Free Antiques Knock-Off by Barbara Allan Page B

guard in a tan shirt and slacks, Mother wearing the same clothes she’d been hauled off in. The guard escorted Mother into the chamber, depositing her next to the standing bailiff, before fading back against the near wall.
    Usually I took a perverse enjoyment in Mother’s tilts with legal officialdom, but I suddenly sided with my sister in thinking it might be better to be anywhere else. A murderarraignment was something new and different in the Adventures of Vivian Borne, and quite disturbing….
    Still, Mother looked surprisingly well, her clothes not at all rumpled, silver-white hair combed neatly back into a chignon at the nape of her neck. She even wore a little lipstick.
    Mother bestowed me a serene smile, and I smiled weakly back.
    I crossed my fingers that she was about to put on one heck of an eccentric show—not for its entertainment value, no; rather, to play unwittingly into our lawyer’s strategy.
    The judge banged his gavel and everyone jumped a little in their seats. But Mother hadn’t stirred. She remained serenely, spookily immobile.
    “The State versus Vivian Borne,” His Honor said in a properly booming voice. “Does the defendant have representation?”
    “Yes, Your Honor,” Ekhardt spoke up.
    “For the record,” the judge noted, “Wayne Ekhardt is representing the defendant.”
    The court reporter’s fingers clicked faintly away at her machine. It sounded like little tiny tap dancers, whom I could picture in my mind. Maybe
I
should have gone for an insanity plea….
    The judge addressed Mother. “Mrs. Borne, do you understand the process of this arraignment?”
    Mother smiled sweetly. “Oh my, yes, Your Honor. I’ve been through it enough times.”
    The judge grunted, “Very well. You are charged with felony murder. How do you plead?”
    I held my breath. This is where I expected the antics to begin, with Mother rambling on incoherently until the exasperated judge would bang his gavel—if we were
really
lucky, he would bang it down on his thumb, like the last judge.
    But Mother said simply, “Guilty, Your Honor. Guilty as charged.”
    And no more.
    I looked woefully toward Mr. Ekhardt.
    He rose and said, “Your Honor, permission to approach the bench?”
    The district attorney seemed startled by his opponent’s request, and when the judge nodded his approval, the DA followed Ekhardt up there, having to work to catch up with the old boy, in several senses.
    What followed was a hushed conversation between Ekhardt, the judge, and the DA.
    I could not hear what Mr. Ekhardt, or the DA, were saying, because they were facing away from me, but I did catch the occasional words from the judge, including “not established,” and “unverified.”
    Which did not sound like good news, because he was apparently questioning Mr. Ekhardt’s tactic of an insanity plea.
    Mother was also straining to hear, frowning, her eyes narrow behind the large lenses, serving to make them appear normal size.
Also
not helpful.
    The defendant must have been aware that her mental health was being discussed, because she said loudly, “Permission to speak, Your Honor!”
    The conversation at the bench halted as the three men looked toward her. And before His Honor could respond, Mother took the spotlight, and with considerable dignity.
    “This is
my
arraignment—
my
life. I am in complete control of my faculties. I understand my rights, and I plead guilty. I will not waste the court’s time, the taxpayer’s money, nor my own limited resources in pleading otherwiseto a crime for which I take full responsibility. Nor will I put my family through the ordeal of a criminal trial.”
    Finally some melodrama entered in, as Mother raised a finger.
    “Furthermore,” she said, some ham coming in, “I cite the case of Frendak versus the United States … an insanity defense cannot be imposed upon an unwilling defendant if an intelligent defendant voluntarily wishes to forgo the defense—which I
do.”
Then as an aside