A door to the left of the flag opened. A figure dressed in black judicial robes stumped into the room. Hemlock Falls' new justice, Bernie Bristol, was round and jowly and wore the dopey, happy look of a hound getting its ears scratched. An engineer retired from Xerox Corporation fifty miles away in Rochester, Bristol had bought a small farm south of the village in September, and run a well-financed campaign for the justiceship. Quill had met him, once, when he'd stopped by the Inn for dinner. He'd been rather endearingly innocent of enough French to order his entr‚e. On the other hand, Quill hadn't been surprised to discover he was a lousy tipper.
'All rise!' roared Dwight 'Run-On' Riorden, the bailiff.
'All what?' said Howie, nonplussed. He got to his feet, muttering, 'This is justice court, for God's sake, and we're all supposed to rise?' and stepped into the aisle, ushering Quill in front of him.
'Murchison?'
Howie turned, his eyebrows raised in polite inquiry. A brown-haired man carrying an expensive leather briefcase walked rapidly past the two of them, clapping his hand on Howie's shoulder in passing. It was, Quill saw in mild surprise, Al Santini.
Quill smiled and asked if he was looking for Meg. His eyes ran over her without a flicker of recognition.
'AI?' Howie's voice was wary and tinged with surprise. 'What brings you out this way?'
'Good to see ya, buddy.' Al grinned, revealing teeth like a picket fence in need of whitewash. He looked different. Quill looked at him carefully. He looked - almost senatorial. His scanty hair was moussed to an illusion of fullness. His dark blue pin-striped suit (cut to conceal the concave chest and his little potbelly) was so determinedly well-pressed it seemed to wear him. His watery blue eyes flicked over Quill like a pair of clammy hands. 'This the perp?'
'The perp?' said Howie.
'The miscreant. The malefactor. The culprit.' Al delivered a professional grin. 'And a beaut she is, too, Howie.' He clicked his tongue against his teeth, banged the briefcase playfully against Howie's knees, and loped up the aisle.
'What the heck?' said Quill. 'Howie! He's acting like he's never seen me before! He's been a guest at the Inn for three days! He...' She subsided, muttering.
Howie frowned. 'Now what the hell is he doing here?'
Santini stopped just short of the bench and appeared to be opening shop. He thumped his briefcase on the prosecutor's side of the bench, snapped it open, and spread a sheaf of legal-sized papers on the desk top. Above him, Justice Bernie Bristol polished his gavel with a spotless white handkerchief.
Quill looked around the courtroom. There were five - no, six - alleged traffic violators besides herself. At least, she assumed they were alleged traffic violators; all were probably as innocent as she was. She gave a sudden sigh of relief. 'Howie. We won't need Meg as a witness after all. There's Betty Hall. I didn't know that she got pulled in, too, but I know for sure she saw me get stopped. And she knew I wasn't speeding. I mean, she's been driving school bus part-time for months and ought to know a speeder when she sees one. She'll be glad to testify to the fact that I'm a totally law-abiding citizen. She'd parked her school bus right on the side of the road where I got picked up. She even gave me this sort of sympathetic wave when Davy pulled me over.'
Howie pursed his lips. 'I don't like this. No, I don't like this at all. Quill, about those other tickets Meg mentioned. The ones from New York?'
'Oh, dear.' Quill fidgeted with her scarf. 'Um. It's like this. I thought that all that stuff would have disappeared by now. I mean, it's been seven years.'
'B.T,' Howie said thoughtfully, 'B.T. Meg meant... Before Tickets?' he hazarded. He looked at her over his wire-rimmed glasses. 'You mean you've been getting tickets since you were nineteen? How many tickets, Quill?'
Quill twirled a piece of hair around her ear. 'It's not the tickets, so much. More like the totals.'
'The totals?' Howie's eyes narrowed. 'You don't mean totals as in total wrecks? Tell me you're not referring to total wrecks.'
'All this happened years ago, Howie. In another life. I drove taxi while I was trying to make it as an artist. In New York City, for Pete's sake. And you can just imagine... I mean, Howie, most of them weren't my fault. Well, half of them weren't, anyway,' Quill said generously. 'Meg knows all about it. So did Myles. Kind of.'
Howie, if he picked up on the past tense, made no mention of it. 'Half of them? How many...? Oh, boy.' He rubbed his nose. 'I just need to know one thing. You haven't had so much as a parking ticket in the last seven years?'
'Not so much as a broken taillight,' Quill said virtuously. 'I mean, Deputy Dave did issue a warning last week - but that's all, honest.'
Howie smiled. He had a very attractive smile. 'Then we'll find out what's going on here. It's probably nothing. Can you handle Run-On's conversation for five minutes?'
'Sure. I mean, if anyone would know what's going on, he would.'
Howie raised his voice slightly and called, 'Dwight?'
Dwight 'Run-On' Riorden had combined courthouse maintenance with the duties of bailiff ever since the Tompkins County Board of Supervisors had decided neither was a full-time job. Dwight wore a suit coat over his coveralls and white athletic socks with black lace-up oxfords, a mode of dress which seemed to accommodate both occupations. He gave Howie a high sign and ambled over. 'Ms. Quilliam? Mr. M. ?'
Quill extended her hand. Dwight's palm was calloused. 'Hi, Dwight. I haven't seen you at Marge's diner on Sundays for a while.'
'Nope. Been working weekends, Ms. Quilliam. Mr. Hotshot Bristol there got his knickers in a twist over the state of the courthouse. Day after the election returns come in, Mr. Murchison, Bristol there wants to know how long's it been since it's been painted. Long enough, I say, and it's going to be a sight longer. Don't have a budget for painting walls that don't need paint. The boiler now, I tell him, that boiler she could use a valve job. Place where I'm going to be judge got to look better than this, he tells me. The hell with the boiler, he tells me. The hell with you, I tell him. Course, after he goes to judge's school you'd think the son of a gun would know better than to tell people he's a judge. He's not a judge, he's a justice. But no, he's an elected official of the people, he tells me, and
