“But I don’t like you havin’ to do that, Mr. Shinn.”
“Why not? I’ll enjoy it,” Johnny lied gallantly. “Is there anything in the house to make dinner with?”
“There’s a roast of beef in the refrig’rator I was goin’ to fix—”
“Say no more. I cut my eyeteeth on roasts of beef. We’ll make out fine.”
So Sunday afternoon found Johnny in the big Shinn kitchen up to his armpits in one of Millie Pangman’s aprons, pondering the mysteries of a boned rolled roast while Judge Shinn busied himself with equally mysterious telephone calls on the extension in his study. Johnny solved the culinary mystery when he dug a cookbook out of a cupboard drawer, and the discovery of a roast-thermometer he crowed over. But the mystery of the Judge’s phone calls remained one. Johnny found himself rather resenting the old man’s reticence. He wondered why. He prepared some dough for biscuits thoughtfully.
While he set the table in the dining room, the Judge passed through the hall without a glance. Johnny saw him cross the road and disappear in the church.
The Judge came back an hour later, frowning. Again he shut himself in his study; and Johnny had to knock five times before he answered.
They ate Johnny’s dinner in silence — rare roast beef, hot biscuits with country butter, gooseberry jam (found on the top shelf of a cupboard), and bread-and-butter pickles that came in a jar with a homemade pictorial label bearing the signature “Fanny Adams.” The Judge might have been eating fried woodchuck. He ate with a scowl, his gray brows bunched over his shrewd blue eyes.
But after dinner the old man suddenly chuckled and took Johnny’s arm. “Don’t know when I’ve savored a meal more, Johnny. Beats Millie’s cooking all hollow! Never mind the dishes, Millie’ll do ’em... I wanted to do some thinking and checking. Come on into my study.”
“First,” said the Judge, sinking into his leather swivel chair, “understand that I’m not trying to drag you into this, Johnny. But as long as you’re here, do you mind if I use you as a sounding board?”
“Well, I’m here,” said Johnny. “Sound off.”
“I don’t want you to think—”
“Cut the psychology, your honor,” said Johnny. “The maiden is willing. To listen, anyway.”
“Thank you,” said the Judge solemnly. “Let’s understand our position — excuse me, my position...”
“See here,” said Johnny, “apparently you have some notion that all breathing has ceased and somebody forgot to inter the remains. This thing interests me, Judge. If only as a confirmation of my thesis that God’s in His heaven, all’s wrong with the world. Where do we stand?”
“Well,” said the Judge, settling back carefully, “we have a thin edge to walk. My purpose is to make this proceeding as legally preposterous and indefensible as I can get away with.”
“Then why that speech about court personnel, defense counsel, and the rest of it? Seems to me all that makes it too real.”
“You didn’t let me finish. At the same time, let’s not underestimate my neighbors. They’re provincial and ignorant of a great many things, but they’re not fools. To the extent of their minimal knowledge we’ll have to conform to normal courtroom procedure. They certainly know that in every trial there must be someone to administer the oath, keep order, and so on. As a New England community steeped in the tradition of town meetings, caucuses, selectmen meetings and the like, they’re also minutes-conscious and will expect someone to keep a record of what goes on. And so on down the line.”
“That’s a complication,” frowned Johnny. “Seems to me there aren’t enough people available.”
“There’s a rather curious result mathematically,” said the Judge. He glanced at a pad of lined yellow paper on the desk. “Let’s take the problems in order. Bailiff. The natural choice is Burney Hackett. As town constable Burney can take charge of the prisoner’s comings and goings — they’ll consider that fitting and proper; as bailiff of the court he can keep order, serve as messenger, jury usher, and administer the oaths.
“Next: Court stenographer. We can’t avoid this, obviously, and we don’t want to avoid it. We want the most accurate transcript of what happens in the ‘courtroom’ for the permanent record.”
“Means you’ll have to call in some one from outside.”
“As it happens, no. Elizabeth Sheare trained herself in shorthand years ago to help her in her teaching work.”
“But don’t you need Mrs. Sheare as a jurywoman?”
“Love to have her as both,” remarked the Judge. “That would make a fine black smear on the trial record! But unfortunately Hube Hemus knows it, too. I can’t chance arousing Hube’s suspicions. He’s our key man. If we keep him satisfied, we’ll have no trouble with the others.
“Next: The prosecutor. I have the perfect choice—”
“Ferriss Adams,” said Johnny.
