(This is the ridiculous second chapter in my on-going stolen wallet saga. If you haven't already, read this post first...)
So the other Wednesday I had choir practice, just like every Wednesday. On my way out, I checked my phone to find I had a voicemail. I figured it was Andy, calling to ask me to come home quickly to help put Ellie to bed. Not out of the ordinary. But it wasn't Andy.
It was a strange voice that I didn't recognize. Sounded like an older man. Trying to deliver a subpoena to me. Needs to set up a time to meet. So I called him back and tried to arrange a time that I would be home that he could come to my house. He was very hard to understand. I still couldn't understand his name, but caught the word Constable. Is that even still a thing in the US? He seemed ticked off that he'd have to drive to the next town over to deliver this piece of paper. So I finally gave up and just told him when and where I'd be at work and that seemed to make him happier. He said he'd be there the next day.
And then I went to walmart and bought ice cream and cheetos. I'm not even joking.
I cried on the way home. And I'm not even really sure why.
That night, I couldn't sleep. I had nightmares that the person who had called was not who he said he was. That he was the wallet-thief and he had set up this meeting to get me back for getting him arrested. Or that he had called to find out when I'd be out of the house so he could come and rob me further or do horrible things to my family. This wasn't even a violent crime. I have no idea why my brain freaked out so badly.
The next day, I waited on the edge of my chair for the doorbell to ring. Around 11:30, the custodians left for the day. Around 1:00 the Pastor left for a visit. Now I was alone in the building. Just me and my wild imagination and tendency toward anxiety attacks. Yeah, that's a recipe for a highly productive afternoon at work. Finally the doorbell rang. And, sure enough, it was an older man with a gun. And a badge. The badge means he's safe, right? So I said a quick prayer and answered the door. Yep, it was the Constable. Still didn't catch his last name, but it hardly matters anymore. He handed me the subpoena and then was on his merry way to deliver the next one.
That was easy.
It said I had to appear at the preliminary hearing to testify on behalf of the Commonwealth of Pennsylvania in their case against the man who stole my wallet. The hearing was scheduled for the following Tuesday at 2 pm. Who gives 4 days notice for a hearing in the middle of the work day?! I've got a job and a toddler to take care of. And then you're going to have the Constable tell me that if I don't show for the hearing, I can be arrested?! Ugh. I can kind of see why people dislike the justice system in general. So I made a quick call to Andy to ask him to take off work on Tuesday afternoon. Called my mom to see if she could keep Ellie a little later than usual. Left a note for the boss to say I'd need to leave early that day. Ok, done. Everything's taken care of. Now all that's left is to wait around and try and figure out what to say at this hearing.
And more importantly, I had to figure out what to wear.
Seriously, I've watched enough cop and lawyer shows (Law & Order or Judging Amy, anyone??) to know that it matters what witnesses wear. Judges care, lawyers care, everyone cares. It matters. So that was the next object of my freaking out. What do I wear. I put out a plea for advice on facebook and got mixed results. Jeans are fine. Wear a skirt. Closed toed shoes. Be comfortable. Be confident. (My sincere thanks to all who bothered to answer my silly question - I really did appreciate your advice!) I was still confused and unsure. So at church on Sunday, I asked a friend who is a paralegal and her husband is a lawyer. I figure she's been to hearings before and would certainly know. Evidently, since it was just a preliminary hearing at a district magistrate, work clothes would be fine. So Monday night, I laid out my clothes - a little dressier than usual for work, but nothing I haven't worn there before.
Tuesday morning, I changed my clothes no less than 8 times. I wound up wearing the one I had picked on Monday. Went to work and tried to focus. Didn't really work. 1:30 finally rolled around and Andy got there to go over with me.
Have I ever mentioned how wonderful he is?
We got there and signed in and were immediately greeted by the outstanding officer who worked my case. He took us back into a room and I met a second officer. We were told that this wallet-guy was caught by this second officer for the same type of offense in this town. And by State Police stationed a few towns over. And in another county. In his words, "This guy's in a world of trouble."
He had been in custody since they picked him up in July.
So he was *not* going to be coming to my work or my home or anywhere near me.
That should have made me feel better. Or at least silly for freaking out. But it didn't, really.
The officer briefly told me about what the preliminary hearing is for. I'm going to lay out the details here so that maybe it can be helpful to someone else who doesn't know what to expect. The preliminary hearing is just to determine whether or not the police have sufficient evidence to send this person to trial. The police have to show the judge what evidence they have, including statements from victims and/or witnesses. Then it would be up to the judge to decide if the case goes to the DA for prosecution or if they need more evidence. Or the defendant can 'waive' their right to a preliminary hearing, which is not the same as confessing, but just says that they agree that there's enough evidence to go to trial.
We went into the 'courtroom', which was basically just a big conference room full of chairs with a big desk at the front. And we waited. The defendant's attorney came in and introduced himself. A public defender. Part of me sarcastically wondered why he hadn't saved any of his hard-stolen money to afford a better lawyer. And then the door opened, and they brought in the wallet-guy.
I'll never forget it.
He wore the orange jumpsuit and shackles, just like every cop show you've ever seen. I guess sometimes they are pretty accurate. The shackles jingled when he shuffled across the floor. He had to cross in front of us to get to his seat. He seemed really tall. He didn't hold his head down, like you would expect. He looked out at us, one by one. First the older lady in the corner. Then the gentleman behind me. And then me. I tried to keep my face even and expressionless, but if you've ever met me you know that it probably didn't work. My face is an open book. So I'm sure he saw how scared I was. But I also hope he saw how sad I was. For him, for us, for the whole thing. He wore a face of stone. Not mean. Not sad. Not scared. Not anything. Just blank.
When he was finally seated, the judge came in. He wasn't wearing a robe. I was kind of bummed about that. I guess District Magistrates don't get robes. He wasn't even wearing a suit. Just a striped shirt and tie. Made me feel better about my khakis. We still had to stand up when he came in. He was seated and the defending attorney said that they wanted to waive.
And then we were dismissed.
Just like that it was over. Well, sort of. My police officer friend told me that now the case will go to the DA's office and they might try to work out a plea deal with him. If they do, great and it'll be over. If they don't, then the case will go to trial. Which means I'll get another subpoena and will probably actually have to testify.
But we'll worry about that if and when I get another call from Constable Whats-his-name with another subpoena for me. For now, this is the last chapter in the stolen wallet saga. And for that, I couldn't be happier.
I'm still surprised at how much this stupid little crime affected me. I mean, this happened the end of May and here it is, middle of September, and I'm still a little freaking out about it. I don't say this to get you to feel bad for me. I'll be fine.
But some people won't.
Some people have much, much bigger, more depraved, violent crimes committed against them. And they survive. And go to trial. And testify. And some even manage to do so with such an appearance of grace and dignity. Teenage girls go to court and testify against the boys who raped them. And I freaked out about what to wear.
Not sure what to do about that, but it seems like something important to realize and acknowledge. No matter how small, it's never easy to be the victim of a crime. I'll gladly testify to that.
