Who cleans up after a murder?

It was motion and arraignment day in 62nd District Court, in the criminal cases the usual suspects for DWI, burglary, methamphetamine or marijuana possession or both, sometimes a charge with intent to distribute if the seized white powdery substance or green leafy substance was over a certain weight.

The 20 or so accused sat in a specific area of the courtroom, in pews near the north wall. All were in the bright orange uniform of the day; all wore two shiny steel bracelets, with small chains connecting the bracelets.

The judge got divorce motions out of the way and then went to the alleged criminals. He might recognize some by name, fewer by face, all by charges. Just about every one was a frequent flyer.

About 15 lawyers hung around as the bailiff called individual names. Each call brought an orange-suited man to a spot before the judge on high. For each man, the judge opened a folder and read the charge and asked, “Do you have a lawyer?” Each answer was, “No, Sir.” The judge then looked around and said, “Mr. Jensen is your attorney.” The so named stepped forward and told the judge, “My client wishes to enter a plea of not guilty.” Neither Mr. Jensen nor any other attorney appointed had ever seen his client before that day, unless the accused had racked up a measure of frequent flyer time.

The number of usual suspects dwindled, but no one left the courtroom. People not involved in cases were there to see the star of the day, a man accused of killing his special education school teacher live-in girl friend, specifically by shooting her with a 12-guage shotgun in the kitchen of his and her house.

By the time the judge arraigned the accused before the alleged murderer and was looking at paperwork from the district clerk, every lawyer in the courtroom had made his or her way somewhere else on the other side of the swinging doors. No one wanted appointment to that case. There was no defense. The man had shot the woman in the kitchen. Everybody knew that as a fact.

Everybody also knew the woman had left the man several times, but she always went back. Her friends told her, “One of these days he’s going to kill you.” But the woman loved him, and she knew he loved her and he said he was sorry and he wouldn’t beat her again. He promised.

The judge picked up a folder and called the accused. The murderer stood and, accompanied by two deputy sheriffs, went forward. The judge looked around. He knew the man did not have an attorney. And for a few seconds, he also knew there was not a lawyer in sight.

And then the swinging doors opened and George (last name not important) strolled in. Apparently, or obviously, the attorneys who had scurried away did not see fit to inform George.

The judge asked the murderer if he had an attorney. “No,” the man said, and then remembering courtroom decorum, reluctantly said, “No, Sir.” The judge looked up and saw George walking slowly, taking his time, for the moment without a care in the world. “Mr. (Smith),” the judge said. “Come up here and meet your new client.” George walked faster then. When the judge read the charge of murder, George said, “Not guilty.”

Somebody one day mentioned George had never won a trial. The best way of lawyering, though, is not to go to trial. George made a living with divorce cases and other things that would never go before a jury. In this case, though, it would not have mattered who the judge assigned to defend the murderer. The man was guilty, and he would spend the rest of his life in prison. The state could not ask for death, because the murder had not occurred during the commission of another felony. It was another case of a man killing his girlfriend in a house they shared.

George got a change of venue to Paris, 30 miles away. It didn’t matter. East Texas juries take a dim view of men who kill their girlfriends or women who kill their boyfriends.

In the trial, the prosecution made its case. George asked questions, as a defense attorney should. When the prosecution rested, the judge called on George, who stood and said, “The defense calls no witnesses, your honor.” The jury was out about 20 minutes.

One time after watching a particularly bloody TV drama murder scene, my wife asked, “Who cleans up after a murder?” I said, “The family, I guess. It’s not a police responsibility.”

A deputy sheriff and her constable husband cleaned up the kitchen murder scene. Their daughter was engaged to the murdered woman’s son. “It was awful,” she said.