“Your Honor,” said Lew Porter, “the state will prove that on the night of—”
“Attempt to prove,” snapped Judge Hobbs. Lew Porter sighed.
“Attempt to prove that on the night of April seventeenth, the accused, Billy Ray Brockley, did willfully and forcibly—”
“Come to think of it, Lew, you don’t even have to attempt to prove anything,” said Judge Hobbs. “Sit back down — I have all the pertinent facts right here.” He tapped the rumpled brief. “This don’t look like that big of a deal.”
“We know you’ll render a fair and impartial judgment, Your Honor,” said Buddy Linz.
Lew Porter groaned and sat back down.
Judge Hobbs had the reputation of being one of the goodest and oldest of the county’s good old boys, two of his favorite expressions being “Boys will be boys” and “Let he who has never been young cast the first stone.” Also Judge Hobbs had been heard to remark on more than one occasion that it didn’t serve much purpose slappin’ young people in jail.
“In the spring the sap will rise,” he would sigh, his eyes looking back a long time ago. “The fruit turns ripe and the pickers come. That’s nature — you can’t stop it or slow it down.”
“All right,” said Judge Hobbs, tossing the brief aside and turning to Billy Ray Brockley, “Billy Ray, you’ve been advised by counsel that my decision will be binding?”
“Yes, sir,” said Billy Ray.
“’Cause I sure as hell don’t want to hear no bitchin’ or moanin’ later that I been too severe — or too lenient — and I sure as hell don’t want to hear the word appeal interjected anywhere into these proceedings. I mean I don’t want to even sniff the word appeal, and anybody — defense attorney or prosecutor — who even breathes or whispers that word is gonna find me somewhat prejudicial in my rulings on his future cases — is that understood? All right, you wanted my decision on this case and you’ll get it — and abide by it. Billy Ray — how do you plead to these charges?”
“I didn’t do it.”
“You didn’t meet Eunice Tillman at the VFW Blue Moon Dance on the night of... April seventeenth?”
“I met her.”
“You didn’t dance with her?”
“We danced... awhile.”
“You didn’t get her drunk?”
“You don’t have to get Eunice drunk,” said Billy Ray. “She’s always—”
“You didn’t drive her to the larkspur Underpass?”
“Yes, sir— But I didn’t do it.”
“Didn’t do... what?”
“The rest of it. I’m not guilty.”
“You savin’ she led you on? ’Cause if she led you on—”
“I’m sayin’ I didn’t do it.”
“You didn’t do it.”
“Not... really.”
“Not really?”
“I... witnessed it.”
“You witnessed it.”
“Bein’ done — yes, sir.”
“Bein’ done — by who?”
“I don’t like to name names, Judge. I just—”
“Bein’ done by who, damn it?”
Billy Ray closed his eyes.
“By... Sam.”
“Sam?”
“Sam Johnson, Your Honor.”
“Sam Johnson?” Judge Hobbs picked up the brief. “I don’t see any Sam Johnson listed in this—”
“Sam Johnson,” said Billy Ray. “My... thing.”
“Your... thing?”
Buddy Linz stood up.
“My client is referring to his... member, Your Honor, his... sexual member, his—”
“I can see what he’s referring to,” said Judge Hobbs. “He’s clutchin’ the damn thing.”
Judge Hobbs leaned forward.
“Billy Ray — you’re sayin’ that that is Sam Johnson?”
“Yes, sir.”
“You’ve given him a... name?”
“That’s his name, Judge. Sam.”
“A first name too.”
“Well, sir, there’s a lot of Johnsons out there.”
“Hopefully not related to this case,” said Judge Hobbs, picking up his pen and beginning to write. “Mister Johnson? J-O-H-N-S-O-N? He’s the guilty party?”
“I call him Sam,” said Billy Ray. “It’s not so formal.”
“Well, I want to keep things formal as possible,” said Judge Hobbs. “Samuel Johnson. No middle initial?”
“No, sir.”
“Just first and last name — you didn’t make a little checkered coat for the sonofabitch, did you? With a little straw hat and a cane?”
“No, sir.”
“And you say that this ‘Samuel Johnson’ on the night of April seventeenth, and against the person of Eunice Tillman, did willfully and forcibly, without your aid, cooperation, or collaboration—”
“He’s got a mind of his own, Judge,” said Billy Ray. “There’s no reasoning with him — he just gets a notion and does... anything that comes into his head.”
“I know, son,” sighed Judge Hobbs, “but as an innocent observer and witness to the alleged attack, did you do anything to restrain the aforementioned Samuel Johnson from—”
“There’s no holding him, Your Honor,” said Billy Ray. “He’s... unrestrainable — I tried — he just... shook me off.”
Lew Porter was on his feet.
“And what the hell were you doing, while Sam Johnson was forcing Eunice Tillman into the back seat? What were you doing when your buddy Sam was forcing Eunice Tillman to perform a—”
“I couldn’t have gone against him,” Billy Ray pleaded. “I was afraid.”
“Afraid?” asked Judge Hobbs. “Afraid of what?”
“Of what he might... do... to me.”
“To you?” Judge Hobbs was wide awake now. “What could he have done to you?”
“You don’t know him. Your Honor. The bastard’s got no conscience — he might do... anything. He’s got a... power, Judge. He just... takes over. You don’t know Sam Johnson.”
Lew Porter was up and screaming now — the veins in his neck about to bust. His face was right in Billy Ray’s.
“And I imagine it was the same Sam Johnson who drove your Thunderbird to the Larkspur Underpass. I wanna see it, Your Honor, I want a demonstration of Sam Johnson drivin’ a stick shift, I wanna see Sam Johnson holdin’ a knife to somebody’s throat — this knife, Your Honor — I’m introducin’ this Barlow as Exhibit A. And I wanna see—”
“You don’t have to introduce that knife to me,” said Judge Hobbs, picking up the Barlow and turning it over slowly. “This was your daddy’s fishin’ knife, wasn’t it, Billy? I believe if he knew you were leavin’ it layin’ around within easy reach of such unsavory characters as this Sam Johnson, he’d be spinnin’ in his grave.” He turned to Buddy Linz.
“Buddy, this defense that you’ve cooked up is highly unique and creative, I must say. You realize if I allow it and it becomes a precedent, any forger can claim that it was his hands that did it, and not him. Anybody can kick somebody to death and claim it was his feet.”
“Next thing you know,” chimed in Lew Porter, picking up the line of reasoning, “next thing you know the arsonist is blaming the match, the sniper is blamin’ the bullet, the ax murderer—”
“That’s our defense,” said Buddy Linz, “and I’ve got a trunkload of psychiatric books and psychological studies and psychiatrists’ opinions that’ll back me up.”
“Sam Johnson did it,” said Billy Ray. “I’ll swear to it.”
Lew Porter was sweating now. That three-piece suit was beginning to look like wet cardboard.
“Your Honor,” he said, “this... this incredible ‘my-pee-pee-did-it-not-me plea’ is so outrageous — so desperate — so without any legal foundation, that no one can possibly—”