intone in his mellifluous voice. “We're here reporting for radio station KSKY. Judge Marsha Foster-Klein is already on the bench, dispensing her own particular brand of rough justice.”
“If I ever see you so much as looking at another half-rack of Coors,” Judge Marsha berated the young man before her, “I'll run over you myself. License suspended for six months, thirty days in jail, eighty hours of community service.” She banged her gavel. I wondered that wood chips didn't fly. “Get out of this courtroom, and don't let me ever see you in here again.”
The dejected perp shuffled off, apparently into the arms of his obese mother who had been sitting in the front row. Spence kept up his commentary with the microphone.
Vida finally appeared, her floral bonnet askew. “Goodness, people are snoopy! Why do they think I always know everything that's happening?”
The answer was as obvious to me as it should have been to Vida, so I said nothing. The courtroom was filling up. Judge Marsha was listening to a divorce proceeding involving an adulterous relationship, spousal abuse, and the question of which party would be awarded custody of a ferret named Yvonne.
“Tomlinson,” Vida said in her stage whisper. “They live out by the fish hatchery. She's from Startup, he moved here from Tacoma to work for the park service. Or was it the forest service? Dear me, I forget.”
The divorce was swiftly granted, the ferret was given to the wife. Or ex-wife, as she had become.
The judge stared at Spence, who was still crooning into his microphone. “There will be no recordings or broadcasts from my courtroom, Mr. Fleetwood. Tune yourself off or I'll turn you out.”
Spence offered the judge his most ingratiating smile. “Sorry, Your Honor, I was only setting the stage for my later newscast. You know, atmosphere, live and direct.”
“I don't know,” Judge Marsha snapped. “The only thing around here that's live and direct is justice. Take a seat, Mr. Fleetwood, and make sure you've got your little black gadget turned off.”
Still jaunty, Spence complied. I couldn't help but grin at Marsha Foster-Klein. She had made herself a candidate for my next new best friend.
A side door opened, and sherrif's deputy Sam Heppner entered behind the three Hartquists and Sven Svensen. Sam nudged the senior Hartquist, apparently reminding him to remove his wrinkled snap-brim cap, which I gathered was his signature piece of apparel. The sons also doffed theirs. Cap Hartquist busily scratched at his rear end; his offspring followed suit.
The voices in the courtroom grew hushed. Cap, though gnarled and slightly stooped with age, looked like his usual pugnacious self. There was a contemptuous expression on his weather-beaten face as his beady-eyed gaze swept over the gathering. Ozzie, the elder and the larger of the two brothers, swaggered behind their father, while Rudy attempted to joke with the dour Sam Heppner.
“Showing off,” Vida murmured. “Typical.”
Moving with the aid of a walker was Sven Svensen, whom I judged to be about Cap's age, but not in nearly as robust shape. Sven had once been a large man, or so his loose-fitting dark blue suit indicated, but he had apparently shriveled with age or illness, perhaps both. He wore an obvious toupee and there was a straw boater in the basket of his walker.
“Good heavens,” Vida gasped, “Sven Svensen! I remember him from my youth. I thought he'd been dead for years. Do you think he'll live through the trial?”
Sam Heppner, Rudy Hartquist, Judge Marsha, and the entire front row of spectators stared at Vida. Sven Svensen, however, did not. That was when I noticed his hearing aids.
Rosemary Bourgette was already in the courtroom. She was a pretty, dark-haired woman in her thirties from a large family who belonged to St. Mildred's parish. Thejudge ordered the group to approach the bench. As the formalities began, I saw Milo lope through the double doors at the back of the
“If I ever see you so much as looking at another half-rack of Coors,” Judge Marsha berated the young man before her, “I'll run over you myself. License suspended for six months, thirty days in jail, eighty hours of community service.” She banged her gavel. I wondered that wood chips didn't fly. “Get out of this courtroom, and don't let me ever see you in here again.”
The dejected perp shuffled off, apparently into the arms of his obese mother who had been sitting in the front row. Spence kept up his commentary with the microphone.
Vida finally appeared, her floral bonnet askew. “Goodness, people are snoopy! Why do they think I always know everything that's happening?”
The answer was as obvious to me as it should have been to Vida, so I said nothing. The courtroom was filling up. Judge Marsha was listening to a divorce proceeding involving an adulterous relationship, spousal abuse, and the question of which party would be awarded custody of a ferret named Yvonne.
“Tomlinson,” Vida said in her stage whisper. “They live out by the fish hatchery. She's from Startup, he moved here from Tacoma to work for the park service. Or was it the forest service? Dear me, I forget.”
The divorce was swiftly granted, the ferret was given to the wife. Or ex-wife, as she had become.
The judge stared at Spence, who was still crooning into his microphone. “There will be no recordings or broadcasts from my courtroom, Mr. Fleetwood. Tune yourself off or I'll turn you out.”
Spence offered the judge his most ingratiating smile. “Sorry, Your Honor, I was only setting the stage for my later newscast. You know, atmosphere, live and direct.”
“I don't know,” Judge Marsha snapped. “The only thing around here that's live and direct is justice. Take a seat, Mr. Fleetwood, and make sure you've got your little black gadget turned off.”
Still jaunty, Spence complied. I couldn't help but grin at Marsha Foster-Klein. She had made herself a candidate for my next new best friend.
A side door opened, and sherrif's deputy Sam Heppner entered behind the three Hartquists and Sven Svensen. Sam nudged the senior Hartquist, apparently reminding him to remove his wrinkled snap-brim cap, which I gathered was his signature piece of apparel. The sons also doffed theirs. Cap Hartquist busily scratched at his rear end; his offspring followed suit.
The voices in the courtroom grew hushed. Cap, though gnarled and slightly stooped with age, looked like his usual pugnacious self. There was a contemptuous expression on his weather-beaten face as his beady-eyed gaze swept over the gathering. Ozzie, the elder and the larger of the two brothers, swaggered behind their father, while Rudy attempted to joke with the dour Sam Heppner.
“Showing off,” Vida murmured. “Typical.”
Moving with the aid of a walker was Sven Svensen, whom I judged to be about Cap's age, but not in nearly as robust shape. Sven had once been a large man, or so his loose-fitting dark blue suit indicated, but he had apparently shriveled with age or illness, perhaps both. He wore an obvious toupee and there was a straw boater in the basket of his walker.
“Good heavens,” Vida gasped, “Sven Svensen! I remember him from my youth. I thought he'd been dead for years. Do you think he'll live through the trial?”
Sam Heppner, Rudy Hartquist, Judge Marsha, and the entire front row of spectators stared at Vida. Sven Svensen, however, did not. That was when I noticed his hearing aids.
Rosemary Bourgette was already in the courtroom. She was a pretty, dark-haired woman in her thirties from a large family who belonged to St. Mildred's parish. Thejudge ordered the group to approach the bench. As the formalities began, I saw Milo lope through the double doors at the back of the
Similar Books
