In the five years that I'd been with the Harford County State's Attorney's office, this was the first time I'd ever been distracted by what a defendant looked like. If I had been anywhere else, that would have been a good thing. But I was in court, standing behind the trial table, and the young defendant, Brisa Kramer, was on trial for forging an opioid prescription. I knew her fifty-something, balding lawyer, Roland Carson, because he'd been around the Harford County District and Circuit courthouses for a long time, way before I even went to law school.
We all faced Judge Hannah Kyeon, a young Korean-American judge known for her compassion and punctuality. When possible and with as much discretion as possible, I glanced to my right, stealing glimpses of Brisa, blond and beautiful and teary-eyed. No doubt, she was anticipating the worst, a possible jail sentence. She pled guilty, and then I laid out the facts of the case, concluding my oration with a recommendation for jail time. "Your Honor," I said, "this is Ms. Kramer's second criminal conviction. She was on probation once before after pleading guilty to writing a bad check. She's never served any time in jail. Perhaps it's time she does. Therefore, the state recommends that she serve at least minimal incarceration in this case."
Roland Carson then spoke, arguing why his client should receive probation. "Your Honor, the opioid was for Brisa's mom, not her. Jasmine Kramer is in court today." He turned to point her out before continuing. "She suffers from constant pain because of her degenerative disc disease. As Your Honor is aware, many doctors today won't prescribe opioids because of the nationwide crises. Brisa Kramer was simply trying to relieve her mom's suffering, and she didn't think medical marijuana or other pain meds were enough. As for the misdemeanor bad check conviction, it was for fifty dollars, issued when Miss Kramer got into financial difficulty. She did it out of desperation, although she now realizes that was no excuse. Brisa Kramer is twenty-two years old. She works part time and attends college full time. In sum, she's a responsible person who is guilty of a misguided but well-meaning effort to help someone in need. Respectfully, I'm asking Your Honor to give her another chance on probation."
At the mention of her mom's suffering, Brisa began to weep. Roland tried to comfort her, patting her on the back, whispering into her ear.
Being a compassionate guy, I sympathized. Still, it didn't seem to me that she took breaking the law seriously enough. "Your Honor," I said, "I think we can all sympathize with this situation. And if this was Ms. Kramer's first offense, probation would be appropriate. But it isn't. The bad check conviction had nothing to do with her mom's medical condition. Again, the state would ask for a period of incarceration."
Judge Kyeon ruled with the defense. She sentenced Brisa to three years to the Division of Correction, suspended the sentence and placed her on three years' probation. "This is your last chance, Ms. Kramer," Her Honor said. "If I see you back here again, you'll serve the rest of your sentence. Got it?"
Wiping her eyes, Brisa nodded. "You won't see me back here, Judge Kyeon, I promise."
*****
I didn't think that Judge Kyeon's ruling was entirely inappropriate. Again, I'm no hard-ass devoid of sympathy. Still, I harbored doubts about Brisa's prospects for completing probation. I'd seen it before, a defendant's lawyer talking a good game, persuading the court to grant their client probation, only to see the client back in court for a probation violation. I wished a better outcome for Brisa. She seemed like a decent kid. And man, was she pretty! She's someone I could see myself approaching in a crowded room, be it at a party or a bar during happy hour. I might even be able to overlook her criminal past, such as it was. I might even do it knowing it could jeopardize my relationship with Janine, the woman I was dating. We weren't "serious," though Janine wanted to get serious. Emotionally, we were in different places, but she was willing to hang in, hoping I'd "come around." I didn't see that happening, yet didn't dismiss the possibility either, however remote. No surprise, I concocted romantic fantasies about hooking up with Brisa, laughable in light of my recommendation that she receive jail time. The girl was most likely seething with hatred, might even stab me in the heart if I approached her at that hypothetical party or in a bar.
In the weeks that followed, those fantasies faded, and I returned to living life in the only manner I knew how, to the fullest. That included riding my hybrid bicycle along the trails that crisscrossed the numerous stream valleys of the region. That also included firearms. I owned a few pistols and rifles and shot them regularly. Shooting can be an expensive hobby, especially if you don't reload and I didn't. Working for the State's Attorney's Office could never make me rich; however, my salary was more than enough to bankroll my ammo supply.
I belonged to Patriot Arms, an indoor range that also sold ammo and firearms. Sometimes I shot after work; other times on weekends. It was on one such Sunday morning that I ran into Brisa Kramer. I had just walked into the lobby after a half hour of range time and saw her standing at the counter with a man who looked old enough to be her dad. He was talking to a staffer about range rules, the price to shoot, etc. I tried to avoid her seeing me. But then she turned and our eyes met. Neither of us said a word until the man she was with took note. "Dad, this is the guy, the State's Attorney, who wanted me in jail," she said. "Isn't that right, Kevin Wrubel?"
Momentarily lost for words, I just stood there, anxious for this awkward encounter to be over. Finally, I said, "It wasn't like that, Brisa. I hope you're doing okay."
"I'm doing great," she said, her pretty face tensed with scorn. "No thanks to you." Her dad, a thin man with thinning light brown hair who stood about an inch under my height of five-ten, eyed me contemptuously. Apparently, I was the enemy in his eyes also.
Ignoring him, I said to Brisa, "Glad to hear you're doing well. Is this your first time here?"
She folded her arms against her chest and shook her long bangs out of her eyes.
"Yes. What's it to you? I'm not a convicted felon, you know."
Her dad nudged her. "Come on, Brisa, we came here to shoot. Let it go." Then they both turned around to face the staffer.
I turned and left, but not before getting a glimpse of Brisa's adorable butt and shapely legs wrapped in tight jeans. Shame on me, right? Well, maybe not. I could see her challenging the professional façade of any guy in my position, any guy drawn to young women with Brisa's considerable feminine assets. I also had to wonder if she owned a firearm or planned to own one. If she did, was she angry enough to shoot me? She sure as hell looked it. One thing's for sure, I hoped to avoid her from now on.
But, weeks later, there she was again, same place. We pulled into the Patriot Arms parking lot, almost in unison. This time, she was alone. "We have to stop meeting like this," I said as we climbed the few steps to the entrance, hoping to diffuse the tension. Her response was a guttural sound along with a look of contempt. I let her enter first, then followed her to the lobby to check in. She carried a shooting bag, no doubt packed with heat (because her convictions were for non-violent misdemeanors, she could possess firearms). Uh oh. Still, I surmised I'd be safe from any homicidal thoughts she might harbor once we got inside.
She checked in first, told the female staffer that she'd be shooting .22 pistol, same as me. She then walked into the range area while I checked in. The staffer assigned me to lane 2, Brisa to lane 3. About three-quarters of the lanes were taken on this late Tuesday afternoon. My intent was to mind my own business. However, curiosity got the best of me, curious as to what gun she possessed and her skill level. We could see each other's target from where we stood, but a short partition kept us from seeing much of each other. From twenty-five feet out, she was hitting all over the place, scoring very few rounds in the black circle (7-10 points) of a standard NRA pistol target. Between rounds, I peeked through a crack in the partition to see that she was using a slab-sided, seven-inch barrel Ruger, a very accurate gun if one knows how to shoot it right. Discreetly, I stepped back to watch, noting her stance, the way she held the gun, her sight acquisition. She flinched right before pulling the trigger, jerked the trigger, I should say, a big no no. Also, she didn't seem to know with which eye to focus or which way to stand. Either her dad didn't instruct her right or he didn't instruct her at all, I surmised.
While reloading her Ruger's magazine, she sensed my presence and turned around.
"Yes, can I help you?!" she cried, her face contorted into a look of leave-me-the-fuck-alone annoyance.
