"All rise!" roared Dwight "Run-On" Riorden, the bailiff.
"All what?" said Howie, nonplussed. He got to his feet, muttering, "This is justice court, for God's sake, and we're all supposed to rise?" and stepped into the aisle, ushering Quill in front of him.
"Murchison?"
Howie turned, his eyebrows raised in polite inquiry. A brown-haired man carrying an expensive leather briefcase walked rapidly past the two of them, clapping his hand on Howie's shoulder in passing. It was, Quill saw in mild surprise, Al Santini.
Quill smiled and asked if he was looking for Meg. His eyes ran over her without a flicker of recognition.
"AI?" Howie's voice was wary and tinged with surprise. "What brings you out this way?"
"Good to see ya, buddy." Al grinned, revealing teeth like a picket fence in need of whitewash. He looked different. Quill looked at him carefully. He looked - almost senatorial. His scanty hair was moussed to an illusion of fullness. His dark blue pin-striped suit (cut to conceal the concave chest and his little potbelly) was so determinedly well-pressed it seemed to wear him. His watery blue eyes flicked over Quill like a pair of clammy hands. "This the perp?"
"The perp?" said Howie.
"The miscreant. The malefactor. The culprit." Al delivered a professional grin. "And a beaut she is, too, Howie." He clicked his tongue against his teeth, banged the briefcase playfully against Howie's knees, and loped up the aisle.
"What the heck?" said Quill. "Howie! He's acting like he's never seen me before! He's been a guest at the Inn for three days! He..." She subsided, muttering.
Howie frowned. "Now what the hell is he doing here?"
Santini stopped just short of the bench and appeared to be opening shop. He thumped his briefcase on the prosecutor's side of the bench, snapped it open, and spread a sheaf of legal-sized papers on the desk top. Above him, Justice Bernie Bristol polished his gavel with a spotless white handkerchief.
Quill looked around the courtroom. There were five - no, six - alleged traffic violators besides herself. At least, she assumed they were alleged traffic violators; all were probably as innocent as she was. She gave a sudden sigh of relief. "Howie. We won't need Meg as a witness after all. There's Betty Hall. I didn't know that she got pulled in, too, but I know for sure she saw me get stopped. And she knew I wasn't speeding. I mean, she's been driving school bus part-time for months and ought to know a speeder when she sees one. She'll be glad to testify to the fact that I'm a totally law-abiding citizen. She'd parked her school bus right on the side of the road where I got picked up. She even gave me this sort of sympathetic wave when Davy pulled me over."
Howie pursed his lips. "I don't like this. No, I don't like this at all. Quill, about those other tickets Meg mentioned. The ones from New York?"
"Oh, dear." Quill fidgeted with her scarf. "Um. It's like this. I thought that all that stuff would have disappeared by now. I mean, it's been seven years."
"B.T," Howie said thoughtfully, "B.T. Meg meant... Before Tickets?" he hazarded. He looked at her over his wire-rimmed glasses. "You mean you've been getting tickets since you were nineteen? How many tickets, Quill?"
Quill twirled a piece of hair around her ear. "It's not the tickets, so much. More like the totals."
"The totals?" Howie's eyes narrowed. "You don't mean totals as in total wrecks? Tell me you're not referring to total wrecks."
"All this happened years ago, Howie. In another life. I drove taxi while I was trying to make it as an artist. In New York City, for Pete's sake. And you can just imagine... I mean, Howie, most of them weren't my fault. Well, half of them weren't, anyway," Quill said generously. "Meg knows all about it. So did Myles. Kind of."
Howie, if he picked up on the past tense, made no mention of it. "Half of them? How many...? Oh, boy." He rubbed his nose. "I just need to know one thing. You haven't had so much as a parking ticket in the last seven years?"
"Not so much as a broken taillight," Quill said virtuously. "I mean, Deputy Dave did issue a warning last week - but that's all, honest."
Howie smiled. He had a very attractive smile. "Then we'll find out what's going on here. It's probably nothing. Can you handle Run-On's conversation for five minutes?"
"Sure. I mean, if anyone would know what's going on, he would."
Howie raised his voice slightly and called, "Dwight?"
Dwight "Run-On" Riorden had combined courthouse maintenance with the duties of bailiff ever since the Tompkins County Board of Supervisors had decided neither was a full-time job. Dwight wore a suit coat over his coveralls and white athletic socks with black lace-up oxfords, a mode of dress which seemed to accommodate both occupations. He gave Howie a high sign and ambled over. "Ms. Quilliam? Mr. M. ?"
Quill extended her hand. Dwight's palm was calloused. "Hi, Dwight. I haven't seen you at Marge's diner on Sundays for a while."
"Nope. Been working weekends, Ms. Quilliam. Mr. Hotshot Bristol there got his knickers in a twist over the state of the courthouse. Day after the election returns come in, Mr. Murchison, Bristol there wants to know how long's it been since it's been painted. Long enough, I say, and it's going to be a sight longer. Don't have a budget for painting walls that don't need paint. The boiler now, I tell him, that boiler she could use a valve job. Place where I'm going to be judge got to look better than this, he tells me. The hell with the boiler, he tells me. The hell with you, I tell him. Course, after he goes to judge's school you'd think the son of a gun would know better than to tell people he's a judge. He's not a judge, he's a justice. But no, he's an elected official of the people, he tells me, and things been too slack around here. But judge or justice those walls don't need paint. So I tell him that and he tells me - "
Howie interrupted. Most people talking to Dwight interrupted. Those who couldn't made a practice of avoiding him. "Dwight, when did Bristol get back from judge's school?"
Responding like a rudderless boat to a brisk breeze, Run-On's conversation tacked amiably in a different direction. "Before Thanksgiving, it must a been when we got that couple inches of snow. Didn't think I was going to have to get the blower out till after Thanksgiving, but some years I just don't - "
"Is this the first justice court session he's held?"
"Nossir, held four Fridays ago, it was, just after Thanksgiving. You were on that cruise and then out to your sister's in Rochester, and everybody knew they couldn't get hold of you so nobody tried."
"I just got back yesterday," Howie agreed absently, his attention on the back entrance to the courtroom. "There were a lot of phone calls waiting for me. Thought most of the callbacks could wait.... Riorden, who are those people?"
"Them?" Run-On craned his neck. "That's press. Media people. Judge Bristol told me to be sure and save seats for them, so I did. I roped off seats by the fire extinguisher, although I roped off enough for a dozen, judge said, and it don't look like to me that there's more than four, counting the guy with the camcorder. Hey!"
His furry eyebrows rose in mild excitement. "Hey! That's Nora Cahill! She's on the news from Syracuse when I eat my supper."
Quill waved hello. Nora ignored her. Maybe, thought Quill, there was some kind of cream she used that gave her complexion that flawless even tone. If there was, she wanted some.
A somewhat embarrassed-looking figure in trooper gray edged in behind Nora Cahill's camera crew. "There's Dave Kiddermeister, too," Quill whispered, as the deputy eased into the courtroom. "You know, Kathleen's brother. She's one of our best waitresses. Davy's the officer that flagged me down. And, Howie, I wasn't speeding, honestly. What the heck's going on?"
Howie took her arm and pressed her into her seat. "Stay there. Stay quiet. Don't say anything unless I ask you a direct question. And when I do ask you a question answer yes, no, or I don't know."
Quill bit her thumbnail nervously.
"Bailiff!" said Judge Bernie Bristol. "Can you come up here?" He took a deep, happy breath and thumped the gavel. "This court is now in session." Bristol thumped
the gavel again and kept on thumping with an air of mild pleasure. After some seconds, Al Santini reached up, removed the gavel, and laid it to one side.
Run-On Riorden ambled back up the judge's dais and laid a stack of files in front of the justice, who regarded them with confusion.
"The people call Sarah Quilliam," Al Santini prompted after a long moment.
Howie rose to his feet. "Your Honor," he said, in dramatically sarcastic tones, "I was not aware that my learned colleague had been elected to the bench. I object to this disruption of proper courtroom procedure. It is the right and proper role of the bailiff to perform the roll call."
Quill blinked, her anxiety somewhat allayed; she'd never seen Howie in court before. He was impressive.
Bernie took a moment to digest the objection, then turned anxiously to Al Santini. "Well, I guess I object, too, Mr. Santini."
Al spread both hands in a deprecatory gesture. "My apologies to the court, Your Honor."
"Oh, that's okay," Bernie said generously. "No harm done. Let's see." He shuffled through the files, took the topmost one, stared at it, set it down, stood up, and hitched up his judge's robes. He was wearing the kind of red plaid trousers popular with stockbrokers at Christmas parties. He drew a small black notebook from his trousers pocket, shook out his robes, sat down again, and opened the notebook up. The silence stretched on, broken only by little hisses and sighs as Bernie read aloud under his breath. Howie cleared his throat. Al Santini sighed elaborately. Quill, feeling obscurely uneasy again, looked over her shoulder. Nora Cahill, the Syracuse anchor, was standing behind her, microphone at the ready.
"There it is, right here, got it," said Bernie.
The man holding the camcorder behind Quill switched it on. Bernie squinted a little in the sudden flood of light. "You are Sarah Quilliam, of One Hemlock Road, Hemlock Falls, New York?"
Quill looked at Howie, who nodded.
"Yes," said Quill, much more loudly than she'd intended.
"You are charged with violation of section 11.74A of the Vehicular and Traffic Code." He beamed at her. "That's passing a stopped school bus, Miss Quilliam."
"A stopped school bus?" asked Quill, bewildered. "One moment, Your Honor." Howie folded his arms and regarded AI Santini with a steady and disapproving eye. "The violation listed on Miss Quilliam' s traffic ticket is 9.32C, speed in excess of five miles over the posted limit..."
"Well, according to the deputy over there, she was only going a couple miles over the limit and there's no news in that," said Bernie, clearly in the spirit of helpfulness.
"Of course there's no news in that," Howie said evenly. "And if there's a new charge, Your Honor, neither I nor my client has been notified..."
"Oh, yeah, she has. She's been notified. Got sent a letter after we got the computer readout on the camera. Sent the ticket through the mail. This school bus thing is valid, you know. Because of the camera."
"The camera?" said Howie. "What damned camera?"
"Counselor, Counselor," AI Santini said reprovingly. "The hidden intersection cameras. You're familiar with those, Murchison."
"You mean the cameras they've put up in New York City to catch people running red lights at intersections?"
"Uh-huh," said AI.
"There's one in Hemlock Falls?"
"Put up last week. Came out of the sheriff's budget. Lot of traffic violators out there, Murchison, so Judge Bristol kept it very quiet. Have to keep the streets safe for the kiddies. These little towns are laboring under the burden of high taxes paid to Albany and have little or nothing to show for it in the way of improvements to local government. When monies are made available to the hundreds of towns like Hemlock Falls across this great state of ours for the express purpose of saving lives, of making the streets safer for our little ones - I say it's money well spent."
Howie cast a sardonic glance at the running cameras. Nora Cahill smiled at him like a cat who'd had baby birds for breakfast. Quill took several deep breaths and retied the bow around her neck.
"Your Honor," Howie said, "I make a motion to dismiss."
Bernie cast a benign eye around the courtroom. "Do I hear a second?"
"A second what?" asked Howie.
"A second to the motion," Bernie explained with a kindly air. "If I hear a second, I have to consider dismissal, don't I?"
Howie spread his hands and looked up at the ceiling. His lips moved.
"Well," said Quill, more to break the stunned silence than anything else, "there was a school bus there, as a matter of fact. Betty was in it. She saw me, and she knows absolutely without question that I was not speeding. Didn't you, Betty?" Quill turned in her seat. Betty gave her a thumbs up.
Quill, keep quiet," Howie said, between his teeth.
"Let the record show that the defendant has admitted passing the school bus and that the driver Betty Hall can identify her," Al Santini said loudly. "Judge Bristol, I believe you were going to continue with the charges?"
"Um... ya. The state of New York provides a minimum fine of seven hundred dollars and seven days in jail and a maximum fine of eight hundred dollars and one hundred and eighty days in jail for this offense," Bernie read aloud. "How do you plead, Miss Quilliam? Not guilty? Guilty? Or guilty with an explanation?"
Quill said weakly, "Well, guilty with an explanation, sir. I - "
"QUILL!" Howie shouted. "Be quiet! Your Honor, I demand a recess. I demand an examination of the judicial process involved in these proceedings."
"I believe my colleague is in contempt, Your Honor," al Santini said smoothly.
"What?" asked Bernie.
"Contempt. He's in contempt," Al muttered.
"Stuff it, Santini," Howie said.
"That's no way to talk," Bernie Bristol said reprovingly.
"Your Honor, there is a motion to dismiss before this court." Howie, Quill noticed, turned dark red when he was angry. "My client has not been notified of this most serious misdemeanor."
"She open her mail?" asked Al Santini. He waved a certified mail receipt under Howie's nose. "These electronic tickets get sent by certified mail." He turned back to the bench. "Your Honor? I'm going to ask for the maximum penalty here. To keep this kind of menace off the roads and pathways of our fair state."
"Menace?" said Quill.
"And to keep the money rolling in, too," Bernie added in a helpful aside to the steadily whirring camera. "Lot of financial opportunities being missed with these kinds of cases."
Howie ran his hands through his graying hair, which didn't much affect his hairstyle but added to the appearance of frenzy. "On what possible grounds could you ask for a maximum penalty here, Santini?! God knows why I'm even participating in this dog and pony show. Your Honor, if a ruling is not made on my motion to dismiss, I am going to file a protest with O. C. A."
"I told you we should have repainted," Judge Bristol said to Dwight Riorden. "Now we'll have OSHA on our necks."
"Let me explain, Your Honor." Howie gave an exasperated laugh. "The Office of Court Administration is a disciplinary body - "
"Shall we get back to the case at hand, Counselor?" Santini laid a thick file in front of the judge. "I have here in evidence the defendant's MV104, dating back fifteen years to a multitude of V&T charges in the city of Manhattan, Your Honor."
"Um... ya," said Judge Bristol.
"Oh, dear," said Quill. "Oh, dear, oh, dear, oh, dear."
Howie cast an accusing glance at Quill, and said loudly, "I object!"
"A perusal of this document will demonstrate without question that Ms. Quilliam is one of the many, many reckless drivers at liberty in the state of New York - "
"I object! Objection!"
" - endangering the lives and physical well-being of our citizens."
"Your Honor!" Howie roared. Quill, impressed, hadn't realized he was so excitable.
Santini raised his hand for silence. "Your Honor, at the least, the very least, I request that you commit this woman to the county jail. She is a vir
tual felon - "
"Your Honor!' Howie, suddenly cold (and, Quill saw, very, very angry), folded his arms and lowered his head, like a bull about to charge. She put a hand on his arm. His voice was tight. "Go on, Santini. Hang yourself."
"She has been identified by the bus driver, and has a driving record which clearly places her in the ranks of the reckless. All the conditions for the severest penalty have been met, and I request the maximum sentence."
As if recognizing a cue, Bernie Bristol thwacked his gavel. "Seven days... " he said directly into the rolling camcorder.
Murder Well-Done Page 8
