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  before his nine o’clock bedtime.

  “The thing is,” Dwight said as he got up to pour us a

  second cup of coffee, “are you likely to be the judge for

  a half-million civil lawsuit?”

  “Probably not,” I said, my curiosity really piqued

  now. “Something that big usually goes to superior

  court. Unless both parties agree to it, most of our judg-

  ments are capped at ten thousand.”

  “Okay then,” he said and settled back to tell me how

  Bo Poole started thinking about his teenage years when

  he used to run a trapline along the creeks in the south-

  ern part of the county, especially Black Creek.

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  “He wasn’t the only one and it dawned on him that

  Fred Mitchiner used to trap animals and sell the pelts,

  too.”

  “Who’s Fred Mitchiner?”

  “That eighty-year-old with Alzheimer’s who wan-

  dered away from the nursing home right before

  Christmas, remember?”

  I shook my head. “That whole week was a haze.

  Except for our wedding and Christmas itself, about

  all I remember is that you took two weeks off and Bo

  wouldn’t let you come into work.”

  Dwight cut his eyes at me. “That’s all you remember?”

  I couldn’t repress my own smile as his big hand cov-

  ered mine and his thumb gently stroked the inside of

  my wrist.

  “Don’t change the subject,” I said, with a glance

  into the living room where Cal seemed absorbed by the

  game. “Fred Mitchiner.”

  “Once Mitchiner slipped away from the nursing

  home, it would have been a long walk for him, but they

  do say Alzheimer’s patients often try to find their way

  back to where they were happy. Bo figures the old guy

  probably thought he’d go check his traps, fell in the

  water, and either drowned or died of exposure. High

  water and animals did the rest. It wasn’t murder.”

  “But it does sound like negligence,” I said. “Is that

  what his family feel?”

  He shrugged. “We haven’t told them yet. Bo wants

  to wait till we get an official ID; but yeah, that’s the

  talk.”

  83

  C H A P T E R

  10

  There is something always preying on something, and noth-

  ing is free from disaster in this sublunary world.

  —Profitable Farming in the Southern States, 1890

  % Friday’s criminal court is usually a catchall day for

  me—the minor felonies and misdemeanors that

  don’t fit in elsewhere. Sometimes I think Doug Woodall,

  our current DA, goes out of his way to see that the

  weird ones wind up on my Friday docket. On the other

  hand, sometimes his sense of humor matches mine and

  when I entered the courtroom that morning and saw

  Dr. Linda Allred seated in the center aisle, it was hard

  not to smile.

  “All rise,” said Cleve Overby, the most punctilious

  of the bailiffs, and before she’d finished giving him a

  rueful hands-up motion from her motorized wheel-

  chair, he grinned and added, “all except Dr. Allred.

  Oyez, oyez, oyez. This honorable court for the County

  of Colleton is now open and sitting for the dispatch

  of its business. God save the State and this honorable

  court, the Honorable Judge Deborah Knott presiding.

  Be seated.”

  I ran my finger down the calendar and found the case

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  she was probably there for, then sat back and listened

  as ADA Kevin Foster pulled the first shuck on Anthony

  Barkley, a nineteen-year-old black kid who had ridden

  through a parking lot on his bicycle and tried to snatch

  a woman’s purse. Before the shoulder strap fully left her

  arm, she gave it a sharp yank, which sent him sprawling

  into the path of a slow-moving car. The car immediately

  flattened his bike and the man who jumped out to see

  what was going on had proceeded to flatten the youth-

  ful thief.

  “Fifteen days suspended, forty hours of community

  service,” I said.

  Next came a Latino migrant, one Ernesto Palmeiro,

  age thirty, who had gotten drunk, “borrowed” a trac-

  tor, and headed east, plowing a half-mile-long furrow

  across several semi-rural lawns before the highway pa-

  trol could head him off.

  “He deeply regrets his actions,” said the translator,

  “but he went a little loco when his wife left him and

  went home to Mexico. He’s already repaired most of

  the damage and throws himself on the mercy of the

  court.”

  I rather doubted if that was what he’d said, but what

  the hell? “Fifteen days suspended on condition that he

  finishes putting all the yards back the way they were,

  including any plantings that he might have destroyed.”

  I looked at his boss, a Latino landscaper, who’d spo-

  ken on his behalf. “And I’d suggest, sir, that you teach

  him how to lift the plows before you let him near an-

  other tractor.”

  I sent the exhibitionist for a mental health evaluation

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  MARGARET MARON

  and gave the guy who’d tried to steal an antique lamp-

  post from the town commons ten days of jail time.

  The woman who bopped her boyfriend over the head

  with the Christmas turkey while it was still on the serv-

  ing platter? Ten days suspended if she completed an

  anger management course.

  Finally, Kevin called, “Raymond Alito, illegally parked

  in a handicap space in violation of G.S. 20–37.6(e).”

  A heavyset white man of early middle age rose and

  came forward. He was neatly dressed in black slacks and

  a gray nylon windbreaker worn over a red plaid shirt.

  His black hair was thinning over the crown and there

  were flecks of gray in his short black beard. He did not

  look familiar to me, but if Linda Allred was here, then

  he’d probably been cited for at least one earlier infrac-

  tion of the code.

  “I see you have chosen not to use an attorney, Mr.

  Alito. How do you plead?”

  “Your Honor, could I just tell you what happened?”

  “Certainly, sir, as soon as you tell me whether you’re

  pleading guilty or not guilty.”

  “Not guilty then, ma’am.”

  “Mr. Foster?”

  “Your Honor, we will show that on December twenty-

  third of last year, Mr. Alito illegally parked in a space

  reserved for the handicapped at the outlet mall here in

  Dobbs. Mr. Alito is not physically disabled and he does

  not possess a handicap permit. The ticketing officer

  called for a tow truck, which impounded his car. This is

  Mr. Alito’s second ticket for this infraction.”

  With appropriate gravity, I asked, “And is the ticket-

  ing officer in court?”

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  “She is, Your Honor. I call Dr. Linda Allred to the

  stand.”

  “Huh?” said Alito as Allred steered h
er motorized

  chair over to a position in front of the witness seat,

  which was one step above floor level. “She’s the one

  who gave me a ticket? She’s no police officer.”

  “You’ll have your chance to speak, Mr. Alito,” I told

  him. “The witness may swear from her own seat.”

  The bailiff handed her the Bible and my clerk swore

  her in.

  Dr. Allred is a dumpling of a woman with short

  straight gray hair parted high on the left and piercing

  eyes that usually cast jaundiced looks over the top of her

  glasses. Although her doctorate is in psychology and she

  teaches statistical analysis on the college level, she lives

  in Dobbs and in her heart of hearts, she’s Dirty Harry.

  Or maybe I should say Betty Friedan because a lot of

  her work is rooted in women’s issues.

  Her particular pet peeve, however, is able-bodied

  drivers who park in spaces reserved for those with im-

  paired mobility. Any time she spots one, she writes up a

  ticket, something that she’s officially allowed to do, as

  Kevin’s next question made clear.

  “Dr. Allred, are you a sworn law officer?”

  “No, Mr. Foster, but I was made a special deputy and

  given ticket-writing authority by Sheriff Bowman Poole

  and I try not to abuse it.”

  “Would you describe what happened on the twenty-

  third of December?”

  “Certainly.” She took a small laptop computer from a

  pocket on the side of her chair and opened it to a screen

  full of photographs. “On the afternoon of December

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  twenty-third, a friend and I were finishing up our

  Christmas shopping at the outlet mall. I was just get-

  ting out of my van when Mr. Alito pulled into the only

  empty slot. It was directly in front of ours. I immedi-

  ately noticed that his car did not display a handicap tag

  on the rearview mirror, so I took out my camera and

  snapped the first picture.”

  The bailiff handed me her laptop. There, in glorious

  color was a view of Alito in his late-model black Honda

  with the edge of the blue warning sign just visible. His

  rearview mirror was dead center. Nothing dangled from

  it except a set of rosary beads.

  “Mr. Alito then got out of his car and had no trouble

  walking into the Gifts and Glass Warehouse. That’s the

  second picture on the screen, Your Honor. Now if you’ll

  click to the third picture?”

  I clicked as directed.

  “My friend helped me with my wheelchair and I

  went around to the rear of his car and took a third

  picture of his license plate. As you see, it is a standard

  North Carolina plate, not one issued to the disabled.

  At that point, I called for a tow truck and wrote out

  the citation.”

  I signaled for the bailiff to show the laptop to Mr.

  Alito, who looked at the pictures with a distinctly sour

  expression.

  “What did you do next, Dr. Allred?” Kevin asked.

  “The parking lot was quite crowded. There were reg-

  ular spaces way off to the side, but all the other nearby

  handicap spaces were legally taken. An elderly couple

  with a tag asked us if we were coming or going so they

  could have my spot, but I told them just to wait a few

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  minutes and that the one in front of me would be open-

  ing up as soon as the tow truck got there. Then my

  friend and I went inside and finished our Christmas

  shopping. When we came out, Mr. Alito’s car was gone

  and the other car was parked there.”

  “No further questions,” Kevin said.

  “Your turn, Mr. Alito,” I said. “Do you wish to ques-

  tion the witness?”

  He blustered a moment, then said, “I’d just like to

  ask her if she followed me in the store and saw what I

  bought?”

  “No, sir,” Dr. Allred responded promptly.

  “Well, if you had, you’d’ve seen me buy a Christmas

  present for my eighty-nine-year-old mother and she does

  have a handicap tag. Her heart’s so bad she couldn’t

  walk across this room without her oxygen tank.”

  Dr. Allred looked at him over the top of her glasses.

  “I’m sorry to hear that, sir, but she wasn’t in the car

  with you, was she?”

  Alito turned to me. “Ma’am, can I just explain what

  happened in my own words?”

  “Certainly,” I said. “But first, I have a question for

  Dr. Allred.”

  She looked at me expectantly.

  “Dr. Allred, you say you try not to abuse the author-

  ity Sheriff Poole gave you. It’s my understanding that

  you usually just write a ticket. Could you tell me why

  you called a tow truck for Mr. Alito’s car?”

  “Because this is the second time I’ve caught him in a

  handicap space.” Her fingers played over the keyboard.

  “According to my records, I ticketed him on the fourth

  of September in front of a grocery store.”

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  MARGARET MARON

  Alito’s mouth dropped open when he heard that.

  “Thank you, Dr. Allred. No further questions. You

  may come up and take the witness stand, Mr. Alito.”

  They passed in the space before my bench and I heard

  Alito mutter, “Bitch!”

  “Did you say something, sir?” I asked.

  “No, ma’am. Just clearing my throat.” He took the

  Bible and promised to tell the truth, the whole truth

  and nothing but the truth.

  “Yeah, I know I shouldn’t have parked there, but I

  really was just going in to buy a present for my poor

  old mother. I bet I wasn’t in there ten minutes. Well,

  twenty if you count the time I had to wait in line to

  check out.”

  “One present?” I said. “That was all?”

  “Well, maybe I did pick up a couple of little things on

  my way back to the front, but my mother’s present was

  really all I went in for. I got back outside, I almost had a

  heart attack myself. I thought my car’d been stolen, but

  when I called the police and they saw where I’d been

  parked, they told me to call the county’s towing service.

  Cost me a hundred-fifty to get it back, and what I don’t

  understand is how come this ticket’s for two-fifty, when

  the first one was only fifty.”

  He paused briefly to glare at Dr. Allred but there was

  a whine in his voice when he turned back to me and

  said, “So what I’m saying here is yes, I did wrong, but

  I don’t see why it’s got to cost me four hundred dol-

  lars. It was Christmas and the parking lot was jammed.

  She says there were spaces further out, but by the time

  I parked out there and walked to the store, I could have

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  already been in and out. Can’t we just let the towing

  charges take care of everything?”

  I shook my head. “Sorry, Mr. Alito. If this were your

  first citation, I might have been inclined to let you offr />
  more lightly. But this is your second offense here in

  this district. If I were to have my clerk run your license

  plate, would I find that you’d collected more tickets

  elsewhere? Say in Raleigh?”

  By the way his jaws clamped tight, I was pretty sure

  I’d hit home.

  “Those spaces aren’t there for the convenience of the

  able-bodied. The State of North Carolina reserves them

  for its citizens who are not as fortunate as you are, sir.

  I find you guilty of this infraction and fine you the full

  two-fifty plus court costs.”

  “Court costs!” he yelped. “That’s outrageous! That’s

  highway robbery! That’s—”

  “That’s going to be a night in jail if you make me

  hold you in contempt,” I warned him. “The bailiff will

  show you where to pay.”

  As he stomped out in one direction and Dr. Allred

  serenely rolled out the other way, two middle-aged sis-

  ters came forward to argue over a pair of diamond ear-

  rings valued at about three hundred dollars. According

  to the younger sister, their mother had given her the

  earrings before she died. The older sister did not dis-

  pute that their mother might have let her borrow them,

  but that her mother’s will left them to her. When the

  younger sister refused to give them up, the older one

  had taken them from the other’s house, whereupon the

  younger sister called the police and charged her with

  theft. The earrings were nothing more than two small

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  round diamonds set in simple gold prongs. Identical

  earrings could be found in any discount jewelry store

  in any mall in America, so I did the Solomon thing. I

  threw out the larceny charge and awarded each sister

  one earring. “Why don’t you two ladies go have lunch

  together, buy a pair to match these and then think of

  your mother whenever you wear them. I bet she’d be

  horrified to think you’d let these two little rocks destroy

  your relationship.”

  I had hoped for sheepish looks and murmurs of rec-

  onciliation. What I got were glares and snarls as they

  both huffed off, still mad at each other and now mad at

  me as well.

  I sighed and adjourned for lunch.

  As I went down the hallway to the office I was using

  that week, I heard hearty laughter coming from within.

  I pushed the door open and there sat Portland and Dr.

  Allred munching on bowls of pasta salad. Portland im-