty as hell, a threat to themselves and society. So it was not long after graduation that Kobrin, having thus become vicariously jaded, took a job as Deputy District Attorney of Solano County. He could best help society, he decided, by protecting the innocent and bringing the criminal to justice.

Now the sun's rays streamed through Kobrin's window overlooking the Hall of Justice parking lot, momentarily distracting him. Not a spectacular view, he commented wryly to himself, but it was surely a good spot for his potted philodendron. In fact, its shoots had grown so profusely he had to scotch-tape them to a side wall, where they traced themselves over it like green scrollwork. Under the vines were three chairs stacked high with his current cases since the office was too small to accommodate a second filing cabinet. Not-so-current files spilled out from two large boxes in front of his desk. Many times, comfortably shoeless, with his law book in one hand, he had often sworn lustily at them while holding his stubbed toes with the other.

Kobrin opened the file and began reading Amy's statement to Officer Pauline Hughes, his black brows knitting, his fingers raking his dark curly hair in concentration:

Approximately three months ago, I was standing in the hallway, talking to my stepfather. As I started to walk away, he squeezed my bottom and said, You have nice buns. I then walked to my bedroom.

Kobrin grimaced in disgust. Jeez, here's another one! he groaned, reading on: The next day, I told my mother about the incident, and she just laughed about it.

Dammit, that's the trouble, Kobrin complained inwardly, their wives don't want to face up to it. He sighed. How many times had he started a case on the strength of similar charges, only to have the wife ask that they be dropped? Prepared for the worst, he resumed reading:

When I would say goodnight to my father, he would pull me down on his lap and feel my breast and vaginal area. He would put his hands under my top to touch my breast but feel my vaginal area over my clothes.

Kobrin suppressed a customary twinge of revulsion, forcing himself to be clinically objective, better to assess the proper course to take:

One morning at approximately six-o'clock, I was in my bed when my stepfather walked in. I was asleep but was awakened by my stepfather lying beside me in bed. He put his hand down my panties and felt my vaginal area for approximately fifteen minutes. He asked me if I liked it. I didn't answer, so he got up and left the room. I finally told my mom about the other incidents on July 27, 1983, at approximately 3:30 p.m.

Kobrin shook his head in disgust, then began reading her mother's statement, which dramatized what next occurred. Evidently, she and her daughter had been quarreling about the girl's hostile attitude toward both parents:

Don't you care about anything? Lupe had asked.

No! Amy shouted.

Don't you care what your parents think?

No, she repeated vehemently.

Amy, why do you hate your stepfather and me so much?

I don't hate you, Mom, but I hate Kent.

Why? her mother demanded.

Because he's been molesting me.

Lupe had then narrated the rest of her account. To Kobrin, it seemed that she could not bring herself to reveal Amy's actual words as the story unfolded:

I asked her if she was sure she was telling the truth because this was a very serious charge. She said yes, and I asked her to tell me about the incidents. I told her it wasn't her fault and that she wasn't in any trouble.

Lupe continued to relate what happened when her husband came home:

I met Kent after work that afternoon and confronted him about the incidents. He denied them at first, but after I told him what Amy told me, he confessed to everything. Lupe concluded with, I don't want to press charges against Kent. I just want counseling.

Kobrin was amazed at how succinctly and casually Kent's wife had suggested a remedy for her husband's perversion. Like prescribing aspirin for cancer, he muttered. Wondering what medicine the doctor was recommending for himself, he turned to Kent's confession:

Sometime in mid-May, I was in my office, a room inside the residence, and Amy came in to say goodnight. She and I were talking, and I rubbed her shoulders. As I was rubbing her shoulders, she was talking about her figure. I touched her breast over her clothing, and then she went to bed. The same thing happened the next night, but I went under her top and touched her bare beast. This happened in a matter of seconds. The next day, I touched her again one brief time over her clothing. Two days later, I went to wake Amy up for school. I went into her room, sat on the bed, and told her it was time to get up. As I was talking to her, I was touching her thigh, tummy, and pubic hair. This was all done in quick, brief touches, and I did not stay in the room.

Nothing else happened from that day on. I stayed away from Amy and felt real bad about the incidents.

Nothing else happened from that day on, Kobrin repeated Kent's last statement. But in the deputy DA's opinion, too damned much had happened already.

Chapter 2

Kobrin closed the file, rose, and headed for his boss's office. Tapping and hearing Mike Nail's Come in, he entered. The deep, resonant response fit the man before him. Mike Nail was sternly masculine, broad-shouldered, above a sturdy physique. Like Kobrin, his hair and eyes were dark, but he was older, made even more so by the thick mustache above his firm line of mouth and square jaw.

Nail was seated at his desk, munching on a sandwich. Kobrin held up the Timmerman file and waved it at him.

What we've got here is a 288a, a ‘lewd and lascivious,' Kobrin said, taking a seat. Hey, that sandwich looks good.

It's a felony, all right, Nail agreed. Here, take half.

Thanks. The guy could get three to eight years for it, Mike.

What sentence would you want for him, Ken? inquired Nail.

Well, certainly not eight. Maybe not even three, Kobrin reflected, but I know I'd want him to spend some time in the county jail, at least enough to come to grips with what he's done.

Then what?

Then I'd probably want the judge to suspend the balance of his sentence, provided that he agreed to stay away from the kid and report regularly for therapy.

That's how I see it too. But there's another reason for confining him and as soon as possible, Nail added.

Yeah? What's that?

Timmerman's a captain at Travis Air Force Base, and—

Kobrin couldn't resist an interruption, a low whistle of surprise.

And listen to this, Ken. He's also a doctor. He examines female patients all the time. Kobrin's brows knitted. And that's not all. He's moonlighting at Fairfield Intercommunity Hospital, in the emergency room, Nail added. Their eyes met knowingly.

Examining molestation victims that come in…victims of rape Kobrin whispered as if to himself.

That's right. So you see why we can't just let this guy off completely. We've got no choice but to proceed with the case, yet I'm warning you, Ken, it won't be an easy one if the guy pleads not guilty.

Why? Kobrin asked. We've got the stepdaughter's statement to begin with.

I know, but with Timmerman holding down two jobs like that, he's in a position to hire a hot-shot defense attorney, one who'll do his damnedest to mitigate his crime by arousing sympathy for him. Can't you imagine how his lawyer's final summation will sound? ‘Here, ladies and gentlemen of the jury, is a man dedicated to his profession, a doctor, never in trouble before, etc.'

I can handle that, Kobrin countered. There's something I'm more worried about. I've got only one witness—that's Amy. And if she balks, our case is nowhere.

That possibility had also occurred to Nail. Make arrangements to see her right away, he said. Find out what to expect.

I've got nothing else this afternoon. I'll try to talk to her, Kobrin said. He headed for the door, then turned. Besides, Mike, I want to find out how she's doing. I'm really concerned about that kid.

*****

Shortly afterward, when Kobrin did meet with Amy, she told him she did not want to testify against her stepfather. But he was neither surprised nor dismayed. In his past experience, such reluctance had often occurred: young victims usually feared revealing unwanted intimacies before the court. Always, however, his witnesses had surmounted their initial embarrassment and had come through for him. Amy would be no exception.

Dr. Timmerman was formally arraigned on August 10, 1983, and, despite his previous confession, directed his attorney, Garry Ichikawa, to enter a not-guilty plea on his behalf. During this brief session, Ichikawa noted that earlier, a juvenile court judge had issued an order preventing further contact between Dr. Timmerman and his stepdaughter. With that information, the presiding judge at the arraignment ordered the defendant released on his own recognizance while reinforcing his predecessor's admonition to remain free of the residence and the victim.

Kent's preliminary hearing was then scheduled for September 16, and during the interim, two subpoenas were delivered to Lupe Timmerman, one ordering her, the other ordering her daughter, to appear at that time. Nail and Kobrin were satisfied that both would comply and that justice would begin for the confessed child molester.

Two days before, however, it came as a surprise to them both that another attorney, Anthony Finkas, had been hired by Amy's mother to represent her child at the hearing and that he subsequently presented DA Nail with formal notice that he would quash the subpoena directing Amy to appear by rendering it null and void. The document, he added, had been improperly served.

Was their case to be halted before it had begun? Kobrin and Nail wondered. Furthermore, they could discover no reason as to why the subpoena was considered invalid. They did not have long to ponder this question.

On the day of the hearing, Anthony Finkas, the girl's lawyer, submitted a motion in which he declared to the judge that the California Code of Civil Procedure, number 416.60, required that a subpoena be handed personally to both parent and child (if at least twelve years of age). Amy's subpoena, given only to her mother, had been improperly served and, thus, was worthless. Further, the court had absolutely no jurisdiction over Amy, her lawyer posited, nor would his young client appear. As a result, Ken Kobrin was forced to move for a dismissal of the case, and the judge promptly granted his motion.

A subdued Kobrin entered DA Nail's office later that day. His boss pushed his chair back from the desk, his eyes darting to Kobrin's grim face.

What happened? he inquired. Nothing good, I'll bet.

You guessed it. My star witness didn't even show, and Tony Finkas found out that Amy's subpoena was handed to her mother instead of to her personally. I had to move to dismiss.

Dammit! Nail leaned forward and slammed his palm on the desktop.

Yeah, it was a bad break, was Kobrin's bleak response.

He was surprised when his boss brightened. But listen, Ken, by law, we get another whack at it. We can file one more time. You know that.

Kobrin remained glum. "One last whack, you mean. And if that fails, we're out of business. Timmerman's free for good."

That's right, said Nail. But this time, we'll get the girl to court. Listen, Ken, don't think this new delay doesn't upset me. With Timmerman on O/R, who's to say he won't defy the juvenile court order and opt for some late-night visits to the old homestead? Then what about Amy, to say nothing of his patients in the emergency room?

You mean he's still practicing? asked Kobrin.

Far as I know, nothing's changed.

Well, we certainly didn't change anything this morning, either, Kobrin grumbled, thanks to Finkas. The memory of his embarrassment in court rankled. He could still see his opponent standing before the judge, his handsome, smooth-skinned, college-boy face smug with triumph. But the one thing I really don't understand, Mike, is what that guy's role is in the case.

What do you mean by that? Nail inquired.

Well, here's Finkas, hired by Lupe Timmerman to represent her daughter in an advisory capacity only. Basically, you and I know that the only advice he's required to give a victim-witness is to take the stand and tell the truth. But now we have Finkas hitting the law books and finding a reason preventing her from doing that. I just can't figure the guy out, he complained.

Kobrin looked so dejected that Nail tried optimism again.

Come on, Ken, snap out of it. So we lost round one. Round two will be coming up soon. Meanwhile, we'll reissue those subpoenas and make sure this time that service of process is not screwed up. And this time, too, the girl will be present to testify—with or without Finkas' help.

Nail's enthusiasm was not infectious.

Let's hope so, Kobrin responded, for her sake and for the other females her stepfather comes in contact with.

*****

True to his word, and genuinely convinced that the nature of the crime and the danger of its repetition justified their persistence, Nail repeated the process but with a difference: there was no loophole big enough for Finkas to push a defective subpoena through. Subsequently, a new date, January 11, was set for Timmerman's arraignment, and the DA was secure in the knowledge that Kobrin's young witness must now appear in court.

Another glitch occurred, however. On December 23, without the customary notification to the prosecution, Timmerman's lawyer, Garry Ichikawa, slipped into court and, in front of a visiting judge, one unfamiliar with the prior history of the case, asked that his client be given an on-the-spot arraignment. Ichikawa also refused to waive time; that is, to extend the prosecution's time for preparation beyond the ten-day period in which a defendant is entitled to have his case heard. And because the DA's office is usually so swamped with cases, the defense invariably grants the DA's deputies this additional period of grace.

Ichikawa, however, would not do this. As a result, the judge moved the first hearing up to December 30. But Amy had been ordered to appear on January 11, giving Kobrin only five working days to reissue Amy's subpoena for the earlier date and to prepare his case. So frustration with what he considered first Finkas' obstruction and now Ichikawa's legal legerdemain prompted him to dictate a formal declaration of protest to the court:

Case No. F4866 is a refiling of Case No. F46331CR.

The victim, who I am informed and believe is the defendant's stepdaughter, was subpoenaed to appear for January 11, 1984.

On or about December 23, 1983, I received a telephone call from Tony Finkas, attorney at law, inquiring as to the reason for service of the subpoena on said victim for January 11, 1984. Tony Finkas was the attorney who represented the victim in Case No. F46331CR on the motion to quash the subpoena.

On or about December 23, 1983, subsequent to my telephone conversation with Tony Finkas, I learned that Garry Ichikawa, attorney for defendant herein, without notice to this office, appeared before a visiting judge in Department II of this court, had defendant arraigned, and set a preliminary hearing date for December 30, 1983.

I was informed and believe that attorney Garry Ichikawa was aware that the victim herein was subpoenaed to appear on January 11, 1984, prior to attorney Finkas contacting me on December 23, 1983.

The people will not be able to proceed with preliminary hearing on December 30, 1983.

Executed under penalty of perjury.

Dated: December 27, 1983.

Kobrin scratched his signature at the bottom of the document and directed it be sent out immediately to the judge assigned to hear the case on Monday next. This was merely his formal declaration to the court. Tomorrow, he would be prepared to elaborate upon his arguments, certain that the judge would see through what had been, in Kobrin's opinion, Ichikawa's subterfuge. He'd get his continuance for January 11, dammit. God knows he needed it!

Resentfully, he grabbed another unrelated file from the stack on the chair and slammed it on his desk. This one, he'd at least be able to get to court.

Chapter 3

Please rise. Department II of Solano County Municipal Court is now in session, the Honorable Judge John DeRonde presiding.

The bailiff's order brought the sound of shuffling feet as the spectators stood up. From the right-hand corner, a door swung open, and the judge burst through, his black robe flowing behind him. A whirlwind of energy and self-assurance, he swiftly crossed the room and ascended to the chair, conveying to onlookers the impression that soon he must hustle off to another place to solve another important matter.

Above a high forehead and widow's peak, his hair was still black and thick enough to subtract ten of his fifty-nine years; yet when he sat down at the bench and adjusted his spectacles, his large blue eyes peering owlishly over them at the audience, he immediately regained his actual age.

It was a typical morning gathering, he observed, with the customary number of people present, primarily defendants accused of varying transgressions from arson to zoning violations. There they sat, accompanied by family members or friends, anxiously awaiting decrees which would determine their futures. Among these were recidivists, largely drunks, whom the police had picked up over the weekend to dry out. Accordingly, they would repent tearfully, swear abstinence when released, and head for the nearest bar. By now, he knew some of them well enough to call them by their first names. But, as usual, there were all too few objective observers, he remarked to himself, too few citizens concerned with the direction of the criminal justice system to monitor it.

Even harder for him to understand was the public's lack of interest in what he considered the unfolding drama of so many lives caught up in it. Why watch television dramatizations when real cases were even more poignant?

He now scanned the courtroom for a particular familiar face. Courtroom Annie people called her, a tiny, birdlike, middle-aged woman with a few wispy, graying strands of hair not quite gathered under the brown knitted beret she always wore. To some of his clerks, she was merely odd. To the more callous, she was laughingly referred to as a judicial junkie or an adversary addict. She was, indeed, in corridors and courtrooms almost every day, appraising silently and shrewdly the tactics of lawyers and pronouncements of judges. Given proper education and training, she might have made a formidable legal opponent, Judge DeRonde had decided. As it was, he had often asked for her opinions and was rewarded with common-sense advice.

Now, however, he caught sight of only a scattering of attorneys, either whispering hurried instructions to their clients or quietly awaiting his call for disposition of their cases. They seemed to get younger every year, he noted. Seldom had he been disqualified by them, but he was keenly aware that some of them were arcanely hostile. Usually, the less experienced ones were easily offended. Perhaps with cause, he conceded, for he himself would have been the first to admit that in his attempt to get to the essence of a controversy, he would sweep aside their arguments which he considered irrelevant or dilatory.

With approximately one hundred cases calendared daily, he felt compelled to handle each with firmness and dispatch. For this, he was called abrupt, a description which did not trouble him greatly. Neither did stronger epithets which, he suspected, the more disgruntled used. He consoled himself that a few attorneys could and did admit that he had helped train them in the toughest arena of all, the courtroom, and that a few even liked and admired him. All showed respect, however, and since respect was to him a necessary element for order and progress in the courtroom, this sufficed.

There was one other essential he had often reminded himself of, and that was absolute impartiality on the part of a judge. Frequently, he had wondered how some of his colleagues could maintain their back-slapping, glass-clinking relationship with lawyers who later appeared before them. Though a bit envious, he could not, nevertheless, establish that camaraderie which inevitably demands favors. So it was that his nickname, Jack, was rarely used. It was invariably Your Honor.

And so being a judge was essentially, for him, a lonely job as it had been the last thirteen years, up there on the bench, playing God.

Now, once more, he scanned the faces before him. Courtroom Annie was not present to gaze up at him approvingly. With a twinge of regret, he lowered his eyes to the first case to come before him that December 28, 1983.

The People of the State of California, Plaintiff, versus Kent D. Timmerman, Defendant, he announced. With that, Kenneth Kobrin, for the prosecution, and Garry Ichikawa, for the defense, stepped up briskly to the bench. I've read the submissions and your motion, Mr. Kobrin, Jack said. Then looking at Ichikawa, he added, "Is there any opposition