The Case of the Flashing Fashion Queen

Judge Stephanopoulos had presided over a great many criminal trials in Marport City, and most cops had testified before her at one time or another. She had a reputation for being intelligent and fair, for running a tight and efficient courtroom, and for being someone you just did not want to piss off. Officer Lapp looked to Dickhead for instructions. Yet she relaxed her hands enough to allow me to stand straight again.

“Judge Stephanopoulos,” Dickhead said. “You’re a little out of your jurisdiction aren’t you?”

“I’m an officer of the court, Detective Head,” Judge Stephanopoulos replied. “I’m making this my jurisdiction.”

“Not from where I’m standing,” he grated. “From where I’m standing, Dix Dodd is a dangerous fugitive on the run. I have to haul her in.”

Okay, this is where it got tricky.

And I watched the two — Judge Stephanopoulos and Dickhead — my head snapping left to right, right to left with every volley of words. My money was on the judge. And, well, my everything was on the judge.

“This doesn’t concern you at this point, Judge,” Dickhead said. “This isn’t your courtroom. This is my bailiwick.”

“This may not be my courtroom, Detective. But I assure you it concerns me. According to Ms. Dodd, a crime has been committed.”

“Yeah, by Ms. Dodd, and I’m— “

Judge Stephanopoulos raised her hand quickly, silencing him. “And, again according to Ms. Dodd, I’m directly involved.”

He pinched the bridge of his nose, as though trying to summon patience. “Look, dear, if you’ve got information we should consider, I’ll be happy to look into it. Right after we finish processing this prisoner.”

Yeah, I caught it — dear.

And by the way Detective Lapp was biting her lip, she’d caught it too.

Rochelle jabbed me with her elbow. “Oh, man,” she whispered, “the judge’s gonna castrate him.”

Castrate him? Why, was it Christmas already? I felt the excitement bubble up inside; I heard the carols playing in my head: Deck the halls with Dickhead’s balls, falalalala la la la la.

Only when Rochelle elbowed me a second time — harder — did I realize I’d been humming.

Eyes narrowed, Judge Stephanopoulos regarded Detective Head. Like something out of a Clint Eastwood spaghetti western, she stood with her arms at her sides as if she was ready to whip out a six-shooter. He glared right back. And though I had little doubt before, I really had no doubt now as to who would be winning this exchange, because she smiled at him. It was not a sweet smile.

“Let me explain something to you, Detective,” Judge Stephanopoulos began. “And I’ll say it slowly so that hopefully you won’t get hung up on the big words.”

Dickhead blinked.

Another elbow in the ribs from Rochelle, and I bit back the ‘you go girl!’ that threatened to erupt.

Judge Stephanopoulos continued, “Ms. Dodd is in no danger of fleeing at this point, Detective. You have her in handcuffs. You have her in custody in the pure definition of the law. You have many officers on the premises. On the other side of the coin, I have knowledge that an injustice has been done, and is continuing to be done. And I believe that this injustice will not be rectified until and unless Ms. Dodd addresses those gathered within that house, and gives the information to all, including yourself, that she has given to me. I am an officer of the court, acting in—”

“She can tell her lies downtown!” Dickhead interjected.

“She’ll tell her truths here!” Judge Stephanopoulos’s voice rang with authority.

Dickhead’s struggle was written clearly on his face. For a moment, it looked as though he was going to concede. He ran his tongue over his lower lip quickly. He rocked on his heels. Just when I thought he was going to agree, his glance fell on me and his face hardened.

“No.” He snapped. “Not going to happen. This is my show and what I say goes. And I say Dixielicks is going downtown.”

“Then let me put it another way, Detective,” Judge Stephanopoulos said. “Dix Dodd is going into that house right now. Rochelle and I are going with her. And if you try to stop us, you’ll have to arrest me along with Ms. Dodd. And in that event, you’d better make damn sure that you keep me behind bars a good long while. Because I assure you, Detective, when I am no longer a guest of the county, and when Ms. Dodd has proven her innocence, I will make it my personal mission to have you busted down to picking up dog shit in the park. And if you don’t believe me, Detective, then just try me.”

It was the way she said ‘try me’ … with the barely-there restraint in her voice. Almost as if she was daring him to call her on this. Almost as if she wanted him to do it.

Dickhead stared at the judge, hard. But not for long.

“Ah, hell!” He turned away and snarled in the general direction of Officer Lapp. “Well, what are you waiting for? Take Dodd into the house!”

Officer Lapp took me by the elbow, but not hard. Rather as a demonstration that I was indeed in custody.

Inside the Weatherby house, police lined the walls. Though no weapons were drawn, it was still intimidating walking the gauntlet. Obviously, they were serious about my not escaping custody this time.

And all eyes were on me as I entered the study.

“Dix!” Dylan had been sitting on a small sofa beside Mrs. Presley, but surged to his feet at the sight of Officer Lapp’s grip on my obviously cuffed arm.

“Hey, Dylan.” I smiled reassuringly. “Everything’s cool.”

Judge Stephanopoulos and Rochelle followed me into the room, and stood beside the door. And of course, Dickhead came to stand beside me, breathing down my neck.

I looked around the room.

Ned’s lawyer, Jeremy Poole, sat beside a nervous looking Elizabeth Bee on a matching sofa placed on the other side of the room. She looked from Dylan to me, then back to Dylan again with a confused, questioning look on her face. A tall, portly man completely decked out in baker whites stood between the two sofas. I knew this had to be Kenny Kent, the Weatherby’s caterer. Billy Star was there, standing beside Jennifer’s bookcase beside a rigid Luanne Laney. The latter had a steno pad and pen poised in her hands to take notes. Wow, that woman was efficient. Or psycho.

“Well, if it isn’t Dix Dodd! I haven’t seen you in ages,” Mrs. Presley shouted into the room. “Why when Dylan picked me up this morning and told me about the party, I wouldn’t have missed it for the world.” Bless her little ass-covering heart. “And didn’t I see your picture in the paper the other day? Something about … some case you were working on or something?”

“Hello, Mrs. Presley,” I said. “Good to see you again. And yes, that was me you saw in the paper.”

She smiled and looked around the room. “You know, it’s just like old home week here — all these familiar faces.” Half the men in the room averted their gazes — looking up, down, sideways and everywhere, except at Mrs. Presley.

Detective Head just looked angry. “Let’s get this over with, shall we?”

I turned to expose my handcuffed wrists to him. “Can you remove these?” I had visions of dramatically pointing to the guilty party as I made my Sherlock Holmes-style speech.

“Not a chance,” he sneered.

Damn.

“Damn.”

“Please watch what you say, Ms. Dodd,” Pastor Ravenspire said. He was standing between Ned and his father, and all three stood over the chair where Ned’s mother sat behind Jennifer’s desk. “I’m not used to such language. And frankly,” he looked around the room — a little too quickly, a little too nervously. “I don’t know why I’m here in the first place.” He looked at his watch. “I … I can’t stay long.”

Mr. Weatherby Senior took off his glasses, wiped them, and put them back on again. “You … you look familiar,” he said to me. He turned to his wife. “Doesn’t she look familiar, dearest?”

“Yes,” the old woman said slowly, thoughtfully. “Yes, she does. Give me a minute … I’ll place that face.”