Vernon God Little by Tanya Ronder, D. B. C. Pierre Page B

if you tried to say somebody was turning the knife just with their calendar-dog whimpers. But here's why they'd laugh: not because they couldn't see the knife, but because they knew nobody else would buy it. You could stand before twelve good people, all with some kind of psycho-knife stuck in them that loved-ones could twist on a whim, and they wouldn't admit it. They'd forget how things really are, and slip into TV-movie mode where everything has to be obvious. I guarantee it.
    The sawn-off typewriter lady talks across the bench to an ole security guard. 'Oh my, it's a fact.
    We had a copy of that same catalog, me and my girls.'
    'No kidding,' says the guard, 'that same one, huh?' His tongue pushes some spit around his mouth. That means he's picturing whatever she just said. He shunts some spit around, picturing it for a moment, then he says, 'Don't forget the judge has girls too.'
    'That's a fact,' says the typist.
    They turn to stare daggers at me. The typist's daggers come wrapped in Kleenex, I guess so they don't get shit on them. I just stare at my Nikes. Things have gone beyond a fucken joke. You just know the justice system ain't set up for folk like me. It's set up for more obvious folk, like you see in movies.
    Nah, if the facts don't arrive today, if everybody doesn't apologize and send me home, I'll jump bail and run over the fucken border. Against All Odds. I'll vanish into the cool of tonight, see if I fucken don't, hum cross-country with the moths, with my innocent-headed learnings and my ole panty dreams.
    'All-a rise,' says an officer.
    A bright-eyed lady with short gray hair and bifocal glasses glides behind the tallest desk. Judge Helen E Gurie says the sign. Her swivel chair rattles politely when she sits. The Chair of God.
    'Vaine,' she says, 'it'd have to be one of your cases, now wouldn't it?'
    'Gh-rrr. We have a suspect, Judge.'
    Abdini stands. 'We apply pearlymoney herring, your honor.'
    The judge squints over her glasses. 'A preliminary hearing? Wait one darned minute, I draw both your attentions to the Texas Family Code - this is a juvenile matter. Vaine, I sure hope you observed the provisions for service of process that apply in this instance.'
    'Gh-r.'
    'And why is no record of interview filed with the complaint?'
    Just now the main door creaks open behind me. Sheriff Porkorney scrapes into the room and takes off his hat. Vaine stiffens like a bone.
    'We hoped a particular piece of evidence would come in first, ma'am,' she says.
    'You hoped the evidence would come in? You hoped it would just fly right in? How long has this young man been in custody?'
    'Gh …' Vaine's eye flicks back to the sheriff. He just stands by the door, arms folded, real quiet.
    'Good Lord!' Judge Gurie snatches a paper from her desktop. 'You're seeking indictment?' She removes her glasses, fixing a stare at Vaine. 'And fingerprints is all you have?'
    'Let me explain, ma'am, that …'
    'Deputy, I doubt you'll cook up a grand jury on one set of prints. Won't even defrost 'em.'
    'It's more than one set, your honor.'

    'Doesn't matter how many you have, they're all from the same exhibit, the sports bag. I mean
    - please. Maybe if it was a gun …'
    'Ma'am, some new information came into the public domain last night, which I thought …'
    'The court isn't interested in what you thought, Vaine. When you take the pointed end of a stick and wake this whole tangled process up with it, we want to hear what you damn well know.'
    'Well, the boy also lied, and he ran away from his interview … gh …'
    Judge Gurie clasps her hands like a first-grade teacher. 'Vaine Millicent Gurie - I remind you the child is not on trial here. Given the particulars before me, I'm inclined to release your suspect and have a damn long talk with the sheriff about the quality of procedure reaching this bench.'
    Her gaze penetrates Vaine's every hole, however many that is. At the back of the room, the sheriff's lips tighten. He puts on his hat and creaks