He paused as if hearing his words on a playback track and looked up at me sheepishly. “I mean, Judge Deborah Knott
I laughed. “You saying I’m not pleasant, Mr. Overby?”
“Not me, ma’am.” He cast a significant eye to the side bench where three attorneys waited for their cases to be called.
Two of them had broad grins. The third, the one who was audibly snickering, was my own cousin Reid Stephenson.
“A little decorum here, gentlemen,” I said with mock sternness.
Today’s calendar listed the usual DWIs, the bad checks, the drunk-and-disorderlies, the shoplifters, and the brawlers. Usual to me, that is, and to the prosecutors and attorneys, and even to most of the defendants. But there are always some for whom this is a first-time event.
About ninety minutes into our morning session, Kevin Foster pulled a shuck and said, “State versus Dorothy Arnfeldt and Monica Udell. Assault and battery.”
Both looked to be middle-class white women, late forties. Both were charged with assault and battery, and even though both looked embarrassed to be there, both had facial expressions that proclaimed the righteousness of whatever actions had brought them to my courtroom.
Although they were neighbors, this was clearly not kiss-and-make-up time for either of them. They sat at the defense table with their attorneys, George Francisco and my cousin Reid, between them.
“How do you plead?” I asked.
“Not guilty!” they chorused.
The older attorney placed a calming hand on Mrs. Udell’s arm and rose to address me. “Your Honor, my client pleads guilty, but with extenuating circumstances.”
“Thank you, Mr. Francisco,” I said and looked to the prosecution’s table and ADA Kevin Foster. “Call your first witness, Mr. Foster.”
A uniformed patrol officer took the stand and swore to tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but. Referring to his notes, Officer Maynes described how he had responded to a call about a domestic disturbance on the outskirts of Cotton Grove in February in the late afternoon. Stripped of the formal officialese, he had arrived to find these two women slugging it out in the backyard of the Udell domicile. A dead and mangled chicken was being worried by a dog owned by Mrs. Arnfeldt, whose backyard butted up against that of Mrs. Udell.
“As best I could make out, Your Honor, Mrs. Udell keeps a few chickens in her backyard. Mrs. Arnfeldt said that one of them flew over the hedge that separates the two yards and her terrier got hold of it and killed it. Mrs. Arnfeldt says the dog was in his own yard and she’s had trouble with Mrs. Udell’s chickens scratching in her flower gardens. Mrs. Udell says the dog was not fenced and came into her yard and killed her chicken. She got the little .22 rifle she keeps to kill snakes and squirrels and was going to shoot the dog when Mrs. Arnfeldt jumped her.”
“The dead chicken was in Mrs. Udell’s yard?”
“Yessir.”
“And the dog was in her yard, too?”
“Yessir.”
“Were there any witnesses to the incident?”
“Not to my knowledge. The 911 call came from the Arnfeldt house. I believe her daughter.”
On the bench in the front row, a teenage girl in torn jeans and a long-sleeved orange top that showed off her navel ring gave an involuntary nod.
“According to her statement, she saw the altercation from the window of her room on the second floor after it was already in progress.”
Again the girl in the front row nodded.
“When you arrived, what did you see?” Kevin asked.
“As I came around the corner of the house, I saw Mrs. Udell give Mrs. Arnfeldt a shove, and their language had a lot of profanity. Both had lacerations on their faces and their clothes had dirt and grass and chicken manure on them.”
“Your witness,” Kevin said to the nearer of the two attorneys.
Despite his soft voice and courteous manners, George Francisco has the tanned and athletic build of an outdoorsman. He doesn’t like to argue criminal cases and I wasn’t quite sure why he had agreed to represent Monica Udell.
“Tell me, Officer Maynes,” he said. “Is it against the law to own chickens in this county?”
“No, sir. Not outside town limits. Some towns do have regulations, but—”
“Does the Udell residence lie within the limits of Cotton Grove?”
“No, sir. About a quarter-mile outside.”
“And is there a leash law in the county?”
“Some of the towns have them, but not unincorporated areas.”
“Was the dog on a leash when you arrived?”
“No, sir.”
Francisco took an eight-by-ten photo from the folder before him and asked for permission to approach. I
