She didn’t wait for my answer. “So what I want you to tell me is, how can I get Uncle Jap’s power of attorney? Or maybe get me named his guardian?”
“You can’t,” I said bluntly. “Not unless he agrees to it or you can show that he’s mentally incompetent. And even that might not do it if his nephew wanted to fight you for it. After all, he’s Mr. Jap’s closest kin. You’re only related through Mr. Jap’s wife and she’s dead.”
“But I was blood kin to Dallas and I’m the one that’s been looking after Uncle Jap for years,” Merrilee argued. “Ever since Aunt Elsie died, whenever Dallas went on the road, he went easy, knowing I’d check on his daddy while he was gone. Even after he married Cherry Lou and brought her back here to that nice house he built for Mary Otlee, I’m the one Uncle Jap always called if he needed anything, not her. And certainly not Allen Stancil. What’s
“Everybody knows how good you’ve been to Mr. Jap,” I assured her, “but unless you can show that he’s no longer competent, he can stand on top of the courthouse and fling his money to the four winds if he wants to and there’s nothing we can do about it.”
Merrilee looked horrified at the thought.
I’d been out fourteen and a half minutes, so no coffee for me this morning.
Darned if Allen wasn’t doing it to me again.
By lunchtime, we’d disposed of all the Guilty pleas and made a start on the Not Guiltys.
Administering justice is like shoveling smoke. Justice Learned Hand said that.
Shoveling smoke. That’s exactly what it seems like sometimes—the same petty offenses over and over, and yeah, I got caught but here’s why it’s not really my fault, Your Honor: I was just going with the flow; my speedometer was off; somebody was tailgating me and I had to keep out of their way; that stop sign I run was hid behind some bushes/too far off the shoulder/won’t there the last time I come through that crossing; if that lady didn’t slam on her brakes, I wouldn’t have rear-ended her; the only reason the officer stopped me is because I’m black/a teenager/a senior citizen/driving a red sports car.
Actually, I’m always just a little sympathetic to that last excuse. Ask any cop. A bright red car is four times more likely to get pulled for speeding than a nondescript blue one. I myself haven’t had a single ticket since I smartened up and reluctantly traded my red Corvette for a dark green Firebird.
Of course, except for the Possum Creek bottom and one other back-country stretch, I’ve pretty much quit speeding since I came to the bench. And for the record, no, I never asked anybody to fix a ticket for me before that. You can’t preach responsibility to others and then weasel out of the consequences of your own actions.
Unlike our new “family values” congressman who washed in on the ultraconservative tidal wave last year.
When his car passed another in a no-passing zone and caused an oncoming van to flip over, he swore to the patrolman that his wife was driving, even though five witnesses had him behind the wheel and two more said they saw him changing places with her immediately after the accident. The DA kindly offered to let him plead nolo contendere and he took the deal because, and I quote, “I didn’t want to spend the next six months proving that my wife was guilty,” which, I suppose, says something about family values?
Some local wags said his greatest fear was that Jesse Helms would find out he’d been caught going left of the center, while others went out and made up a bumper sticker that said MY WIFE WAS DRIVING.
Fortunately, I didn’t have anything quite that colorful on the day’s docket. We finished up shortly before four and I went looking for Dwight Bryant. He’s not seeing anyone right now and with Kidd a hundred miles away and most of my women friends tied up at night, I’m usually at loose ends during the week, too.
I found him at his desk in the sheriff’s department. “Want to drive over to Raleigh and catch the early show at the Longbranch?”
“Can’t. I’m overseeing security at East Dobbs’s football game tonight. It’s a makeup game.”
As Sheriff Bo Poole’s chief of detectives, Dwight wasn’t exactly earning a shabby salary and I raised my eyebrows. “Moonlighting?”
“Yeah,” he said dejectedly. “Got a call from Jonna last week. Cal’s front teeth are coming in crooked and he’s going to need braces.”
Braces on top of the maximum child support for his income bracket? Wasn’t going to leave him much walking- around money. Most of Dwight’s friends think Jonna took him to the cleaners in their “amicable” divorce, but we never hear him gripe about it.
I was ready to gripe for him. “Cal inherits her teeth, and she can’t pay for the braces?”
He shrugged. “What can I tell you? C’est la damn vie.”
Sitting in domestic court a few days later, I thought of Dwight as I listened to a long string of excuses from the men who’d been hauled before me because they refused to recognize their responsibilities toward the children they had fathered. One man with a half a pound of gold around his neck and wrists explained that he’d gotten behind on his child support because he had to buy a new suit and a plane ticket to California. His brother was getting married and he was the best man.
Best man.
Right.
Three more said they’d been laid off. No jobs, no money.
I could have sent them to jail, but why should taxpayers support them and their kids, too? Instead, I’ve picked up on something a colleague over in Goldsboro’s been trying. When deadbeat dads (and the occasional deadbeat mom) quit paying because they aren’t working, the Honorable Joe Setzer fills their days with community service. They get to sweep gutters, pick up litter, rake leaves, mop floors, or wash windows—eight hours a day, zero pay. After a few days of working for free, most of these young men miraculously find jobs that let them resume their child support obligations.
Along with everything else today, I also had a contested paternity suit from a few weeks earlier. Clea Beecham, the mother; Timothy Collins, the alleged father; and Brittany Beecham, a perfectly adorable two-year-old baby girl.
