Jo Leigh - Doctor, Darling

He’d hoped for better news. Much better news. “I don’t like this, Dan.”

“I don’t, either. Just hang tough. I’ll talk to you in the morning.”

Conner hung up the phone, and as he stood to go back to his cell, he looked out the front window. They were lined up. Everyone. The woman in denim, the one from the bakery, the kid who’d bumped his chair at the diner. They all had their noses pressed up against the glass, staring at him as if he were a prize exhibit at the zoo. “Don’t you people get cable?” he asked.

“Come on along,” Tracy said.

As Conner turned to go back to his cell, he saw a nameplate on the sheriff’s desk. His first name was Richard. How about that? Conner had been arrested by Dick Tracy.

HE WOKE UP AT THE SOUND of jingling keys. It was almost 8:00 a.m., and he was going to have his day in court at nine. He still hadn’t heard from Dan, so Conner figured he’d ask for bail, then tell Dan to sic ’em.

“Morning, son,” Dick Tracy said as he slipped the key into his cell-door lock.

“Yeah,” Conner replied. He felt remarkably good, considering. The mattress had helped, and so had the aspirin. He’d ended up reading the Stephen King and it had kept him entertained. The biggest surprise had been the snack at ten last night. Homemade chocolate cake and ice-cold milk. It was kinda hard to stay mad at a sheriff who brought cake, but Conner had managed. No matter how nice, it was still jail.

“I went to the motel,” Tracy said. “Got some of your things. They’re in the bathroom.” He pointed down the hall. “Hurry, though. Breakfast will be here in about fifteen minutes.”

Conner didn’t thank him. He just stood up straighter as he walked down the hall. That would show him who’s who. He slammed the door shut, and it occurred to him that he was being a dope. Tracy wasn’t about to let him go because he’d refused to say thank-you. Or because he’d shut the door forcefully.

The next hour went by quickly. After he was dressed, he went back to his cell. Breakfast consisted of Belgian waffles, fresh strawberries, orange juice and excellent coffee.

Then, just five minutes before they had to leave, Dan called. Tracy took him to the phone up front.

“What did you find out?” he asked.

Dan cleared his throat. Not a good sign. “The law is real,” he said. “It’s over 125 years old, but it’s on the books. But that’s not the worst of it.”

Conner closed his eyes. “What?”

“They can give you jail time for this.”

“What?”

“Hold on. They can give you jail time, but they don’t have to. I can’t believe they will. I’m sure all you’ll get is a slap on the wrist and a hefty fine.”

“You’re joking, right? They can’t really do this. Not for saying dammit to hell. I hear that on television all the time. It doesn’t make sense.”

“That’s true. But it doesn’t have to make sense. It’s their town, and their laws.”

“Can’t we fight it?”

“Yes. We sure can. And we will. But for today, just be polite, act contrite, plead guilty and pay the fine. We’ll deal with the rest when you get home.”

Conner wanted to argue further, but what was the point? They had him, and there was nothing he could do about it. “Thanks, Dan.”

“Call me when you get home.”

Conner hung up, and Tracy walked him to the courthouse, which happened to be upstairs.

It didn’t surprise him to find every seat filled in the large room. Some folks even stood in the back. This was the weirdest place he’d ever been. The woman behind the bench didn’t give him anything. Not a smile, not a scowl. She was older although he couldn’t even guess her age. Reddish-blond hair, cut pretty short. A black judge’s robe.

He looked around as he was led to the front of the room. The crowd acted as if they’d never seen anyone like him before. As if he’d come from another planet. Or maybe they were so fascinated because they knew what was coming. He thought about the story, “The Lottery,” and he had a sudden image of himself being stoned to death. Nah, they wouldn’t. Would they?

He sat down, and the judge banged her gavel. The room grew instantly still.

“Conner Malloy, would you please approach the bench?” she said. No preamble at all.

He stood up again, and Tracy led him to his place in front of the judge. Her name was Elizabeth Larson. Up close, she looked pretty tough.

“Dr. Malloy, you’ve been charged with using foul language in front of women and children. How do you plead?”

“Guilty, Your Honor.”

“I see,” she said. “Cursing is an offense we take seriously here, make no mistake about that, especially when there are children involved.”

“Yes, Your Honor,” he said, trying to keep cool. Trying to remember that Dan would fix this soon enough.

“So seriously, in fact, that I usually give jail time to first offenders.”

Conner felt a chill run up his back. The crowd murmured. Tracy took a step back, distancing himself from the bench and the accused.

“However,” she said slowly, and the word sort of hung in the air, “there is a lesser sentence I can offer you.”

The murmur behind him got louder, and Conner heard someone laugh. The judge banged her gavel loudly three times, but Conner figured it was the look she gave the townfolk that really quieted them down.

“I’m prepared to give you community service instead of a fine and a jail sentence,” she said.

Community service? He’d have to stay here? In this town? With these crackpots? Dick Tracy, for heaven’s sake. People lurking in doorways. Maybe jail wouldn’t be so bad.

“The decision is yours to make,” the judge said. Then she reached for some papers on her desk. Turned a page over. Then another.

The tension in the room grew perceptibly. Conner felt beads of sweat break out on his brow. He urged her to say it. To end the suspense.

She looked at him again, and her right brow rose as she leaned forward. “You can go to jail, or you can escort a very nice young lady by the name of Gillian Bates to a dinner dance a week from Friday.”

Conner laughed. It was a joke. A big old practical joke, maybe for one of those silly television shows. He waited for the judge to smile, for the gallery to join in with applause. But his was the only voice. He turned to the crowd, and his laughter died. They were all staring at him, anticipation and excitement making them lean forward, making their eyes wide and a little frightening.

He turned back to the bench. “I’m sorry. I thought you said—”

“I’ll repeat it for you. Instead of jail and a fine, you may escort Gillian Bates to a dinner dance.”

He stared at the woman as he grappled with what he was hearing. He was being sentenced to a date? Impossible. Completely ridiculous. Quite possibly illegal. But it couldn’t be serious. “No,” he said, taking a step toward the judge. “Really, what are my options?”

The judge looked at him soberly. “There are some conditions to the community service,” she said as if this performance was as real as rain. “You’ll need to ask her out at least once before the dance. And you must let her think it’s all your own idea. If she discovers it’s part of your sentence, it’s an automatic jail term. If you don’t succeed in escorting her to the dance, it’s an automatic jail term. And finally, you must leave her kindly and you must wait at least twenty-four hours after the dance has ended.”

“You can’t do that,” he said. “You can’t force me to date someone.”

“Oh, but I can, sir. I can, and I am.”

“But—”

“But nothing,” the judge interrupted sternly. “Make your decision, Dr. Malloy. Jail or a dinner dance with a very nice girl.”