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Authors: Margaret Maron
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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?”
“A Rhode Island Red named Maisie Lou,” I told him.
CHAPTER 5
The relating debris scatters enough tiny reckonings to force off a Remembrance of tomorrows . . .
—Paul’s Hill,
by Shelby Stephenson
I got to Will’s warehouse on the west side of Dobbs a few minutes past noon. It’s an old brick building with its own scruffy charm, sort of like Will himself, although Amy—she’s his third wife—has done what she could with both of them. Like the wisteria vine she planted in front of the warehouse, a vine that now grows lushly across the whole front right up to the roof and blossoms with great purple clusters, she’s given Will the freedom to be himself.
Growing up, his nickname in the family was Won’t and not only because it’s an easy pun on Will Knott. Our mother was a Stephenson and while Stephensons are quick to anger, quick to tears, quick to forgive, Will was hardheaded as well, always ready to strike out across the field rather than plow a straight furrow, no matter what the consequences.
To the dismay of his first two wives, he was constitutionally unable to hold down a nine-to-five job for longer than six months. We’ve lost count of how many different things he tried before he finally stumbled into auctioneering, which combines a certain amount of risk, ever-changing novelty, freedom to stick his nose into interesting places, and the possibility of big profits.
Amy’s the director of human resources out at the hospital and it’s her job that provides medical insurance, buys groceries, and pays their day-to-day bills. Will’s earnings are more erratic, but they probably come close to matching hers on a year-to-year reckoning.
He
“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?”
“A Rhode Island Red named Maisie Lou,” I told him.
CHAPTER 5
The relating debris scatters enough tiny reckonings to force off a Remembrance of tomorrows . . .
—Paul’s Hill,
by Shelby Stephenson
I got to Will’s warehouse on the west side of Dobbs a few minutes past noon. It’s an old brick building with its own scruffy charm, sort of like Will himself, although Amy—she’s his third wife—has done what she could with both of them. Like the wisteria vine she planted in front of the warehouse, a vine that now grows lushly across the whole front right up to the roof and blossoms with great purple clusters, she’s given Will the freedom to be himself.
Growing up, his nickname in the family was Won’t and not only because it’s an easy pun on Will Knott. Our mother was a Stephenson and while Stephensons are quick to anger, quick to tears, quick to forgive, Will was hardheaded as well, always ready to strike out across the field rather than plow a straight furrow, no matter what the consequences.
To the dismay of his first two wives, he was constitutionally unable to hold down a nine-to-five job for longer than six months. We’ve lost count of how many different things he tried before he finally stumbled into auctioneering, which combines a certain amount of risk, ever-changing novelty, freedom to stick his nose into interesting places, and the possibility of big profits.
Amy’s the director of human resources out at the hospital and it’s her job that provides medical insurance, buys groceries, and pays their day-to-day bills. Will’s earnings are more erratic, but they probably come close to matching hers on a year-to-year reckoning.
He
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