affected her so deeply. I wondered if she was upset because her cop instinct told her this was the beginning of something, and not the end.
She had given me something to think about, too. The name Higgins and Hub City had clicked in my memory. A couple of years ago I’d handled a routine matter for a couple in Hub City named Higgins. Frank Higgins and his wife, Betty. Lying in bed, I remembered it had been a real estate closing; they were buying a big old place right in Hub City. They had kids, of course, enough to make the purchase of an eight-room house reasonably practical. I suspected, and feared, that one of those kids was named Lee.
In the morning Sue went back to her own place to shower and dress. I selected my clothing with more care than usual. I’m of average height and build, but there is something about my body that seems to make my clothes look instantly rumpled. I try to dress to stop this process, but it never really works. Juries, in the main, like well-dressed lawyers. And I had a jury case.
I drove to the courthouse and took the stairs to thesecond floor, the floor housing our three circuit judges. It wasn’t a famous case, so the courtroom was nearly deserted. Just a few policemen, the prosecutor, myself, and my client.
The facts were simple. My client, Ernie Barker, had a small roofing company, consisting chiefly of himself and his cousin. They specialized in tarring flat roofs, usually commercial buildings.
Ernie was coming back from a job in Detroit. It had been hot, gooey work and he needed a shower and a few quick beers. So he was in a hurry and drove that way. A Kerry County sheriff’s deputy clocked him at seventy in a fifty-five-mile-an-hour zone and pulled him over. The policeman asked to see Ernie’s truck registration and when Ernie opened the glove compartment to get the document, a .38-caliber pistol fell out.
The policeman asked if the gun belonged to Ernie. Ernie said no, he was just holding it for a friend named George. He didn’t know George’s last name.
Ernie got the speeding ticket and was arrested for carrying a concealed weapon. This weapon, loaded, had its serial number filed off and the presumption was that it was stolen or had been used in a felony. There were several possible charges. The police were content with bringing the felony charge of carrying a concealed weapon.
Ernie confessed to me that he had bought the gun in Detroit on the street for fifty bucks and that he only stuck the pistol in the truck when he had to drive in the dark and dangerous streets of Detroit. He had no record except for an old conviction for driving under the influence. The prosecutor would not agree to a plea. Guns had become a political issue in Pickeral Point, so no pleas were being accepted, except in rare circumstances.
Which brought all of us to the courthouse on a sunny morning, so sunny that the snow of the night before had already begun to melt.
Jury selection went quickly. The prosecutor excused a man who was a longtime member of the National RifleAssociation, and I kicked off a lady who said she hated guns and anyone who owned one. Otherwise, the jury was run-of-the-mill, all Pickeral Point people who lived and worked in our small community. Both sides said they were satisfied.
Ernie Barker, a man in his late thirties, looked uncomfortable in what I suspected was his only suit. Ernie’s world was not populated by people in suits. He associated with men like himself, people who worked hard and asked very little of life except a friendly bar, beer, and hamburgers.
The idea of prison frightened Ernie, and sitting next to me at the counsel table, he looked ready to faint. He kept sneaking glances at the jury, the twelve people who would decide if he was to return to tar roofs, or something much more confining.
The deputy who arrested Ernie spoke in a quiet but firm voice. He was experienced, and it showed. I pretended that I didn’t believe the gun fell out of the glove
She had given me something to think about, too. The name Higgins and Hub City had clicked in my memory. A couple of years ago I’d handled a routine matter for a couple in Hub City named Higgins. Frank Higgins and his wife, Betty. Lying in bed, I remembered it had been a real estate closing; they were buying a big old place right in Hub City. They had kids, of course, enough to make the purchase of an eight-room house reasonably practical. I suspected, and feared, that one of those kids was named Lee.
In the morning Sue went back to her own place to shower and dress. I selected my clothing with more care than usual. I’m of average height and build, but there is something about my body that seems to make my clothes look instantly rumpled. I try to dress to stop this process, but it never really works. Juries, in the main, like well-dressed lawyers. And I had a jury case.
I drove to the courthouse and took the stairs to thesecond floor, the floor housing our three circuit judges. It wasn’t a famous case, so the courtroom was nearly deserted. Just a few policemen, the prosecutor, myself, and my client.
The facts were simple. My client, Ernie Barker, had a small roofing company, consisting chiefly of himself and his cousin. They specialized in tarring flat roofs, usually commercial buildings.
Ernie was coming back from a job in Detroit. It had been hot, gooey work and he needed a shower and a few quick beers. So he was in a hurry and drove that way. A Kerry County sheriff’s deputy clocked him at seventy in a fifty-five-mile-an-hour zone and pulled him over. The policeman asked to see Ernie’s truck registration and when Ernie opened the glove compartment to get the document, a .38-caliber pistol fell out.
The policeman asked if the gun belonged to Ernie. Ernie said no, he was just holding it for a friend named George. He didn’t know George’s last name.
Ernie got the speeding ticket and was arrested for carrying a concealed weapon. This weapon, loaded, had its serial number filed off and the presumption was that it was stolen or had been used in a felony. There were several possible charges. The police were content with bringing the felony charge of carrying a concealed weapon.
Ernie confessed to me that he had bought the gun in Detroit on the street for fifty bucks and that he only stuck the pistol in the truck when he had to drive in the dark and dangerous streets of Detroit. He had no record except for an old conviction for driving under the influence. The prosecutor would not agree to a plea. Guns had become a political issue in Pickeral Point, so no pleas were being accepted, except in rare circumstances.
Which brought all of us to the courthouse on a sunny morning, so sunny that the snow of the night before had already begun to melt.
Jury selection went quickly. The prosecutor excused a man who was a longtime member of the National RifleAssociation, and I kicked off a lady who said she hated guns and anyone who owned one. Otherwise, the jury was run-of-the-mill, all Pickeral Point people who lived and worked in our small community. Both sides said they were satisfied.
Ernie Barker, a man in his late thirties, looked uncomfortable in what I suspected was his only suit. Ernie’s world was not populated by people in suits. He associated with men like himself, people who worked hard and asked very little of life except a friendly bar, beer, and hamburgers.
The idea of prison frightened Ernie, and sitting next to me at the counsel table, he looked ready to faint. He kept sneaking glances at the jury, the twelve people who would decide if he was to return to tar roofs, or something much more confining.
The deputy who arrested Ernie spoke in a quiet but firm voice. He was experienced, and it showed. I pretended that I didn’t believe the gun fell out of the glove
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