Kill All the Judges by William Deverell

swimsuit–”
    Wilkie was battling to restrain himself. “Mr. Zoller, how long does it take to drive to the ferry?”
    â€œTen minutes.”
    â€œOkay. And it leaves in twenty-five minutes. When is the next ferry?”
    â€œThat would be the nine-forty-five tonight, but it’s usually late.”
    â€œUnderstand this, Zoller, my wife and I have a dinner engagement tonight. Be it on your head.”
    â€œYes, sir, I’ll get right to the substance.” Zoller began a rambling irrelevancy about how tourism was the mainstay of the island economy, and how the island’s many cultural offerings should be on better display–”
    â€œGet to the point!”
    Before Zoller could do so, Stoney charged into the room. “Sorry, Your Honour, my car broke down.”
    Wilkie glanced anxiously at the clock, scrambled through his papers. “Stonewell. Unsightly premises. Do you want an adjournment?”
    Stoney must have sensed profit in saying no. “Those cars are my babies. Most of them were there before there was even a bylaw. I’m ready for trial.”
    â€œNot guilty,” Wilkie said.
    â€œWhat?”
    â€œNot guilty! I find you not guilty! And you, Zoller, sum up in no more than six words, because we have to get to the damn ferry !”
    â€œThat’s what I’m leading up to, the ferry. The majority vote last night was for the idea of a statue at the ferry dock, maybe on the hill overlooking Ferryboat Bay, at least fifteen feet tall, like the ones in the front of the defendant’s house with wings on them, and in time for tourist season this spring. And we could hang a sign on it to inform visitors of the island’s many arts and crafts–”
    Arthur had sensed McCoy simmering behind him, and now he erupted. “I ain’t going to see my work compromised by a barnacle like Kurt Zoller! I don’t do billboards! Nobody tells me what to create!” He aimed a stubby, muscular finger at Zoller. “Oi’ll go to the clink first before I kowtow to you, you snout, you stool–”
    The red-faced judge seemed ready to slap McCoy in irons–eighteen months for a missed ferry–so Arthur cupped his hand over McCoy’s mouth and announced his terms. “Full artistic freedom, he’s not to be policed in any way, or bothered when at work. Substantial compliance within six months. On that basis, my client informs me he will be pleased to place a sculpture at the ferry landing.”
    Wilkie was already sweeping papers into a briefcase. “So ordered! The accused is discharged! This court is adjourned!” He led the flight to the parking lot.
    Arthur spent a few moments cooling McCoy down, talking sense to him: this could be to his advantage, could turn around a bad year. There would be publicity, it wouldn’t hurt his fame or his pocketbook to be the creator of an island attraction, well photographed, sold as postcards. Moreover, Hamish needn’t put in a wink of effort. Arthur would be proud to donate his fee, the twelve-foot-high Icarus, to a pedestal on Ferryboat Knoll.
    McCoy reproved him for his offer. “You said you loiked it, b’y, and you’ll keep it. The image is too tormented, it’ll scare the tourists. Oi’ll give them joy.” As he wandered off with some friends, he was more relaxed; common sense had trumped anger.
    As the editor of the Bleat rose from the media bench, it tilted, and one of the reporters slid off, landing rudely on her bottom. Nelson waddled up to Arthur with pen and pad. “A lot of my readers are going to think he got off light. What do you say to that, Mr. Beauchamp?”
    â€œI say to that, Nelson, that it would be most pleasant to drop a couple of fishing lines on a sunny, placid, winter’s day.”Contemplation of that prospect was put on hold as he stepped outside. Lying in wait, with tiresome predictability, was Cud Brown.
    â€œGo check on