William Deverell - Kill All the Judges

Several regulars were there, looking miffed because the bar was roped off. Nelson Forbish again dominated the small press table, which tilted slightly every time he moved, causing the two young women at the other end to jiggle up and down as if on a teeter-totter. Absent was Constable Pound, licking his wounds, widely blamed for bringing combustibles into the community hall.

Hamish McCoy sat slouched, glaring at Kurt Zoller in his fetishistic life jacket. It would be a task reigning in the leprechaunish Newfie, who’d shown little appreciation after being merely slapped on the wrist for growing half a ton of potent pot. He’d called Zoller a “dorty, stinking Nazi squealer” when they bumped into each other yesterday at the general store.

It was a quarter past two when judge, prosecutor, and court staff finally got themselves organized at tables. “Okay, order in court,” said Wilkie. “We’re a little late starting, and we intend to catch the three-eleven ferry, so I want everyone apprised of that.” A stern look at Arthur and ever-smiling Mary, the prosecutor. “Okay, where were we?”

“Unsightly Premises Bylaw,” said Mary. “Robert Stonewell.”

Stoney wasn’t within the room, and emissaries couldn’t find him outside, a search that consumed several minutes. Judge Wilkie spent the time staring at the glowing Bud Lite wall clock.

“Okay, hold that one down,” he said. “Call the McCoy case.” Arthur and his client came forward. “Mr. Zoller, you were to meet with some locals to come up with a program of community service for Mr. McCoy.”

“Yes, sir. I have a list of recommendations.” He flourished a sheaf of papers. “May I start by reading the minutes of the advisory planning committee?”

“You may not.” His Honour hadn’t reckoned on having to deal with a master of circumlocution.

“The problem is, Your Worship, this matter was debated last night with a lot of interesting views going back and forth-”

“Mr. Zoller, we have a ferry to catch. I just want your recommendation.”

“Certainly, Your Worship, but I promised I would mention the minority report, which calls for defendant to do a hundred hours of beach cleanup-”

Wilkie interrupted again. “Thank you. What did your group finally decide?”

Zoller loosened his yellow life jacket, took a breath, began again. “Okay, well, there’s one main project and a couple of things we’d like to add. Mrs. Hilda Kneaston, who lives across from the defendant on Potters Pond, wants you to order him to wear clothes in the summer while he’s out in his yard, at least shorts or a swimsuit-”

Wilkie was battling to restrain himself. “Mr. Zoller, how long does it take to drive to the ferry?”

“Ten minutes.”

“Okay. And it leaves in twenty-five minutes. When is the next ferry?”

“That would be the nine-forty-five tonight, but it’s usually late.”

“Understand this, Zoller, my wife and I have a dinner engagement tonight. Be it on your head.”

“Yes, sir, I’ll get right to the substance.” Zoller began a rambling irrelevancy about how tourism was the mainstay of the island economy, and how the island’s many cultural offerings should be on better display-”

“Get to the point!”

Before Zoller could do so, Stoney charged into the room. “Sorry, Your Honour, my car broke down.”

Wilkie glanced anxiously at the clock, scrambled through his papers. “Stonewell. Unsightly premises. Do you want an adjournment?”

Stoney must have sensed profit in saying no. “Those cars are my babies. Most of them were there before there was even a bylaw. I’m ready for trial.”

“Not guilty,” Wilkie said.

“What?”

“Not guilty! I find you not guilty! And you, Zoller, sum up in no more than six words, because we have to get to the damn ferry !”

“That’s what I’m leading up to, the ferry. The majority vote last night was for the idea of a statue at the ferry dock, maybe on the hill overlooking Ferryboat Bay, at least fifteen feet tall, like the ones in the front of the defendant’s house with wings on them, and in time for tourist season this spring. And we could hang a sign on it to inform visitors of the island’s many arts and crafts-”

Arthur had sensed McCoy simmering behind him, and now he erupted. “I ain’t going to see my work compromised by a barnacle like Kurt Zoller! I don’t do billboards! Nobody tells me what to create!” He aimed a stubby, muscular finger at Zoller. “Oi’ll go to the clink first before I kowtow to you, you snout, you stool-”

The red-faced judge seemed ready to slap McCoy in irons-eighteen months for a missed ferry-so Arthur cupped his hand over McCoy’s mouth and announced his terms. “Full artistic freedom, he’s not to be policed in any way, or bothered when at work. Substantial compliance within six months. On that basis, my client informs me he will be pleased to place a sculpture at the ferry landing.”

Wilkie was already sweeping papers into a briefcase. “So ordered! The accused is discharged! This court is adjourned!” He led the flight to the parking lot.

Arthur spent a few moments cooling McCoy down, talking sense to him: this could be to his advantage, could turn around a bad year. There would be publicity, it wouldn’t hurt his fame or his pocketbook to be the creator of an island attraction, well photographed, sold as postcards. Moreover, Hamish needn’t put in a wink of effort. Arthur would be proud to donate his fee, the twelve-foot-high Icarus, to a pedestal on Ferryboat Knoll.

McCoy reproved him for his offer. “You said you loiked it, b’y, and you’ll keep it. The image is too tormented, it’ll scare the tourists. Oi’ll give them joy.” As he wandered off with some friends, he was more relaxed; common sense had trumped anger.

As the editor of the Bleat rose from the media bench, it tilted, and one of the reporters slid off, landing rudely on her bottom. Nelson waddled up to Arthur with pen and pad. “A lot of my readers are going to think he got off light. What do you say to that, Mr. Beauchamp?”

“I say to that, Nelson, that it would be most pleasant to drop a couple of fishing lines on a sunny, placid, winter’s day.” Contemplation of that prospect was put on hold as he stepped outside. Lying in wait, with tiresome predictability, was Cud Brown.

“Go check on Pomeroy, see for yourself. Come back and tell me if he don’t belong in the cackle factory.”

Progress to the docks was slow, Cud was walking backward, arms extended to prevent Arthur from darting past. Nick was watching from the Blunderer while playing with the ship-to-shore electronics.

“Maybe I have not been plain, Cud. I am not a conveyer of information about your trial, nor am I entitled ethically to advise you. Brian Pomeroy is a skilled counsel who, incidentally, a few years ago won a celebrated case involving wrongful identification.”

Cud’s voice lowered. “There’s something about him that scares me. Something about his eyes…”

Those wacky eyes, glinting like flints from the cheap meth they buff the coke with. Yes, stardust was what Brian was now abusing, blow was what he’d been tucking up his nose during the half-dozen shopping days before Christmas. It’s got more oomph than Xanax, it brings security, a blast of self-esteem. He wasn’t interested in going back to his couch doctor for more Xanax, he didn’t even want to see Dr. Epstein, with her hints about “caring facilities.” Institutions. Creepily smiling keepers, muscular warders.

Harry the Need makes home deliveries, just like the folks at Lucky Penny Pizza. Hell of a guy when you get to know him. He used to trade stocks, ran with a fast crowd, got hooked on meth, graduated to horse, sells to support his habit. He’s against legalization; it would collapse the market.