Judge Robert Whitcomb could feel his blood pressure rising as he watched deputies Ridgeway and Bruce walk their prisoner to the front of his courtroom, each with a hand tucked into one of the prisoner’s armpits, keeping him upright as he shuffled forward. The judge winced as Dornick gingerly stepped toward him.
Bob Whitcomb was the ultimate local boy made good, the son of a local rancher who had gone off to school to become a lawyer, then a district attorney, and now a district judge. He knew most of the longtime residents in this county by name and he had worked brandings alongside most of the old-time cowboys, who said the judge could throw a loop with the best of ‘em.
Whitcomb knew the Box Eight cowboy by sight and this sight was a new one. The man had a split lower lip and a deep purple bruise running the length of his jaw. Dornick was in obvious pain as he looked up at him. “’Lo, Bob,” he finally said, wobbling slightly between the two deputies. The judge didn’t reply. On another day, he might have taken the man to task for his informality. This day, he just nodded and pursed his lips. He looked at Ridgeway, then at Bruce. Both deputies returned his look with an in-your-face stoicism.
“What happened here?” Whitcomb asked.
Bruce shrugged. “You know how it can be, your honor,” he replied. “It was a situation.”
“What kind of situation?” Whitcomb leaned forward, his voice flat. He braced the palm of his hand on his desk.
“You’d have to ask Sheriff Blunt about that,” Ridgeway spoke up. “He’s out serving some papers.”
“When he gets back,” Whitcomb said, “you tell Leo that I would like to talk to him about that situation.” He stressed the final two words.
Ridgeway cleared his throat to speak, but fell silent as Bruce answered the judge. “When he gets back, we will, your honor.”
Whitcomb glowered at Bruce, smarting at the deputy’s calculated use of the formality, then looked away out across the courtroom. The judge could identify most of the crowd, but he stopped for a moment to take in the newspaper reporter sitting in the second row, writing furiously in his notebook. He wondered if the reporter, who was among the new faces in town, had understood the meaning of the tense exchange between him and the deputies. He does if he has a brain, he thought. The reporter looked up, saw himself under the judge’s scrutiny and stopped scribbling. On the other side of the room, District Attorney Dean Wall was shuffling papers nervously on the table in front of him. He was obviously uncomfortable.
“And just what are the charges here?” The judge finally turned to Wall and asked.
Wall rose. “Three charges, your honor. Two aggravated assaults and another on jail escape.”
“No drunk and disorderly?”
“No, your honor,” Wall replied. “Just those.”
Whitcomb glanced down at Dornick, who was looking back at him with a stricken look. “You got a lawyer?” The prisoner shook his head. The judge pursed his lips, looked over at Bruce and Ridgeway, and appeared to start to say something, then stopped. He turned toward Wall, who was standing off to the side of room.
Ridgeway stood uneasily as the proceedings went on. He could hear the judge and the district attorney talking, but he couldn’t make the words mean anything. Bail, maybe? A lawyer? I’ve never seen Leo so mad, he thought once as he felt Dornick lean into him. He put a hand up to steady the man. He just lost it, he thought. “Take him back,” he heard Whitcomb say. “I’ll see he gets a lawyer. You two make sure he sees a doctor.” There was a pause. “He doesn’t and I’ll be seeing the two of you.” There was an edge in the judge’s voice that Ridgeway hadn’t heard before. “You bet, your honor.” He heard Bruce reply before he could speak.
Whitcomb stood, shook his head wearily, and waved his hand at the departing trio. “Court adjourned,” he said. He saw the reporter studying him and stopped. He nodded toward the doorway just off to the right of the jurist’s bench and walked off, looking back to see if the newsman had gotten his message. Guess it’s time to see what this reporter’s made of, Whitcomb thought. Most of ‘em weren’t made of much.
The judge leaned back in his office chair, took off his glasses and rubbed his eyelids with the tips of his fingers. This has got to stop, he thought. They’ve crossed a line over there. He mentally ran down the recent list. Anaya’s teen-age kid, the prisoner transfer from the Sunlight hospital, that hitchhiker from back East, now Dornick, and who knows who else. Tip of the iceberg, he thought.