smiled. “Well, I got here before he trampled all over everything. I’ll give all the evidence to Theresa at the hospital, same as I did with Muldaur’s stuff.”
Theresa was a lab tech and a girl he dated.
Since Cliffie hated to send anything to the state lab—feeling apparently that it robbed him of his authority as el comandante—Theresa was the best we could do locally.
“I’ll call her.”
“Sure.”
The press was here now. A rumpled, sleepy reporter with a microphone and a heavy tape recorder slung over his shoulder wandered from one neighbor to the other asking all the usual obvious, stupid questions. I’m waiting for the wife of a recently murdered man to say to a reporter, “How does it feel to have your husband murdered?
I’ll tell you, It feels great. He was an arrogant, overbearing jerk and I want to thank whoever killed him. I can finally live like a normal human being now that old Ralph
is gone.” Just once.
The crowd grew. The ambulance team took the body away. Doc Novotony yawned a lot.
Cliffie gave the radio guy one of his Dick Tracy Crime Fighter speeches—th case was going to be wrapped up within forty-eight hours and you had his word on it—and then said (honest), “Some people thought that Reverend Courtney was sort of a snob and thought he was better than the rest of us because he was from back east, but I felt that deep down he was just a regular guy. Let’s not forget that he was a Cubs fan.”
Maybe they’d let him give the graveside remarks.
I had to appear before Judge Ronald D.
K. M. Sullivan that morning. Don’t ask what the initials stand for. Local lawyers insist that they translate to Duly Krazy Mick. And that would certainly apply. D.K.M. has two modes—ccfused and very, very, which is to say extremely, pissed off. He has been known to hum, whittle an apple and eat it, do deep breathing exercises, and flip coins while you’re making your case before his bench. He berates you for the color, cut, and cleanliness of your suit. He reminds you when you need a haircut. He has advised young women to wear more uplifting bras and young men to wear toupees because the sunlight streaming through his courtroom windows is brilliant when bounced off a bald pate. His nose runs, his eyes collect pounds of green stuff in the corners, and the last time he brushed his teeth we were bombing Berlin. He is, as near as anyone can guess, somewhere between two hundred and four hundred years old. Like those turtles.
He said, “And what offense against humanity has Mr. Larkin committed today, Mr.
McCain?”
“He’s been charged with obstructing justice.”
“Obstructing justice?” He made it sound as if he’d never heard the words before.
“He is alleged to have struck an officer who was trying to arrest Mr. Larkin’s lady friend.”
“And why was the officer trying to arrest Mr.
Larkin’s lady friend?”
“Because allegedly his lady friend had kicked the officer in the crotch area.”
“And for what reason had his lady friend kicked the officer in the crotchtal area?”
The crotchtal area? Crotchtal? D.K.More always tried to make things sound a little more dignified than they are. Hence, crotchtal area. And by the way, all the things he makes me explain?
Most judges read the charges before they have you address the bench. But D.K.M. saves time by having you do all his prep for him.
“She kicked him in the crotchtal area because he called her a name.”
“And what name would that be, Mr. McCain?”
“He called her a hooker.”
“A what?”
“A hooker. It’s slang for prostitute.”
“Ah, a strumpet.”
“Something like that.”
“So the officer of the law calls the lady friend of Mr. Larkin a strumpet and she kicks him in the crotchtal area and when the officer of the law tries to arrest her Mr. Larkin steps in and strikes the officer of the law in the face?”
“That’s correct, Your Honor.”
“Good. Now I understand. And by the way,
Theresa was a lab tech and a girl he dated.
Since Cliffie hated to send anything to the state lab—feeling apparently that it robbed him of his authority as el comandante—Theresa was the best we could do locally.
“I’ll call her.”
“Sure.”
The press was here now. A rumpled, sleepy reporter with a microphone and a heavy tape recorder slung over his shoulder wandered from one neighbor to the other asking all the usual obvious, stupid questions. I’m waiting for the wife of a recently murdered man to say to a reporter, “How does it feel to have your husband murdered?
I’ll tell you, It feels great. He was an arrogant, overbearing jerk and I want to thank whoever killed him. I can finally live like a normal human being now that old Ralph
is gone.” Just once.
The crowd grew. The ambulance team took the body away. Doc Novotony yawned a lot.
Cliffie gave the radio guy one of his Dick Tracy Crime Fighter speeches—th case was going to be wrapped up within forty-eight hours and you had his word on it—and then said (honest), “Some people thought that Reverend Courtney was sort of a snob and thought he was better than the rest of us because he was from back east, but I felt that deep down he was just a regular guy. Let’s not forget that he was a Cubs fan.”
Maybe they’d let him give the graveside remarks.
I had to appear before Judge Ronald D.
K. M. Sullivan that morning. Don’t ask what the initials stand for. Local lawyers insist that they translate to Duly Krazy Mick. And that would certainly apply. D.K.M. has two modes—ccfused and very, very, which is to say extremely, pissed off. He has been known to hum, whittle an apple and eat it, do deep breathing exercises, and flip coins while you’re making your case before his bench. He berates you for the color, cut, and cleanliness of your suit. He reminds you when you need a haircut. He has advised young women to wear more uplifting bras and young men to wear toupees because the sunlight streaming through his courtroom windows is brilliant when bounced off a bald pate. His nose runs, his eyes collect pounds of green stuff in the corners, and the last time he brushed his teeth we were bombing Berlin. He is, as near as anyone can guess, somewhere between two hundred and four hundred years old. Like those turtles.
He said, “And what offense against humanity has Mr. Larkin committed today, Mr.
McCain?”
“He’s been charged with obstructing justice.”
“Obstructing justice?” He made it sound as if he’d never heard the words before.
“He is alleged to have struck an officer who was trying to arrest Mr. Larkin’s lady friend.”
“And why was the officer trying to arrest Mr.
Larkin’s lady friend?”
“Because allegedly his lady friend had kicked the officer in the crotch area.”
“And for what reason had his lady friend kicked the officer in the crotchtal area?”
The crotchtal area? Crotchtal? D.K.More always tried to make things sound a little more dignified than they are. Hence, crotchtal area. And by the way, all the things he makes me explain?
Most judges read the charges before they have you address the bench. But D.K.M. saves time by having you do all his prep for him.
“She kicked him in the crotchtal area because he called her a name.”
“And what name would that be, Mr. McCain?”
“He called her a hooker.”
“A what?”
“A hooker. It’s slang for prostitute.”
“Ah, a strumpet.”
“Something like that.”
“So the officer of the law calls the lady friend of Mr. Larkin a strumpet and she kicks him in the crotchtal area and when the officer of the law tries to arrest her Mr. Larkin steps in and strikes the officer of the law in the face?”
“That’s correct, Your Honor.”
“Good. Now I understand. And by the way,
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