In the stack of cases Hannah had reviewed earlier in the week, no party or witness had been named Mrs. Smithson.

"You're in a sweet mood," Hannah said.

"C'mon, Hannah. The judge will be on the bench any minute, and if you're a good girl, I'll introduce you to him at the recess."

And why hadn't Gerald performed that courtesy already?

"Margaret is willing to continue the Cavanaugh case generally for six months," Hannah said. "She'll put off any kind of trial asking for an increase until then."

Gerald's expression shifted, suggesting Hannah at least had his attention.

He slapped a file down on the table loud enough to cut through the hum and buzz of the courtroom. "When did you go behind my back to cut this deal, Hannah?"

Where was a hat pin when a woman needed to deflate a hot air balloon?

"I went over to that jury box right there, where Madam State's Attorney is hanging out with Deputy Moreland. I did not go behind your back. The deputy knows Rory, and Margaret was willing to cut the guy a break. You had only to ask her."

Mrs. Smithson took a step back.

"So you think you're ready to start handling cases, Hannah?" Gerald hissed. "Think you can show me how to do my job? Well, listen to me, Hannah Stark. You don't go pulling s.h.i.t like this with my cases on my docket in my courtroom-" He was winding up to make a scene, while Mrs. Smithson found it imperative to examine designer nails with the American flag lacquered onto them.

"All rise! The Circuit Court for Damson County is now in session, the Honorable John D. Linker presiding. Hear ye, hear ye, and give your attention to this honorable court." The bailiff's voice had everyone in the courtroom scrambling to find a place, Margaret hustling over to her counsel table, and Hannah-her belly full of b.u.t.terflies-taking a seat on one of the back pews.

Linker, wearing black judicial robes, appeared from between the heavy folds of a red velvet curtain hung behind the judge's bench, like something out of The Wizard of Oz. He was a sandy-haired man of medium height, sporting professorial horn-rimmed gla.s.ses and a grim expression.

"Thank you, you may be seated," he muttered, picking up the first file.

Margaret, as state's attorney or prosecutor, called the cases and stated the facts. Gerald would rebut what could be reb.u.t.ted, and admit what his clients were willing to admit. The procedure wasn't legally complicated-both sides were proffering their cases rather than putting on sworn testimony-but the fact patterns could be complicated.

Trent had explained to Hannah that contempt of court cases were called first. Three dads and a mom who'd had multiple opportunities to pay down arrearages were hauled off in handcuffs and leg shackles. As each defendant was committed to the Damson County Detention Center, a small stir at the back of the courtroom indicated that-as intended-upcoming defendants were inspired to hustle out to the hallway in hopes last-minute phone calls could scare up cash.

Defendant number five, who looked about three years past high school, took his place beside Gerald, and Margaret read the facts of the case: five children under the age of three, four different moms, none of them married to Dad.

Judge Linker made a show of perusing the thick file then shifting back in his chair.

"Sir, would you oblige the court by turning around, please?"

The Defendant looked confused by the request but turned in a slow circle.

"Is that a wallet in your back pocket?"

Gerald nudged his client.

"Yes, sir. Yes, Your Honor, I mean, sir," the man said.

"Would you mind removing that wallet from your pocket?"

Super-dad complied, looking more and more nervous, though Hannah's const.i.tutional instincts were yipping about warrantless searches and invasion of privacy.

"Could you empty your wallet, please?" the judge bade him with implacable courtesy.

Gerald's client stacked fifty one-dollar bills beside the wallet, then a driver's license and some receipts.

"Anything else in the wallet, sir?"

"No, Your Honor."

This was why Hannah hated courtrooms. People could be mean in courtrooms and call it the pursuit of justice.

"What about the other pocket?" His Honor asked.

A pack of cigarettes appeared on the table beside the wallet, while Hannah looked on, perplexed as h.e.l.l. Why wasn't Gerald objecting? The money and cigarettes sat on the table as some sort of symbolic sacrificial offering, and Hannah's nausea spiked toward real pain. The judge was up to something; that much was obvious.

"Sir," His Honor said quietly, "you come into my courtroom, having left five children without a father to speak of. You show up here with enough cash to feed them all for quite a while, and yet you tell me you want your support reduced-support, I might add, you haven't paid for months. Then I see that you smoke."

An ominous silence spread, though Hannah had the sense this was a rehea.r.s.ed drama, Jurisprudence for the Overly Reproductive.

"How much do you smoke, sir?"

"About a pack a day, Judge. Been trying to quit for years."

Hannah was ready to bounce out of her seat. This was surely objectionable on the grounds of relevance. What did smoking have to do with child support payments?

"I didn't hear you."

Hannah had heard him, and she was clear in the back of the room.

"I said, about a pack a day, Your Honor."

"How much do you spend on a habit that's likely to kill you while your children go hungry?"

The silence grew until the judge slammed the file shut.

"Mr. Matthews, I find your client in contempt of my order. Deputies, you will take this man to the lock up, there to be transported to the county detention center to serve a sentence of thirty days. Said contempt can be purged by paying all arrearages and remaining current on all other payments. Madam State's Attorney, call your next case."

Hannah winced, and an older woman beside her snorted.

"Don't you feel sorry for that one, honey. He's got two more on the way, and one of them will be my grandbaby. If the judge really wanted to fix this situation, he'd cut the b.a.l.l.s off half the guys in this room."

Or put a chast.i.ty belt on half the women? A trickle of sympathy for Gerald dripped through the unease in Hannah's belly. The court focused on the practicalities-children needed to eat-without examining cause, effect, or cure beyond that. What attorney wouldn't sour on such fare week after week?

What judge wouldn't sour?

Margaret kept the cases coming, and not all of them were Gerald's, though he had more than any other two attorneys put together. They kept at it for almost two hours before the judge called for the morning recess.

"All rise! Circuit Court for Damson County is now in recess. Court will reconvene in ten minutes."

Hannah flinched at the bailiff's command, a reflex she hated. She was pondering a career of flinching when Gerald came over to stand beside her pew.

"Look, Hannah, I get a little tense before a docket. Don't take anything I said seriously, OK?" He flashed a megawatt smile, and Hannah mentally fished for the air sickness bag. Bulls.h.i.t was bulls.h.i.t was bulls.h.i.t, whether it came with a serving of intimidation or a side of charm.

"It's a lot to keep straight, Gerald. I know that. Do you think we'll finish at a reasonable hour?"

If the judge started out cranky, how much civility-much less justice-would be left for the poor schmucks at the end of the day?

"I don't know. The last few cases are the ones requiring testimony, but we usually run a few minutes over if that will finish the docket in the morning. I'll be back in a few minutes-gotta go, you know?"

Mrs. Smithson left the courtroom at the same time Gerald did, hustling past Margaret, who was coming back in.

"Like what you see so far?" Margaret asked. "Justice through intimidation and incarceration? It's the stuff of great parental relationships."

Margaret's comments were oddly rea.s.suring, though her cavalier att.i.tude was not. "You don't like what you do, Margaret?"

"For G.o.d's sake, Hannah, take a look around you. That last Romeo of the Center City Projects is hardly the worst of the lot. I've done cases with guys with a dozen kids, and more on the way. As far as I know, that boy wasn't giving anybody AIDS-though I'm sure the next time Judge Linker does a wallet check, there will be a condom in there."

Hannah's jaw dropped. "That's what he was looking for?"

"It varies. One guy had a condom, and the judge told him to keep it because he might need it where he was going. That was a particularly bad docket, though this stuff gets old fast."

"Somebody has to keep these people from welshing on their kids," Hannah said. That was the point, wasn't it?

"Hannah, you see who's here today. The average deadbeat parent is less than twenty-five years old, and he or she has at least three kids to support. These people don't finish high school, and what they have to give their children is a pittance. I've often wondered how much it costs the State-in my time, the judge's time, the deputies and bailiffs, the support enforcements staff, much less the cost of incarcerating these people-compared to the money we collect."

Margaret looked as if she wanted to say more, but her head whipped around as the bailiff took up his post.

"Showtime," she muttered. "Where's Gerald?"

"Don't know," Hannah whispered as the bailiff called the room to order and the judge reappeared from behind his magic curtain. He gave everybody permission to sit, and like good doggies, sit they did.

"Madam State, call your next case."

"Your Honor," Margaret said, standing to address the court, "I see Mr. Matthews is not yet back from recess, and his are the only cases left."

The judge scowled mightily at a courtroom considerably less crowded than it had been two hours earlier. "Mr. Matthews indicated to me before we started this morning that we have another representative of Hartman and Whitney present in the courtroom, Madam State, one whose responsibilities lie in the child support arena. Call your next case."

Margaret shrugged at Hannah and pulled a file out of the middle of a stack.

"The State calls case number CS 42.446.15, State of Maryland v. Rory Cavanaugh. Mr. Cavanaugh, come forward please if you're in the courtroom."

Hannah made her way to defendant's counsel table as Mr. Cavanaugh shuffled along beside her. Her bowels turned to water, and at the base of her neck, the Timpani of Agony went into a frenzy.

Her usual reaction to being before a judge. The realization steadied her.

Margaret had at least pulled the one case Hannah knew cold, though nowhere had the nice law school professors offered advice about what to do with a judge who was p.i.s.sed off to the point of disregarding courtroom protocol.

"Ms. Stark, is it? Please enter your appearance for the record," the judge said.

"Hannah Stark, Your Honor, and the firm of Hartman and Whitney for your defendant, Rory Cavanaugh."

"Thank you. Madam State?"

"Your Honor," Margaret began, "the parties have agreed to join in a motion to continue this matter generally for the next six months. The defendant's circ.u.mstances are extenuating, and the matter at issue is strictly a routine request for increase. Mr. Cavanaugh has been scrupulous about making his support payments since the inception of the case."

I owe Margaret, I owe Margaret, I owe Margaret.

"Ms. Stark?" The judge turned an impatient expression on Hannah.

What? What does he want me to say?

"Your Honor, Madam State's Attorney has accurately represented that Mr. Cavanaugh is requesting a continuance at this time." Hannah turned to the client, whose ruddy features betrayed a welter of confusion. "Mr. Cavanaugh, could you explain why an increase in payments would be especially hard for you right now?"

Mr. Cavanaugh hitched up his blue jeans, shuffled his steel-toed boots, and squared his shoulders as he met the judge's eye.

"I was diagnosed with cancer six years ago, Y'Honor. We went through the chemo and radiation and the whole bit, and I thought I had it licked when I went five years clean. I guess I don't quite have it licked yet, because they tell me I done come outta remission."

"Do you have extra medical bills?" Hannah asked.

"Oh, Lord. Last time it took four years just to get 'em paid off. They can't do the radiation again, I know that, but them bills are murder."

What else should she ask? What else mattered? "Are you able to report for work?"

"The treatments make you tired," he said. "But I work for a good man, and I can usually get in a few days a week. The guys cover for me when they can."

Hannah glanced at the judge, who looked bemused-the turkey. "Is Marlena your daughter?"

"Objection!" Margaret was on her feet immediately. "That is hardly relevant when he's held himself out to be the father for years."

The judge folded his arms across his chest. "Overruled. The man is not under oath. He may answer, Ms. Stark."

"Marlena isn't my blood kin," Cavanaugh said. "But I love her like she was, and she comes to visit all the time. I just can't pay no more money right now."

"Ms. Stark?" the judge prompted.

"This is an honorable man, Judge. Please grant his request for a six-month continuance."

My maiden closing argument. All two sentences of it.

And the judge looked irritated again.

"Sir, this is what I am going to do," the judge said. "The order requiring support will be kept in place, but the amount owed will be reduced to one hundred dollar per month. You can pay more than that if you choose, but for the next six months your obligation is reduced to one hundred dollars per month. At the end of six months, we'll take another look at the case, and perhaps by then your health won't be such a constraining factor. Get well, and we'll see you back here next spring."

Cavanaugh dropped to his seat beside Hannah, and she nearly fell into the chair beside him.

"Mr. Cavanaugh, can you get yourself home, or do you need to rest a bit first?" she asked.

"Madam State," the judge said as he shuffled files, "call your next case."

Hannah's head came up, but the judge's expression was unreadable. He was hustling her, though. Hustling her and the client, probably so he could practice his putt or meet some good old boy for lunch.