Кэрол Дуглас - Cat In A Leopard Spot

“No, ma’am,” Temple grunted, finally reaching the table, atop which she could heft both burdens like sacks of flour.

The judge blinked at the twin thuds. “I sincerely hope you don’t have any bodies in there.”

“Just bodies of evidence,” Temple rejoined.

The judge flipped through the papers littering her desktop. “This case does indeed involve alleged rape, impregnation, abduction, and mutilation. My, my, my. These bodies have been busy enough for a soap opera, even though they seem to be feline.

“Since you, Miss Barr, are the complainant, you’ll go first.”

Temple whipped out a sheaf of papers from her tote bag and opened her mouth.

“But first, I advise you to keep it brief.”

Temple shut her mouth. Just how brief was “brief”?

“My cat, Midnight Louie,” she began.

“Wait a minute.”

“Yes, Your Honor?”

“Does this Midnight Louie happen to be in one of those two pieces of baggage?”

“Yes, Your Honor.”

“Well, bring him out to meet the people.”

“He may not, uh, be feeling cooperative.”

“Is he always hard to handle?”

“Well, he isn’t called ‘castrated’ over a loudspeaker every day.”

“I’m afraid you can’t libel a cat, Miss Barr, so don’t go trying to add to the charges against Miss Ashleigh.”

Temple darted a glance at her opponent, forbearing to shoot back that you couldn’t libel a Savannah Ashleigh, either, because anything bad you could say about the woman would be true.

But Temple’s wrath was distracted by Louie, who actually bounded out of the carrier into the bright glare of the television lights like Milton Berle racing to a female impersonator session.

“Well,” said Judge Jones. “He is one big, good-looking guy. I can see why a lady cat might be partial to him, even bowled over.”

“Bowled over and assaulted,” Savannah interrupted. “My little Yvette was defenseless.”

“I will look at your ‘little defenseless Yvette’ in a moment,” the judge said, “but first you will kindly keep your comments to yourself until it is your turn to complain. Oh, all right! Bring on your wronged cat and then we’ll have a pair on the table.”

Savannah tossed ashy bleached locks teased into something resembling burnt meringue over her bare shoulders. She unzipped Yvette’s bag with the flair of a magician unveiling an illusion.

When Yvette’s piquant Persian face, a symphony in silvery white fur, peeked over the pink rim, the courtroom oohed as one.

Temple felt like the owner of plain-marmalade Garfield, the comics cat, up against Nermal, the world’s cutest kitten. Yvette was a sophisticated confection of wispy whiskers, perfectly round aquamarine eyes, and ears so delicately tinted pink they looked lavender through the thin down of silver fur that covered them.

Then Savannah, a ham actor who couldn’t resist piling on the honey glaze, cooing adoringly and lifted little Yvette to her cheek, all the better for the judge and the audience to eyeball the petite charmer.

Yvette squalled like a demon infant. She flailed her dainty feet, lashed her plumy tail, and sank her tiny claws into Savannah’s naked shoulder.

Savannah squealed.

Temple stroked Louie’s back and tail as he paced and turned in front of her, a perfect gentleman.

At Yvette’s uproar, he moved to the table’s edge and directed a disapproving growl at Savannah.

“She’s upset,” Savannah said, whimpering as she tried to unhook each pearlescent curve of claw from her flawless, microdermabrasioned skin.

“I would be upset,” Judge Jones said, “if I had been hoisted from my afternoon nap to have my manicure messed with. Put the cat down on the table and wait for Miss Barr to finish.”

A dark, unyielding eye fixed on Temple. “And? What is your proof that Mr. Midnight there is innocent of all charges? That Yvette minx looks pretty irresistible to me. I can imagine what a dude of her own species would think.”

“As you see, Your Honor, Yvette is more capable of self-defense than one would think. No one is contesting the fact that Yvette became pregnant during the commercial shoot. But I have photographic proof that all her offspring were yellow striped. Not a one was black. Or shaded-silver, for that matter.”

“Wait a minute. Wait a minute!” The judge had grabbed her gavel at protesting sounds from Savannah. “What’s this here ‘shaded silver’ stuff? Sounds like a designer drug.”

“It’s a designer cat,” Temple explained. It was her turn to talk, after all. “A purebred Persian color.”

“No doubt that is why Miss Ashleigh is upset over any unauthorized breeding. Just nod or shake, Miss Ashleigh, until it’s your turn to present your case.”

Miss Ashleigh nodded until her own particular Silicone Valley underwent an .8 on the Richter scale. No one could say she had disobeyed the judge’s admonition to “nod or shake,” having done both.

“That will do,” the judge ordered. “I did not ask for break dancing. Now.” Her gaze returned to Temple. “Where is this photograph?”

Temple whipped up a copy of a national tabloid.

The bailiff, a dignified man in police uniform, made a ponderous trip to collect the photo and convey the exhibit to the judge. He was like a not-very-good bit actor who had been given too many chances to execute long, silent stalks across stage.

Judge Jones was squinting at the telephoto-lens-blurred image. The paparazzi had caught Yvette in the act of nursing while her mistress sunbathed behind a privacy fence that wasn’t quite private enough.

“These are definitely striped, every last one,” was the judge’s verdict. “Any similarly striped candidate for the office of father of the brood?” she asked Temple.

“As it happens, Your Honor, a yellow-striped male cat was on the set during the entire filming schedule. His name is Maurice, and he was the spokescat Midnight Louie replaced.”

“ Hmmm . Any expert evidence that Louie is not the father of the little convicts? Well, they are wearing stripes!” she told a protesting Savannah.

The audience tittered obediently at the judge’s broad delivery of her own joke.

Temple, in the meantime, fished out another sheet of paper from her tote bag. “The veterinarian has written a statement about how unlikely it would be for a solid color black father not to produce any black offspring.”

This too was brought to the judge’s bench, which was really more of a high desk.

“Anything else?”

“Only that on the very flimsiest of suspicions, Miss Ashleigh had Midnight Louie abducted and taken to a facility where he was physically altered without my knowledge or participation, and obviously against his will.”

“His will does not matter. He is a cat.”

Louie stopped his contented sashaying back and forth against the grille of his carrier—such a nice side-scratching post—and regarded the judge balefully.

She seemed well aware of unfriendly fire when she saw it.

“An animal is property,” she said, leaning forward to address Louie directly. “It does not have free will, and it has no more than demonstrable market value.” Her glance skipped to Temple, but her tone remained stern. “I do hope, Miss Barr, that you are equipped to prove demonstrable market value. I can only award you damages in the amount of the animal’s intrinsic value, and he is not even a purebred, like little Yvette there. Is he?”

“No, Your Honor, but he is a performing cat who earns a salary and residuals. I have here a videotape of his TV commercials.”

The judge nodded, impressed for the first time. “Yes. I would indeed like to see this fellow performing. But you have not yet proven that Miss Ashleigh had anything to do with what you term ‘permanent tampering.’ I assume you mean that he was neutered without your permission.”