Nicole bolted straight up in the creaky motel bed, startled from a restless sleep. Her law firm would normally allow five times the $31.00 room rate she had paid, but this was the best accommodation that could be had in tiny Morrisville. She had replayed the courtroom episode in her dreams every night since she had arrived in this dreadful little town, and often awoke in the night wanting to flee. Fully awake now, she started the in-room Mr. Coffee and replayed the whole scene in her mind once more.
Judge Gilman, a very stern man of sixty or so, had been presiding over opening arguments in a case that Nicole was defending. As the Prosecutor droned on, Nicole had been sitting at the defense table in the county court room, looking out the window and letting her mind wander a little. She was tired from the three-hour drive from the city, and she leaned back in the chair stretching her long legs under the expansive oak table. The courtroom looked like the ones in old movies, with a polished marble floor, oak paneled walls, and two ceiling fans turning lazily on the twenty-foot high ceiling.
It had sounded like a gunshot when her heel had caught the cross beam of the table and fell to the floor. Judge Gilman had turned abruptly in her direction and the Prosecutor had stopped speaking and wheeled around to glare at her. The first few rows of the packed gallery were close enough to see what had happened, and some people started to laugh causing Judge Gilman to bang his gavel angrily. Instantly, her face felt hot and she knew that she must have been blushing crimson. Horrified, Nicole Anderson stretched her legs and tried desperately to retrieve the $200.00 shoe, touching it with her stocking clad toes, but only managing to nudge it slightly further from her reach.
"Ms. Anderson, please approach the bench!" Judge Gilman said loudly. Nicole gasped. She had never removed her shoes in public, except at the beach. She always wore shoes or slippers, even in her own home. The thought of walking to the front of the court one bare foot on public display was unimaginable. She started to bend down reaching under the table, but stopped, realizing that her skirt was too short to gracefully allow this maneuver.
"Ms. Anderson, please approach the bench or I will have the Bailiff assist you." Nicole weighed her options as she tentatively touched her toes to the cold hard marble floor. Standing now, balanced on her remaining shoe and holding the table edge to steady her, she desperately stalled for time. "Your honor, I..."
"Ms. Anderson!" the judge repeated in a booming voice, addressing her, but motioning to the Bailiff. Her eyes swept the courtroom for any sign of relief, but found none. Nicole Anderson, took a deep breath and squared her shoulders, and after long moment, stood up and walked around to the front side of the table, pausing to sweep her foot underneath the table, but never coming close to the errant shoe. "Ms. Anderson!" Judge Gilman nearly shouted, and was standing up behind the bench. Her eyes smoldered as she walked the ten steps to the Judge, five nearly silent steps alternating with five loud clicks of her remaining stiletto heel.
"Ms. Anderson," Judge Gilman began, "I don't know how you big city lawyers act up North, but in my courtroom, the prosecution is entitled to the full attention of the Judge and Jury without being disturbed by your antics. You will sit down and remain silent for the remainder of the prosecution's opening, or you will be held in contempt of court."
"Your honor, if we could just have a short recess..." she began. "Ms. Anderson, sit down now!" ordered the Judge.
Nicole saw that all eyes were on her exposed toes as she walked back to the defense table, her one heel clicking loudly in the now silent courtroom. "You may proceed," said the Judge, and the prosecutor began again to explain again how her client, Martin Oil, was actually a den of demons and thieves hell bent on ruining our children's environment. Nicole listened half-heartedly but her attention returned to the empty shoe just a few feet from her. It was an elegant black pump, size 8-C, laying on it's side with the three-inch heel pointing at the Judge, and the Stuart Weitzman label looking back at her. She could almost reach it and the Judge was looking the other way. Nicole slouched in the seat sinking slowly, and stretching her leg, pointing her toes. She regretted the fire engine red nail polish the salon had applied at her weekly pedicure, making her foot unsuited for this covert operation. Her toes curled and gripped at the edge of the leather. If she could just slide her chair in a little more and turn her foot to the side...
UUUURRRRRRKKKKKKK the chair made a hideous sound as the legs scraped across the marble floor. The Prosecutor had stopped mid sentence and Judge Gilman jumped up from his chair. "Ms. Anderson, please approach the bench," Judge Gilman had said, smiling pleasantly enough, but with eyes afire. Nicole stood again, balanced on one shoe, and debated running from the courtroom. She knew better than to delay this time, and Judge Gilman stood patiently as she walked around the table and toward the bench, click...click...click...click...click...click.
Nicole stood in front of the bench, and smiled back at the Judge as he began to speak in a soft grandfatherly tone. "Bailiff, please retrieve Ms. Anderson's shoe from under the defense table." She smiled appreciatively at Judge Gilman. He seemed like an unpleasant man, but was obviously not all that bad. The Bailiff returned to the bench holding the elegant pump in front of him. "Tag the shoe for evidence," Judge Gilman directed. "Ms. Anderson, if there is one more disturbance from you during this trial, you will be held in contempt. Return to your seat."
"Your honor," she began, but stopped short. Nicole Anderson, corporate attorney, a partner in the third largest law firm in the state, felt the stare of hundreds as she returned to her seat, and sat silently. Furious, she crossed her legs and deliberately hung her bare foot past the corner of the table, exposing her toes to the Judge, and hoping he was offended in some way. Maybe he was, she thought, remembering that Judge Gilman had been distracted, looking at her leg and bare foot every few moments. Finally, after three hours, the Judge declared a lunch recess and disappeared into chambers. Nicole looked at the Bailiff, and he returned her gaze, shaking his head from side to side in answer to her unspoken question.
Nicole had waited until the courtroom was empty before getting up. She removed her remaining shoe walking barefoot, but put it back on when she reached the door. As she stepped out into the bright noon sun, a crowd of reporters and photographers ran in her direction. "No comment," she said, and pressed through the crowd. She walked through the grass to the town square and luckily, found a shoe store a half block from the courthouse. She managed to walk across the square without damaging the stocking on her bare toes, bought some inexpensive shoes, and still had time for a sandwich before returning to court. The prosecution had eaten up the remains of the afternoon, and her opening statement would be in the morning allowing her to rework it a little to respond to the prosecutions opening.
The next morning, she headed for the courthouse early, leaving her time to pick up a cup of coffee, a muffin and the local morning paper. Halfway across the town square, the muffin and coffee fell to the sidewalk when she saw the front page of the paper. There she was in four color, pushing her way through the reporters, with her naked stocking clad foot reaching for the courthouse steps. The headline read "Cinderella Lawyer" and the story went into great detail about the judge keeping her shoe for evidence. Even worse, when she called in to her office for messages, her secretary said that the story ran in the Times, complete with the same color photo.
A week had passed since the incident, and the trial had receded into the more mundane and sterile testimony that made up most legal cases. The press was still outside the courthouse each day, but they had largely lost interest in the case, and shouted their questions half-heartedly if at all.
As she awoke this morning, Nicole was optimistic, and found she was looking forward to closing arguments. She couldn't wait to leave this town, and the embarrassment of facing Judge Gilman. She had decided not to ask for her shoe back, but she thought she would file a complaint against the Judge regardless of the verdict in the case. As she got dressed, she looked at the expensive pump sitting next to the bargain pumps she had bought in town, which were already looking tired. Walking toward the courthouse, she reviewed the case in her mind. As she approached the steps, the daily hoard of reporters charged toward her with renewed vigor, sensing it might be an otherwise slow news day. "Hey Cinderella, what if your client loses?" "Are you going to call Mr. Blair to the stand?" "Will you appeal if you lose?"
"No comment," replied, and pushed her way through the crowd, starting up the steps, the mob of reporters close on her heels. A photographer bumped her from behind and she nearly fell, dropping her briefcase, and awkwardly catching herself on the handrail. The mob of reporters pressed in, flashbulbs flashing, cameras vying for position. She felt her outstretched leg gripped by the ankle, and before she could turn around, she her shoe pull away from her left foot. As she turned, the man was already gone, running toward the post office, shoe in hand. "Here's the headline story," on of the reporters said.
Nicole stood at the top of the steps momentarily in shock. Flash bulbs exploded and a TV crew jostled for better position. "Cinderella! How do you feel about losing your shoe twice in one week?" a TV reporter asked, thrusting a microphone at her. "No comment," she said, and walked unevenly through the courthouse doors, and straight into the courtroom.
"All rise," said the Bailiff, and everyone stood as the Judge entered and sat down. "Your honor, may I approach?" Nicole asked and walked toward the bench without waiting for an answer. She explained what had happened outside the courthouse, and that she meant no disrespect or offense by her bare stockinged foot. The Judge ordered the Bailiff to retrieve the shoe he had held in evidence, but it was a right shoe nearly identical to the one she had on, and she was missing a left. After some consultation, the Judge announced, "Someone has stolen Ms. Andersons shoe on the Courthouse steps this morning. The defense has declined a continuance and we should still finish the trial today.
For the next several hours, Nicole noticed that the Judge was staring at her foot, and appeared to be almost happy. Her pedicure was flawless, with nails painted the color of a Ferrari. Her graceful high arch accentuated her narrow heel and slender ankles. Her feet were not too bad looking, she thought, flexing her long toes under the tan sheer stocking material that was slightly darker at the heel and toe. It seemed funny that she had spent so much money on pedicures that no one ever looked at. Looking at her stockings, she wondered why not many women wear stockings and garters anymore. She decided that she liked them because they seemed old fashioned. She rolled her ankles around flexing her foot, and noticing the sound the stockings made as they rubbed together. Judge Gilman would occasionally look politely in the direction of the prosecution, but would immediately turn his attention to her any time she moved her feet at all. For most of the prosecution closing argument, she dangled the remaining shoe from her toes, swinging it wildly and losing it several times. While the prosecution was making a point particularly damaging to her case, she took off her right shoe and picked it up with her left foot, dangling it by the heel off of her silky toes. The marble felt smooth and cool on her stockinged feet, and as a bonus, the Judge appeared as though he heard almost nothing the prosecutor was saying. She noticed that several men in the Jury box were also looking at her feet, both feet completely exposed now. She dipped her toes into the open shoe and spun it around in lazy circles on the floor, making a noise that she was certain everyone could hear. Whenever she wasn't performing some dangling maneuver, she would let the shoe lay empty, tipped over on its side and nearly in the center of the aisle between the prosecution and defense tables.
When it was time to make her closing argument, She paused pretending to straighten the toe of her stocking, which was already perfectly aligned. She placed her right foot into her only shoe and walked deliberately to the center of the courtroom and began to speak confidently. As she reinforced the arguments supporting her clients case, she stood confidently, with her stocking clad heel held high off of the floor, her silken toes planted firmly in the center of the arena. She felt powerful in the spotlight and paced back and forth as she talked, balanced on her lovely toes, and enjoying the sound of her one high heel punctuating her words. At the end of a particularly strong point, she tapped her heel three times, and paused for dramatic effect.
When it was time to refute the prosecutions characterizations of her client, she stood by the witness stand looking unsteady, holding the rail as if she might fall over. With her knee bent, she let her bare foot hang limply and held her toes well off the floor, giving the subtle impression that prosecutor's harsh words had somehow injured her. Instinctively, she knew that she had already won over the Judge. Several men in the Jury were alternating glances at her face, and her legs. At first, she could see that the some of the women on the jury were completely on her side, but the vulnerable stance next to the witness stand seemed to soften several of them, possibly winning their sympathy.
Building to a more positive note for her conclusion, she decided to interject some humor, and she actually incorporated her shoeless predicament into her argument. She was talking about the environment, and the need for oil companies, and how it was important to strike a balance. As she said the word "balance" she held out her arms and extended her leg, waving her stockinged foot in the air, winning pleasant smiles from the Jury, and subdued laughter from the gallery. She couldn't see the Judge behind her, but she knew he would be appreciative.
After closing arguments, the Jury came back in favor of Nicole's client following only 15 minutes of deliberation.
As she exited the courthouse, she paused at the top of the steps and answered questions from the reporters for along time. She could see that the cameras were taking pictures and video. One of the photographers asked if he could take a close up of her feet. Nicole opened her briefcase, pulled out the Stuart Weitzman pump that the Judge had just returned to her, and kicked the shoe she was wearing into the bushes. She stepped into the Stuart Weitzman pump, and explained to the reporter crouching by her legs that if she was going to be on TV, she wanted to look her best. The reporters and onlookers had a good laugh, and Nicole perched atop the courthouse steps for along time, giving serious interviews and answering serious legal questions, all the while posing for photos, and close-ups of her feet and shoe until all of the photographers had had enough. She felt like a Movie Star when several people had dove into the bushes to retrieve her discarded shoe.
Walking back to her car, she laughed out loud at the unbelievable experience this week had been. As she opened the door, she kicked off her shoe landing it in the back seat next to its mate. She started the car feeling the rough texture of the pedal under her sensitive sole, and backed out of the parking space. The brake pedal rubbed the itch from her tired arch as she shifted into drive. Before she got onto the interstate, she stopped at a gas station, a dairy queen, and a newspaper box, each time padding out into the afternoon sun wearing stockings without shoes. She could afford to buy new stockings if she ruined them, and besides, she was learning to enjoy the subtle, but noticeable attention of strangers.
Snowman