Conviction thrown out in DUI case

Altamura had been charged with DUI-manslaughter, which could have carried a sentence of seven to 12 years. Vehicular homicide is a lesser charge, and so Altamura drew a shorter sentence: five years. To Gregory Richardson's family, the verdict and sentence were "a slap on the hand'' for Altamura.

Now they have even more to be angry about.

Tuesday morning, just as the 28-year-old Altamura was arriving at the state prison where he was to begin serving his sentence, Circuit Judge Bob Barker threw out his conviction.

As soon as Altamura's family heard the news, they headed for the prison where he was being held to bring him home, according to Altamura's defense attorney, Michael Cheek.

The prospect of Altamura being released from prison drew an angry reaction from both Richardson's family and from the president of Pinellas County's chapter of Mothers Against Drunk Driving.

Tynia Richardson said she was upset, and said the judge had "no excuse'' for turning loose the man who killed her son last year.

"I think he is getting away with murder,'' MADD president Patricia Reinhold said.

Barker said he had no choice.

"It's one of those cases where, from a personal, moral standpoint, I know what I would've liked to have done,'' the judge said. "But from a judicial, legal standpoint I just couldn't do it.''

Barker threw out the conviction because, as Cheek pointed out in a hearing earlier this month, vehicular homicide was not the charge against Altamura.

The only charge filed against Altamura was DUI-manslaughter … namely, that he was drunk, he was driving, and he killed someone.

Even though, during the trial, prosecutors clearly proved a case of vehicular homicide … showing that Altamura operated his car in a reckless manner … the charge filed against him originally made no mention of reckless operation of the vehicle, Barker said.

At the close of the trial, when the attorneys were debating what instructions the judge should give the jury, prosecutors asked that he tell them they could convict Altamura of a lesser charge, and named vehicular homicide.

Cheek objected, saying the only possible lesser charge would be DUI. But Barker agreed with the prosecution request and told jurors that if they could not convict the defendant of DUI-manslaughter, they could convict him of vehicular homicide.

Then, to the surprise of many in the courtroom, the jury did indeed convict Altamura of the lesser charge. Cheek immediately began planning to get that conviction overturned, and soon filed a motion complaining about the jury instruction.

After reading a recent decision by the Florida Supreme Court, Barker ruled that Cheek was right. The judge said prosecutors should not have asked for the vehicular homicide instruction, and he should not have given it to the jury.

"I think he made a legally correct, unpopular decision, and I respect him for it,'' Cheek said.

Assistant State Attorney Doug Ellis said prosecutors are now researching what they can do to save the case. They may seek to appeal Barker's ruling to a higher court, or they may be able to charge Altamura with vehicular homicide and try him all over again.

Reinhold said she could not fathom how the case against Altamura could have gone so awry. "There's something horribly wrong,'' she said.

On July 17, Altamura, of 2500 Winding Creek Drive in Clearwater, was driving across the Memorial Causeway Bridge in his pickup truck. His truck crossed the center of the bridge and smashed into a van driven by Christopher Richardson.

The Richardson family, of Orrtanna, Pa., was in Clearwater on vacation. Gregory, 18, was scheduled for a tryout with a Houston Astros baseball scout upon their return home.

But he never made it. In the crash with Altamura, the teenage athlete was killed.

Blood drawn from Altamura after the crash showed he had a blood alcohol level of 0.204 … more than twice the legal threshold that presumes impairment.

At trial, Cheek did not contest that his client was drunk and driving, only that he had caused Richardson's death. He argued that Altamura struck another car first--a car that has never been found--and that caused him to hit the Richardson van.

Although Mrs. Richardson had a difficult time sitting through Altamura's trial last month, she said that if necessary she will travel south to sit through a second one.

"I can go through anything to get justice,'' she said.

They had been publicly shamed in the media when their adopted 8-year-old son was found wandering through downtown St. Petersburg nearly naked. They had pleaded no contest to child abuse charges and a month ago stood in front of the congregation at Grace Bible Church to tearfully confess that they had beaten and starved the boy.

Surely the couple did not need to pay for their crime with their freedom, the Rev. Tim Cole told a judge Thursday. Surely, he said, it would be better for their remaining children if the couple could continue raising them.

But church and state parted company over what to do with the Tousignants. For four counts of aggravated child abuse, Pinellas-Pasco Circuit Judge Nelly Khouzam sentenced the couple Thursday to eight years in prison.

"This is not a case of a one-time slip in judgment,'' Khouzam told them sternly.

Bailiffs then led Mrs. Tousignant to one side of the courtroom to be fingerprinted. When she was done, they began to lead her away, bringing her husband over for his turn at the inkpad.

As the couple passed, Tousignant told his wife, "I love you,'' and they kissed. Then bailiffs led Mrs. Tousignant to a cell, and a few minutes later took her husband, too.

They left behind a mystery. Under one roof the Tousignants had had five children of their own, four foster children they were trying to adopt and the one son they had already adopted. Why, out of 10 children, had they singled out the 8-year-old for abuse?

"It's like being the runt of the litter,'' St. Petersburg police Detective Damien Schmidt said. "He was the one who got shut out.''

The way Tousignant described it, they had "nine children who are terrific and one who's terrific but he's not with the program . . . I'm not denying we withheld food. I'm not denying we beat him. I'm not denying we tied him up.''

He said his wife had begged him to stop hurting the boy, but Schmidt called the abuse "a planned, thought-out action by both parents. They were systematically draining the life out of (the boy).''

The family used to sit in a circle around the boy, praying for him, Schmidt said. They asked if he would accept Jesus, Schmidt said, and the boy wouldn't answer. Over and over the couple told the boy he was evil, and told the other children he was evil, too.

The couple's oldest girl told police that Mrs. Tousignant had told her that "if you think bad thoughts and you're a bad person when you're pregnant then your child will be a bad person'' … and that's what had happened to their adopted son.

To discipline the boy they would tie him hand and foot to a table and he would sit on a hard floor for hours, Schmidt said. His wrists and ankles bear permanent scars and his buttocks had the leathery appearance seen on some prisoners of war.

A pediatrician, Dr. Mark Morris, told the judge Thursday that judging from the boy's stunted growth … he was the size of a child half his age … he had probably been starved for two years. He would be dead now, Morris said, except for one thing: He escaped.

About 4 p.m. Jan. 14, a man named Charles Bailey spotted the boy crossing Central Avenue alone, clad only in a pair of underwear. Bailey stopped his car and asked the boy if he was lost. He said yes, and hungry too, so Bailey shared a sandwich with him.

The good Samaritan wrapped the boy in towels while they waited for paramedics. The boy thanked him profusely. "He was very much a little gentleman,'' Bailey said.

As Bailey testified, he kept glancing at blown-up photos of the boy's injuries. Finally he broke down and begged a prosecutor to take them away. They reminded him too much of what he had seen.

Eleven months later, the boy has gained 20 pounds and grown 4 inches. Last week he was released to the custody of Mrs. Tousignant's parents.

State workers removed the four foster children from the Tousignants' home. But a judge returned the five biological children to the couple.

More than 60 people showed up Thursday to support the Tousignants and express concern about what would become of the children if their parents were behind bars. Instead of prison, Cole and the elders of Grace Bible Church suggested that Khouzam consider intense counseling and frequent inspections by church members.

But Assistant State Attorney Diane Bailey (no relation to Charles Bailey) reminded the judge that many criminals have children. That's no reason to keep them out of prison, especially when the crime is child abuse, she said.

And Nancy Selak, now the boy's legal guardian, said she wished the victim "could have all the love and warmth and support that the Tousignants have . . . He's a sad little boy. He's doing better but he'll probably have problems the rest of his life.''

Before the judge sentenced them, the Tousignants said they wanted to apologize to everyone, especially the child they had treated so badly.

"He's my son and I love him,'' Mrs. Tousignant said, "and I always will.''

Instead his eyes stayed locked on Hank Reidelberger's hands.

Reidelberger and Sonny Searles took turns Tuesday interpreting court proceedings into sign language for Hawk, a 22-year-old deaf man charged with murdering Betty Gray more than two years ago.

By the end of the day Tuesday, lawyers had seated 12 jurors and chosen two alternates for the two-week trial.

In some respects the process was little different from any other murder trial, with the lawyers probing attitudes toward the police, the legal system and the death penalty.

But there were differences. Assistant State Attorney Bob Heyman questioned the effect that Hawk's deafness might have on would-be jurors.

"Would anybody, because of his deafness, have some innate sympathy that would affect your ability to sit in judgment of him?'' Heyman asked. One woman raised her hand.

Later defense attorney Joe McDermott asked the group if it would understand if Hawk did not testify. "Sure,'' said one man. "Because of his deafness he might have a speech impediment.''

No one told the group that the victims, Betty and Matthew Gray, also were deaf. A couple in their 60s, the Grays lived in the same neighborhood near Pinellas Park as Hawk and sometimes hired him to mow their lawn.

Hawk stands accused of breaking into their home on Feb. 19, 1993, bludgeoning Mrs. Gray to death and seriously injurying her husband, then stealing their car.

Because everyone in Pinellas County's tightly knit deaf community has some connection with the case, county officials hired interpreters from elsewhere to translate for Hawk and for any deaf witnesses.

As the lawyers and would-be jurors spoke, Reidelberger's hands danced through the air, spelling out names so rapidly his fingers were a blur. When he took a break, Searles quickly stepped in; there was no interruption. One sign they made over and over looked like someone stacking weights on the scale of justice. Reidelberger explained that that's the sign for "court.''

Translation work can be hazardous to the interpreter's health. Searles said he and Reidelberger have had hand surgery for repetitive stress injuries.

From time to time the courtroom echoed with an electronic "boop'' from the computer used by three court reporters, one of them Robert Dempster, owner of Robert Dempster & Associates.

For this trial, Circuit Judge Charles Cope approved the use of real-time reporting, which produces an instantaneous transcript of the trial on a video monitor. That way Hawk can read along with it if he wishes. Dempster said this is the first trial in Pinellas County history to use real-time.

The fancy technology and special interpreters ran into an old architectural problem. The acoustics in the cavernous Courtroom A in the 34-year-old courthouse in downtown Clearwater are so bad that they sometimes had to ask that answers be repeated.

They couldn't hear.

Deaf man guilty of murder

He had made a single letter in sign language … the letter G, as in "guilty.''

The jury of nine women and three men took just two hours Saturday to find the 22-year-old deaf man guilty of first-degree murder and attempted first-degree murder for killing 60-year-old Betty Gray and wounding her husband, Matthew, then 63.

The jury will return to court Tuesday to recommend whether Circuit Judge Charles Cope should send Hawk to death row or give him life in prison.

Hawk reacted to the verdict with the same slight grimace he has worn throughout his weeklong trial. But family and friends of the victims were delighted, especially since Hawk took the stand Friday and accused the Grays of sexually molesting him when he was a child.

"I don't believe that,'' said Jean Patnaude, who like Hawk and the Grays is part of Pinellas County's close-knit deaf community. "Every word he said, he's a liar.''

To counteract Hawk's accusation, prosecutors called a surprise witness Saturday: Gray himself. Now 66, he remains in such poor health that prosecutors had said at the start of the trial they would not ask him to testify. But Hawk's accusation forced them to put him on the stand.

As a bailiff pushed his wheelchair to the front of the courtroom, Gray appeared quite frail. His right arm lay paralyzed, useless for communication. Interpreter Sonny Searles sat directly in front of Gray and translated the questions slowly. There were only three.

Assistant State Attorney Bob Heyman asked Gray for his name, which Gray spelled out slowly with his left hand. Then he asked if Gray knew Hawk.

"Yes, yes, yes!'' Gray signed back, making noises to show his anger. Then Heyman asked his final question: "Did you ever sexually molest Robert Hawk?''

"No no no!'' Gray replied, shaking his head vehemently. "No! Never!''

Defense attorney Joe McDermott had no questions, and a bailiff wheeled Gray back out of court. Although some courtroom spectators saw a juror or two wiping tears, Hawk seemed unmoved.

In his closing argument, McDermott told jurors that Gray's denial of any sexual misconduct was no surprise. "Of course the person who did it is going to deny it,'' he said.

But Assistant State Attorney Brian Daniels blasted Hawk for trying to point the finger of blame at the victims.

"He's trying to save his own skin,'' Daniels said.

At the time of the attack on the Grays, Hawk was unemployed, rode a moped and lived with his parents in the same neighborhood as the victims, in the area of 66th Street and 62nd Avenue N near Pinellas Park.

Daniels told jurors that Hawk broke into the Grays' home late on Feb. 18, 1993, to steal their money and car. Surprising the couple in their beds, he bludgeoned them with a hammer, leaving both for dead, he said.

Friends of Hawk testified they saw him driving the Grays' 1991 Chevrolet Cavalier, and that he boasted of killing people, even showing off blood on his shirt.

But he told his friends he had shot his victims, which Daniels said sounded "kind of glamorous, like on TV. It's better than telling them you bludgeoned somebody with a hammer . . . There's no glamor in that.''

Hawk testified he couldn't remember anything about the night of the murder because he was too drunk and too high on drugs. But Daniels pointed out that he'd been sufficiently in control of his faculties to drive, get rid of the hammer and wash his clothes.

McDermott tried in vain to convince jurors that the prosecution had failed to prove his client intended to kill anyone or steal anything. He argued they should convict his client of second-degree murder, which would carry a maximum penalty of 40 years in prison.

But Daniels contended there was plenty of evidence of premeditation. "Where's the forethought?'' he asked. "After the first blow? The second blow? The 14th blow?''

After court recessed for the weekend, Mrs. Patnaude stood chatting in sign about the trial. She said Hawk should have been judged by a jury of 12 deaf people. Someone asked her if the verdict would have been the same.

"Oh yes,'' she said.

Past the snack bar and the restrooms, they round the corner and walk down the hall to the last courtroom on the right, its blue walls bathed in sterile fluorescence.

Once inside its tight confines they fill every seat on the six short rows of hard oak benches, then spill out the door and jam the tiny vestibule. At 8:35 a.m. Pinellas County Judge Stephen Rushing, his gray beard contrasting with his black robe, sweeps in and settles himself on the bench up front.

Out in the hall a lighted sign clicks on. It says: "Court In Session.''

It could add: "Look Out.''

What follows is what one attorney calls "the morning from hell,'' a frantic a.m. of pathos, anger, confusion, numbing routine and twisted comedy.

Rushing says that's a fairly typical mix for a Tuesday.

No one in the crowd is a mere spectator. They are all defendants or victims, summoned to appear in Courtroom E of Pinellas County's misdemeanor courts complex on this particular morning for pretrial hearings on 69 cases.

When court convenes, the people in the vestibule fold their arms, lean on the wall, stare at the gray carpet and strain to hear what's going on through the propped-open doors. A bleary-eyed man with a ponytail puts his motorcycle helmet on the floor and sits on it.

Most are dressed in jeans and sneakers, looking like a crowd of shoppers at the mall. But one petite 28-year-old St. Petersburg woman, wearing a stud in her nose and an amazingly long set of fingernails, has squeezed into a white satin dress with more ruffles than a wedding gown. When her case is called, she stands up and tells the judge she had "an 8:30 appointment,'' as if he were a doctor and could write a prescription to cure her of her charges.

Across 49th Street, in circuit court, the cases involve brutal crimes such as rape and murder. A felony conviction can send someone to state prison for years, sometimes for life. A few even go to death row. Most defendants have been through the court system before, and rare is the case where no attorney speaks for the accused.

But in county court the crimes are more mundane. The docket for this day lists animal cruelty, shoplifting, trespassing … charges that, at most, could result in a year in the county jail. It's not uncommon for defendants to show up alone, determined to speak for themselves as best they can.

"It's kind of like People's Court,'' Rushing says afterward. "We get a lot of people who have never been in court before. Some of them were just in the wrong place at the wrong time.''

Rushing calls himself a "local yokel,'' a St. Petersburg High School graduate who was a public defender and prosecutor before being elected to the bench seven years ago.

A county judgeship is usually a guarantee of obscurity, but Rushing's hobby has gained him some small renown. He draws cartoons, published in various periodicals under the title "Legal Insanity.''

When judges face a courtroom full of victims and defendants, Rushing says, "every decision we make hurts somebody.'' Drawing cartoons about the silly side of the law helps him maintain a sense of balance.

So far two books of Rushing's cartoons have been published. In the foreword to the second, Rushing quotes an old saw that says a judge needs only three attributes: "gray hair to look distinguished, thick glasses to look learned and inflamed hemorhoids to appear concerned.'' "It's not an art'

Printed at the top of this morning's 24-page docket is a polite fiction. It says Rushing will deal with all 69 cases in just one hour. He will actually take more than four times that, yet will not spend more than a few minutes on each case.

In normal conversation Rushing, despite his name, weighs his words carefully before he speaks. But to get through his morning docket he sometimes talks so fast that whole sentences come out in a single whoosh: "Raiseyourrighthand. Doyoupromisetotellthetruth . . .''

At any time Rushing's division carries a load of more than 1,000 cases. With more coming in all the time, he has to dispose of 300 a month just to stay even. Under such pressure to push cases along, Rushing employs every tool at his disposal to keep the system from bogging down.

"The bottom line is to get it done,'' he says. "It's not an art.''

This morning a 22-year-old Palm Harbor woman is ready to plead no contest to a charge of criminal mischief for running a key down the side of a man's car. But she says the victim has told her boyfriend he wants $350 to fix the damage, not the $800 that the state says she should pay.

Rushing turns to Assistant State Attorney Maria Woodruff, whose billowing blond curls have drawn expressions of admiration from several women in the gallery. Like Rushing, Woodruff, 32, is a St. Petersburg native. She has been a prosecutor for almost a year, all of it in misdemeanor court. Although another prosecutor sits at the prosecution table this morning, he is still in training. Woodruff handles each of the cases that come up.

Woodruff tells the judge she has tried contacting the victim to ask if he would accept $350 but he has not returned her calls. Rushing reaches for a phone sitting near him on the bench and asks Woodruff, "What's his number?''

The judge dials and leaves a message for the victim: "Hi, this is Judge Stephen Rushing . . .'' Then he turns to the defendant and tells her, "You have a seat for a minute and we'll see if he gets back with us.''

Rushing moves on to other cases. After five minutes his judicial assistant, Sherrie Morton, bustles into court and hands him a note. The victim just called the judge's office to say $350 was fine with him.

The Palm Harbor woman pleads no contest and agrees to pay the $350. Rushing has disposed of one more case.

In another case, a Clearwater resident stands before the judge facing a charge of soliciting a prostitute … actually, an undercover officer whom he offered $5 for sex.

This would be an easy case for Rushing to deal with, except the man is from Mexico and speaks little English. Calling for an official translator would take time. So when another man stands up in the back of the courtroom and offers to translate, the judge agrees … even though the impromptu interpreter is a defendant in another case.

Rushing swears in both men, then runs through the standard questions as his interpreter, a 35-year-old St. Petersburg grocery store employee, puts them into Spanish. The Spanish-speaking defendant enters a plea of guilty … "petition de culpable'' … and the judge puts him on probation for six months and orders him to stay away from the spot where he was arrested.

To repay his translator for his public-spirited aid to the legal system, Rushing calls his case next.

The charge is domestic battery. The victim is the interpreter's girlfriend of 11 years, who is 2 inches taller and 90 pounds heavier than the 5-foot-7, 160-pound defendant. She tells the judge that, despite what the police report says, her boyfriend did not hit her. He only grabbed her sleeve.

The interpreter pleads no contest and Rushing gives him six months' probation, fines him $100 and orders him to attend a 12-week course to learn how to control his anger.

Later, the interpreter says justice was served in the solicitation case, but not his own. The counseling is excellent but expensive, he says. He thinks the judge should have dismissed the charge.

"I think the judge should've said, "Do you two love each other?' '' he says. He and his girlfriend have physically attacked each other in the past, he says. "But we're still together. We still love each other.'' Illegal contact

More than a dozen of this morning's cases involve domestic battery, in every permutation: white couples, black couples, Hispanic couples, Asian couples, gay couples.

The variety of domestic battery cases can be startling, Rushing later says. "I had one where the spouse had hit him with a frozen raccoon,'' he recalls. "Evidently they had one in the freezer.''

Today's cases are more sad than comic. In one from Largo, the defendant and victim are women. Though one had attacked the other, they are still a couple. The defendant pleads no contest, then begins to cry. The victim comforts her, holding her close and stroking her hair.

Some of the victims sit in the jury box, staying as far away as possible from the defendants. Some, like the interpreter's girlfriend, choose to sit in the gallery next to the person charged with beating them.

About half the domestic battery cases Rushing hears involve a victim who stands up to proclaim she is not really a victim and she does not want the state to pursue the charges.

One woman tells the judge she lied to the police about being beaten up just to get her man in trouble. She sticks to this story even after Rushing warns her she might be charged with filing a false report.

In each case with a balky victim, Woodruff tells the judge the state is prepared to go to trial anyway. So Rushing suggests that the defendant could plead no contest, admitting that the state could prove its case but not that he or she is guilty. In exchange, he will fine them $150, tell them not to have any "illegal contact'' with the victim and order them to get counseling.

Most, like the interpreter, take the deal.

In one battery case the defendant is a woman from Seminole, the victim her husband. The man says he definitely wants the mother of his three children prosecuted. She insists she is innocent. Each has sought a court order barring the other from further domestic violence.

Rushing sets a trial date and the woman leaves. The husband sticks around the courtroom for another 30 minutes to make sure he doesn't bump into her in the parking lot.

Two weeks later, she files for divorce. "The morning from hell'

Although Rushing's docket is arranged with the defendants in alphabetical order, he doesn't call cases A to Z. Instead, he starts with the people who have hired attorneys. That way, those defendants are not paying their lawyers to stand around.

After them will come the cases handled by the public defenders, then the people who came to court with no lawyer at all. Rushing hopes the people called last can watch the professionals and learn enough to represent themselves when their turn comes.

As the private attorneys run through their cases … one or two per lawyer … a pair of public defenders is already lining up their considerably longer list of clients. Each keeps tabs on 170 cases at any one time, a sometimes crushing load.

"The word I would use is hectic,'' says the veteran of the pair, Robin Kester. "From the minute you hit that door and you're in court, you're running. It's organized chaos.''

Kester is a pale and intense woman with short, dark hair who gives her age as "no longer thirtysomething.'' She has worked for the Pinellas-Pasco public defender's office for nine years, but only transferred down from New Port Richey a few months before. Kester has been paired up with Sean Scott, a tall, slender man with expressive eyes who, at age 30, has been a public defender for just six months. In the virtually all-white Pinellas court system, Scott is one of the few African-American lawyers.

Scott stands toward the back of the courtroom softly calling out names. When a defendant answers, he takes the person to one of two tiny rooms that flank the courtroom's vestibule. There he and Kester sit down to talk to their clients, often for the first time, going over the case and explaining what may happen in court.

"The client may want to go to trial or he may want to negotiate,'' Kester explains.

Four or five names get no response, and the corners of Scott's mouth droop with disappointment. He knows the judge will put out a warrant for the no-shows, and they could face additional charges.

Meanwhile, Kester, battling a flare-up of persistent bronchitis, is running clients through the interview rooms as rapidly as possible. At one point, a man Kester is counseling decides he does not like what he's hearing. His voice grows louder, then louder still.

Suddenly the man is shouting loudly enough to be heard in the courtroom, distracting the judge. Bailiff Cassandra Breech, whose regal bearing and piercing stare are more intimidating than the cloth badge embroidered on her black uniform jacket, strides back to warn the shouter to keep his voice down. Like magic, quiet prevails.

Later, Kester says diplomatically that the man "was having a problem grasping his options. He became a bit vocal … not upset, just excited. We eventually worked it out.''

But the frantic pace of preparation takes its toll. By 10:30 a.m., the last of the private attorneys has departed, briefcase in hand. It's time for Kester and Scott to take their turn. When Kester walks into court, Rushing greets her by noting, "It's been kind of a busy morning.''

"It's been the morning from hell,'' Kester croaks grimly, "and I put that on the record.'' A happy camper

Several of Kester's clients are people caught driving under the influence. One is a 36-year-old St. Petersburg man arrested after a police officer spotted him weaving along Fourth Street N.

On the sidewalk. On a moped.

This is the man's fourth DUI, though apparently his first involving something other than an automobile. Speaking in an eastern European accent, he pleads no contest. The judge puts him on a year's probation and revokes his driver's license for 10 years … the stiffest penalty Rushing will impose all day.

By now the crowd that once jammed the courtroom has thinned to the point where everyone remaining can sit in the gallery. That includes the bleary-eyed man with the motorcycle helmet and another man who keeps muttering that the court system is out to drain his pocket of money.

Meanwhile a big, burly man with shaggy blond hair gets up, sits down, changes places, goes out and comes back in. He keeps hitching up his jeans, which almost immediately slide back down.

This is Kester's shouter, a 35-year-old roofer from St. Petersburg. When his case is called, he decides he doesn't need her services. He will speak for himself. Tucking his T-shirt into his jeans, he steps forward and tells his story to the judge.

Three months ago, he got in a fight with his brother and hit him over the head with a 13-inch portable TV. Police charged him with aggravated battery, a felony. But after he spent 27 days in jail, the state attorney's office dropped the charge.

However, because police had found "a couple of joints on me,'' he says, he was charged with possession of marijuana, a misdemeanor. He launches into a complicated legal argument about probable cause for the search, but that's not what the judge wants to hear.

Then the roofer mentions that his son's mother just died. He would like to move back to Ohio with the boy, he says, if he can resolve this misdemeanor charge without paying a fine he can ill afford. Rushing suggests giving him credit for the time he served in jail. Does that suit the defendant?

"Let's go, babe!'' the roofer says enthusiastically. He pleads no contest, they take care of the paperwork and he asks if he needs to see any other officials. Rushing says no, he's free to leave now.

"Okay, I'll see you, bro!'' the man sings out as he bolts from the courtroom, hitching up his pants.

"Now there's a happy camper,'' Rushing quips. Although Rushing does not draw cartoons in court, he says later, this case tempted him. The end of the "morning'

It is well past noon, and the sound of rumbling stomachs has grown louder in the gallery. But Rushing is not done. By now he has finished the cases with Kester and Scott and moved on to the people with no attorneys.

That includes the man with the motorcycle helmet, who has brought a sheaf of photos to defend himself against a charge of animal cruelty.

It is true, he says, that around midnight on Aug. 27 he shot a cat to death with a .45-caliber pistol. But the shooting was justifiable, he tells the judge.

"We're like a mile or so outside the rabies quarantine zone,'' says the man, 33. "I'm a nurse. I don't go around randomly terrorizing animals.''

He shows the judge a photo of himself with one of his own cats. "It's not like I hate cats,'' he says.

He explains to the judge that the pistol is protection for his home and family. On the night in question, he says, he heard his dogs barking outside his daughter's window, ran out with the gun in hand and encountered the cat "being really weird,'' biting its own legs and falling down.

"The cat acted aggressively,'' he says. "It would not retreat. It acted strangely toward me so I shot him.''

Rushing asks Woodruff if she has anything to say on behalf of the prosecution.

"It does appear that he shot the cat six times,'' she says quietly.

The defendant replies that he kept pulling the trigger because of "my military training.''

Clearly copying what he has heard other defendants before him say, the man tells the judge he will plead no contest if he can avoid paying a big fine. Before replying, Rushing delivers a short speech.

"I live in a rural area, in Seminole,'' Rushing says. "I have a cat. I am one of the founders and a director of Save the Florida Panther, which, of course, is a cat.''

The judge offers to assess him $100 in court costs and put him on probation for three months, and he can keep his gun. The man agrees. Before turning him loose, Rushing warns him: "If you do this kind of thing again, you better be sure it is a rabid animal.''

After a few more cases, Rushing is done for the morning. It is now 1:10 p.m. Outside Courtroom E, the "Court in Session'' light clicks off as Rushing dashes out. He's headed for what he calls "the health food store around the corner,'' namely Checkers.

He has to hurry. His afternoon docket starts in 20 minutes.