nodded.
He showed the picture to me, to Reid and Mrs. Arnfeldt, and to Kevin Foster before handing it to Maynes. “Is this a picture you took of the dead chicken?”
“Yessir. In fact, that’s the toe of my shoe in the corner here.”
“Your Honor, I would ask that this picture be submitted into evidence as Exhibit A.”
“So ordered,” I said.
After looking at the picture, I thought I knew where Francisco was going with this one and I was surprised that Reid hadn’t caught it. But then Reid was town-raised and maybe a bit clueless about chickens.
“Thank you, Officer. No further questions,” he said.
“Mr. Stephenson?” I said with careful formality. Even though I have eleven older brothers, Reid is the closest I’ve ever come to having a younger one. When I first joined the law firm of Lee and Stephenson, his father, Brix Junior, was still practicing. As soon as Reid passed the bar exam, Brix Junior retired to Southern Pines, where he could play golf every day if he wanted, and left Reid to take his place. Reid’s a bright and competent attorney, but he does have trouble keeping his pants zipped, which irritates the hell out of John Claude Lee, his senior partner.
As Dorothy Arnfeldt’s attorney, Reid smiled pleasantly at the officer and said, “This is not the first time you’ve been called to my client’s home, is it?”
“No, sir. She’s filed complaints about the chickens . . . well, the first time it was about a rooster crowing early of a morning, and a week before this incident, she complained that the chickens were scratching up some flowers she’d just set out in her backyard.”
“When you say ‘backyard,’ Deputy Maynes, exactly what do you mean?”
The officer was puzzled. “You want me to describe them?”
“Just the general size, please.”
“Well, the Arnfeldt lot is like most of the new places they’re building. Maybe a quarter to a third of an acre.”
“It’s part of Crescent Ridge subdivision?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Where there’s a homeowner’s association?”
The officer shook his head. “I wouldn’t know about that. Anyhow, Mrs. Udell’s place isn’t part of it. Crescent Ridge backs up on what’s left of the old Crandall farm. I’d say it’s about two acres.”
“And are Mrs. Udell’s two acres fenced in?”
“No, sir. Just her chicken yard,” he said.
“How high is that fence?”
“About five feet.”
“And the hedges that separate the properties?”
“Maybe four feet?”
“Could a chicken fly over them?”
“Objection,” said George. “Calls for a personal opinion.”
“Sustained,” I said.
“Your folks keep chickens when you were a boy?” Reid asked.
“Yes, sir.”
“Did you ever see one of your chickens fly over a five-foot fence?”
Maynes grinned. “Yessir!”
“And what about roosters?”
“Well, we kept one to service the hens and—”
“No, I’m referring to their crowing habits. When do they start crowing?”
“Soon as the sky lightens up of a morning.”
“Are they loud?”
“I could sleep through it myself,” said Maynes, who was clearly enjoying himself, “but it always woke my dad and he woke the rest of us.”
“No further questions,” Reid said and sat down.
“Redirect, Your Honor,” said George Francisco. “Officer Maynes, when you were in the Udell yard, did you see any roosters?”
“No, sir.”
“Thank you,” said Francisco, and he, too, sat down.
“Further witnesses?” I asked.
“No, ma’am. The prosecution rests.”
