"Yes, they let me see him this morning. He mentioned the incident, but didn't give any details."
I smiled. "That's Tolliver."
"You two are close," she observed. "Why the different names? You've been married?"
"No," I said. "His father married my mother when we were both in our teens." I didn't like explaining this.
She nodded, giving me a sideways look. She excused herself to go to the ladies' room, and I stared at my feet for a while. When Phyllis emerged, she did a lot of meeting and greeting on her way back to our bench, in particular with a man with graying hair, probably in his early fifties, who was wearing glasses and a nice suit.
After he went into the courtroom, Phyllis Folliette made her way back to me, giving me a brisk nod. "Time to go in or we won't get a seat," she said, and we joined a stream of people passing through massive double doors to the courtroom.
The ceiling was somewhere in the clouds over our heads. There was no telling how many words were buzzing around under that high ceiling, trapped there over the years. Phyllis and I sat quietly, and people began filing in. The jailers brought a line of prisoners in, and I got to see Tolliver.
I stood up, so he could see me right away, and he gave me a serious look. I sat down in the folding wooden seat. "He looks all right," I said to the lawyer, trying to reassure myself. "Don't you think he looks all right?"
"He does," she agreed. "I don't think orange is his color, though."
"No," I said. "No, it isn't."
As all the people in the courtroom seemed to be sorting themselves out, Phyllis said, "While we have a minute, I'm just curious. Are you any relation to the Cameron Connelly who was abducted in Texas a few years ago? I'm only asking because when Art Barfield called me, he said you had grown up in Texas and you and the girl who vanished both have what could be last names for your first name. If that makes sense."
"Yes, it makes sense," I said, though I can't say I was totally focused on the conversation. "I was named for my father's mother's family, Cameron for my mother's mother's family. She was my sister."
"I notice you use the past tense. Was she ever found? Once the media stopped covering it..."
"No. But someday I'll find her body."
"Ah... okay."
After a beat, I noticed the peculiar tone to the lawyer's voice. "You know," I said more directly, "that when people are gone that long, they're dead."
"There was that girl in Utah, Elizabeth Smart."
"Yes. There was that girl in Utah. She turned up alive. But mostly, when people have been gone for more than a couple of days, and no ransom's been asked, they're dead. Or they wanted to go. I know Cameron didn't want to leave. So she's dead."
"You hold no hope?" She sounded incredulous.
"I hold no false hope." I knew my business.
The bailiff told us the judge was coming in, and we rose. A spare gray-haired man (in a suit, instead of a robe) took his seat before us. I wasn't surprised to recognize the man with whom Phyllis had been chatting earlier. The city attorney (at least I guessed that was what he was) was already in his seat facing the judge, a huge pile of files in front of him, and the proceedings began.
I'd been in court before, for this or that, so it no longer surprised me that it wasn't like Perry Mason reruns or the more recent Judge Judy. People wandered in and out. Prisoners were removed and brought in. Between cases, there was a low buzz of conversation. There was no reverential air, and there were very few dramatics. Justice was conducted as business-as-usual.
When their name was called, people went up to the podium in front of the judge's bench. The judge read out the offense, asked if the plaintiff had anything to state, then (after discussion) told the plaintiff what his fine was.
"Isn't this more like traffic court, or something? This doesn't seem serious enough," I whispered to Phyllis. She'd been listening to the judge carefully, getting his measure.
"Those warrants were bullshit," she said, just as quietly. "He's just going up for the taillight. This is unbelievable."
It took an hour for the judge to work down the list to Tolliver. Tolliver looked tired. Every now and then he'd look toward me, and he tried to smile, but I could tell it was an effort.
Finally, the clerk called, "Tolliver Lang."
Tolliver wasn't handcuffed or shackled, thank God. He went up to the podium, with one of the jail guards accompanying him.
"Mr. Lang, I see here that you were initially charged with outstanding warrants from Montana, and that you had a problem with a rear taillight." The judge didn't seem to expect Tolliver to answer. The judge had a frown on his narrow face. "But the officer who gave you the ticket for the taillight—Officer Bledsoe? Is he here?"
"No, your honor," answered the clerk. "He's on patrol today."
"Amazing. He says now he made a mistake about the warrants?"
"Yes, your honor," said the city attorney. "He apologizes for the mistake."
"This is a very serious error," said the judge. He frowned at the papers some more. "And very strange. What about the taillight?"
"He stands by the taillight, your honor," said the attorney, with a straight face.
"How long was this man in jail?"
"Two nights."
"In jail two nights for a broken taillight."
"Uh, yes, sir."
"You didn't resist arrest?" For the first time, the judge addressed Tolliver directly. I could see Tolliver's back straighten.
"No, sir," Tolliver said.
"Have you ever been arrested in Montana?"
"Yes, sir, but the charges were dismissed."
"That's a matter of public record."
"Yes, sir. And it was over a year ago."
"Mr. Lang, do you want to bring charges against Officer Bledsoe?"
"No, sir. I just want out of the jail."
"And I can understand that. You'll be released, no bail, just pay the fine for the taillight. You don't contest that, I guess?"
Tolliver was silent. I was sure he was debating about telling the judge that Bledsoe had broken it with his nightstick.
"No, your honor."
"Okay, broken taillight, one hundred fifty dollar fine," the judge said, and that was that. The jailer led Tolliver back through the side door where he'd entered, I assumed to return him to the jail and start the release paperwork. "Someone here to pay the fine?"
I held up my hand.
The judge barely glanced at me. "Through the door behind the clerk," he said, inclining his head in the right direction. On shaky legs, I made my way to the back of the court and through the door, where I was faced by a phlegmatic woman in khakis and a T-shirt, and an armed Hollis in full uniform. The woman was sitting behind a small table holding a cash box. I guess she needed Hollis to guard the money and make sure someone angry about paying a fine didn't decide to take it out on her.
"It all came out all right, then?" Hollis asked, looking genuinely relieved.
"Yes," I said, handing over the papers the clerk had given me, along with one hundred fifty dollars in cash. She filed the money and stamped "PAID" on the papers, handing them right back to me. I wanted to say something else to Hollis, but I couldn't figure out what, and there was someone right behind me waiting to make her own payment. So I smiled at him, happy for the first time in days, and went back through the courtroom, which looked just as full as it had when the morning began. The lawyer was waiting for me outside in the cavernous hall.
"Thanks, Phyllis," I said, and I pumped her hand.