William Bernhardt - Dark Justice

“Actually, I am a lawyer.”

The judge did a double take. “You sure about that? You ain’t exactly dressed for court.”

“The sheriff didn’t give me a chance to change before hauling me to the county jail.”

“Oh, I get it. You’re the perp and the lawyer.”

Ben nodded. “That’s it.”

“You gonna represent yourself? That would probably be a big mistake, you know.”

Thank you very much, Ben thought. “I will for now, at any rate.”

“Suit yourself.” He recalibrated his gavel toward the other table. “Granny, whatcha got on this man?”

Ben’s eyes crinkled. Granny? As far as he could tell, the woman standing before the judge was in her late twenties, tops. She had a perfect hourglass figure and rich, full chestnut-brown hair that swished engagingly across her clavicle with every step she took. She was not tall, but everything she had was jam-packed into a package that Ben was having a hard time keeping his eyes off.

Granny?

“Your honor,” she explained, “the accused was apprehended down at Fred Franklin’s bookstore this morning about three A.M.”

Judge Pickens began scribbling notes. “What was he after? Cash?”

“According to him, all he wanted was Fred’s cat.”

Pickens raised his glasses. “His cat ?”

“That’s his story. Had his own lockpick he used to get in. He was a pro.”

The judge smiled. “I guess that makes him a professional cat burglar. Literally.” Pickens slapped his knee and let loose with a ripsnorter of a laugh, then leaned back and wiped his eyes. “But seriously, is attempted cat theft a crime?”

“Breaking and entering is.”

Ben stepped forward, as best he could while still handcuffed to the sheriff. “Your honor, could I please explain?”

Pickens didn’t look up. “No.”

“But I think I could clear-”

Pickens cut him off. “You will remain silent until such time as I ask you to plead, got it?”

Ben complied.

Judge Pickens returned his attention to the prosecutor. “So, Granny, this guy got any priors?”

She nodded. “I ran some checks this morning. Turns out he was arrested once before in Arkansas for brawling in a bar.”

Pickens scrutinized Ben’s thin frame. “This guy?”

“It’s on his record. Tell you what else I found out. He really is a lawyer. And he often works for something called the Society for Prevention of Cruelty to Our Other-Than-Human Neighbors. Some kind of animal rights terrorist group.”

Ben couldn’t remain silent. “ Terrorist group?”

“The accused is believed to have participated in any number of break-ins and underground activities, many of them masterminded by this animal rights group.”

The judge’s teeth clenched up. “Go on.”

“According to the court records, the accused represented this group in twenty-seven different cases in one year alone.”

Ben pressed forward. “They were my only client!”

Pickens ignored him. “Recommendations, Granny?”

“I think we’ve got enough trouble right now from political extremists without letting another one loose on the streets.”

“I agree.” Judge Pickens pushed his glasses up the bridge of his nose. “The court hereby finds sufficient cause to bind the defendant over on the charge of breaking and entering. Bail is set for fifty thousand dollars.”

Ben jumped out of his chair. “Fifty thousand dollars? For a catnapping?”

“If you can make bail,” the judge explained, “you may pay it to the clerk of the court on your way out.”

“Are you kidding? I can’t even come close!”

“In which case I hope you like prison food, because you’re going to be getting a lot of it.” He pounded his gavel. “Court is out of session.”

“But wait! I haven’t even-”

The sheriff laid his hand on Ben’s shoulder. “Don’t bother. It’s over.”

Ben saw that the judge was already off the bench. A second later, he was out of the courtroom. And a second after that, Ben presumed, he was stepping into his fishing waders.

Ben peered pleadingly at the sheriff. “It was just a cat!”

The sheriff nodded as he tugged on Ben’s cuffs and led him toward the back of the courtroom. “That’s what they all say.”

Sheriff Douglas Allen walked Ben back to the county jail cell where he had spent part of the night and morning between arrest and arraignment. “Sorry the accommodations aren’t nicer. I’ve been trying to get the town to appropriate money for a new jail, but it’s no go. People just aren’t interested in spending money to make life comfier for the criminal element.” He cleared his throat. “No offense intended.”

“None taken.” Ben resituated himself on the edge of the metal cot that passed for a bed. There was nowhere else to sit. “Mind if I ask you a question?”

Sheriff Allen grinned. “Let me save you the trouble. It’s short for Granville.”

“Granville?”

“Right. Usually a boy’s name, but that didn’t stop her pappy from passing it on to her. Actually, it’s her middle name. Her first name’s Rebecca, not that it matters. Everybody calls her Granny. Always has. Even when she was just a scrawny little thing.”

“She’s not just a scrawny little thing anymore.”

“You noticed that, did ya?” Allen laughed again, and Ben found himself liking this man who kept locking him up in an eight-square-foot cell. “I saw the way your eyes peeled back when she strolled across the courtroom. Not that you’re the first.”

“I don’t suppose she’s …”

“Available? She is, although she doesn’t normally consort with the criminal element.” He stepped out of the cell and locked the door. “Let me give you a piece of advice about our stunning young prosecutor, if I may.”

“I’m listening.”

“You know about the black widow?”

“I know what it is.”

“But do you know about the female’s … mating habits?”

Ben shrugged. “Sure. Mates with the male, then eats him.”

Allen nodded. “And do you know where the black widow learned its tricks? From watching that sweet little package you drooled over in the courtroom. Granny Adams taught the black widow everything it knows.”

“I’ll keep that in mind. But actually, that wasn’t my question.”

“It wasn’t? Damn. This is gonna get me thrown off the psychic hotline. What was it?”

“I wanted to know about the judge. He seems a bit … how shall I say it? On the extreme side.”

“That’s Tyrone, for you. Always very extreme.”

“Fancies himself a hanging judge?”

“Around here, we call Judge Pickens ‘The Time Machine’-because whatever the crime is, he always gives the defendant the maximum time.”

This was lovely to hear. “Even catnappers?”

“Don’t believe we’ve had any precedent. But I can tell you what he did to Sonny Carlisle last week.”

“Stiff sentence?”

“The stiffest. Sonny’d been drinking too hard out at Bunyan’s. He shouldn’t have been driving, but he was. Ended up smashing into two teenagers. Killed one of ’em. ’Course, it was negligent homicide, but that didn’t slow The Time Machine down any. He gave Sonny two fifty-year sentences.”

“ Two ?”

“You heard me right. One for each victim. To be served consecutively, not concurrently. When the sentencing was over, he glared down at Sonny and said, ‘Your parole officer hasn’t been born yet.’ ”

“Why did he go all ballistic when Granny painted me as some political extremist?”

All traces of the sheriff’s smile faded. “Well, for that answer, why don’t you ask these fellows in the adjoining cells? I’m sure they could explain it better than I can.” And on that, he pivoted on the heel of his cowboy boot and left the cell block.