Page 121 of A Dead End Wedding

Nobody ever hugged me when I did corporate work.

He let go and stepped back, biting his lip. "I'm so glad to see you, Ms. Vaughn. I told Grandma that if anybody could get me out of this mess, it was you. She can't wait to meet you," he whispered, looking around as if somebody might be waiting to handcuff him any second.

"It's okay. We're going to be fine. I talked to—" I broke off as I saw the bailiff come back into the room.

"All rise for the Honorable Judge Bernard Bertels. Court is now in session."

We all rose as the judge entered the courtroom from the narrow door which led back to his chambers. As he seated himself behind the bench, his judicial assistant handed him some papers and spoke to him in a low voice. The judge was a serious-looking man in his mid-fifties, maybe, with iron-gray hair and warm brown skin. His robe was so crisp and starched it seemed to crackle.

I motioned to Bear down to sit next to me on the hard wooden pew-like seat. No sooner had our bottoms hit the wood than the bailiff was calling out the next case. "Buford Anderson."

More nervous than I ever remembered being in court before, I stood up and started forward, then realized Bear hadn't moved. He was staring at the judge with terrified eyes. I walked back and grabbed his arm, then dragged him up off the bench.

Well, as much as I could drag a seven-foot-tall man. He got the point, though, and followed me up the aisle. We walked to the table, and the bailiff made a sort of hissing noise and pointed to the other table. I tried to pretend I'd been heading there in the first place, which fooled nobody, if the amusement on the judge's face and the disbelief on the JA's face were anything to go by.

A slender, ferret-faced man rushed up and stood behind the other table. "Your Honor," he said.

The judge nodded. "Counselor."

Then he turned to look at me again. "I don't believe I know you, Counselor. You are?"

I swallowed the lump in my throat, getting angry at myself. I wasn't some first-year baby lawyer. I'd been in hundreds of courtrooms in the past eight years. Standing a little straighter, I nodded elegantly. "I've not had the pleasure, Your Honor. December Vaughn for Mr. Anderson."

Judge Bertels narrowed his eyes. "Vaughn? The same Vaughn who was in the paper recently?"

Now would be a great time for that hole in the floor to open up.

I lifted my chin. "Yes, Your Honor. And no, Your Honor. Yes, I am that Vaughn, and no, I am not a whacked-out Yankee junkie lawyer come down to wreak havoc south of the Mason-Dixon Line. Whatever the Mason-Dixon Line is. Your Honor."

He grinned. "You don't look much like a junkie to me, Counselor, and you'll find I make my own judgments. Welcome to the Claymore County Bar. Now if we could proceed?"

Ferret face started to talk, but, bolstered by the fervor of the persecuted, I promptly forgot everything Jim Thies had told me and cut in. Bear was special, and I needed to make the judge see it. "If I could make a brief statement, if it please the Court?"

The judge looked at the prosecutor, who twisted his face up in a grimace, but shrugged.

Judge Bertels leaned back in his chair. "Well, this is unusual, but go ahead, Ms. Vaughn."

"Thank you." I took a deep breath and tried not to shift from foot to foot. "Your Honor, this country has a long tradition of recognizing and applauding differences among our citizens. In fact, the Founding Fathers worked on the principle that we were all unique and had the right to be free of oppression. If?—"

"Counselor."

"—you look at?—"

"Counselor!"

"Um, yes, Your Honor?"

"It's my understanding that the Founding Fathers worked on the principle that we deserved to be free from oppressive taxation by a king who wouldn't allow us representation in Parliament. Am I wrong?"

"Well, no, sir, but?—"

"And the . . . what was it you said? Oh, right? 'Unique.' The unique Founding Fathers were all wealthy white men who owned land?" asked the judge, whose ancestors hadn't been among that group any more than my own poor Irish forebears had been.

"Well, yes, sir, but—" Despite the frigid air conditioning, I was sweating. I snuck a glance at the prosecutor, and he'd dropped his papers and was staring at me, openmouthed.

"Then would you like to tell the Court what the Founding Fathers have to do with Mr. Anderson's petty theft charges?"

"No, sir. I mean, yes, sir. It's?—"

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