“State vee,” there’s a hesitation, “um, Isabella, Perry,” a voice lent stentorian depth by a hint of amplification, “your honor, line twelve, uh, page seventeen, line twelve, of the two PM docket,” as she’s ushered through one of the four identical doorways set in the wall of this utilitarian hall, past a burly man in pale blue coveralls, his arm gripped by a deputy dressed in mismatched kelly greens, gear weightily jangled from black webbed belts, much like the one who steers her into a booth, two waist-high walls a close tight corner, thick panes of plexiglass set atop them, up to the ceiling, and only a gap where they meet at the corner, a hand’s width at most, opened out into the broader room, “misdemeanor, ah,” that voice is saying, the amplification makes it difficult to determine who’s speaking, maybe the clerk there, on the other side of the dais, hidden behind a couple of flatscreen monitors, “misdemeanor trespass,” but “I’ve got it,” says the man at the top of the dais, dark beard neatly trimmed to a puff of curls at his chin, shoulders robed in black, peering at a kiltered monitor of his own, but “You’re here for an arraignment?” a woman’s murmuring, stepped close to the other side of the plexiglass, “on a count of misdemeanor trespass?” Tight brown weave and a rumpled grey jacket, warm brown eyes behind narrow, wire-rimmed glasses. “Sam McDonald?” she says, “with the MPD? Metro Public Defenders? I can’t be your attorney in this matter, but I am available to assist you through this process?”
“What?” says Ysabel. The door closed behind her, the deputy stood before it, implacable.
“Do you consent?”
“Your honor,” someone else is saying, another faintly amplified voice, maybe the man sat at the desk in the middle of the room, facing the dais, “there’s an issue, as it turns out, with identification,” but “Let’s hold our horses,” says the judge on the dais, and then, “Counselor?” somehow shifting his attention from him out in the middle of the room to her stood there by the booth without looking up or away from his monitor. She’s passing a sheet of paper through the gap in the plexiglass, “This is the information the DA’s prepared?” she murmurs, “officially setting out the basis of the charge?”
“What?” says Ysabel.
“Do you consent to our assistance?” She’s jiggling that paper, here, take it, her other hand on the shelf at the top of the low wall, there on the other side of the plexiglass, holding down a button on a small plastic housing there, a microphone sprouted from it, canted up toward the gap in the plexiglass between them. “I don’t know,” says Ysabel, but she takes the page, pulling it through.
“Counselor?” says the judge again.
She lifts her hand from the button, “Conferring, your honor,” she says, her words echoing faintly, redoubled by whatever hidden speakers, and she presses the button again. “It’s misdemeanor trespass?” she murmurs, close by the gap. “You should be, you ought to be released, shortly? We just need to get you arraigned, and set the next court date? Do you understand?”
CIRCUIT COURT, says the paper, and COUNTY OF MULTNOMAH, STATE OF OREGON, Plaintiff, The above named ISABELLA PERRY is accused by this information, COUNT 1: CRIMINAL TRESPASS IN THE FIRST DEGREE (A Misdemeanor, ORS 164.255).
“Where is my,” says Ysabel, looking up from the paper to the woman in grey, there on the other side of the glass. “What time is it,” she says, and then, “what day is it, I’ve been here, overnight, I think, you, I couldn’t, eat, you can’t, where is my, where’s my clothing,” leaned forward, blinking, black curls matted, dangled to either side of her face, tangled upon her shoulders in shapeless pale blue coveralls, shivering, short sleeves winged out over her bare arms unfolding from about her, hands pressed to the glass, “Ma’am,” says the deputy behind her, sharply, a jangling step, the woman in grey lifts a forestalling hand, wait, it’s all right, “Do you understand?” she says, again.
But green eyes wide Ysabel’s looking past her, past that desk out in the middle and the waist-high wall beyond it, bifurcating the room, and on the other side of it three or four rows of empty pews, almost empty, sat there in the corner a lone figure, looking down, away, face hidden by such a cloud of curls the color of clotted cream.
“Ms. Perry? do you understand?” that lilting murmur, “how do you want to plead?”
“I don’t know,” says Ysabel, lowering her hands from the glass.
“You should plead not guilty, then? You’ll be able to change your plea later, should it come to that?”
“I don’t know,” says Ysabel. “I don’t know.”
“Do you wish to enter a plea of not guilty? Then we can start to work on getting you released?”
“I don’t,” says Ysabel, but then, “yes,” she says, “yes. Yes. Get me out. Get me out.”
“Your honor,” the woman in grey is saying, echoing vaguely, her finger’s lifted from the button, “defendant acknowledges receipt of a copy of the charging instrument, truly named, and waives any further reading of the charges, and would enter a plea of not guilty.”
“Court has reviewed probable cause and find there is sufficient information to support the, ah, probable cause,” says the judge. “You understand, Ms. Perry, that, though Ms. McDonald is eminently capable, she is not your attorney for this matter. Ordinarily, the court would, at this time, appoint an attorney to represent you, but the truth of the matter is, one simply isn’t available at this, uh, time. And for that, this court does offer an apology.”
“Move to dismiss,” says Sam McDonald, “as this is a violation of the right to counsel under the constitutions of the United States and the State of Oregon.”
“State objects,” says the man at the desk out in the middle of the room, round spectacles glazed by the light from his monitors.
“And I’m gonna deny,” says the judge. “Does the State have anything to raise?”
“Your honor, State objects to anything, anything entailing release.”
“You want I should hold this woman on a misdemeanor trespass?”
“There’s a question of identification, your honor.”
“Sam?” says the judge, he’s looked up from his monitor to the booth in the corner, to them, the woman in grey rapidly sifting through papers in a manila jacket she’s balance on the shelf, “You, ah,” she says, stopping a loose page from slipping away with a sudden stab of a finger, but the words, the flutters echo faintly, she folds up papers and jacket in an awkward bundle, freeing up a hand to press the button on the microphone, “you didn’t have any ID, when you were arrested?” she murmurs, into the gap.
“I have a license,” says Ysabel.
“But when you were arrested, you didn’t have it?”
“I had to have one so I might get paid for my work. Which makes, little sense. It was very expensive.”
“I,” says Sam, letting go of the button so she might shuffle loudly through the papers once more, holding the bundle up, pressed to the plexiglass, pushing the button once more, “this is your residence?”
It’s a form, pale blue boxes filled with tiny typescript beneath tinier labels, PERRY, it says, ISABELLA, and 1020 SE BELMONT UNK. “I think so?” says Ysabel. “I stay there, sometimes. The apartment over the Monte Carlo, there on the corner,” but she’s looking out over that slumped grey shoulder, and Sam, turning to follow, the lone figure out in the gallery, “is that,” she says, “your roommate? Can she vouch for you? Fetch your ID?”
“Defendant did not present any identification upon arrest,” says the man at the desk in the middle of the room. “Claims to have a driver’s license, DMV has no matching record under the name provided. Refused to provide a date of birth.”
“Sam?” says the judge, again, she’s yanking the papers back, looking over the form, “What’s your birthday?” she says.
“That’s, difficult,” says Ysabel.
“What’s it say on your license?”
“I, I don’t remember,” and then, “I haven’t seen it in months!”
Sam McDonald closes her eyes behind those glasses. Lets go of the button. “Your honor,” she says, echoing faintly, “there are some irregularities, but, we do have a true named information, she’s given an address, there’s no allegation of deception, or history, of same – ”
“No criminal history,” says the judge, nearly brushing one of his monitors with a fingertip.
“Due respect, your honor,” says the man at the desk in the middle of the room. “We can’t say the defendant has no criminal history, when she doesn’t have a criminal history.” Looking up, the glare falling away from his lenses to reveal enormous eyes partaking of a long, slow blink. “She doesn’t have anything at all, that we’ve been able to find.”
“Because I’m not a criminal,” whispers Ysabel to Sam, who holds up her free hand.
“Welp,” says the judge, “that’s not enough to hold her.” Sam lowers her hand, and a lone, slight nod.
“The State, your honor, has very real concerns the defendant will not present herself on her own accord for any future court dates.”
“And, that turns out to be the case, this court will issue a warrant for her arrest.” Turning from his monitors, then, to look at Ysabel in the booth, and his smile is warm enough. “Do you understand, Ms. Perry? We’re gonna set the next court appearance, about a week from now, and at that point we should be able to appoint you an attorney. But if you do not show up for that next date, the police will be out looking for you, and you’ll have a failure to appear added to your trespassing charge.”
Ysabel looks to Sam, papers clutched close, looking expectantly back. “Yes, my lord,” she says, toward the bulb of the microphone, there in the gap. “I understand.”
“Your honor,” whispers Sam. “Whaddawe got, Jeanise?” says the judge.
“Friday the twenty-ninth, nine AM,” says another clerk, sat on this side of the dais.
“State moves for enhanced conditions,” says the man out there in the middle of the room.
“Thought you might,” says the judge. “PSA’s, what, zero? One?” A negatory waggle of that tufted chin. “Don’t think we need to bug Close Street with this.”
“State asks for a prohibition from the premises, within a hundred and fifty feet.”
“Appropriate enough, for trespassing,” says the judge.
“Your honor,” says Sam, “what are the premises, exactly? A hundred and fifty feet from what? The rail yards, in Northwest? Lovejoy Avenue? This is unnecessarily restrictive. A gross overreach.”
“We can limit it to the construction site, or the demolition site, rather,” says the judge. “I take it defense still objects?”
“We do, your honor.”
“Overruled, and print! You understand, Ms. Perry,” the judge looking down, again, to the booth, “if you’re found within a hundred and fifty feet of where they’re demolishing the Lovejoy Ramp, you’ll be in violation of the terms and conditions of your release, all right?”
“Yes, my lord,” says Ysabel, and “Your honor,” whispers Sam, into the gap. Ysabel looks to her, taken aback, but she’s turning away, out there a printer, two printers have whirred to life, one by the desk in the middle of the room, the other, tucked up here, on the other side of the plexiglass, where Sam’s snagging the pages it spits out. “We’ll see you back here, in JC3, in just about a week, Ms. Perry,” says the judge. “What’s next?”
“Harris Dickerson,” says the clerk over on the other side of the dais, “page, thirteen, line eight of the two PM docket,” as “Sign this?” says Sam, jiggling another piece of paper through the gap.
“What’s happening?” says Ysabel. The door’s opening behind her, there’s movement, jangling, the deputy’s stepped up close, “Sign this?” Sam’s saying, “it’s the conditions of your release?”
“What’s happening,” Ysabel, her words, the squeak and jangle, the rustle amplified enough to echo faintly, as if it’s happening in a rather larger room, “You’re being released?” says Sam, but she’s pulling the paper back through the gap as Ysabel’s arm is seized, there beneath that too-short outflung sleeve, she flinches, rings thickly silver about two of the gripping fingers, “you just need to acknowledge these conditions? I’ll get this down to you?” That hand pulls, implacably, back, Ysabel steps, unwillingly, backwards under its impetus as someone new is ushered within, a slender man, quite tall, his pale blue coveralls a sack about him, “misdemeanor assault,” the clerk is saying, the echo falling away as Ysabel’s pulled back into the utilitarian hall, “What’s happening?” she says, once more, but quietly, and then the door’s swung shut.
