RUNNING FROM FIRE

People in the hotel lobby are watching me.

Each time I glance toward anyone, they jerk their gaze away – one man to his cell phone, another to a newspaper. A frail, older lady, with nothing in her hands to focus on, cranes her neck to look over her shoulder. I hate being recognized. I’m wearing sunshades and a shapeless beige dress, hoping to blend in with the strangers in line at the check-in counter.

Finally, an attendant waves me forward. He pulls up my reservation and, thankfully, doesn’t say my name loud enough for anyone else to hear. I sign in and get my room key, quickly, without undue attention. One advantage of being overweight and over forty is that most people tend to look past me except on days like today when my picture is in the news.

As I turn away from the desk, a deserted newspaper lies open on a chair. Without slowing my steps, I scan the headline: Protest Planned Against Judge Cynthia Watts’ Upcoming Verdict.

Another protest. Against me. The city’s tough-on-crime activists are planning their demonstrations even before final arguments and my verdict.

I ignore media. Always. Politics cannot sway my decisions.

Up on the sixteenth-floor, I survey my luxurious room and pull a bottle of Merlot from my suitcase. I packed it at the last minute. I’ll drink only a glass or two and pour out the rest. Wasteful, yes, but I don’t want to be interrupted or recognized by someone delivering to my room.

The cork is barely out when my phone rings. My husband.

“Steve,” I say. “Is everything okay?” He shouldn’t be finding time to phone me at this hour. He’s at home, handling our three children’s after-school and bedtime routines.

“Yes, the kids just want to tell you about their day.”

I sip my wine while the children prattle on about the neighbor’s birthday party…pinata…ponies…ukelele concert.

A tinge of guilt nips at me – it’s a relief not to be home because they’ll be hyper all evening after eating pinata candy. Fortunately, Steve, with his parttime job as a substitute teacher can handle any kid situation.

At last, each child has had a chunk of time on the phone with me.

I drain my glass of wine. “Mommy has to work now, so you be good for Daddy tonight and I’ll see you tomorrow afternoon.”

I’ve almost clicked off, but Steve comes back on. “How’s your room?”

“Boring. You know – just a hotel room.”

“Well, I hope you’ll be able to get your decision drafted and get a good night’s rest. That’s the important thing. Get your sleep.”

“I hope so, too. Well, I better get to work. See you tomorrow.”

As I pour more wine, I’m thankful for his willingness to be a full-time dad for our children and a parttime substitute teacher in deference to my career. Without a husband like him, I could never have conquered the tough road to a judgeship.

Tonight, I’ll draft my verdict determining the fate of the defendant. Weldon Stone. Age eighteen. No previous offenses.

Weldon, a skinny, immature high school senior, burned down a wing of his school. He did it after most students were gone for the day. One custodian suffered from smoke inhalation with subsequent debilitating lung damage, and one fire fighter’s shoulder was fractured by a falling beam.

On the surface, the case seems simple. Weldon admitted to purposefully starting a fire in the wood-shop classroom. The prosecutor’s charges include first-degree arson – up to ninety-nine years, and vandalism – up to ten years.

I kick off my shoes, settle into a recliner, close my eyes and recall key testimony.

Soft-spoken, thin-faced Weldon, with limp brown hair that falls over his eyes, testified that his chemistry teacher had mentioned that the school’s brown paper towels were formulated to resist burning. Weldon was curious, and when he found himself alone in the woodworking classroom after school, he couldn’t resist experimenting. Turned out the teacher had been correct and the towels would not blaze; however, they did curl and emit a stinky odor. Afraid a smoke alarm would go off, he dropped the smoking mass into the metal trash thinking he would smother the charred paper with his foot. But there was flammable wood-chip debris in the bottom of the trash can, and flames surged up. He tried to stomp the fire but accidentally tipped over the trash can. Sawdust on the floor ignited. He stomped the spreading flames until his feet got too hot.

On the stand, with his eyes lowered, he said, “I know it was wrong to run, but it got too… too hot. And I knew I’d get in trouble.” Weldon ran all the way home, leaving the fire untended. School surveillance cameras showed Weldon to be the last person to exit before the flames erupted.

The forensic fire investigator testified that the flames stayed contained within the room, grew into an inferno within eight to twelve minutes, created enough heat to blast through the windows, and overtake the rest of the wing. By the time someone responded to the smoke alarm and the fire department arrived, the wing was engulfed.

Weldon’s mother, who has her son’s same limp hair and thin face, testified that she knew something was wrong as soon as she arrived home from work. “I smelled smoke and went through the house to find it.” Her voice shook. “Weldon’s scorched shoes and pants were hidden in the back of his closet.”

For hours the public defender and prosecutor offered differing testimony around the “intent” phrase in Texas Penal Code: Sec. 28.02. ARSON. “…a person starts a fire … with intent to destroy or damage…”

The defense witnesses emphasized that Weldon did not have “intent to destroy or damage” as evidenced by the burns his shoes and pant cuffs sustained when he tried to put out the fire. The prosecution witnesses pointed out Weldon’s intentional desertion of the scene and the subsequent injuries and destruction. The custodian, in a wheel chair, wheezed his testimony between puffs of oxygen.

Tomorrow I alone will pronounce his verdict and time in prison. The defense opted for a bench trial, probably thinking a judge would be more influenced by Penal Code language while a jury might be more swayed by rhetoric from the local tough-on-crime activists.

With my glass topped again, I carry it and my laptop to one of the queen-sized beds. Leaning back into stacked satiny pillows is heaven. To a rarely-alone mom and a no-down-time-judge, this luxury is decadent. I pick up the hotel phone and order a 7:00 a.m. wake-up call. That will give me time to finalize my notes before the ten o’clock court opening.

Taking my time, I carefully draft two detailed decisions – one for the defense and one for the prosecution. I always write both sides before closing arguments to be certain I’ve absorbed and considered all factors. Then after I hear both attorneys close, I revisit my drafts, modify if necessary, and select the strongest legal decision.

Refilling my glass, I read and edited multiple times. I’m satisfied that my drafts cover every piece of evidence presented.

Tomorrow, after the closing arguments, I’ll call a recess to finalize my chosen decision. My words will be impeccable. This is my strength. Even the losing side will see the irrefutable truth. Some people underestimate me. I was the youngest person in the history of this circuit to make a judge, but people still look past me. I let their assumptions ride. Then I hammer in the law and facts. Works every time.

When I check out the bathroom, I moan in pleasure. There’s a huge jacuzzi. I pour the last of the wine into my glass. Oh, the bottle is empty. No worries. The court is almost twelve hours away. Plenty of time. I’ll enjoy this glass with a bath.

Minutes later, lying in the warm, full tub, I relax and sip, almost drowsing to the steady pulse of water jets massaging my body. After I dry off with a thick white towel, I turn out the lights, pull back the covers, and fall into bed naked.

Stinging pressure rouses me from a deep sleep. I need to pee. Bad. I sit up in bed and turn my face away from the clock. Avoiding light will help me get back to sleep quickly. Eyes mostly closed, I feel my way to the bathroom, pull the door open, and step toward the toilet. The door shuts heavily behind me.

Clunk.

That was not the sound of a bathroom door.

My eyes fly open.

But I know before I see.

I am in the hallway.

Naked.

My heart pounds.

I press back against the door.

“No, no, no,” I whisper. “Please, no. This can’t happen.”

The well-lit hallway is empty. If only a maid would come by with a cart of towels and room keys. If only there were a phone in the hallway to call the desk for help. If only there were discarded room service trays with large napkins or even tablecloths outside the doors.

Nothing.

There is nothing.

Had there been a phone by the elevators? Trembling, from cold and intensifying bladder pressure, I slide along the wall, toward the elevator corridor.

How many hours have I slept? What would my blood alcohol level test now? Legally intoxicated? A litany of potential charges flood Public intoxication. Lewd behavior. Indecent exposure. A headline flashes: Judge Cynthia Watts – Nude and Drunk in Hotel.

Creeping faster, still flush against the wall, I reach the elevator corridor, and peek around the corner. No phone.

But there’s a sign pointing toward the hallway parallel to mine: Business Center. I dart past the elevators and turn toward the business center, which is an open nook with a computer and a printer… no phone.

Sliding open the printer’s paper carriage and cringing at its loud squeak, I pull out sheets of paper to use as cover. What should I cover? Boobs? Crotch? Butt? If there were paper clips or tape, I could piece together a paper garment. But there are none.

I start back toward my room. After I cross the elevator corridor again, I peer down my long hallway. Which room is mine? It’s on the left, but how far down?

An elevator door dings. I back against the wall, holding two papers with each hand to cover my breasts and crotch. Oh, to be a size six instead of sixteen. The papers cover virtually nothing of my body. What will I say if the person exiting the elevator comes down my hallway? A ticking bomb burns my bladder.

A man, looking downward at his keycard, rounds the corner and strolls toward me.

I shake my head – already denying the things he will think when he notices me.

He’s young, maybe thirty. Dark business suit.

His glance is snagged by my flesh. Eyes widen as he scans my body. He halts mid-step, and his gaze shifts upward to meet mine. “What the… what are you doing?”

Sheets of paper rattle in my trembling hands. “Could you lend me your jacket? I was locked out of my room.”

Mouth gaping, he steps backward.

I’m losing him. “Or grab a blanket for me from your room?”

He turns, jogs away and stops in front of a door, shaking his head.

I call after him. “Or phone the front desk for me. Tell them to let Mrs. Watts into her room. Please.”

Seconds pass. His door remains closed. I could knock on it, but I freeze and whisper, “He’ll call the desk. Someone will come with a key. This kind of thing must happen all the time.” Or, will he call the police instead? Will he come back and film me? I glance around. Are security cameras filming me now? Is that red blinking light in the corner of the ceiling a camera? Will officers show up and arrest me? “Shut up. Shut up,” I tell myself. “Be calm. Deal with whatever happens. Tell the truth.”

I edge farther down the hallway until I’m between two room doors that could be mine. Still can’t remember the number, not because of wine but because I always rely on key card holders or Steve. It’s cold, and urine is a demon clawing at me from the inside.

The elevator dings again. Please, not the police. Be someone from the front desk – with one of those nice white hotel robes.

A tall, slender, balding man, wearing a black eye patch and a hotel emblemed blazer, rounds the corner from the elevator corridor. He carries something white, folded – a robe or towel. He also has a phone at his lips and is speaking quietly into it while staring at me.

“I’m Cynthia Watts.” My voice is shaky and whiney. “Please, help me get into my room. I’m locked out.”

He continues to mutter into the phone.

Approaching me, he raises his volume. “Judge Watts?”

“Yes. So sorry – locked out of my room.”

He nods and extends a folded white robe. Now his words are audible. “I’m handing Judge Watts a robe. I’m walking away from her. Passing 1665…”

“Thank you,” I say to his back as he mutters down the hall. Apparently, my room is several more doors farther down. I drop my papers to the floor and pull on the robe with such relief, that tears gush from my eyes and pee streams down my leg. I clamp the folds of the robe between my legs, praying the cloth will prevent my shame from puddling on the floor. My urine reeks. The four sheets of paper are spattered. I stoop, wad them into a ball, and stuff them into a pocket.

He unlocks my door, still speaking into his phone.

Of course, he’s documenting everything happening in real-time. Smart move when witnessing a crime. Plus, he doesn’t want to risk being accused of assaulting a naked, drunk, pissing woman. He holds the door open for me.

“Thank you,” I step past him on his eye-patch side. Deep, mottled burn scars cover the side of his face and neck.

As soon as the door closes behind me, I drop to my knees and weep.

When I compose myself it’s three-fifteen. There’s no way I’ll sleep. I shower, rinse out the robe, guzzle water, and make single-serve coffee in the room’s device.

By four, I’m dressed and ready to face anyone who comes to my door. Police? Hotel management? Reporters?

With a queasy stomach, I go online and scan legal cases of public nudity, urination, and intoxication. I write a lengthy statement for my attorney in case I’m charged. I delete, rewrite, and delete again. After a couple of hours, I have several accounts, ready to be used for whatever happens.

Steve will be awake now. I should phone and give him my side of the story before it’s publicized. I should warn him that my career could be over. If so, our children will live with the shame of their mother’s scandal. Steve’s salary won’t even pay our mortgage. Much less all our other expenses.

Who is this eye-patch man? A search of the hotel’s website doesn’t bring him up. He must not be high enough on the food chain. What are the hotel’s disturbance policies? Where are their security cameras?

A loud ring pierces my circling worries. With a gasp, I look at my silent phone next to my laptop. The ring clangs again. It’s the hotel phone over by the bedside.

I brace myself. In a firm voice, I say, “Yes?”

“Good morning, Judge Watts, this is your wake-up call. Seven o’clock. Have a wonderful day.”

My wobbly knees let me drop onto the side of the bed. “Thank you.” Gradually, my heartbeat slows. Since all seems normal from the hotel desk, maybe there’ll be no action against me.

A car will pick me up at eight-thirty to go to the courthouse. I open my two draft decisions. With the growing hope that I’ll be presiding as usual, my verdict and sentence will be ready.

My first decision – vandalism, four years – acknowledges the young man’s clean record and obvious intent to merely test the burning of school paper towels. He did not have the intent to destroy or damage as prescribed in the penal code for an arson charge. His vandalism and panicked fleeing from the scene are worthy of punishment but not at the level of first-degree arson.

My second decision – first-degree arson, fifty years – focuses on his intentional fleeing of a spreading fire and the harm to the custodian and firefighter.

Fast footfalls in the hallway approach and pause at my door. I wait for a knock. But the steps retreat, and I peer through the viewer… a maid is placing folded newspapers in front of the room doors across the hall.

My newspaper can stay out on the floor, unread. Probably more articles about protest planning in case my decision doesn’t meet tough-on-crime agendas.

Their protest racket is a waste of time. I will not be swayed.

In a moment of clarity, I start packing my suitcase and briefcase.

I’m going down to the desk, check out, and wait in the lobby. If I’m receiving any reaction from last night, I want it now. I could simply leave without physically going to the desk, but I want to face any consequences head on – no more waiting.

Down at the front desk, the staff is different from the night before, and the eye-patch man is not there.

A cheery-faced young woman glances up from her computer screen. “We hope you enjoyed your stay, Judge Watts. You’re welcome to wait for your car in the transit lobby.” She points toward a small glassed-in area near the main entrance. “Is there anything we can get you while you wait?”

Shaking my head, relief surges through me, and I find my way to the transit lobby. Tears of happiness brim. It’s over. No one will ever know.

During my wait, I phone my family and wish them a good day. The children’s chirping voices, excited about their school holiday for teachers’ meetings, touch my heart. How fortunate I am to have this wonderful, safe, happy family. I thank Steve for taking care of everyone last night and today. “Steve, I love you. More each day of our lives together. I love you.”

Steve is silent for a beat. Then, “Are you okay?”

“Yes. This is just a great day. I can’t wait to get home. I love you so much.”

He clears his throat. “Um. Okay. Love you, too. Later.”

Sunlight shines brilliantly into the transit lobby, gleaming onto my old but sleek leather briefcase, a law school graduation gift from my parents. Even my beige pumps look brighter than usual. I pull out a small mirror and blot my eyes… red and tired, but also determined and focused. “Allergies,” I’ll say if anyone asks.

I reflect on my two decisions. No question… I’m leaning toward the first one. Weldon clearly did not intend to commit arson. He was immature, curious and behaved stupidly. He deserves consequences, but a few years of prison is appropriate, not a lifelong condemnation. My judicial duty is to adhere to the letter of the law. The Penal Code explicitly considers first-degree arson to include starting a fire “… with intent to destroy or damage.”

A warm glow fills my chest. Weldon and his mother will feel such relief. Same as I feel about my reprieve from my naked screwup. Weldon can serve his incarceration and go on to have a full life.

The driver arrives on time, and when we pass the front of the courthouse, there are clusters of people holding large signs. Several posters say, “ARSON=99 years.” A well-known, aggressive news reporter appears to be interviewing the fire chief. Fortunately, my courthouse entrance on the side is out of their view.

In my chambers, I print both decisions and review the chosen one, rehearsing my interpretation of “intent.” After announcing Weldon’s four years, I will encourage him to take advantage of the prison’s education programs to prepare for his post-incarceration future. I’ll say, “Weldon, one mistake does not define one’s life.”

I slip on my robe, step into the anteroom, and signal the bailiff.

“All rise,” he calls.

This moment always humbles me. Hundreds of years of law and tradition that built the court process is crystalizing on two people: the defendant and me. Decisions in hand, I step up onto the platform and take my seat.

The bailiff calls, “You may be seated… Court is now in session, the Honorable Cynthia Watts presiding.”

Seated behind the prosecutor are the fire chief, police chief, superintendent of schools and the state attorney general’s assistant. This is their first day to attend the trial. Behind them, a reporter, who labeled me soft on crime, glares. Next to him is the infamous rally organizer. Half a dozen firefighters, including the injured one, fill the next row.

Everyone is poised and ready to join forces. My four-year vandalism sentence will ignite their rage. But my decision will be based on the law and facts; I will not be swayed by political pressure.

Seated behind Weldon, his mother, in her regular spot, slumps with her hands together prayerlike.

I straighten my posture and call for the closings.

Both attorneys grandstand their summations, saying exactly what I expected. Not one word of surprise.

Finally, the defense rests, and silence grips the courtroom. All eyes focus on me.

Of course, I’m going to call a recess. Let them stew a little longer.

I can’t help scanning the audience. They’re so predictable. The moment I leave the courtroom for the recess, there will be an outbreak of chatter proclaiming why Weldon should get the max – arson ninety-nine years. During the break they’ll rally their forces and build up steam for their possible protests. The reporters will busily interview everyone willing to pontificate.

The rows of square-shouldered men eye me steadily. They, like many of my critics, probably think that I can’t withstand their pressure.

I gaze beyond the prosecution’s little army, scanning the mostly empty rows, wondering if any politically opposing factions are present. There are none that I recognize. In fact, the courtroom audience is sparser than usual. “I am going to –” My words jam in my throat. Instead of saying my intended, call a recess, I’m struck mute.

My stomach twists. My heart pounds. My face grows hot.

The eye-patch man is watching me from the back row of the courtroom.

Fuck. He’ll be amid the ranting and speech-making during the recess. No matter what his politics are, he’ll get caught up in the brouhaha. He may even be interviewed. A burn victim himself, he’ll make their case even more compelling. He’ll tell his story about Judge Watts… in the hallway… naked… pissing.

I’ll be fired, maybe even charged. My and Steve’s carefully planned future will implode. Our children’s lives will be ruined.

His one eye holds my gaze.

I cannot give protesters time to stir up more angst or reporters time to interview eye-patch. I have to get everyone out of here now. No recess! I have to give a verdict that will send everyone home. Fast. No protesting. No interviews.

I force my eyes downward toward my papers. I clear my throat and restart my statement. “I am going to… announce my decision now. Weldon Stone, the court finds you guilty of first-degree arson and sentences you to ninety-nine years.”

The chiefs behind the prosecutor exchange glances and nods. The reporter and rally leader shake hands. Firefighters clap their injured brother on the back.

Weldon’s mother covers her face with both hands.

Weldon’s shoulders cave in over his thin chest. If he serves half the sentence, he’ll be nearly seventy when he gets out. I’ll be mid-nineties or… dead.

I robotically recite the next steps while shuffling papers to avoid eye contact with anyone. A line from my prepared encouragement for Weldon catches my eye. “Weldon, one mistake does not define one’s life.” Irony churns in my gut. His mistake and my own will define the rest of our lives.

Go home, I want to order. All of you. No rally planning. No chatter about soft-on-crime judges. No interviews.

The one eye, showing no reaction, remains lasered on me. As I rise to exit into the anteroom, his gaze slices through my shame. I’m running – just like Weldon did.

Brenda Vicars is mesmerized by the way long-forgotten ancestors influence our lives. She believes transgenerational trauma is a hidden river that runs through past generations and bubbles up into the present. This concept inspired her new novel, Echoes of Our Ancestors, to be released by Bloodhound Books, Cambridge, UK, July 2024.

She started composing poems and stories as soon as she learned to read, but most of her career was spent helping others write. She taught levels from middle school through college, including college English to inmates inside a Texas prison. After she earned a Ph. D., she became Director of Student Support Services in Austin, Texas.

Her debut novel, Polarity in Motion, published in 2014 by Red Adept Publishing, topped Amazon charts. She says this book was inspired by the reality that the playing field is not level for all young people, and she wanted to bring disenfranchised voices to the page.

Having left Texas for the mountains of Vermont (USA), she enjoys taking long walks in the snow and workshopping with writers’ groups. She also loves Zumba and audio books, especially after discovering that she can dance and listen to fiction at the same time.

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