Death's Half Acre

“Objection!”

“Overruled,” I said.

Dorothy Arnfeldt turned to me indignantly. “Is he calling me a liar?”

“I don’t think so, ma’am. I think he’s just warning you to be sure it’s the truth you’re speaking.”

Reid’s head came up sharply at that. He knows me well enough to read me and the very fact that I’d just overruled his reasonable objection put him on alert that his client might somehow be walking on shaky ground although he didn’t know why.

“Please take another look at Exhibit A,” Francisco said, handing her the picture after I’d nodded to show he could approach. “Is this the chicken that flew into your yard and that your dog killed?”

With a toss of her pale blond hair, she gave the picture a disdainful glance. “I suppose so. All chickens look alike, though, don’t they?”

“Not to people who keep chickens, Mrs. Arnfeldt.” His voice was scrupulously polite.

“Look, Your Honor,” she said, twisting in her chair to face me directly. I think it was finally getting through to her that she wasn’t in Kansas any more. “I really do regret this and if that chicken was her pet, then I guess I can’t blame her for flying off the handle. I’m willing to pay a reasonable amount for what it was worth to her.”

“We can discuss that later,” I said. “You’re not charged with contributing to the death of a chicken. You’re charged with assault and battery.”

“No further questions,” said Francisco. “May I call my client to the stand?”

Baffled, Mrs. Arnfeldt returned to the defense table and Mrs. Udell took her place.

After she was sworn in, Francisco asked her to tell her side of the story.

Monica Udell’s skin was the color of wild honey. Her straight brown hair was cut in a no-nonsense bob. A wisp of bangs brushed her forehead. She wore black slacks and a white shirt layered over a red-checked shirt. No jewelry except for a wedding band and a modest diamond on her left hand.

She described how her two acres were all that were left of her grandfather’s farm. “You divide the land four or five times every generation and not much is left,” she said. “One of my sisters still lives next door, but the others sold out to Crescent Ridge. I’ve tried to be a good neighbor to these new folks, but I like eggs that have some color to their yolks and aren’t full of hormones and stuff and I don’t plan to quit just because city’s come to the country.”

She admitted that her chickens had originally strayed over to the newcomers’ yards, “but as soon as they asked me to keep them penned, I did. And when she put the law on me about my rooster, I made a big pot of pastry out of him rather than have hard feelings with her. Once in a while, one would fly over the fence in the morning and head straight for her yard. But her dog was over at my place more than my chickens were over there, worrying around the pen like he hadn’t never seen a chicken before. When she complained to me the last time, I quit letting them out in the morning, just in the evening right before dark. They don’t get far from their roost when night’s coming on. And I clipped the left wing of all five of ’em as any fool can see if they look at that picture of poor Bella laying there dead. So if she says that chicken flew over her hedge, she’s just pure-out lying. There’s never been a chicken hatched that can fly on just one set of wing feathers. Her dog came in my yard and killed my chicken right where it had every right to be, and yeah, I might’ve hit her first, but I do believe she was asking for it when she came over yelling and cussing me out because I was about to shoot me a chicken-killing dog.”

Reid immediately asked to see the picture again and his client’s blue eyes widened when she saw the closely clipped feathers on the dead chicken’s left wing and comprehended the significance. She whispered something to him and he stood. “Your Honor, about my client’s testimony . . .”

“About her perjury, Mr. Stephenson?”

“My client would like to correct her earlier misstatement.”

“I’m sure she would,” I said crisply, “but I’ve let this drag on too long as it is. Perjury is a Class F felony, Mrs. Arnfeldt, and I could send you to jail for thirteen months. Or, I could cite you for contempt, which carries ten days in jail.”

She gave an audible gasp and clutched Reid’s arm.

“But I’m going to overlook it this time.” Before she could quit looking worried, I continued, “On the other hand, because you did lie to this court, I’m going to accept that Mrs. Udell’s is the truthful account and that your dog did go into her yard and kill her chicken. I’m ordering you to keep your dog on a leash when it’s outside or else strengthen the charge on your invisible fence. If she had shot your dog, how much compensation would you have asked for?”

She balked at that. “My dog has papers.”

“If you’re going to live in the country,” I said, “then you need to know that some chickens have pedigrees, too, and a lot of them are pets with personalities as individual as dogs or cats. I’m entering a judgment of three hundred dollars against you for the death of the chicken, payable to Mrs. Udell.

“As to the assault and battery, I find you each guilty as charged and sentence you to ten days in jail, suspended for one year, unsupervised probation, on condition that you each pay a hundred-dollar fine and court costs, and that you neither threaten nor assault each other during that year or you will go to jail.”

It did not immediately register with either woman that Mrs. Arnfeldt was going to be out at least five hundred dollars while Mrs. Udell would break even, assuming her attorney didn’t bill too many hours.

With an amused nod of his head, George Francisco said, “Thank you, Your Honor.”

He started to follow his client out but I motioned for him to come up to the bench. As Kevin Foster looked through his shucks before calling the next case, I leaned forward and said, “Did you have a pet chicken when you were a kid?”

He smiled. “A white silkie. Her name was Blossom. You?”