One
I’ll Be Judge, I’ll Be Jury
Chapter 1
BEN KINCAID STARED BLANKLY at the woman in the black robe, not quite certain he had heard her correctly.
Judge Sarah L. Hart cleared her throat. “I repeat: What else would she be doing with a frozen fish?”
“Oh,” Ben murmured. “That’s what I thought you said.”
The judge smiled. “Can’t you help me out here?”
Of course, Ben mused silently, if he could have, he would have. Some time ago. Judge Hart had an unerring knack for cutting to the heart of the matter. That, he knew, was why she was one of the best judges in Tulsa County. Of course there were times when you didn’t necessarily want the best judge in Tulsa County …
“Your honor,” Ben said, coughing into his hand, “the fish was not actually frozen. It was … preserved.”
“I’m not sure I understand the difference.”
“These are freshwater fish. Bass. Trout. They’re kept in a freshwater tank.”
“Ah. How ignorant of me. Why didn’t they cover this in judge school?” She removed her eyeglasses and massaged the brim of her nose.
“Ben?” He felt a tugging at his jacket. It was his client, Fannie Fenneman, the fisherwoman under discussion. Ben tried to ignore her.
She tugged harder. “Ben. Psst, Ben!”
“Still here, Fannie.” Realizing it was futile, he asked the judge for a moment to confer with his client. “What’s the problem?”
She leaned close to his ear. “I don’t think this is going so well.”
“Really. What was your first clue?”
Fannie tugged uncomfortably at the dress Ben had made her wear rather than her customary overalls and waders. “The judge seems very confused.”
“Wouldn’t you be?”
“Mr. Kincaid,” Judge Hart said, “if I might have your attention again …”
“Yes, your honor. Of course, your honor.”
“I thought perhaps you could help me sort this all out.”
“I’d be delighted to try.”
“Good. Let me pose a few questions.”
Ben was mentally posing a few questions of his own. Such as: Why am I here? Why do I always get these cases? Why did I go to law school?
“Your client has obtained some renown as a … er … fisherperson. Is that correct?”
“World-famous,” Fannie said emphatically.
“World-famous,” the judge echoed. “In fishing circles, presumably. Your client has won numerous tournaments during the past several years, right?”
“All of them,” Fannie answered.
“Ms. Fenneman,” Judge Hart said, “are you sure you need counsel? You seem so able to defend yourself, your counsel can barely get a word in edgewise.”
Fannie lowered her eyes and buttoned her lip.
“Now,” the judge continued, “the tournament officials say Ms. Fenneman cheated, and they’ve brought criminal charges. Am I still on track?”
The assistant district attorney, Martin Edwards, rose to his feet. “That’s right, your honor. She’s wrongfully taken over six thousand dollars in tournament prize money. It’s fraud. Deceit.”
“I see. And so you decided to crack down on this dangerous … fish faker. Stop her before she fishes again. Is that it?”
Edwards adjusted his tie. “I … probably wouldn’t have used exactly those words.”
“I suppose all the triple homicides and depraved sex crimes on your docket pale in comparison with this fish fraud?”
“Your honor, a crime is a crime.”
“Of course, of course,” Judge Hart said, holding up her hands. “We can’t be making exceptions.” She shuffled a few papers. “Next thing you know, we’ll have people telling fish stories all over the place. Why, the very phrase fish story could come to mean a tale that is exaggerated and not to be believed.”
“Your honor, we have this woman dead to rights. We found a freshwater tank in the back of her truck. The scheme was, she would wait until after the tournament began and the other anglers had shipped out, then sneak back to her car, pull a fish she bought beforehand out of the tank, and claim she caught it.”
Fannie leaped to her feet. “That’s a filthy rotten lie! I never saw that tank before in my life!”
Ben pushed her back into her chair. “It’s not our turn.”
“But he said—”
“Sit down.”
Fannie grudgingly obeyed.
Edwards continued. “Realistically, your honor, how could the same woman win all these tournaments year after year? I mean, it’s not as if there’s a lot of strategy involved. You sit in a boat and wait for a fish.”
“Says you,” Fannie muttered.
“Perhaps,” Judge Hart speculated, “the secret lies in her wrist action as she casts the line.”
“Right,” Edwards replied. “Or maybe she charms them with her good looks.”
Fannie could contain herself no longer. “It’s the bait.”
All heads in the courtroom turned to Fannie.
“I beg your pardon?” Judge Hart said, peering down through her glasses.
“Bait,” Fannie repeated. “I make my own. The fish can’t resist it.”
“Well, there you have it,” Judge Hart said, falling back into her chair. “I’m convinced.”
Fannie folded her arms angrily across her chest. “I don’t like this judge,” she whispered to Ben. “I think she’s trying to be sarcastic.”
Trying? Ben thought.
Ben listened carefully as the prosecution brought forth a series of experts from the glamorous world of professional fishing. The court learned about sonar fish detection, fiberglass rods, and chemically enhanced aphrodisiacal bait. All the experts agreed, however, that an unbroken string of tournament successes such as Fannie’s was unprecedented and rather unlikely. On cross, Ben dutifully required each witness to admit that winning forty-seven consecutive tournaments was not, strictly speaking, totally and utterly impossible. Somehow, though, he doubted this “admission” was helping her case much.
For their final witness, the prosecution called a man named Ernest Samson Hemingway. (“No relation,” he said as he was sworn in.) Mr. Hemingway was a frequent tournament participant and the organizer of the last competition in which Fannie participated. He was also the man who disqualified her and restricted her from further league competitions. He had instigated the investigation against her and ultimately found the chief piece of evidence being used to establish Fannie’s guilt.
Edwards conducted the direct examination, delivering every question in somber tones suggesting the matter at hand was as momentous as the quest for world peace. “Mr. Hemingway, what did you do after the tournament began?”
“I followed the defendant. Miss Fenneman.”
“Ms. Fenneman,” Fannie muttered.
“And why would you do that?”
“Well, me and the boys’ve been suspicious of her for some time.”
“Why?”
“Well, you know, her winning all those tournaments, one right after another. T’ain’t natural. Hell, I’ve been fishin’ all my life, and I ain’t never come up with a fish like the ones she showed up with every dadburned time.”
“You couldn’t catch a fish in an aquarium,” Fannie whispered. Ben jabbed her in the side.
“So,” Edwards asked, “you suspected skulduggery?”
Hemingway straightened his shoulders. “I suspected she was cheatin’, if that’s what you mean.”
“Indeed it is.” Edwards turned a page in his outline. “So what did you see when you followed her?”
“Well, you hafta understand, we was in the water, each in our own boat, and I hadta keep a distance so’s she wouldn’t know she was bein’ watched. Still, I managed to keep an eye on her. Got me a souped-up pair of binoculars. Canon 540s.”