Quill twirled a piece of hair around her ear. "It's not the tickets, so much. More like the totals."
"The totals?" Howie's eyes narrowed. "You don't mean totals as in total wrecks? Tell me you're not referring to total wrecks."
"All this happened years ago, Howie. In another life. I drove taxi while I was trying to make it as an artist. In New York City, for Pete's sake. And you can just imagine... I mean, Howie, most of them weren't my fault. Well, half of them weren't, anyway," Quill said generously. "Meg knows all about it. So did Myles. Kind of."
Howie, if he picked up on the past tense, made no mention of it. "Half of them? How many...? Oh, boy." He rubbed his nose. "I just need to know one thing. You haven't had so much as a parking ticket in the last seven years?"
"Not so much as a broken taillight," Quill said virtuously. "I mean, Deputy Dave did issue a warning last week - but that's all, honest."
Howie smiled. He had a very attractive smile. "Then we'll find out what's going on here. It's probably nothing. Can you handle Run-On's conversation for five minutes?"
"Sure. I mean, if anyone would know what's going on, he would."
Howie raised his voice slightly and called, "Dwight?"
Dwight "Run-On" Riorden had combined courthouse maintenance with the duties of bailiff ever since the Tompkins County Board of Supervisors had decided neither was a full-time job. Dwight wore a suit coat over his coveralls and white athletic socks with black lace-up oxfords, a mode of dress which seemed to accommodate both occupations. He gave Howie a high sign and ambled over. "Ms. Quilliam? Mr. M. ?"
Quill extended her hand. Dwight's palm was calloused. "Hi, Dwight. I haven't seen you at Marge's diner on Sundays for a while."
"Nope. Been working weekends, Ms. Quilliam. Mr. Hotshot Bristol there got his knickers in a twist over the state of the courthouse. Day after the election returns come in, Mr. Murchison, Bristol there wants to know how long's it been since it's been painted. Long enough, I say, and it's going to be a sight longer. Don't have a budget for painting walls that don't need paint. The boiler now, I tell him, that boiler she could use a valve job. Place where I'm going to be judge got to look better than this, he tells me. The hell with the boiler, he tells me. The hell with you, I tell him. Course, after he goes to judge's school you'd think the son of a gun would know better than to tell people he's a judge. He's not a judge, he's a justice. But no, he's an elected official of the people, he tells me, and things been too slack around here. But judge or justice those walls don't need paint. So I tell him that and he tells me - "
Howie interrupted. Most people talking to Dwight interrupted. Those who couldn't made a practice of avoiding him. "Dwight, when did Bristol get back from judge's school?"
Responding like a rudderless boat to a brisk breeze, Run-On's conversation tacked amiably in a different direction. "Before Thanksgiving, it must a been when we got that couple inches of snow. Didn't think I was going to have to get the blower out till after Thanksgiving, but some years I just don't - "
"Is this the first justice court session he's held?"
"Nossir, held four Fridays ago, it was, just after Thanksgiving. You were on that cruise and then out to your sister's in Rochester, and everybody knew they couldn't get hold of you so nobody tried."
"I just got back yesterday," Howie agreed absently, his attention on the back entrance to the courtroom. "There were a lot of phone calls waiting for me. Thought most of the callbacks could wait.... Riorden, who are those people?"
"Them?" Run-On craned his neck. "That's press. Media people. Judge Bristol told me to be sure and save seats for them, so I did. I roped off seats by the fire extinguisher, although I roped off enough for a dozen, judge said, and it don't look like to me that there's more than four, counting the guy with the camcorder. Hey!"
His furry eyebrows rose in mild excitement. "Hey! That's Nora Cahill! She's on the news from Syracuse when I eat my supper."
Quill waved hello. Nora ignored her. Maybe, thought Quill, there was some kind of cream she used that gave her complexion that flawless even tone. If there was, she wanted some.
A somewhat embarrassed-looking figure in trooper gray edged in behind Nora Cahill's camera crew. "There's Dave Kiddermeister, too," Quill whispered, as the deputy eased into the courtroom. "You know, Kathleen's brother. She's one of our best waitresses. Davy's the officer that flagged me down. And, Howie, I wasn't speeding, honestly. What the heck's going on?"
Howie took her arm and pressed her into her seat. "Stay there. Stay quiet. Don't say anything unless I ask you a direct question. And when I do ask you a question answer yes, no, or I don't know."
Quill bit her thumbnail nervously.
"Bailiff!" said Judge Bernie Bristol. "Can you come up here?" He took a deep, happy breath and thumped the gavel. "This court is now in session." Bristol thumped the gavel again and kept on thumping with an air of mild pleasure. After some seconds, Al Santini reached up, removed the gavel, and laid it to one side.
Run-On Riorden ambled back up the judge's dais and laid a stack of files in front of the justice, who regarded them with confusion.
"The people call Sarah Quilliam," Al Santini prompted after a long moment.
Howie rose to his feet. "Your Honor," he said, in dramatically sarcastic tones, "I was not aware that my learned colleague had been elected to the bench. I object to this disruption of proper courtroom procedure. It is the right and proper role of the bailiff to perform the roll call."
Quill blinked, her anxiety somewhat allayed; she'd never seen Howie in court before. He was impressive.
Bernie took a moment to digest the objection, then turned anxiously to Al Santini. "Well, I guess I object, too, Mr. Santini."
Al spread both hands in a deprecatory gesture. "My apologies to the court, Your Honor."
"Oh, that's okay," Bernie said generously. "No harm done. Let's see." He shuffled through the files, took the topmost one, stared at it, set it down, stood up, and hitched up his judge's robes. He was wearing the kind of red plaid trousers popular with stockbrokers at Christmas parties. He drew a small black notebook from his trousers pocket, shook out his robes, sat down again, and opened the notebook up. The silence stretched on, broken only by little hisses and sighs as Bernie read aloud under his breath. Howie cleared his throat. Al Santini sighed elaborately. Quill, feeling obscurely uneasy again, looked over her shoulder. Nora Cahill, the Syracuse anchor, was standing behind her, microphone at the ready.
"There it is, right here, got it," said Bernie.
The man holding the camcorder behind Quill switched it on. Bernie squinted a little in the sudden flood of light. "You are Sarah Quilliam, of One Hemlock Road, Hemlock Falls, New York?"
Quill looked at Howie, who nodded.
"Yes," said Quill, much more loudly than she'd intended.
"You are charged with violation of section 11.74A of the Vehicular and Traffic Code." He beamed at her. "That's passing a stopped school bus, Miss Quilliam."
"A stopped school bus?" asked Quill, bewildered. "One moment, Your Honor." Howie folded his arms and regarded AI Santini with a steady and disapproving eye. "The violation listed on Miss Quilliam' s traffic ticket is 9.32C, speed in excess of five miles over the posted limit..."