When to Clive Jr." s surprise the Lincoln's steering responded again and he took the curve at sixty, sending pebbles screaming off into the dark ravine, he was curiously devoid of emotion, and when he ran his tongue over his swollen lower lip, he was disappointed to discover that very little of the salty blood taste lingered there. By applying pressure on the swelling with his teeth, however, he was able to burst the ruptured skin like a grape, after which his tongue was again rich with the sweet taste of blood. Ahead a vista opened in the trees, and far below Clive Jr. saw a major highway running straight toward a glow in the west. It looked like a scene viewed from the window of an airplane. The Pennsylvania Turnpike, he guessed, and Pittsburgh. He felt again, without fear, the play in the wheel, that he was neither in nor out of control. So this, he reflected, was what it felt like to be Sully.
Barton Flatt was not a well man. His jowls were loose and jaundiced, and except for a single tuft of hair on his forehead, his hair had fallen out, thanks to the chemotherapy. He was ensconced in a leather chair behind his huge oak desk in chambers, but he was still visibly uncomfortable, as his incessant squirming testified. He had the look of a man in a titanic struggle against imminent flatulence, and the other men in chambers eyed him nervously. In addition to the sick judge there were in attendance Satch Henry, the county prosecutor.
Police Chief OUic Quinn, Officer Doug Raymer in civics and sunglasses, a red eyed Wirf, who looked as if someone had dressed him while he lay in bed, and of course Sully, in whose honor this meeting had been called.
"Okay, boys and girls," said Judge Flatt, closing the cover of the manila folder on the police report in front of him.
"Let's see if we can't dispense some small-town justice right here, right now."
"Your Honor, could we all sit down, at least?" Chief Quinn requested.
Five folding chairs had been set up in a semicircle around the judge's desk, and all five were occupied except Sully's. Sully was limping along the back, book-lined wall. His knee was throbbing to the beat of a brass band, and he'd decided it was best to march.
"Mr.
Sullivan," said Judge Flatt, "would you be more comfortable seated or standing?"
"Standing, right now," Sully said, adding, after a moment, "your Honor."
"He's not standing, he's pacing," the police chief observed. Judge FIatt shifted in his chair, causing the other men to lean back in theirs, as if from a jab.
"I may join him before we're through."
"He's making me nervous, is all," the chief explained, looking over his shoulder at Sully warily.
"Everybody who isn't in jail makes you nervous, Oilie," the judge observed.
"You're perpetuating a fascist stereotype."
Then to Sully, "Go pace over on that side of the room, Mr. Sullivan.
Our police chief fears a sneak attack."
"Your Honor," said Satch Henry, his hand raised like an obedient student in an elementary school.
"If you aren't feeling well, we could postpone " "No, we're going to do this now," Judge Flatt said.
"Mr. Sullivan here's already spent one holiday in jail, and I'm not going to feel any more like doing this next week than I do now. Unless you were suggesting this be postponed until next month after I'm retired and you can bring this case before someone more to your liking."
"That's not what I meant at all, your Honor," Henry said quickly.
"Good," said the judge.
"Then let's proceed." Wirf, who had not said a word since entering chambers, examined his fingernails, a trace of a smile on his lips.
He and Sully had conferred briefly a half hour before, and Wuf had explained what he thought was likely to happen.
"If things go like I think they will, I'm not going to say much (" You never do," Sully had reminded him), and I don't want you to open your mouth unless you're asked a direct question.
Just remember, no matter what happens in there, the fact that we're in chambers to begin with is the good news.
Satch Henry knows that, and he's ready to bust a gut. This thing's going to go our way unless we mess it up. " Sully was less certain.
During the last two years, he and Wirf had been involved in a lot of judicial proceedings together, and they'd never yet gone Sully's way.
Still, he had to admit, this was, so far, an auspicious beginning.
According to Wirf there was a lot of bad blood between the judge and the district attorney's office, and it appeared to Sully that this might be true, though Judge Flatt's tongue was legendary, its targets democratic. Still, Wirf might be right for once. He guessed right on People's Court every now and then, so why not in a real-life judicial proceeding? Judge Flatt slid the manila folder containing the police report across his desk with his index finger in Satch Henry's direction.
"Okay, Satch, I want you to tell me the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth.
Do you really want to arraign Mr. Sullivan on these charges, put this whole thing into court, spend a lot of taxpayers' money? " Satch Henry went purple. " Your Honor, I believe there is some precedent for indicting and convicting people who assault police officers. Mr.
Sullivan has a history of violent behavior. He broke Officer Raymer's nose and gave him a concussion.
Take off those dark glasses, Doug. " Officer Raymer took off his sunglasses. He had two black eyes. Green eyes, really, the puffy skin on both sides of his swollen nose having gone from purple to motel green. Judge Flatt studied the policeman.
"They still call those shiners?" he inquired.
"That's what they called 'em when I was boy." Officer Raymer looked confused by this unexpected question.
"I guess so," he said.
"That and 'black eye."
"
" You ever been in a fistfight before. Officer Raymer? "
" Sure," the policeman said. " Lots of times. "
" What do you usually do when somebody throws a punch at you? " Officer Raymer cocked his head and thought about this. " Duck? " he guessed. " Why didn't you duck this time? "
" Your Honor " Satch Henry began. " Don't interrupt me, Satch.
Can't you see I'm talking to this man? " Satch Henry opened his mouth to say something else, then closed it again. Wirf allowed himself another trace of a smile. " Why didn't you duck this time? " the judge repeated. " I guess I never thought he'd do it," the policeman sulked.
"Why not?" Judge Flatt wanted to know.
"As Satch here says, Mr.
Sullivan has a history of violence. Comes from a long line of amateur barroom pugilists. Why didn't you think he'd pop you one?"
"Well, hell. Judge," Officer Raymer exploded, exasperated.
"I was holding my goddamn gun on him. The son of a bitch is crazy." Judge Flatt turned his attention to the prosecutor now.
"You say you want this man on the stand, do you? He's just admitted to aiming his weapon at an unarmed sixty-year-old cripple."
"I don't think I'd describe Sully as a cripple," Satch Henry said weakly, though the point had clearly struck home.
"Come over here a minute, Mr. Sullivan," the judge said.
"Pull up your pant leg for these gentlemen."
"I'd rather not," Sully said, feeling rather like a little boy who's been ordered to drop his trousers in a game of doctor.
"Do it anyway, Mr. Sullivan," the judge said.
"Come over here where we can all see." Sully did as he was told, putting his boot up on the chair that had been reserved for him, then gingerly pulling his pant leg up until his knee was exposed. He himself looked at the knee for the first time in a while. It looked like an exotic fruit ready to rupture. The sight of it affected everyone in the room. Wirfhad to look away, and even Officer Raymer winced. Satch Henry was the first to recover.
"May it be stated for the record, your Honor, that Officer Raymer is not responsible for the condition of Sully's knee, whereas Sully is responsible for this police officer's contusions and concussion?"
"No, it may not be stated for the record, Satch," Judge Flatt said, pausing rhetorically.
"It may not. Because there is no record here in chambers."
"Can I let my pant leg down?" Sully said.
"Yes, you may," the judge said.
"In fact, I insist." All the other men watched him lower his pant leg.
"That hurt as bad as it looks, Mr.
Sullivan?"
"I take pain pills," Sully said, aware of where the judge was heading.
"Some days are pretty good. I get through the others somehow."
"What effect do the pills have?"
"They make me sleepy."
"Nervous? Edgy?"
"Not really, no."
"You wouldn't blame the fact that you punched this policeman on the medication you're taking?"
"No, not really."
"The smart answer to that question would have been yes," the judge pointed out.
"Okay, if it wasn't the pills, why'd you cold cock this policeman?" In truth, the answer to that was so complicated that Sully despaired of ever understanding it himself, much less of being able to explain it to an impatient, sick judge.
"I don't know," he heard himself say.
"I was tired, I guess.
It'd been a long day."
Judge Flatt paused, and Sully wondered if he was expected to go on.
When he didn't, the judge said, "Okay, Mr. Sullivan," and turned back to Satch Henry and OUie Quinn.
"I can understand tired. I'm tired myself. Sick and tired. That's why I'm retiring next month. Because I'm sick and tired and unfit for human companionship. Half the time I feel like shooting somebody myself, which means it's time for me to step down and leave small-town justice to somebody else, and may God have mercy on his soul. Anyhow, I'm going to make a prediction and then a recommendation and then I'm going to leave it to you to decide what you want to do, Satch. If you insist on going to trial, go, but you'll go before me, and I'll tell you right now that you'll wish you hadn't."
"Your Honor " Satch Henry began.
"Pipe down, Satch, I got the floor here."
Satch Henry piped down.
"Here's what we got," Barton Ratt said.
"We got Mr. Sullivan here, who did a dumb thing and did it in front of witnesses.
There's a good chance you could get a conviction, Satch.
But Lord love a duck, what a show Mr. Wirfly here could put on. If Mr. Sullivan's got a history of pugilism, your officer here's got a history of his own. Just in the last six months he's terrorized an old woman over a pizza and let a lunatic with a deer rifle shoot out windows on Main Street, assault a young woman and then walk away from the scene. On that occasion he saw fit to leave his weapon in his holster, but later, with Mr. Sullivan here, he not only takes out his firearm, he actually discharges it and the bullet hits a house a block away. You claim Mr. Sullivan here is a menace, but Mr. Wirfly here's going to prove there's two menaces at least. Before this is done, you're going to look like God's own fool, Satch, and Ollie's going to look like a fool, and your police officer, who is a fool, is going to look like one too. And unless Mr. Wirfly's a fool, he's going to file a counter suit against the police department and city that will make headlines for months in the Schuyler paper, maybe even Albany, not that it will matter to you, Satch, because you'll be out of office come next November. Don't set this thing in motion, that's my recommendation.
Settle it here and now and in this room, not that one out there. " "Your Honor " Satch Henry tried again, the judge's voice having fallen.
"Nope," the judge shook his head, holding up one hand.
"I still got the floor. It's still mine. And you're going to listen another minute yet.
I've told you what's going to happen, and now I'm going to tell you how to avoid it. I've got a half-dozen sensible recommendations, and the first is that we now send Mr. Sullivan and Officer Raymer out, because I don't think their presence is necessary from this point forward. In fact, Mr. Sullivan's pacing is getting to me too, and I've never much liked the look of policemen in sunglasses." He turned now to Sully and Officer Raymer, looking back and forth between them dubiously.
"If we ask you to step outside, gentlemen, do you think you'd be capable of refraining from further hostilities? I want you to be honest about this, because I can provide you a chaperon if you have any doubts."
"I think I can guarantee my client's behavior," Wirf said, shooting Sully a waning glance. The judge regarded Wirf as he might a naughty child.
"Don't insult my intelligence, Mr. Wirfly. I know you and I know your client, and I know you can guarantee no such thing." Wirf, chastened, conceded that this was true.
"How about it, Mr. Sullivan?" the judge wanted to know.
"You aren't feeling tired, are you? Like you were when you thought it might be a good idea to sucker-punch a police officer? You think you can behave like an adult for about ten minutes?"