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    Hard Row dk-13

    Page 9
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      before his nine o’clock bedtime.

      “The thing is,” Dwight said as he got up to pour us a

      second cup of coffee, “are you likely to be the judge for

      a half-million civil lawsuit?”

      “Probably not,” I said, my curiosity really piqued

      now. “Something that big usually goes to superior

      court. Unless both parties agree to it, most of our judg-

      ments are capped at ten thousand.”

      “Okay then,” he said and settled back to tell me how

      Bo Poole started thinking about his teenage years when

      he used to run a trapline along the creeks in the south-

      ern part of the county, especially Black Creek.

      82

      HARD ROW

      “He wasn’t the only one and it dawned on him that

      Fred Mitchiner used to trap animals and sell the pelts,

      too.”

      “Who’s Fred Mitchiner?”

      “That eighty-year-old with Alzheimer’s who wan-

      dered away from the nursing home right before

      Christmas, remember?”

      I shook my head. “That whole week was a haze.

      Except for our wedding and Christmas itself, about

      all I remember is that you took two weeks off and Bo

      wouldn’t let you come into work.”

      Dwight cut his eyes at me. “That’s all you remember?”

      I couldn’t repress my own smile as his big hand cov-

      ered mine and his thumb gently stroked the inside of

      my wrist.

      “Don’t change the subject,” I said, with a glance

      into the living room where Cal seemed absorbed by the

      game. “Fred Mitchiner.”

      “Once Mitchiner slipped away from the nursing

      home, it would have been a long walk for him, but they

      do say Alzheimer’s patients often try to find their way

      back to where they were happy. Bo figures the old guy

      probably thought he’d go check his traps, fell in the

      water, and either drowned or died of exposure. High

      water and animals did the rest. It wasn’t murder.”

      “But it does sound like negligence,” I said. “Is that

      what his family feel?”

      He shrugged. “We haven’t told them yet. Bo wants

      to wait till we get an official ID; but yeah, that’s the

      talk.”

      83

      C H A P T E R

      10

      There is something always preying on something, and noth-

      ing is free from disaster in this sublunary world.

      —Profitable Farming in the Southern States, 1890

      % Friday’s criminal court is usually a catchall day for

      me—the minor felonies and misdemeanors that

      don’t fit in elsewhere. Sometimes I think Doug Woodall,

      our current DA, goes out of his way to see that the

      weird ones wind up on my Friday docket. On the other

      hand, sometimes his sense of humor matches mine and

      when I entered the courtroom that morning and saw

      Dr. Linda Allred seated in the center aisle, it was hard

      not to smile.

      “All rise,” said Cleve Overby, the most punctilious

      of the bailiffs, and before she’d finished giving him a

      rueful hands-up motion from her motorized wheel-

      chair, he grinned and added, “all except Dr. Allred.

      Oyez, oyez, oyez. This honorable court for the County

      of Colleton is now open and sitting for the dispatch

      of its business. God save the State and this honorable

      court, the Honorable Judge Deborah Knott presiding.

      Be seated.”

      I ran my finger down the calendar and found the case

      84

      HARD ROW

      she was probably there for, then sat back and listened

      as ADA Kevin Foster pulled the first shuck on Anthony

      Barkley, a nineteen-year-old black kid who had ridden

      through a parking lot on his bicycle and tried to snatch

      a woman’s purse. Before the shoulder strap fully left her

      arm, she gave it a sharp yank, which sent him sprawling

      into the path of a slow-moving car. The car immediately

      flattened his bike and the man who jumped out to see

      what was going on had proceeded to flatten the youth-

      ful thief.

      “Fifteen days suspended, forty hours of community

      service,” I said.

      Next came a Latino migrant, one Ernesto Palmeiro,

      age thirty, who had gotten drunk, “borrowed” a trac-

      tor, and headed east, plowing a half-mile-long furrow

      across several semi-rural lawns before the highway pa-

      trol could head him off.

      “He deeply regrets his actions,” said the translator,

      “but he went a little loco when his wife left him and

      went home to Mexico. He’s already repaired most of

      the damage and throws himself on the mercy of the

      court.”

      I rather doubted if that was what he’d said, but what

      the hell? “Fifteen days suspended on condition that he

      finishes putting all the yards back the way they were,

      including any plantings that he might have destroyed.”

      I looked at his boss, a Latino landscaper, who’d spo-

      ken on his behalf. “And I’d suggest, sir, that you teach

      him how to lift the plows before you let him near an-

      other tractor.”

      I sent the exhibitionist for a mental health evaluation

      85

      MARGARET MARON

      and gave the guy who’d tried to steal an antique lamp-

      post from the town commons ten days of jail time.

      The woman who bopped her boyfriend over the head

      with the Christmas turkey while it was still on the serv-

      ing platter? Ten days suspended if she completed an

      anger management course.

      Finally, Kevin called, “Raymond Alito, illegally parked

      in a handicap space in violation of G.S. 20–37.6(e).”

      A heavyset white man of early middle age rose and

      came forward. He was neatly dressed in black slacks and

      a gray nylon windbreaker worn over a red plaid shirt.

      His black hair was thinning over the crown and there

      were flecks of gray in his short black beard. He did not

      look familiar to me, but if Linda Allred was here, then

      he’d probably been cited for at least one earlier infrac-

      tion of the code.

      “I see you have chosen not to use an attorney, Mr.

      Alito. How do you plead?”

      “Your Honor, could I just tell you what happened?”

      “Certainly, sir, as soon as you tell me whether you’re

      pleading guilty or not guilty.”

      “Not guilty then, ma’am.”

      “Mr. Foster?”

      “Your Honor, we will show that on December twenty-

      third of last year, Mr. Alito illegally parked in a space

      reserved for the handicapped at the outlet mall here in

      Dobbs. Mr. Alito is not physically disabled and he does

      not possess a handicap permit. The ticketing officer

      called for a tow truck, which impounded his car. This is

      Mr. Alito’s second ticket for this infraction.”

      With appropriate gravity, I asked, “And is the ticket-

      ing officer in court?”

      86

      HARD ROW

      “She is, Your Honor. I call Dr. Linda Allred to the

      stand.”

      “Huh?” said Alito as Allred steered h
    er motorized

      chair over to a position in front of the witness seat,

      which was one step above floor level. “She’s the one

      who gave me a ticket? She’s no police officer.”

      “You’ll have your chance to speak, Mr. Alito,” I told

      him. “The witness may swear from her own seat.”

      The bailiff handed her the Bible and my clerk swore

      her in.

      Dr. Allred is a dumpling of a woman with short

      straight gray hair parted high on the left and piercing

      eyes that usually cast jaundiced looks over the top of her

      glasses. Although her doctorate is in psychology and she

      teaches statistical analysis on the college level, she lives

      in Dobbs and in her heart of hearts, she’s Dirty Harry.

      Or maybe I should say Betty Friedan because a lot of

      her work is rooted in women’s issues.

      Her particular pet peeve, however, is able-bodied

      drivers who park in spaces reserved for those with im-

      paired mobility. Any time she spots one, she writes up a

      ticket, something that she’s officially allowed to do, as

      Kevin’s next question made clear.

      “Dr. Allred, are you a sworn law officer?”

      “No, Mr. Foster, but I was made a special deputy and

      given ticket-writing authority by Sheriff Bowman Poole

      and I try not to abuse it.”

      “Would you describe what happened on the twenty-

      third of December?”

      “Certainly.” She took a small laptop computer from a

      pocket on the side of her chair and opened it to a screen

      full of photographs. “On the afternoon of December

      87

      MARGARET MARON

      twenty-third, a friend and I were finishing up our

      Christmas shopping at the outlet mall. I was just get-

      ting out of my van when Mr. Alito pulled into the only

      empty slot. It was directly in front of ours. I immedi-

      ately noticed that his car did not display a handicap tag

      on the rearview mirror, so I took out my camera and

      snapped the first picture.”

      The bailiff handed me her laptop. There, in glorious

      color was a view of Alito in his late-model black Honda

      with the edge of the blue warning sign just visible. His

      rearview mirror was dead center. Nothing dangled from

      it except a set of rosary beads.

      “Mr. Alito then got out of his car and had no trouble

      walking into the Gifts and Glass Warehouse. That’s the

      second picture on the screen, Your Honor. Now if you’ll

      click to the third picture?”

      I clicked as directed.

      “My friend helped me with my wheelchair and I

      went around to the rear of his car and took a third

      picture of his license plate. As you see, it is a standard

      North Carolina plate, not one issued to the disabled.

      At that point, I called for a tow truck and wrote out

      the citation.”

      I signaled for the bailiff to show the laptop to Mr.

      Alito, who looked at the pictures with a distinctly sour

      expression.

      “What did you do next, Dr. Allred?” Kevin asked.

      “The parking lot was quite crowded. There were reg-

      ular spaces way off to the side, but all the other nearby

      handicap spaces were legally taken. An elderly couple

      with a tag asked us if we were coming or going so they

      could have my spot, but I told them just to wait a few

      88

      HARD ROW

      minutes and that the one in front of me would be open-

      ing up as soon as the tow truck got there. Then my

      friend and I went inside and finished our Christmas

      shopping. When we came out, Mr. Alito’s car was gone

      and the other car was parked there.”

      “No further questions,” Kevin said.

      “Your turn, Mr. Alito,” I said. “Do you wish to ques-

      tion the witness?”

      He blustered a moment, then said, “I’d just like to

      ask her if she followed me in the store and saw what I

      bought?”

      “No, sir,” Dr. Allred responded promptly.

      “Well, if you had, you’d’ve seen me buy a Christmas

      present for my eighty-nine-year-old mother and she does

      have a handicap tag. Her heart’s so bad she couldn’t

      walk across this room without her oxygen tank.”

      Dr. Allred looked at him over the top of her glasses.

      “I’m sorry to hear that, sir, but she wasn’t in the car

      with you, was she?”

      Alito turned to me. “Ma’am, can I just explain what

      happened in my own words?”

      “Certainly,” I said. “But first, I have a question for

      Dr. Allred.”

      She looked at me expectantly.

      “Dr. Allred, you say you try not to abuse the author-

      ity Sheriff Poole gave you. It’s my understanding that

      you usually just write a ticket. Could you tell me why

      you called a tow truck for Mr. Alito’s car?”

      “Because this is the second time I’ve caught him in a

      handicap space.” Her fingers played over the keyboard.

      “According to my records, I ticketed him on the fourth

      of September in front of a grocery store.”

      89

      MARGARET MARON

      Alito’s mouth dropped open when he heard that.

      “Thank you, Dr. Allred. No further questions. You

      may come up and take the witness stand, Mr. Alito.”

      They passed in the space before my bench and I heard

      Alito mutter, “Bitch!”

      “Did you say something, sir?” I asked.

      “No, ma’am. Just clearing my throat.” He took the

      Bible and promised to tell the truth, the whole truth

      and nothing but the truth.

      “Yeah, I know I shouldn’t have parked there, but I

      really was just going in to buy a present for my poor

      old mother. I bet I wasn’t in there ten minutes. Well,

      twenty if you count the time I had to wait in line to

      check out.”

      “One present?” I said. “That was all?”

      “Well, maybe I did pick up a couple of little things on

      my way back to the front, but my mother’s present was

      really all I went in for. I got back outside, I almost had a

      heart attack myself. I thought my car’d been stolen, but

      when I called the police and they saw where I’d been

      parked, they told me to call the county’s towing service.

      Cost me a hundred-fifty to get it back, and what I don’t

      understand is how come this ticket’s for two-fifty, when

      the first one was only fifty.”

      He paused briefly to glare at Dr. Allred but there was

      a whine in his voice when he turned back to me and

      said, “So what I’m saying here is yes, I did wrong, but

      I don’t see why it’s got to cost me four hundred dol-

      lars. It was Christmas and the parking lot was jammed.

      She says there were spaces further out, but by the time

      I parked out there and walked to the store, I could have

      90

      HARD ROW

      already been in and out. Can’t we just let the towing

      charges take care of everything?”

      I shook my head. “Sorry, Mr. Alito. If this were your

      first citation, I might have been inclined to let you off


      more lightly. But this is your second offense here in

      this district. If I were to have my clerk run your license

      plate, would I find that you’d collected more tickets

      elsewhere? Say in Raleigh?”

      By the way his jaws clamped tight, I was pretty sure

      I’d hit home.

      “Those spaces aren’t there for the convenience of the

      able-bodied. The State of North Carolina reserves them

      for its citizens who are not as fortunate as you are, sir.

      I find you guilty of this infraction and fine you the full

      two-fifty plus court costs.”

      “Court costs!” he yelped. “That’s outrageous! That’s

      highway robbery! That’s—”

      “That’s going to be a night in jail if you make me

      hold you in contempt,” I warned him. “The bailiff will

      show you where to pay.”

      As he stomped out in one direction and Dr. Allred

      serenely rolled out the other way, two middle-aged sis-

      ters came forward to argue over a pair of diamond ear-

      rings valued at about three hundred dollars. According

      to the younger sister, their mother had given her the

      earrings before she died. The older sister did not dis-

      pute that their mother might have let her borrow them,

      but that her mother’s will left them to her. When the

      younger sister refused to give them up, the older one

      had taken them from the other’s house, whereupon the

      younger sister called the police and charged her with

      theft. The earrings were nothing more than two small

      91

      MARGARET MARON

      round diamonds set in simple gold prongs. Identical

      earrings could be found in any discount jewelry store

      in any mall in America, so I did the Solomon thing. I

      threw out the larceny charge and awarded each sister

      one earring. “Why don’t you two ladies go have lunch

      together, buy a pair to match these and then think of

      your mother whenever you wear them. I bet she’d be

      horrified to think you’d let these two little rocks destroy

      your relationship.”

      I had hoped for sheepish looks and murmurs of rec-

      onciliation. What I got were glares and snarls as they

      both huffed off, still mad at each other and now mad at

      me as well.

      I sighed and adjourned for lunch.

      As I went down the hallway to the office I was using

      that week, I heard hearty laughter coming from within.

      I pushed the door open and there sat Portland and Dr.

      Allred munching on bowls of pasta salad. Portland im-

     


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